Chapter 13
I kept waiting for Renn to be sick. For him to lose his balance on the ship, to cough up blood, to lose his color.
The Renn I’d known, the one I’d fallen in love with, was always so sick.
But other than a headache and a few stifled coughs, he remained hale for the rest of the trip.
Hale as we unloaded the vessel. Hale as we rode toward Derren Castle, me on the saddle before him, and I wondered when he’d learned to sit astride a horse.
I imagine he had to pick it up very quickly.
We rode until sunset, then set up camp. Renn whispered he’d share a bed with me again, not mentioning what it might look like to his men.
But I turned in before him, as he needed to speak to his commanders around the fire.
Almost immediately drifting off, I found myself in the conservatory again, this time with Nicosia’s whip tearing lines across my face—
I woke up to Renn over me, shaking me, my name a plea on his mouth. I gasped, shivered. “Don’t,” I wheezed.
He released me.
“No.” I reached for him. “Don’t apologize. Please . . .”
He didn’t. He shucked his clothes, save for his undershirt and breeches—something that should have been more alluring, or at least scandalizing, but my mind had been beaten so far from lust and propriety, I barely gave his undress a passing thought.
Renn held me, his roses and thorns blooming and wilting in a ceaseless cycle, and I fell into a dreamless slumber.
Derren Castle wasn’t anything like Rove’s.
It boasted only two towers, one of which was partially collapsed.
It bore a large moat, also collapsed on one side, full of murky, green-tinted water.
Thick stone, crumbled over time, composed its wall, but recent repairs had been made, swathes of rock and mortar that didn’t match.
One large crack had been half filled with wood as workers continued to labor to fix it.
A large ash-stained flag of a red phoenix hung from a front battlement.
It didn’t have much of a bailey, being a fortress before anything else, built to withstand wars largely lost to history.
But it was defendable, it was free, and many Canseren soldiers had made it and its surrounding lands their home—far more than I had imagined Renn able to gather in so short a time, without the benefits of the capital at his disposal.
Then again, I suppose word of a prophecy being fulfilled was enough to draw men-at-arms from all walks of life.
And it certainly did.
Word of our arrival preceded us, and even before the drawbridge had been let down, I felt Renn tense behind me.
Whispers flooded the men and a few women in attendance, until one shouted, “The gods-touched king has returned!” and a swarm of soldiers and servants cheered.
They didn’t seem to notice me perched in front of him on the saddle, where I debated whether I should look small to let their king shine or sit up straighter to barricade him from their adoration.
It warmed me, that he was adored.
Yet Renn hated it. I’d know he did, even if our heart-bond didn’t reveal it to me.
He hated eyes on him, hated the attention.
He always had, even the positive kind. Still, he managed to paste on a smile and wave, garnering a second cheer before he entered the castle, where the awing and bowing started anew.
However, as we neared the stables, he drew up short, stalling the others who rode behind us. Surprise flaked through the bond, causing me to follow his gaze to a yellow, white, and blue flag.
“Antsan,” he murmured, turning the steed right around as he searched the crowd, calling out to a steward. “Tintier! Are there Antsan emissaries here?”
A gradual sinking feeling pulled on my gut.
The steward signaled something to him, and Renn turned back toward the stables, urging the horse into a trot, squeezing his knees over my legs to keep me secure.
He practically jumped off the mount, grasped my hips to help me down, and thanked the stable hands before guards stationed at the castle met us and bid us, as well as Commander Stonelay, into the keep.
The castle was obviously built for war and not for comfort, given the low ceilings and tight corridors.
I tried my best to tamp down the uneasiness in my belly, focusing instead on the hope flowing from Renn.
We desperately needed allies in this war, and King Grejor had been in negotiations with Antsan before his death.
I’d heard of them the same night Sesta sacked Rove.
We came into the Great Hall, a third of the size of Rove’s.
No throne had been erected, nor tapestries; there was only a very old, very heavy carpet laid lengthwise across the worn stone floor.
A large delegation of people awaited us there, the majority in gray uniforms with the same yellow, white, and blue flag patched onto their shoulders.
A man in the front, who looked to be in his mid-forties, smiled as we approached.
He had the deepest shade of red hair, receded halfway across his pate.
His friendly face had high, round cheeks and deep-brown eyes.
He was short for a man, about my height, and while he wore a gray uniform, it did not look military like those on the men around him, who certainly were soldiers.
I held back with the guard while Renn and Commander Stonelay crossed the space. The redheaded man bowed deeply. “I’m relieved to see you safe from your journey, Your Majesty.” He had a melodic accent, crisp, with a rhotic r.
“And I yours,” Renn offered, extending a hand. “However unexpected.”
“I am Jardallen Arquan from Antsan. I’m here with this delegation to continue negotiations with Cansere for allyship between our nations. We had opened them with your late father—my uttermost condolences, of course.”
My stomach sank further. I’d begun twisting a bit of my skirt between my fingers.
“Unfortunately, in times of war, there is little time for them,” Renn replied.
He was such a bundle of emotions, positive and negative, all masked beneath years of practice.
I took deep breaths, trying desperately not to distract him with mine.
“But thank you. These have been trying times, to say the least.”
“The time for strategy is at hand, Your Majesty,” Sir Arquan went on. “We have no personal grief with Sesta. King Vitsoph has been rather taken aback by the show of aggression that seems to be motivated”—he turned his hand about, as though searching for a word—“religiously.”
My half-heart pulsed hard. I supposed it was not so hard to piece it together—the Heminist prophecies. Yet I wondered if Antsan had spies here.
Renn did not seem—or, rather, feel—overly concerned.
I studied his features as the two continued to talk, then shifted my gaze to the others in the retinue.
A man with a box strapped to his chest took notes.
There was a woman in the back—I could see only the crown of her head, from which grew strawberry-blonde locks.
To their credit, the Antsan soldiers remained largely neutral.
“—to tell you that the original offer to King Grejor still stands,” Sir Arquan was saying.
“I understand the dealings had not grown serious enough to involve you personally at the time, but your country is in need of aid now more than ever, and a firmer alliance between Cansere and Antsan is immensely beneficial to all parties. Because of your father’s preparation, and because His Majesty King Vitsoph is impressed with your actions these past five months, our troops and ships stand at the ready, should we finalize these dealings. ”
I was unsure if the lancing from my navel to the back of my neck stemmed from me or Renn.
“I of course am willing to barter for an alliance.” Renn glanced at Commander Stonelay. “I’ve personally written to your liege, though if it made it across the miles of prairie and ocean between us, I know not.”
“We received it,” the emissary confirmed.
“Adoel Nicosia is breathing down the back of my neck, Sir Arquan. As soon as one bout is finished, another starts. Forgive me if I ask frank brevity over pretty politics.”
The emissary smiled, then chuckled to himself.
“A relief, really. I get very tired of the dance. I have here”—he turned toward the scribe behind him, who ceased writing long enough to pull a tightly rolled scroll from a bag at his hip—“the exact terms that had been in negotiations with your father. They need to be whittled down and finalized, but both parties had agreed that an alliance of marriage would be the most advantageous.”
Another lance, sharper. My breath caught, and I could not release it.
Sir Arquan stepped to the side and motioned for two of the soldiers to part, revealing the woman with the strawberry-blonde hair.
She looked no older than Lissel, perhaps sixteen, with sharp hazel eyes, pink-undertoned skin, and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Her layered gown was in Antsan style, but her hip-length hair had been ironed straight in Canseren fashion, so much so it shined as rose gold in the light.
She smiled prettily, and though a whooshing sound had begun to fill my ears, I still managed to make out what the emissary said next.
“Might I present to you Azra Vitsoph, who selflessly made the journey here herself so she might meet you. She is His Majesty’s most esteemed daughter.”
Most esteemed daughter. The words echoed back and forth in my head. She was a princess.
I had unknowingly come to Derren Castle to meet Renn’s future wife.