Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Seraphina
The cold nipped at her bare fingers just as she and Olivia crested the ridge on horseback, leaving her gazing down into the valley below. A day of riding, of fretting, and finally, the moment had arrived.
The moment that could change everything.
The sun sagged low on the horizon, with only the occasional beam of fading light able to pierce the heavy cloud cover above.
But it was enough light to see by. Enough to trace the edges of the farmlands bordering the duchy of Coreto, split by the rushing waters of the River Whiteford off to her right, swollen by all the recent rain.
Enough to see the silhouettes of the men lingering down in the valley—at least thirty by her rough count. Lords and their personal guards rather than any formal army. Their banners fluttered in the wind.
Each heraldic animal she spied emblazoned on those banners was a fresh knife to her heart.
House Threston’s boar she had expected, given that the Duke of Coreto was the head of that Great House.
But there were others that surprised her—standards of men she had known since she was a little girl.
Men who had been loyal to her father before her.
A trout for the Baron of Leinor. A stoat for the Count of Minavale. And more besides.
At her side, Olivia dryly observed, “It looks like a procession of all the midlands lords down there. I see almost everyone besides Wellane and Lord Tiberius.”
Seraphina’s hands tightened on her reins. As if sensing the sudden shift in her mood, her horse shook its head and stamped restlessly beneath her. “Coreto is merely trying to unsettle me by parading his supporters before us.” She swallowed hard. “But it will not work. I do not care.”
The lie was like ash in her mouth. She did care. Very much so.
But her feelings didn’t matter in this. All that mattered was that, at the end of the day, her people were safe. And they never would be under Coreto’s rule. That man cared about one thing and one thing alone—power.
His own glory.
Silence descended between her and Olivia as they sat there, waiting for the treacherous duke to make the first move, to ride away from his supporters and meet her alone—with a single escort—as agreed.
She could see him well enough, pacing before the midlands lords on his horse, sitting tall despite his advanced years, looking strong within the steel breastplate encasing his torso.
He watched her just as she watched him, his icy gaze fully fixated on her and her alone. Like that, he waited.
Like a coward.
As if he intended her to ride to him.
Thinning her lips, Seraphina steered her horse to the left and trotted along the length of the ridge. With each beat of her mount’s hooves against the turf, the chainmail shirt hidden beneath her gown thumped against her. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
“What is the matter, Coreto?” she shouted, infusing every ounce of disdain she held for that man into her voice as her words sailed across the stillness. “Afraid to face two unarmed women alone?”
They were losing the light. She had to bait him into acting quickly. What was the point of any of this if he could not see the supposed threat enough to buy her ruse?
Around her neck, Alyx stirred, disturbed by the sudden noise.
Down below, Coreto finally nudged his horse into motion, cantering away from the pack of traitors that accompanied him. A lone rider swiftly followed—his second son, Bennett Threston. Of course, the duke was not arrogant enough to bring along his heir to such a dangerous meeting.
As much as she hated to admit it, Coreto was no fool.
Seraphina spared Olivia a fleeting glance to ensure her Spymaster was ready before she started down the ridge herself, letting her horse pick its way carefully over the rocky soil.
With each step, her pulse surged faster.
With each passing moment, her mind reeled more, thoughts flitting through all the various ways this could go terribly wrong.
But it was too late to back out now. She was here.
She was doing this.
The duke and his son drew closer, close enough for her to easily spy the pleased smile curving Coreto’s lips. The very sight of it made her teeth clench.
“Seraphina,” the duke hailed her, so informally, as he drew his horse to a halt several lengths away. Yet more salt the insufferable man tried to rub into what he thought would be her wounded pride. “You have surprised me. I did not think you would actually come.”
She forced herself to bow her head, appearing bested before her opponent. Feigning subservience to Coreto of all people smarted far more than any words he could have flung her way.
“I know when I have been outplayed, Your Grace,” she lied, her gaze fixated on her horse’s neck. “I merely hope for your mercy now. No more bloodshed. I will abdicate my throne in favor of your claim and retire to my family home, a mere lady—”
Coreto’s laughter sliced through her prepared speech, cutting her off mid-sentence. “You are fooling no one, girl,” he spat.
Her head snapped up; her eyes locked with his.
The duke stared back at her with his cold, cruel gaze, dissecting her piece by piece.
“You have some scheme, I am sure. Something you have plotted in the scant time I allowed you. Something that makes you feel terribly clever. But whatever it is, it will not work.” Shifting his reins to a one-handed grip, he gestured toward the waiting lords behind him.
“As you can see, I have the strength of nearly all the midlands behind me.”
Her gaze ticked that way, drinking in the sight of her traitorous nobles once more.
“But not the North,” she whispered. “The Umberlys stand with me, and the North answers to the Umberlys. The northern lords will never stand with you, especially if you do not let me abdicate and retire in peace. I will be no threat to you. The Dawnspire keeps no standing army.”
Her family’s ancestral home was impregnable. It had no need for a standing army.
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of Coreto’s mouth. “Even if I do let you abdicate in peace, the North will not stand with me. You know that. I know that.”
He heaved a quiet sigh and muttered, as if they were two friends conspiring with one another rather than bitter enemies, “Your godfather would probably die of shock that you had abdicated in the first place, and then his eldest son would declare himself some manner of king in the North or other such nonsense. Even if you do truly surrender to me here today, there will be civil war. Unless…”
The duke trailed off and tilted his head to the side, surveying her from head to toe. His cold stare crawled across her skin, sending the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Coreto had never looked at her like that before—like a broodmare he was considering purchasing for his stable.
She prayed he never looked at her like that again.
Olivia shifted closer, her muscles coiled tight, like a serpent about to strike.
Finally, Coreto broke his abrupt silence to declare, “There will be a marriage alliance between our families.” The words slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.
He spoke so calmly, so authoritatively. As if she were a girl of fifteen again, standing in her father’s study, being informed that she was already betrothed to Edmund Hargrave—a child ten years her junior. As if it had all already been decided.
As if that were that.
Seraphina could only stare at him—this man who was even older than her godfather. This man who now spoke of a marriage alliance between her House and his. A hiccup of hysterical laughter clawed at her throat, desperate to break free from what shreds of her careful composure remained.
“You must be jesting,” she breathed. “I would never marry you.”
Coreto grimaced. “Not me, you pretty little fool. You would outlive me, and then what would have been the point of it all?”
Olivia nudged her horse forward, edging closer to the duke. Close enough to finally garner his attention. When his gaze snapped toward her friend, Olivia observed on a hiss, “The queen is married already, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Coreto’s lips twitched into another humorless smile. He glanced away, his eyes returning to hers. “A marriage easily annulled. You cannot truly expect me to believe it was ever actually consummated.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. How dare he.
How dare he seek to humiliate her by speaking of such things. How dare he seek to imply that her vows to Aldric could be so easily broken on a mere technicality.
“On the contrary,” Seraphina lied, taking care to enunciate each word, “my marriage to the rightful King of Drakmor was consummated, Your Grace. It was all quite scandalous, I can assure you, as my maids and most of the palace servants can surely attest.”
The Lord bless Aldric for having had the foresight to cut the laces on her wedding gown, providing them with evidence and gossip fodder for the servants.
Her brilliant Crow.
Coreto pursed his lips, his arrogant certainty finally wavering. Doubt flashed across his face. Behind him, his mousy son, Lord Bennett, shifted in his saddle with palpable discomfort.
Seraphina fought against the urge to do the same.
“And I refuse to speak of these personal matters with you further,” she snapped.
“Such things are between me and my husband. What the Lord has joined together, no man will separate. I will not hear any more of this nonsense about a marriage alliance.”
While she spoke, she searched the grove of trees dotting the northwest horizon for any flicker of movement. Was Aldric already there waiting? Was he ready for her to send up her signal?
The duke cleared his throat. As if she had not just spoken at all, he coolly declared, “War makes many widows, Seraphina. The validity of your marriage makes no difference. There will be an alliance forged between House Threston and House de la Croix today. I have a Shepherd with me in my party.”