Chapter 69
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
THOMAS
Find attached descriptions of all people attending GV. Names are noted where known. Glad Rubes is still alive. —S to the Man in the Mountain
La’Angi Keep
Only the outsiders would’ve missed the way we were strategically gathered around the bailey.
Everyone on the wall wandered closer. No one’s spear drooped.
Stable hands had buckets or files in their hands.
A gardener was on her knees at a nearby tree, painstakingly removing every weed individually with a large shovel in close reach.
Chay and I didn’t need to communicate with words to know today we didn’t stand behind her. The shield was loose on my back, ready to lower. My hand on my spear was strong.
The bailey was busy. Plenty had left yesterday, nursing their aching heads after the post-melee parties, but some had lingered, hoping the traffic might alleviate.
The lady had timed her entry well, though.
The sound of hooves coming, not going, was obvious as soon as the door opened.
They broke into our sight as the little lady took up her station.
My blood drummed in my ears, the endless beat of a long march.
A dozen soldiers, led by Jameison, flooded the bailey. Audrey’s father wasn’t with them.
There was so much space around them unoccupied, but it seemed filled to the brim. They moved in different patterns to us. Two forces on a battlefield. Would we fight? Would we pitch lines?
The wind smelled like snow.
“Good,” Jameison said when he saw Audrey. “You’re ready. We need fresh horses,” he shouted, climbing out of the saddle.
One stable-boy wandered over and took his reins, but he didn’t hasten to the stable. No one else moved. Not on our side of the lines.
“Ready?” Audrey asked. The single word was laden with the sort of arrogance I’d only heard from nobility. Her expression was polite. She didn’t even give him his title.
My boots were too big. My knees didn’t ache. I wasn’t even two decades old and the man in the black tabard loomed over my friend. Winter wind howled around us. Sir. The honorific was a demand, a battle cry. I didn’t flinch as it echoed in my mind. The spear in my hand was strong. Cold.
In the bailey, Jameison’s eyes lingered on the lady.
I wasn’t the scared boy I’d been. By the One, I couldn’t afford to be. He’d died. He’d died, but I couldn’t. Jameison’s gaze raked the bailey. My toes ached with the cold. I held my post.
We all did.
What else could we do?
“We’re accompanying you south,” Jameison told her. “Now. If it doesn’t fit in your saddlebags or takes you more time’n it takes me to fill my belly, you don’t take it with you.” He turned and, with a piercing whistle, strode toward the barracks.
South. Wolves howled around us. No one moved. We all stood, iced over.
“Don’t go,” Isolde said, the words just loud enough to reach my ears. “You can’t fight on his terms.”
I couldn’t remember Duchess Arabella’s face. The fear was there, though, fresh as the first snow. Men moved before us. From my peripheral, I couldn’t see the lady, but I’d know if she moved. Steps rose and fell in time with the beating of my heart. Tired, dirty faces didn’t dare look at us.
If Audrey didn’t go, the next group wouldn’t just ride into the bailey a little short on their manners.
I kept my eyes straight ahead. The spear in my hand was cold but solid.
It would do. I would do. I’d died in the South once.
I’d do it again. I’d do it here. Neither of the women behind me moved, but the soldiers had.
I waited for her order to die. To kill. To breathe.
The Duke’s men were seeing us. Noting our lack of response. They knew we weren’t following their orders, but hers. They moved, wary. We waited, tense. We’d had the upper hand when we had surprise.
That surprise was bleeding out.
“I don’t need to fight,” Audrey murmured. “And…I can’t not go.”
“I saw no official summons,” Isolde objected. “Demand a writ.”
“He has a writ,” my lady said, emotionless. “You know he does.”
“This is a trap, Audrey.” Isolde’s words were as sharp as the tip of my spear and as far away as the sun.
We all knew it was a trap.
We all knew it was an order.
The Duke gave the orders. We followed. Until we couldn’t lift our arms and our legs could barely hold. Until the weeping finally ended. Until the silence fell. Until the cold thawed. The Duke gave the orders. The whimpers, the wind carried them away.
“I’m aware.” My lady turned. I thought I heard snow crunch under her boots, but it was just some grit on the steps.
The wind screamed like wolves. I made my lungs work.
Icy air burned. Men wearing the same sigil as me looked at me like I was a corpse on the snow.
My heart beat in time with the rise and fall of their boots.
Blood pumped, soaking into my boots, hot against the bitter chill biting into my toes. I tightened my hand on my spear.
The Duke ordered.
We died in the South. Again. Forever and always.