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The door did not budge.
After rattling the latch several times, Talia realized the bolt was drawn from the inside and bit down hard on her lip.
‘Curse you, Ayla…’
The fury she had choked down through the night boiled over, threatening to tear free at any second.
Glaring at the barred wood as she worried her scabbed lip, Talia finally turned away.
Perhaps it was just as well. An impulsive move with nothing prepared would have bought her only a dog’s death.
She had to plan this carefully. There were still leagues left to cover; another chance would come soon enough.
Steeling her ragged breath, she slipped away from the corridor. She was heading toward the stairs that led to her quarters when the clink of metal caught her ear.
She slid behind a pillar.
Dawn was bleeding in, casting long, pale shadows across the floorboards.
From the shadows, Talia peered out into the hall. A slender woman stood before the door right beside her own rooms.
Talia narrowed her eyes, studying her features. She was middle-aged, with dark brown hair and a plain face.
It took a moment to place her—she was one of the attendants her mother had assigned to her retinue.
The woman pulled the door shut with practiced care, drew a brownish-gray hood low over her brow, and padded noiselessly down the passage. Talia watched the retreating figure for a heartbeat, then fell in behind her.
The maid slipped out of the lodging and made haste down a muddy lane scarred by puddles. Her swift, sure gait spoke of intelligence training.
Checking her surroundings at every turn, the woman came to a halt by the small garden behind the main hall.
Talia watched from behind an arcade pillar. The woman paced before a pavilion as if waiting, then stiffened and stepped out.
Talia followed her line of sight and squinted. A priest in a black habit was emerging slowly from the gloom.
The face was familiar—one of the monks who had attended the feast.
The monk, a man well into his forties, drew a small vial from his robes and pressed it into her hand. She uncapped it, checked the contents, sealed it once more, and slid it up her sleeve. Then she turned on her heel and started back.
Talia broke into a sprint toward the lodging.
By the time she took the stairs two at a time and threw herself into her bedchamber, the strength had drained from her knees.
She leaned her back against the door, panting softly, and strained her ears for any noise outside. Moments later, a latch clicked open and shut, followed by utter silence.
Talia swallowed hard.
She could not yet say what the exchange meant.
Who was that monk?
One of her mother’s planted men? And what had he handed over? Poison?
She forced down the lump in her tight throat.
A common poison would not need this kind of clandestine handover. If she had gone to such lengths to smuggle it in, it was something that could never be carried past the monastery’s gates by ordinary means.
‘What are you planning?’
She turned the possibilities over in her mind, but no clear shape formed.
‘One thing is certain. Something vast is about to happen.’
Senevier never stopped halfway. If she had set her mind on clearing away those who had stood in her path for so long, the Crown Prince was already a dead man. And with any luck, Ayla would vanish from the world alongside him.
Her chest pounded with fierce excitement, and a slow, vicious smile curved her lips.
The tedious march began anew.
Under the blistering sun, an escort of hundreds of knights and foot soldiers trudged in silence. At this pace, they would cross into the borders of the fallen Kingdom of Osiria within ten days.
Edric Ruben unfolded his route map to measure the remaining leagues, then glanced back at the carriage, which sat as silent as a tomb.
As ever, the Princess remained shut inside behind drawn velvet curtains.
He brought his mount alongside the carriage and checked the faint silhouette against the fabric. Even the horses were heaving in the sweltering heat. He half expected to find her boiled alive in there.
“Your Highness, would it not be wise to let in some air?”
“…Be gone.”
At least she was still breathing.
Letting out a faint sigh, Edric nudged his horse forward toward the vanguard.
At the very head of the column rode the Crown Prince, high atop his golden Norneck charger as always.
Edric stole a glance at him. Gareth’s face was beet-red, and he was snapping furiously at Lord Shearkan, demanding to know when they would call a halt.
‘This is going to be a long march.’
Over the coming days, the road would turn into raw wasteland and jagged hill passes. He wondered if the prince’s fragile temper could survive such an ordeal.
Edric shook his head and drew alongside Varkas.
His commander was ignoring the prince’s vitriol entirely, eyes fixed on the path ahead. The bellowing of the empire’s future master seemed to slide right past him.
Marveling once more at his superior’s unflinching nerve, Edric ventured carefully,
“Lord Shearkan, the men are flagging in this heat. It is somewhat early, but perhaps we should look for a place to make camp?”
Varkas, who had been riding forward without a word, turned his eyes upon him.
Edric stiffened instinctively. He had never once seen the commander shout or lose his composure. Even so, standing before Varkas always brought a cold, crushing weight onto his chest.
He swallowed and added hastily, “Forgive me if I overstepped. It is only that the rearguard is beginning to lag…”
“There is a lake half a league ahead. We will rest there.”
Varkas cut him short. Edric blinked, then bowed his head. The Crown Prince, who had watched the exchange with mounting displeasure, barked,
“You pay no heed when I speak, yet you listen to that whelp?”
“I judged an answer unnecessary, but I heard every word Your Highness spoke.”
“Who gave you the right to decide what is necessary!”
The prince roared, his massive frame giving the shout enough volume to ring in Edric’s ears.
Edric checked the urge to click his tongue and fell back toward the rear. It was curious how the Crown Prince, known far and wide for his vicious rage, grew so childish whenever he was before Lord Shearkan.
‘…Heaven knows what will become of us once Lord Shearkan leaves the order.’
Once Varkas Raedgo Shearkan departed for the East, there would be no one left to rein in the prince. With the First Princess going east beside Varkas, only Gareth and Talia Roem Guirta would remain in the palace.
The thought of the Guard enduring those two unhinged royals weighed heavily on his mind. He let out a long sigh and drew up beside Talia’s carriage.
A moment later, a whistle blew from the vanguard, signaling a halt.
Edric reined in his horse and ordered his men to pitch the pavilions. The knights went to work immediately, driving stakes into a flat stretch of ground to fashion shelter from the sun.
He halted the carriage near the shade and tapped the carriage window.
“It is time to rest, Your Highness. Please step down.”
· · ·
“How long do you intend to maintain this stubbornness? Sitting cooped up all day will only make you collapse.”
He kept his voice deliberate and firm, braced to drag her out even if she struck him for it, but no answer came from within.
Edric’s brow furrowed.
Had she truly fainted?
A cold dread seized him. He hauled the door open, and a blast of air as hot as steam struck him in the face, heavy with a cloying sweetness like honey steeped in milk.
Edric grimaced and peered into the dim interior—then froze at the sight of the Princess crumpled on the floorboards.
END