“But before all these disgruntled grandchildren are born,” Wen said patiently. “What happens to you? What do you want out of your life?”
He had told Karryn he wanted to travel to the Lirrens, Wen remembered, but he didn’t offer such a glib response now. Instead his face looked a little lost, a little uncertain; for the first time she saw the vulnerable young man, not the wastrel young lord. “I haven’t given myself much time to think about that,” he said. “I don’t think I like the options ahead of me.”
“Can’t you marry?” she said. “Aren’t there other serramarra like Karryn, who will be marladies in time?”
“Mayva Nocklyn is too old for me and Lyrie Rappengrass too young,” he said, so swiftly that Wen could tell he’d thought over this particular idea long before she ever brought it up. “If I wanted to marry for a title, Karryn is really the only choice.”
Wen didn’t answer that, just regarded him with a long and level look.
He tried to wait her out but failed, finally breaking into a little laugh and shaking his head. “All right, I admit it, one of the reasons my father sent me to Forten City was to see if I thought Karryn and I might suit. She has not been seen much within the Twelve Houses, you know, so no one really had a sense of what she was like.”
“And what did you decide?” Wen said in an ominous voice. Silently, she was thinking, If I have to protect Karryn from Ryne Coravann’s advances, I will never be able to leave Fortunalt.
He was staring down at his empty wineglass, picking at an imperfection in the stem with his right thumbnail. “I like Karryn,” he said in a subdued voice. “Too much to want to saddle her with me. I would be the worst kind of husband.” He shrugged. “Inattentive and lazy and drunk all the time. She would be infatuated with me at first, but she’d grow to hate me. Who wouldn’t? But a more strong-willed woman wouldn’t need me so much as Karryn might. I wouldn’t be such a disappointment to that kind of woman.”
“I think you misjudge just how strong-willed Karryn can be,” Wen said dryly.
“I would rather be the friend she always likes than the husband she comes to despise,” he said.
“You realize there is another possibility,” Wen said.
He looked up at her, his expression mocking. “I could reform? How likely do you think that is?”
Wen was suddenly furious. “Look at you. A man who’s been given everything . Looks, money, charm, bloodline. And you throw it away. You debase it. And then you feel sorry for yourself because you have so much and you can’t be trusted to use it in a way that’s generous.” She came to her feet, bumping into the table so hard that she set the dishes to rattling. “You better not come courting Karryn, that’s all I can say. She deserves someone who can love himself—never mind about loving her.”
He was staring at her, openmouthed in astonishment, but she didn’t wait to hear a response. She just spun away and stalked through the bar, out into the cool air of midnight.
She was halfway back to her inn before some of her righteous rage left her, and her clenched hands began to relax. Oh, that had been wise, that had been courteous—to rail at a Twelfth House lord in such a fashion, when she had absolutely no right to berate him. This time he would complain about her to Jasper Paladar, and justly so. She deserved a reprimand for the reprimand she had just delivered.
It wasn’t until she was in her own room, washing up for the night, that she was struck by the irony of her last words to Ryne Coravann. How rich that she would criticize someone else for indulging in self-loathing! How funny that she would rant about someone else throwing away every gift, every advantage! She sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands, fighting hard not to laugh, fighting harder not to cry.
WEN did not accidentally run into Ryne Coravann again. That might have been because she refused to leave her room for the next two nights, and it might have been because he was so busy attending all of the events held by the local nobles to celebrate Cammon’s presence. All of Forten City was abuzz with news of the royal consort’s arrival. There was even a parade one day down the main boulevard, and people lined up the night before so they would have good spots from which to watch the procession.
Wen told herself she wouldn’t go, she already knew what Cammon looked like. But, of course, she couldn’t stay away. She joined a handful of other enterprising souls on the flat rooftop of a fabric shop situated along the parade route. All around them at this level, she saw dozens of other people congregating in second-story windows and climbing trees and lampposts to get a better look at the procession.
She felt a moment’s panic. Anyone on a roof or an upper-level building could be carrying a weapon, could aim an arrow or a spear or even a rock at Cammon’s head and kill him on the spot. This public appearance was too risky; what had Tayse been thinking? She looked around wildly. There, for instance—across the boulevard. Three fairly large men were clustered at the very edge of a tavern rooftop, gazing down with hungry anticipation. Were they just eager to get a glimpse of royalty, or were they nursing secret plans of violence?
One of the men called out to a woman in the street below, and she lifted the hem of her skirt almost to her knee and offered them a saucy smile. The men laughed and applauded.
Wen felt a rush of relief and ridiculousness. She imagined villains everywhere; she thought every stranger was a potential source of harm.
Well, of course, she had learned that philosophy from Tayse himself, and surely it had occurred to the big Rider that this procession down a public thoroughfare could be fraught with danger. Surely he had taken precautions—and surely Cammon himself would be silently scanning the crowd, seeking to identify anyone with a grudge. It was not up to Wen to look for trouble.
It was not up to Wen to keep this royal personage alive.
Another hour passed before the procession came into view. Wen and two young men sharing the roof with her had passed the time playing a card game for low stakes. She was a few coppers to the good when the sound of cheering brought them all to their feet. She jostled her way to the front so she could get a better view.
Look at that—Cammon, on foot, inching his way down the wide street, pausing to touch the fingertips of every hand outstretched to him. Tayse was a single pace ahead of Cammon and Justin strode behind him so closely he could touch Cammon’s spine. Seven other Riders ranged around him, always changing formation, making it difficult for anyone to guess where they might be next. Wen squinted until she could identify them. There was Janni, with her happy smile and bright attention. Hammond, serious and deadly. Eagon, Rett, Larson. And two she did not know—new Riders, apparently, to replace those who had died in the war.
Although there would be no way to ever truly replace those fallen comrades.
A carriage followed behind, though obviously Cammon had no intention of riding in it. The driver was no one Wen knew, but beside him rode a familiar figure, indeed—Bryce, his red hair bright in the sunlight, his lively face pulled into an expression that apparently was meant to seem solemn. He moved constantly on the seat, twisting around as if trying to get a glimpse of every individual face in the throng. Had Cammon been tutoring him on how to read the emotions of a crowd? Did Bryce imagine he was accompanying the royal consort as part of his security detail? Wen almost laughed.
Sitting on the other side of Bryce was a woman with short white-blond hair and a thoughtful expression. Wen recognized her as Senneth, the mystic with fire in her hands. Tayse’s wife. Wen couldn’t tell if anyone rode inside the carriage, so she could only wonder if Justin’s wife also had accompanied the party.
Justin’s wife. How easily the phrase had come to her mind. How little it had bothered her. Justin’s wife. When had the pain of that attachment finally drained away? When she spent her first night of lighthearted lovemaking in Jasper Paladar’s arms? Had a new infatuation that easily erased the old one?
And how long would it take her to recover from this new passion? Would any successive lo
ver be able to replicate for her the delight she had found in Jasper Paladar’s affection?
She shook her head. Worries for a different day. For now, like everyone else in Forten City, she merely watched the royal consort ride by, guarded by his fanatically devoted soldiers; and like everyone else, she waved and applauded, cheered by the sight of his smiling, boyish face.
If it seemed to her that, as he passed the fabric shop, Cammon turned his head and gazed directly up at her, well, that was nothing special. Everyone in the whole city was convinced Cammon had met their eyes. “The king looked straight at me as he passed!” people were heard to murmur, clearly impatient of the lesser title consort. Or, “He touched my hand!” Or, “King Cammon smiled at me as he rode by!”
The whole city was alive with a current of excitement that night; no one would be sleeping early. It was no surprise that Wen felt edgy, alive, sparkling with energy. All of Forten City felt just the same.
BY the next afternoon, Wen was thoroughly bored again. Her muscles were starting to feel cramped from disuse. She thought she might have to pick a fight in a bar just to get the chance for a little extreme exercise. Barefoot in her rented room, she practiced difficult moves and did basic routines that wouldn’t echo too loudly to the floor below her, but this forced inactivity was likely to drive her mad.
Davey arrived around three in the afternoon with the daily report. She met him, as planned, in a little tavern one street over from her inn, and they shared a drink. “Isn’t Cammon ever going to leave Forten City?” she demanded. “He’s been here four days already.”
“He seems to like it here,” Davey said. “And serra Karryn hopes he’ll stay forever.”
She questioned him closely about what was transpiring back in the barracks. He spoke admiringly and at length of the prowess of the Riders, particularly Tayse, who apparently had impressed all of them with his size, swiftness, and skill. “Took on three of us at once, Orson and Eggles and me, and never once looked to be in danger,” Davey said.
“Well, he’s a Queen’s Rider,” Wen said as if that explained everything.
“And there’s another one—Justin—kind of a burly fellow, looks like he might be a little slow, but he’s not,” Davey went on. “Someone told a story about how he fought off five men and killed them all—trained soldiers, I mean, not just outlaws or bandits. But that couldn’t be true, could it? Even for a Rider?”
Oh, it was true, Wen knew. It was just one of the adventures Justin had had as he pursued his dangerous courtship of Ellynor. But that particular episode had almost cost him his life.
“Maybe the story has been embellished a little,” she said. “You know how soldiers like to talk.”
“He wasn’t the one telling the tale,” Davey said.
She resisted the impulse to ask after the rest of the Riders. And Hammond? He was badly injured in the war. Is he recovered now? Janni? Has she hooked up with a new lover who knows how to please her? Davey wouldn’t be able to give her the details she wanted even if she posed the questions. “I hope you take the opportunity to learn from them while you have the chance,” she said.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
His voice was innocent, but she scowled at him. Her guards must have started to notice that she planned to be absent as long as the royal consort was in residence. “When my business is completed,” she said.
“Anything we can do to help you finish that business any quicker?”
“No. You have plenty to occupy you at Fortune. So go on back now. But make sure Orson sends someone with a report tomorrow.”
He shrugged, rose from the chair, and tossed a few coins to the table before stepping out of the tavern. Wen closed her eyes and rubbed the lids with her fingertips. The whole charade was beginning to be too much for her. Since she had left Ghosenhall, she had never spent this much time with any group of people; she hadn’t had to worry about getting to know them so well that they would start to wonder about her identity. It was harder than she had thought it would be to maintain her distance.
A prickle of danger made her eyes fly open. She straightened in her chair, her hand going automatically to the knife at her hip. Someone was watching her, someone was about to leap out and assault her—she had felt this sensation too many times to ignore it now—
She cast one quick look around the room. There. At the door. A bulky figure, coiled and motionless, all his attention on her.
Justin.
Chapter 33
WEN LEAPT TO HER FEET, BUT THEN SHE FROZE. THERE was no place to flee and she was not about to fight. For a moment they stared at each other across the width of the small tavern, and then Justin’s broad face broke into a blinding smile. His lips moved to shape her name, and then he threw himself across the floor to engulf her in a hard embrace. He was so powerful; it was like being crushed by some elemental force, inescapable and life-changing. He lifted her completely off her feet and tightened his hold for an instant before returning her to the floor and letting her go.
“I knew it was you! I knew it!” he crowed, apparently so happy to see her that he was, for the moment, going to ignore all the reasons she had run. “When that woman Moss spun away from me with that little move you and Janni always used—I knew it couldn’t be anybody else.”
Why hadn’t she foreseen that? All the careful training she had instilled in the Fortunalt guard was practically an advertisement to anyone who knew to decode it that a Rider was in residence. But her heart was too full for her to think too clearly. “Justin,” she said, her voice shaky. “You stupid man. Couldn’t you figure out that you weren’t supposed to come looking for me?”
He gave a scornful snort, one of his favorite conversational elements, and pulled out a chair at her table. Perforce, she sat next to him, perched on the edge of her seat. The young blond barmaid, who had surely noticed Justin the minute he walked in, was at their table in seconds, asking what they’d like her to bring. “Pitcher of ale,” Justin said. “Best in the house.”
Then he turned his attention back to her, intense in a way that only Justin could be. “Of course we all knew you were trying to avoid us,” he said. “Tayse told me not to go looking. But I wasn’t going to let you be this close and not try to find you. You’ve been gone too long, Wen. It’s time to come home.”
She shivered with longing at the word. Home. “Justin—I can’t. I don’t belong there anymore.”
“Yes, you do,” he said roughly. “There’s a place for you among the Riders, and everyone misses you. I’ve been to Tilt twice, looking for you, and Janni has gone, and so has Rett—”
Sweet words, inexpressibly sweet, but Wen wanted to put her hands over her ears and block them out. “No, no, no,” she said, talking over him, just trying to shut him up. “I can’t come back. I’m not a Rider anymore.”
Those words stopped him like a blade to the heart. He stared at her, his face stricken, and for a moment she thought she had persuaded him. Then he shook back his sandy hair and obviously decided to try a different tack. “All of us were torn apart by the events of the war,” he began.
She interrupted him. “Justin. The king is dead because of me. I failed Baryn, and I failed the Riders. I will spend the rest of my life trying to atone, but I cannot undo it, don’t you understand? I cannot erase it. It has stained my soul.”
He nodded slowly, making no attempt to brush off or minimize her guilt, for which she was profoundly grateful. “I would have felt the same way, if I had been the one beside Baryn when he fell,” he said seriously. “I might not have been able to live with the knowledge that he died and I did not.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Exactly.”
“But you have lived with it,” he went on. “Two years. And you must have realized by now that your life is still valuable. Maybe there’s always this stain on your heart—maybe you never feel whole again—but you feel alive. You work around that stain, you put it behind you, and you look forward again. You live.”
/> She stared at him. Never much subtlety to Justin—even his philosophy was blunt as a hammer blow. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered.