Chapter 29
The cold slapped Bram’s cheeks as he stood at Coldpress Lake. The water offered him no wisdom. He blew out his lips. He’d
been far too harsh with Marigold. He believed that she believed the form he took did not matter. That she loved him as an orc as much as she had the man.
But surely, she lied to herself.
His breath plumed in the air as he waited. Cottages dotted the lake’s rim in the distance, their windows faintly glowing like
beacons on this gloomy autumn day.
Footsteps crunched the rocky shore behind him.
A hundred yards . . . fifty . . . twenty-five . . . ten.
He twitched his ears. “Hello, Coby.”
“Sir . . . I mean, Jask.” The young knight stood next to him.
Bram folded his arms. “No one’s about. Call me what you prefer. How do you fare?”
“Well, thanks,” Coby said. “You?”
He was brimming with turmoil and fret.
“I’ll do.” Bram ran his hands through his hair, then cradled the back of his skull. “That’s a lie, kid. It’s been a devil
of a day.”
“It’s eight a.m., sir.”
He twitched an ear toward Coby, listening for any shifts in breathing pattern. Anything to help discern if the young knight
spoke with truth on his tongue. “Can I trust you, Coby?”
The kid took a quick breath. Still in the realm of normal, though. Not the heave of someone who was about to lie to you. “Yes, sir.”
Bram sucked in a breath. Coby had never broken his trust, but it felt like the world had when Crispin betrayed him. With Crispin
maintaining the ruse of the wedding . . . His gut told him another plan was afoot. To protect Marigold from whatever might
come, he needed more allies.
“If I need to reach you without attracting attention from the rest of the guard, where can I leave word?”
Coby rubbed his chin. “The Laughing Gourd, I suppose. The tavern nearest Brambleton’s keep. These days, most of the knights
prefer to indulge at the Black Dragon.”
The Laughing Gourd was Elenor Brewster’s tavern. Handy, that.
“Good,” he said. “Next—would you be willing to keep an eye on Sir Kevin?”
“How do you mean? I shouldn’t like to cross him.”
Bram crossed his arms over his chest. “I suspect he’ll return on the prince’s orders. Crispin typically bloodies his hands
by proxy, and he was . . . dissatisfied with the search of Grimroot Farm the night Princess Marigold disappeared. I wouldn’t
be surprised if he seeks another opportunity to ransack my homestead via Kevin.”
With his brow lowered, Coby scratched his jaw. “But you said the princess is not here.”
“I stand by that,” he said. “As part of the prince’s guard, the less you know, the better. All I’m asking is if you notice
or catch word that Kevin is planning another visit to Grimroot Farm, send word to me.”
“That I can do. But how? Sending a messenger would raise suspicions, wouldn’t it?”
“The royal falconer,” he said. “Garrick Hale. He and I were friends once—hunted together on our off days. He loathed the prince.”
“Based on the comments he utters under his breath, he still does.”
Bram was oddly comforted that despite the years he’d lived in seclusion on the farm, some things remained as they were in
Harvest Hollow.
Coby wrinkled his forehead. “But falcons are birds of prey, not messengers.”
“These are. Garrick trains them to deliver messages because Crispin prefers their look. Says they are more intimidating than
pigeons. He pays a mage a monthly sum to work a spell that makes them fly true along ley lines.”
Coby rolled his eyes. “What a waste of money and magic. All for aesthetics?”
“That, unfortunately, is how Crispin makes most of his decisions. He slots people into places based on their looks and not
their merit.” Bram tossed Coby a silver sou from the stash he’d earned from the cider sale to Elenor. “Grimroot Farm’s cottage
is a nexus point for ley lines. Pay Garrick to send the falcon screaming when Kevin makes a move. I’ll hear it.”
Coby offered his hand. “You have my word.”