5. Sugar Cubes & Sass
Sugar Cubes & Sass
Asingle ray of sunlight from daybreak seeped through the opening in the stone wall. The dark stone of the Keep encased Torren on every side, broken only by the mediocre window situated to the side of the worn cot.
The window, so it was called, was nothing more than an opening the width of Torren’s hand. While the gap ran nearly all the way up the wall, it did not let in nearly enough air.
His cell had cooled dramatically through the night, so much so that Torren had debated ripping the wood frame of the bed apart to start a fire.
Torren felt like he might suffocate under all the stone, without the warmth of daybreak running along his skin. He’d forgotten the stifling, oppressive feeling of the Keep in all his years away.
He had not forgotten his father’s baleful gaze, though. Nor his disdain.
The plan Torren and Rhene had put together had unfortunately gone completely to shit. Torren was supposed to sneak in, find the scepter, and disappear before anyone was the wiser.
If his memory had been correct, there should have been a key to the vault, where the Scepter was likely stored within Cade’s tent.
As a boy, his brother had been delighted to be in possession of a key to the vaults, where the vast Blackthorne treasure was stored–while Torren was not similarly entrusted with such a key.
The lady in the tent had been an obstacle he hadn’t planned for. As was this excursion into the Wylds.
Torren was still planning what to do with the Lass on the way to the tomb. Humans rarely made it far into the Wylds without some misfortune falling upon them. Torren needed to return to his people to provide updates and relay everything he learned here.
Like this lady, the Captain of his brother’s guard.
When Torren left with his mother, Cade hadn’t even had his seventh name day. Over the years, Torren had wistfully imagined what their lives would have been like if they’d grown up as brothers rather than as adversaries.
It was clear to Torren now that Cade hadn’t wished for his return. The feeling sat heavily in his gut.
A loud knock on the thick door paused Torren’s musing. Moments later, the lady and the lieutenant strode through the door, faces set in a firm, unreadable mask.
Torren’s guard–or jailer, depending on how one looked at the situation– still wore full plate armor, as he had through the night. Torren had paced the hours away, stealing glimpses out the barred window on the door on each pass.
The Lady Cypress walked in second, with the same sword she’d used to unmask him strapped to her hip. She was dressed for travel, with thick leather leggings encasing her thighs, a billowy-sleeved shirt, the same leather corset around her waist, and a teal cloak thrown over one shoulder.
“Do you have preferences on horses?” The guard asked Torren, hands laced over the pommel of the sword at his hip.
Torren blinked. Just yesterday, the man had dragged him across the valley and back to the Keep without blinking. Now he was inquiring about Torren’s preferences?
“Fast and surefooted. The rest makes no difference,” Torren replied, eyebrows scrunched together.
The guard grunted and turned to leave without waiting to see if Torren followed.
Lady Cypress, or perhaps it was Captain Cypress, watched him through narrowed mismatched green and brown eyes, indicating with her head for Torren to leave first.
As if she didn’t trust him at her back.
Unfortunately for Torren, he would not get the scepter now if the Lass were to show up dead somewhere on the side of the road. So she was safe, for now.
However, no one from his father’s court was to be trusted.
Torren had learned that lesson at the sharp age of ten summers when the king’s men hunted down his mother’s carriage in the dead of night.
His mother had been freshly exiled–and they hadn’t even made it to the boundary lands between Faerie and Grethnah before they were chased down.
The sound of the horses screaming, the crackling fire that overcame the carriage with his mother still inside in mere moments, would never leave Torren. He had only survived by the sheer circumstance of wishing to be out, under the cover of starlight, testing the ring she’d bestowed upon him.
Ever since, a hatred for his father had burned within his gut.
He would never forget his mother, the way and reason she died. Nor would the hatred Torren held and kindled for his father leave him.
King Caelith Blackthorne had long been raiding Fair Folk towns and villages, imposing steep tithes that were preposterous to believe could be feasibly paid. Fair Folk did not work for payment as humans did. The Fair folk traded and bartered for things that had value, not just a lump of gold.
More and more of his people were fleeing the boundary lands, where the peoples of Grethnah and the Wylds blended. Faerie always welcomed its people home, but even more those who could not pay in gold did not return to the Wylds as towns burned.
Only gold glittered for King Caelith Blackthorne. The only thing that would rival the glitter of gold would be the sheen of the blood he deemed lesser.
Lady Cypress was tied closely to the crown of Grethnah. Too close. Torren could tell without even knowing the Lass. So, he would not be trusting the Lady as far as he could throw her.
However, some small part of Torren had hoped his brother would have grown into a man without the same proclivities as their father. Unfortunately, it seemed Torren was out of luck. Two minutes with Prince Cade were enough to know he was his father’s son, through and through.
Trailing behind the guard, Torren stole a glance back at the Lady in his company.
He’d heard stories about the famed, brooding Captain Cy. From a darkened corner of the arena, Torren had watched the jousts and even placed a few bets. Of course, always against the crown and its favored rider. He’d lost every single bet against Captain Cy.
Captain Cy was formidable in the saddle, but Torren doubted any of those who’d competed realized they’d been competing against a lady, one highly skilled with a blade as well as the lance.
“What business does a Lady of the court have with escorting a rogue like me into the Wylds?” Torren asked, glancing up and down her form briefly before returning his attention to the hallway before him.
“You heard the King,” she fired back in her lilting voice, soft yet commanding.
Torren grunted. “When do I get my sword back?”
“It’s with your pack, Sir,” the guard replied, making Torren nearly miss a step.
Yesterday, Torren had been practically dragged across the ground without even a care from the shorter, round-faced guard. Now, Torren was a sir.
“Do I at least get food before your king sends us on a pointless recon mission?” Torren asked, sighing heavily.
“Ample provisions will be in your packs,” the guard said once more, glancing back over his shoulder as if Torren were wasting his time.
“Why is it pointless?” the Lady Cypress asked, though her tone was little else than a command.
“Because everything we will find, I could have told him in the throne room. But because your king has an inflated ego, we have to go look again, just to check.” Torren snarked, sneering at the woman.
There was a tightness around her mismatched eyes Torren could not define, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask what it meant before the guard said, “Now, I’d be watching your words, son. I’ll not stand for that kind of talk.”
Torren scoffed. “If Caelith truly wanted me dead, I would have been dead with my mother– fuck, he would have outright killed me in the throne room.”
“The thief has a point, Oswald,” Cypress drawled from just behind Torren.
“Indeed, Lady Cypress,” the guard replied, striding through the large doorway to the stable yard.
Immediately, a groom scampered to attention before Oswald, giving the guard a slight salute. “Sir. Lady Cypress’s mount is ready.”
“Excellent. Saddle the grey for our guest, will you?” Oswald replied. The groom dashed away in an instant, shouting orders for others to assist him.
From the opposite end of the stable, a large, beautiful sooty buckskin mare was walked by a groom. The leather tack was stained black, with a gorgeous purple-and-blue woven blanket underneath. Fine strips of leather were braided together for the bridle, and a dark forelock hung over the front.
It was a marvelous beast, and different from the one Captain Cy rode in the Jousts. Interesting. It seemed the crown was very invested in maintaining this illusion.
The groom approached and handed the reins to Oswald with a slight bow of his head, leaving without a word.
“Ah, there’s my girl,” Cypress cooed, took a cube of sugar out of the small pouch at her waist, and held it in her palm as an offering to the horse. Her other hand rubbed the horse's exquisitely arched neck.
Everything about the horse would lead him to assume that its owner was high-ranking nobility. The horse was well fed and groomed, with long, elegantly muscled legs.
Even the tack suggested nobility. The bridle was an elegant thing, with fine, tooled detailing along the length of the reins, the silver buckles and rings polished to a mirror-like shine. Torren couldn't help but notice the bridle did not have a bit.
At least the Prince’s lackey was kind to the animal.
Torren would have thought kindness had been beaten or trained out of her by now. The Old Ones knew Caelith was not adept at showing affection or cultivating kindness in his peers. If anything, Caelith was adept at sowing hatred and cruelty.
Another groom approached from the end of the breezeway. “Allow me to help you mount, Lady. Your guest’s horse will be ready in a moment,” he said, giving Cypress a slight bow. Then he laced his fingers together to act like a step stool in a slight crouch next to the large horse.
“Thank you,” the lady said and placed her boot in the groom’s hand, making Torren raise an eyebrow.