“It has the royal seal. They have no reason not to. It also tells of the poison running through your veins, and how one drop of it in a mortal’s blood will kill anyone who feeds off them. He has instructed lords to kill any mortal found with a vial on their person or with poison in their veins, without trial, and he has set a bounty on your head. He wants you alive, though.”
“Do I want to know how much?”
“A lordship and a large parcel of fertile land in the plains, and gold. It is quite generous.” Elisaf pauses. “I’ve always fancied myself a title.”
I snort. “How about I call you Lord Elisaf from now on?”
“I suppose that will do.”
A door from the house opens, and Lady Danthrin breezes through in a sky-blue silk dress that looks more suited to a ball than an early-morning farewell in the stables. The girl who brought our breakfast trails her. Eden is still nowhere in sight. While I’d like to think it’s because Lady Danthrin gave her the morning off to sleep, my gut tells me I’m right to worry. “Do you think she knows yet?”
“No, but she will soon. We have stayed too long. Freywich is not high on Atticus’s priority list, but we intercepted two messengers yesterday—one with a letter from Danthrin to his wife, condemning Zander as the gutless king they always believed him to be and hoping your head finds its way to a stake. Another with a letter from an Ambrose Villier to Danthrin, notifying him of the king’s arrival at his house.” Elisaf smirks. “He mentioned the future Ybarisan queen’s distasteful attitude, something I wish I’d been here to witness.”
“How did Zander take it?”
“How do you think he took it?” He flashes me a knowing look.
If I know him at all, Zander will consider it a challenge.
We watch as Lady Danthrin reaches her destination and curtsies. “Your Highness. At last, we meet. I was afraid I would miss you before you left on your travels. I hope you and your company have found your lodging satisfactory?” Her voice is at least two octaves higher.
“All sugar and spice and everything nice for her dear king,” I mutter, earning Elisaf’s chuckle.
Zander doesn’t acknowledge her at first, handing Abarrane the rolled parchment.
“Prepare to move out!” she bellows, and the last of the Legion mount their horses with ease, radiating fresh energy. They needed the rest—and as much as I hate to admit it, the feedings.
With that done, Zander turns his attention to the pregnant elven. “Lady Danthrin, we appreciate your hospitality.” His tone is calm, emotionless, his expression bored.
She beams. “You probably do not recall our first meeting in the throne room, when your father blessed us with the gift of Hudem.” She smooths her hand over her belly, drawing his attention to it. “A terrible thing to happen to a great leader, but we are fortunate to have another fierce king to govern Islor.”
Zander glares at her while she lies to his face.
“Still, my heart hurts for such a tragic and avoidable loss.”
Was that a dig at me? If it is, she doesn’t dare glance my way.
“As does mine.” He peers at the young woman standing behind, her head bowed. “I’d like you to invite your servants out to the stable. All of them, including the young female who was working overnight.”
He means Eden.
I frown. What is Zander up to?
“Your Highness?” Confusion fills Lady Danthrin’s face. “I do not understand—”
“I should think my request is clear.”
She falters a moment, flustered, before she waves a hand at the girl who hurries off toward the door. “Of course, my king is welcome to request anything he wishes of me, and I will comply eagerly …” She falters, as if searching for the right words. “But might His Highness allow me the opportunity to ask his purpose?”
“My purpose will be clear soon enough.”
She takes in her surroundings. Where yesterday she had haughty looks for the warriors, now she watches them like someone might watch a pack of stray dogs primed to attack.
Zander begins to pace. “The level of poverty I’ve witnessed in Freywich alarms me.”
“The town and its people have faced many difficult years.” Lady Danthrin’s smile is uneasy. “Unfortunately, this side of Islor isn’t blessed with the same fortunes as those lands in the Plains of Aminadav.”
“Yes, your husband has sung that song once or twice before. I remember you bowing before my father the king, using the excuse of rotted trees as your compelling reason for access to the nymphaeum, so you may give the people of Freywich hope for the future in the form of a noble-born child.”