Chapter 26
Zarek
WHAT YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW
Petrys is waiting for me at our regular table in the pub. He raises an eyebrow over his mug of ale as I sit down.
“You have news?” I ask.
We meet every four days when I’m in town, but he’s not usually here before me. He must have something to report.
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?” he replies.
I grit my teeth. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“You go first,” I say. “And I’ll buy the drinks.”
Petrys shrugs, but the grin doesn’t leave his face. It’s obvious how much he’s enjoying this. I want to ask him about Lilias so badly it aches, like a wound that refuses to heal. And from the look on his face, Petrys knows it.
“Well,” Petrys begins, “if there’s nothing else you want to ask me about…”
His voice trails off as he finishes his ale.
My fingers tap against the table’s sticky surface, and my eyes drift to the booth in the back, where Lilias sat and slammed three mugs of bitter ale.
I gave her a tour of the city while she sobered up somewhat, and as we walked together, she clung to my arm and laughed in a way that made my chest pinch.
It was almost enough to make me feel like a different sort of man, living a different sort of life.
Petrys puts his mug down and clears his throat. His expression darkens.
“Syvan is coming back to the city,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
I’m the one who fetched Malrik’s second son from the Devil’s Arse, as Petrys damn well knows. Petrys meets my gaze.
“Most of his troops aren’t,” he says.
That surprises me. My fingers freeze above the table. From the looks of the camp at the Arse, the entire battalion was moving out.
“Where are they going?” I ask.
Petrys shrugs. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. They’re splitting up into companies. And, Zarek?” He meets my gaze. “They’re moving to the west.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Marion is to the west.”
Petrys nods. I remember what King Malrik said about demanding redress from the king of Marion. Was he going to use Syvan’s troops to back up that particular demand? If so, it seems a bit excessive. Moving troops to the border could be seen as a declaration of outright war.
Which doesn’t make sense. What the fuck is in Marion that’s worthwhile? Through my marriage to Lilias, he already has a claim on the new mine, which is the only thing in that kingdom worth taking.
“What have you heard?” I ask. “Why do the soldiers think they’re moving?”
“I’ve heard the king of Marion is sick,” Petrys says.
“He’s not,” I reply. “Not that it matters.”
Petrys presses his lips together. A moment later, I hear the heavy footsteps of Bertha, the proprietor of this fine establishment. She hands us both a fresh mug of ale.
“Where’s your lady friend?” Bertha asks in a voice that sounds like it’s coming up through gravel.
“Back at the palace,” I reply.
Bertha laughs. She thinks it’s a great joke we have going on, my claiming to come from the palace. As if anyone from the palace would frequent her dive bar.
“Shame,” Bertha says. “She was a nice girl.”
Petrys stares at me with wide eyes. When Bertha leaves, he leans across the table.
“You brought the princess here?” he whispers.
I wince, then drink my ale. It tastes like horse piss.
“Fucking hells,” Petrys says, leaning back with a wicked grin. “Were you trying to kill her?”
“Just finish your godsdamned report,” I growl.
He frowns again. “Only one more thing of note. The soldiers have been ordered to keep a close lookout for your wife’s brother, Prince Elrick.
Apparently, some of them think he’s trying to slip across the border, to sneak into Vsenrog.
They’re saying things about him that are, uh, not very flattering. ”
I feel cold. Before Malrik pulled me in and announced I’d be marrying the princess of a splinter kingdom in the western mountains, I would have said Vsenrog couldn’t give less of a shit about the entire kingdom of Marion.
But now? The princess of Marion is here, half of Vsenrog thinks the king of Marion is on death’s door, and Syvan’s troops seem especially interested in Marion’s prince and only heir.
“This is not good,” I mutter under my breath.
Petrys spins his mug between his palms. “No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
He finishes his ale, then winces. “If I had a way of contacting Prince Elrick,” Petrys begins, “which, of course, I do not have. But if I did, I’d tell him to stay the fuck away from Vsenrog.”
I nod. He’s not wrong, but gods, the implications are bitter.
“Malrik already has the kingdom thinking Marion’s king is on death’s door,” Petrys continues. “And you’re married to Marion’s only princess. If her father suddenly passes, Prince Elrick would be the only thing standing between Malrik and a full, legitimate claim to the crown of Marion.”
Petrys holds my gaze long enough for me to get the message.
I sigh. Lovely. I already threatened to murder Lilias’s lover if he shows his damn face in the palace. Why not tell her that she can’t see her only sibling either?
“Now,” Petrys says, as his grin reappears. “Why don’t you ask me what you actually want to know?”
I finish the last of my ale. It burns all the way down. Bitter, nasty shit.
“How—” I begin. My voice sounds like it’s being pinched. “How is she doing?”
Petrys laughs as Bertha reappears with two more mugs.
“I can see why you like her,” Petrys says.
I open my mouth to argue with him, then close it. Petrys knows me well enough to know when I’m lying.
“I didn’t think she’d stick around,” he continues. “Most princesses, hells. Throw them to the ground, and they’d demand your head on a pike.”
The thought of anyone throwing Lilias to the ground makes my chest feel strangely tight. I try to drown the feeling with bitter ale.
“She said she’d had some training,” I say.
Petrys shrugs. “She’s not as bad as I was expecting,” he replies. “Her reflexes are quick, but she still panics and freezes. We’re working on it.”
Gods. His words feel like shards of ice in my chest. I should be the one teaching her how to fight. Really, I should be the one protecting her, making sure she never needs to know how to use her hands and her body against someone who means her harm.
Yeah, and I should be living in a little farmhouse in the mountains with a flock of chickens and a pack of scraggly-haired feral children. I snort into my ale.
“Thank you,” I say to Petrys. And then, before I can stop myself, the words slip through my lips. “Does she ever ask about—”
I squeeze my jaw shut before I can finish the question. But Petrys knows. He’s been watching over me for my entire life; he knew what I was asking before I even formed the words.
“No,” he says, with a look in his eyes that’s almost an apology. “She doesn’t ask about you. You’re keeping away from her, I assume?”
I nod, then miserably drain my second mug of ale. I should stop here; Bertha’s brew packs a punch.
“That’s good,” Petrys says. “The gods only know what the king wants with Marion, but the more distance you put between you and that woman, the less leverage Malrik has over you.”
He’s staring at me again, those dark eyes heavy on mine, like he’s trying to send a message he can’t say aloud.
“I know,” I say.
Petrys reaches over the table and squeezes my arm.
“Stay safe,” he says in a lower voice. “Remember, Marion’s not your kingdom.”
I nod. He’s right, of course. Hells, Vsenrog isn’t my kingdom either.
Still, as I walk back to the palace through a soft, spring rain that makes the kingdom feel like it’s drifting through the inside of a cloud, I think of the red satin ribbon tied around my wrists, forever binding me to the princess of Marion.