“Presumably. From his office at least. The letter proposed a betrothal between the young prince and the Princess Arabella. Effective immediately on our agreement, she would be sent to Dalbreck to be raised in the palace and groomed for her position there. The only stipulation was that the official proposal had to come from Dalbreck. They asked that I destroy the letter. A great deal of money was offered to me if I honored these requests. The whole thing was ludicrous, and I tossed the letter into the fire. I thought it a prank at first, played by my own troops, but the seal had appeared genuine, and I couldn’t shake the urgency in it. There was something worrisome in those words that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Still, I ignored the request for weeks, but then when I was back at the palace and alone with the king, I thought of the letter again. Just to get it out of my mind, I threw the idea out, an alliance with Morrighan by way of a betrothal between the young prince and princess. When he balked and dismissed the idea, I added the incentive of the port, which I knew he wanted. I never thought anything would come of it, and the king continued to reject the idea—until years later.”
My mind was already jumping from the content of the letter to who had written it. “Tell me, Sven, do you remember anything about the handwriting?”
“Strangely, I do. It was neat and clear as I would expect from a minister, but excessive too.”
“The scrollwork? It was elaborate?”
“Yes. Very,” he said, squinting his eyes as if could still see it. “I remember being quite taken with the C in Colonel, written as if to impress me, and it did. Maybe that was it. There was a certain desperation to keep me reading, to play every card at their disposal, even playing to my vanity.”
The Royal Scholar may have sent the letter, but he didn’t write it. My mother’s handwriting was distinct—and impressive. Especially when she was trying to make a particular point.
How long had the conspiracy to get rid of me been in the making? If Rafe was fourteen, I was only twelve—the very year the Song of Venda seemed to have come into the Royal Scholar’s possession. She will expose the wicked. My stomach turned, and I grabbed a tent pole to steady myself. No. I refused to believe my mother had been conspiring with him all along. It was impossible.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I know you’re set on going back, but I wanted you to know there are people in your own kingdom who have wanted you gone for a very long time. I thought maybe that knowledge would ease your discontent about going to Dalbreck. You’ll be welcomed there.”
I looked
down, still thinking about the long-ago letter, and felt unexpected shame that Sven had to deliver this news to me. Discontent did not begin to describe the range of emotions charging through me.
“We’re leaving just after dawn,” he added. “Someone will be by to help you gather your things.”
“I have no things, Sven. Even the clothes on my back are borrowed. All I have is a saddlebag, which, as wretched as I am, I’m still capable of carrying myself.”
“No doubt, Your Highness,” he answered, his tone filled with compassion. “Nevertheless, someone will be by.”
I stared at the saddlebag laid out on my bed now, ready and waiting. It was a wonder that it had survived at all—that I had survived. May the gods gird her with strength, shield her with courage, and may truth be her crown. The prayer my mother had uttered pinched in my throat. Had the prayer helped me survive? Was there any heart behind it for the gods to hear? Or was it a rote verse said by a queen for the sake of those who watched? She had been so distant in those last weeks before the wedding, like someone I didn’t even know. Apparently she had been playing a deceptive role in my life for years.
She may have conspired and deceived but she was also the mother who had laid her skirts out in the meadow for Bryn and me to sit on as she interpreted the birdsong for us, making us laugh at their silly chatter; the mother who shrugged at my shiner when I scuffled with the baker’s boy and then tamped down my father’s scowl; the mother who told me just before an execution that I could turn away—that I didn’t have to look. I wanted to understand who she really was or what she had become.
My eyes blurred, and I longed for that distant meadow and my mother’s warm touch again. It was a dangerous thought because it tumbled into more longings, for the laughter of Bryn and Regan, the sound of Aunt Bernette humming, the echoing chimes of the abbey, the aroma of Tuesday buns filling the halls.
“You’re ready.”
I spun. Rafe was waiting near the door. He was dressed, not as an officer, nor as a king, but as a warrior. Black leather pauldrons tipped with metal widened his already broad shoulders, and two swords hung from his sides. His expression was hard and scrutinizing, like that long-ago day when he had first walked into Berdi’s tavern. And in the same way it had that day, his gaze took away my breath.
“Expecting trouble?” I asked.
“A soldier is always expecting trouble.”
His voice was so controlled and distant, it made me pause for a second look. His dark expression didn’t waver. I grabbed my saddlebag from the bed, but he took it from me. “I’ll carry it.”
I didn’t argue. It sounded like the stubborn declaration of a king rather than a proffered kindness. We walked through the camp in silence except for the jingle of his belts and swords, which made his footsteps seem more ominous. With each step, he seemed larger and more impenetrable. The camp was buzzing with activity, supply wagons rolling toward the gates, soldiers still carrying gear to their horses, officers directing troops to their squad positions in the caravan. I spotted Kaden, Tavish, Orrin, Jeb, and Sven clustered on their own horses just inside the outpost gates. Two more horses waited beside them, which I assumed were for Rafe and me.
“Find your places in the middle of the caravan,” Rafe told them. “I’ll help the princess. We’ll catch up.” The princess. Rafe wouldn’t even say my name. Kaden looked at me oddly, a rare flash of worry in his expression, then turned his horse, riding away with the others as ordered. Dread snaked through me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everything.” Rafe’s tone remained flat, frighteningly absent of the lively sarcasm he had favored lately. He stayed busy, his back to me, taking an excessive amount of time to strap on my saddlebag.
I noted that my horse was heavily laden with supplies and gear.
“My horse is a pack animal?” I asked.
“You’ll need the supplies.” Another dose of his distant coolness plucked at my ire.
“And you?” I asked, looking at his horse, which had none.
“Most of my gear and food will be in the wagons that follow.”