Chapter 28
HARK
It had taken her no time at all to ditch him in the tent and join the children and other women who were dancing.
It had bothered him initially that she had abandoned the job so she could dance, but after that strange hag’s words, he had to admit he had relaxed just a fraction, had been less inclined to stop her drinking the sweet wine she kept accepting from strangers who laughed as they twirled with her.
Besides, he couldn’t very well scold her for it when she had been insistent they go storming into the northern border encampment tonight to rescue the slaves.
He’d thought she might ignore him. Thought he might turn towards her at some point during the evening only to find that she had disappeared – that her patience had worn too thin and she’d disappeared to go and rescue those who had been captured.
So, no. He wouldn’t stop Arla drinking. Not when he knew she needed something to help her relax, to begin to process what had happened and why she hadn’t known a thing.
Tomorrow … tomorrow they would utilise that burning anger in her blood and silently slip into the camp and begin freeing the slaves, just as his crew had been doing for months now.
Slowly. That was the only way they would manage this without finding themselves hung or with an arrow through the chest.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Arla. Once or twice she had looked over at him, her eyes suggesting he join in.
And, truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he had declined.
Except that at least one of them needed to stay alert to any threats on his people?
And that he wouldn’t degrade himself by being draped in coloured ribbons and dancing hand in hand with children?
But mostly because he couldn’t stand the thought of being so close to her, of becoming wrapped in that honey and jasmine scent she left wherever she went; of dancing with her and not being able to show her just how exquisitely he could dance?
What other exquisite things he could do with her had he the courage… ?
He had made her laugh, and even if he could somehow draw the sound from her again and again, he didn’t think he could ever get enough of that lilting, childish laugher.
She didn’t do it half enough. He watched her sway and twirl, and couldn’t believe that this unbound, happy person was the same girl he’d known for the last two years.
He had seen her deadly, sarcastic, angry – gods, she was always angry – charming, plotting, but he had never seen her carefree and unrestrained as now.
She carried burdens he wished she didn’t blame him for – blame his people for – and they weighed heavily on her.
After all she had been through, it was no surprise she looked older than her eighteen years; her face had aged into something more mature and …
beautiful. But there she was, barely an adult and with too much blood on her hands.
He’d seen how … violent she could be when she wanted.
He’d seen some of the victims she’d been instructed to dispose of by her king, leaving some so mangled that he wondered what in the gods possessed the girl to butcher people like she did.
In another life he would have believed her to have blood magic, because to be able to throw her knives the way she did was otherworldly.
Maybe she’d worked herself to the point of breaking to become so talented.
Hark sighed as he watched her accept another drink, and after the next round of dancing had finished, he saw her feet falter for the first time in the two years he had known her.
He was up and marching towards her in an instant.
Arla Reinhart was as surefooted as they came, and now, after consuming half her bodyweight in hot wine, she had staggered.
It was time to go.
His legs were stiff from sitting so long and he was glad of the opportunity to stretch them as he strode towards her. ‘As much as I’m enjoying watching you make an absolute fool of yourself,’ he murmured in her ear, ‘it’s time to go, sweetheart.’
Her body stiffened, losing all the freedom it had exhibited only minutes before he had come to spoil her fun. Gods, she really was going to make him drag her away from here.
Surprisingly, however, she pulled away from the circle, laughing lightly as a child draped a blue ribbon around her shoulders. She walked silently beside him, and it was so strange for her to be compliant that he wondered if something was wrong.
It became clear soon enough. Her left foot stumbled on seemingly flat ground as they made their way back to where their horses were tied, and he was not blind to the fact she was drifting with every step she took.
He kept his eyes alert and focused, mindful that although the palace soldiers had not tried anything at the festival, it didn’t mean they weren’t waiting to dispose of Hadalyn’s most notorious killer on her way home, especially now that she was drunk enough to stab herself with her own blades.
‘You’re angry with me,’ Arla commented, hauling herself onto Vetta’s back with decidedly less grace than she usually did.
He wondered why the mare put up with it, but Arla had sulked for so long when they had initially ridden out from Hadalyn on opposite horses that he had decided she and Vetta had been through more than she was letting on. He preferred Eros, anyway.
‘No, I just think you’re irresponsible,’ he replied, nudging Eros’s sides to catch up to Vetta.
It was only when they were half a mile from Vorstrum, and he could see the soft glow of its lights that he began to relax fully, and consequently notice how close she was to falling off Vetta’s back.
‘Fuck,’ he cursed, digging his heels into Eros, and trotting up beside Arla’s slumping body.
She shot upright, her fingers tightening on the reins as she adjusted herself in the saddle. Had she actually fallen asleep?
‘I’m fine, Stappen…’ she mumbled, blinking her eyes.
‘Sure. You can hardly sit up.’
‘I can.’
He smirked. She was quite amusing when she was drunk, or at least when she wasn’t trying to attack him with words or swords, so it made for a refreshing change.
She slid from Vetta’s back the minute they arrived at the inn, and he questioned how she had even managed to stay upright as she stumbled backwards.
Maybe her time as an assassin had aided her intoxicated feet.
He would tell her tomorrow just how reckless she had been, but now he wanted to get inside and lock her somewhere safe.
‘Come on,’ he said with a sigh, heading for the door.
Nothing. Not one shuffle of movement.
‘Reinhart, come on.’
Silence.
He moved towards her, eyes scanning her body for where she had concealed blades, because it was entirely typical of her to do so and he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t use them on him in this state.
‘Hey, we’re going in,’ he said gently, waving a hand in front of her. She blinked quickly, turning her head to face him.
‘Mm-hmm, I’m coming,’ she said before tripping over… What? Gods.
He reached for her, pulling her close, and for the first time she didn’t resist. He had been cautious, too well versed in her violence and dangerously short temper to risk grabbing her without warning.
But she allowed the touch and with whatever patience he had left, he hooked an arm around her and coaxed her up the stairs of the inn.
‘Go to bed,’ he grumbled, pushing her door open with one arm, and encouraging her through the doorway. She didn’t say a word, and he would have continued walking and left her there had he not heard the telltale thud of her stumbling.
He caught her by an elbow before her knees could hit the floor, and he cursed under his breath.
He couldn’t leave her like this. Not only was she more than capable of choking on her own vomit, but there were people who would happily see Arla Reinhart dead – people who had probably observed how thoroughly ruined she was on her way back from the festival and may believe her to be an easy target.
They’d be right. The windows were not impenetrable and though he’d never been concerned with Arla’s ability to be half asleep and still drive a dagger through a man’s throat, he didn’t expect the same sort of sense of self-preservation from her in this state.
‘Come on,’ he said, hauling her to her feet and dragging her towards his room.
It was the right thing to do. He needed her help to complete the job, and he didn’t fancy explaining to the king that he had allowed his assassin to be murdered in her sleep.
Not that he expected to be in Cyrus’s presence ever again.
He’d seen the betrayal and confusion in Arla’s eyes when he’d told her of Cyrus’s involvement in the slave trading, and she didn’t yet know the half of it.
He could still feel that burning anger in the pit of his stomach when Elrod had told him of the slaves and how he’d manipulated Cyrus into investing his own royal coffers into the scheme, too.
It wouldn’t surprise Hark if Arla never returned to Castle Grey again, other than to abolish its monarchy.
‘Brave of you to let me in here, Stappen,’ she slurred, swaying as she walked the perimeter of the room, her fingers grazing the few objects he’d brought with him on the trip.
‘And why would that be?’
She turned to face him, laughter bursting from her lips before she spoke. ‘Because you couldn’t keep your hands off me last time.’
His heart stuttered in his chest, his skin suddenly too hot. ‘Well I can promise you, Reinhart, that it won’t be happening again. A mistake, as you so eloquently reminded me this morning.’
She raised a brow, flopping onto the bed with such a lack of grace he couldn’t help but sigh. He shouldn’t have let her in here. She needed to leave. Now.