Chapter Five #2
“And that worries me because…?” Ronan let the question trail, his face open, a small, confident smirk curving his mouth.
“I don’t know where you’re from,” she said under her breath, “but in Wellmoor Tallon’s Black Guard enforce the law, and they’re not the friendly type.”
“Black Guard?” I asked, knowing Ronan wouldn’t bother to pry. There were no branches of service with that title under my rule.
“Aye.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Erik’s stationed here by their decree to watch us. Every shop and inn suffer their eyes.”
“Sheri, those mugs won’t clean themselves,” the innkeeper barked, using her ample hip to shove the girl away. Her glare cut straight to Ronan. “I don’t know what side ye’r on, but if ye bring trouble, I’ll have ye tossed into the street.”
She slammed our mugs down, warm mead sloshing across the table. A long second passed as she waited to see who would move first. Then she wiped her hands on her skirts and held one out. “Coin.”
Careful to keep my cloak closed tight, I eased four coppers from my purse. Gold would have been truer payment for her loyalty, but suspicion carried its own price.
She frowned at the coins, huffed, and returned to the hearth.
“Charming woman,” Ronan muttered, prodding the porridge with his spoon.
I stared into my bowl, thoughts spiraling. Where had Tallon found men to form his own guard? Had he killed Darius and claimed the Threshers?
That would require Nyryn’s blessing. I made certain the priests could never be bought. Elohios guide me, they wanted for nothing, and death was merely a doorway to them. For Nyryn to drag them back for vengeance—and for Tallon to hand them cause…
Breath stalled in my lungs.
Unless he used the Velli.
Horror and disbelief tangled as my jaw locked, my stomach twisting tight. No, he couldn’t have brought them this far west. The people would never tolerate it. Still—I had no desire to linger if even the slightest chance existed that Erik would return with something capable of scenting me out.
“We’re done.” My knees struck the back of the chair, shoving it away.
Ronan shot me a look of pure exasperation and snatched up his mead, draining it in long, gulping pulls. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shouldered his pack, and shrugged. “Seems a waste,” he said.
Though lingering might prove to be far more wasteful. I would not have my mantle discovered by this so-called Black Guard. Radaan didn’t need to be reclaimed by force. There were paths through this mess that did not end in dragonfire.
The beasts were meant to be Radaan’s protectors, not its executioners.
I dipped my head to the scowling innkeeper and led Ronan back into the street. It bustled now, good folk finishing morning chores and heading for the markets. We merged into the flow, falling in behind two women deep in easy conversation.
“Who are the Black Guard?” he asked, leaning into me.
One of the ladies glanced back, her gaze skating over us before she tucked her dark hair beneath a straw hat.
“Mind your tongue,” I muttered.
He hummed, thoughtful, and said no more.
The question gnawed at me too, but answers would come at the market. There, bartering thrived on talk, and nothing loosened tongues faster than strangers and unrest.
A shiver traced my spine. The hairs on my nape lifted.
I made an effort to keep my breath even, then rounded a corner. Movement flickered at the edge of my vision.
Black leather armor.
The glimpse lasted only a heartbeat, offering nothing but a resemblance to Greaves’ gear. But Greaves stayed with Nienna. My hand slid beneath my cloak, settling on my sword’s hilt. Ronan caught the motion and shifted his pack, freeing his hands.
Our footsteps landed in an untroubled rhythm. Casual. Unhurried. Just two travelers headed for market. My ears strained for the echo behind us, a single set of boots keeping its distance.
Jaw tight, I turned another corner and folded into a thicker press of bodies. I tugged my hood lower and looked back.
A shadow slipped into a doorway.
We were being watched, and they knew we’d caught them.
Apparently, they had no desire to cause a scene charged with confrontation. Either their hold on Wellmoor remained tenuous, or they lacked certainty and waited for advantage.
Ronan lifted a hand, fingers flailing above his head as if reaching for absent flight goggles. He dropped it to smooth sandy waves from his face and shot me a grim look. I rolled my stiff shoulder, loosening old scars in quiet preparation. And pretended ignorance of our tail.
The crowd drew us into the market, aisles narrowing beneath the press of buyers and sellers. Smoked fish hung heavy in the air, mingling with fresh bread and sharp spices.
I cataloged the men. A single man for every five women. War always left its mark deeper the farther one traveled from the capital.
Children’s laughter rang out, bright and unguarded, and something in me eased, settling my soul. There would be more orphans than I wished to name. More homes without fathers. Still, Radaan endured. It would heal.
Once Tallon fell.
A boy with sun-bleached hair and nothing on but a loose tunic darted across my path, chasing a dog.
A sense of longing twisted within me, a glimpse of a blessing denied me.
Nienna would mend Radaan’s scars, the balm to our wounds.
She was our future. Part of me whispered she would never be content without a child.
How could she be? Her life had been shaped by purpose.
A princess meant to be Queen, to bear an heir for a nation.
Instead, she wed a sterile king.
I blinked and forced the thoughts down. She came to me. She chose me, knowing every limitation I carried. Doubts would always linger, ghosts of another life, reminders of failure best left unspoken.
I pivoted, shifting our course. Shoulders brushed mine, the hard line of metal beneath my cloak earning no notice.
There was power in that, knowing that I walked among my people as a commoner, and they accepted me still, even without recognizing who I truly was.
They pressed past me, unaware, unafraid.
They were my purpose. This was Radaan.
“Now there’s a couple men who’d appreciate a sharp blade.”
I let the lanky man call out to me from the press of bodies, keeping my mouth set in a firm line, the only part of my face he could clearly see.
“You’re not farmers, are you?” He shaded his eyes with a weathered hand. “Loggers?”
He stood behind a plank balanced across two barrels, its surface scattered with paring knives, cutlery, and hoes. A scythe leaned nearby, polished bright enough to catch the sun.
I frowned and shook my head. “Headed for Lon.”
“Only a strong arm hides under a cloak on a cloudless day.” He squinted but didn’t try to peer beneath my hood. His attention shifted to my companion. “There may be work for you there, but I wager you wouldn’t last long. A few extra blades might buy you a night or two.”
“Poor way to sell steel.” Ronan scoffed, though he stepped closer and eyed the wares. “Call us mercenaries, then offer an apple peeler for protection?”
Any number of things could have betrayed our ruse. My mantle beneath the cloak. The garment itself. Or the chance he’d served with me once, which felt the most likely.
We carried ourselves like men ready for a fight.
“Let me tell you, boy.” The man leaned in, elbow braced on the makeshift counter. “You want to be headed in the opposite direction of Reem.”
“Our destination is Lon,” Ronan said, leaning closer with a crooked grin.
“I don’t care where you’re from, but if Lon’s your goal, you are chasing blood.
Reem is a rotten carcass ready to burst. Things will happen there.
You’d be wiser to turn back now. And you!
” A gnarled finger snapped toward me. “You walk like a wolf in a sheep pen. You’ve fought.
I have no doubt you know full well what waits ahead.
Dragging this lad along makes you no better than those wearing the mantle. ”
Those. Plural.
“Perhaps we wish to help,” I offered, vague enough to test him.
“You’ll help no one.” He shook his head. “Not King Tallon. Not King Kallias.”
My stomach knotted. So the bastard prince had claimed the crown and forged a mantle of his own.
Elohios guide me, but I would kill him.
“Not even your own purse,” the man added. “Dead men can’t spend coin.”
“Then best to spend it now?” Ronan said, redirecting the man’s attention.
“If you won’t hear reason, carry a spare blade.
” He twisted aside, pulling a scrap of cloth from a bag.
He laid it on the plank and peeled it back to reveal several short daggers.
“A sword only gets you so far.” He motioned us closer, huddling over the plain steel.
“With Velli, they grow careless when they’re near. ”
Gods above, they were in Radaan.
Cold flooded my veins, heat useless against the chill settling deep in my bones.
“And no matter whose banner you follow,” he continued, flipping a dagger in his hand, “those rats can’t be trusted. War’s coming. These might keep you breathing a little longer.”
“It’s already here,” Ronan growled, more hatred in his voice than I expected.
I knew the rest of his thoughts. He was bound to Nienna’s vengeance, and he would not leave her in a nation at war. He wouldn’t rest until she was safe and dragons lined the Craggs.
“Then you’d best be ready.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” The prince of Draconia let his heritage bleed through his mask of indifference. He leaned back from the daggers, wrinkling his nose. “Stick to hoes and shovels. Try a better pitch on the farmers.”
He turned away, leading us from the stall.