Jarek snorts. “Only an idiot would believe that.”
I resist the urge to elbow him. “Why don’t we put you on a boat in Northmost so you can go to Shadowhelm and confirm it for us?”
“You want to send me to my death with the sirens now?” Amusement laces his voice.
“I’m not worried. They’d spend two minutes with you and send you right back.” Of Gesine, I ask, “Have you been to Shadowhelm?”
“I have not. Queen Neilina does not allow her casters to go … well, anywhere.”
“But she allowed you to come to Islor to ally with the king and future queen.” Eden smiles first at her and then at me.
Eden’s continued ignorance about the current state of the throne, and the fact that we’re running, is both a relief and a concern. She needs to be more aware to survive in this world. Enough comments have been made that she should have picked up on something by now. Then again, I can see that she trusts me, and I’ve lied to her. The longer I keep up this charade, the more deceived Eden will feel. I’ll have to explain things soon, though I have no idea where to begin.
“To get to Islor, I traveled west along the mountain corridor that separates Westport from the rest of Skatrana, so I did not have the opportunity to visit Shadowhelm,” Gesine says, smoothly diverting the conversation. “But one of the elderly scribes traveled there on an information-gathering expedition once, and she had much to say on the city.”
“What was it like there?”
“Very different from the lush green islands of Mordain and the bustle of Argon. The city is built high in the mountains, with only one road leading in or out. Perhaps that is why the snow seldom leaves the ground.” Gesine smiles fondly. “Agatha said she spent most of her time wrapped in furs and warming by the fire.”
“I wouldn’t mind that mountain air right now.” Or at least the cooler morning air. I unfasten my cloak and drape it around my lap. “What about the people?”
She frowns in thought, as if choosing her words. “Simple in their priorities, abrasive in their communication.”
“Oh, well, Jarek! Something you have in common with your ancestors,” I say dryly, not bothering to look over my shoulder.
“I see you’ve been gathering information for your next attack. Tell me, do you have all my routines down yet?”
“I’m sure it won’t take me long. You have simple priorities, after all.”
He grunts. “And please tell us, witch, is all of Ybarisan royalty a pain in the arse?”
Eden’s eyes widen.
In a burst of spite, I collect my hair at my nape and flip it back, knowing it’ll feather across his face and—hopefully—irritate him.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
Jarek inhales. “Neroli oil. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
A shiver runs down my spine as it always does when one of these bloodsucking Islorians comments on the intoxicating scent of my Ybarisan blood. That means Gesine’s morels are losing their potency. It’s been days. Impressive for such a tiny piece of mushroom to work so well.
I push aside my aversion. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. “Too tempting to resist yet?” I tip my head to the side, exposing my neck as I mock him. There’s an odd comfort in knowing we each hate the other and we’re not going through the pretense of hiding it.
Jarek’s chuckle is deep. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d have my own horse.” A riderless one lingers ahead, tethered to a legionary. Apparently, the servant couple who left Danthrin’s manor on it ran from camp the first night. When I asked if I could ride it, Zander’s answer was a resounding no, not until I learn how to control one. The risk of an attack is just too great.
Abarrane raises her sinewy arm in the air and shouts a command I don’t catch. Suddenly, hooves pound on either side of us as the Legion splits into three groups, the bulk of them veering off the main road, their galloping horses vanishing down a steep hill to our left.
“What’s happening? Where are they going?” I ask.
“Cutting across a more rugged countryside to get to camp. Bellcross is known for its lookout glasses. They watch all who approach their city.” Elisaf watches Abarrane as she falls back behind us to join Zorya, the only warrior left besides Horik and Jarek. “The closer we get, the more likely they are to notice us. If they should see a band of legionaries, they will know who we are long before we reach their gates.”
“And we don’t want them knowing that we’re coming?” Eden asks curiously.
“Not until we’re sure of where Lord Rengard stands with the current … political landscape.”