Renard made a show of sighing. As if insolence was boring.
“This is not a trick, my queen, it is simply for efficiency’s sake. If you don’t recall, I am hosting a conclave tomorrow. I have plenty to address. You have come here unannounced, demanding an audience, and wearing full-on battle gear and weapons. I have responded by opening my home, providing you with a meal, a bed for the night, and yet you have insulted me by refusing my food, my requests, my—”
“Fine.Fine.” Luca again stepped up to align himself with Amarande. “We shall go separately.”
Amarande’s eyes slid to Luca’s for the barest of moments, unable to help herself. To go back on his agreement now would make things worse. Luca tilted his head, apologetic. The queen turned her attention to Renard and lobbed one final demand. “Provided we get to keep our weapons.”
This was what the king wanted—he did not object.
“You keep yours and I will keep mine. You will see our prisoners, and then we’ll have a nice conversation, yes?”
“Yes.” Amarande and Luca answered in bare echo.
Then, with a tentativeness allayed only by their plans, as one, they drew their hands apart.
CHAPTER 47
“IAMsurprised you camealonewith your wolf cub, Amarande. Surely, after the attack at the Hand, your army would not leave your shadow. Or have things already begun to fall apart without General Koldo?”
Renard addressed her as they ascended stairs within the Bellringe, Luca and Dunixi peeling off moments before. It wasn’t small talk, of course—it was an opportunity, and she used it.
“You hold my mother and defeated her army.” Working to keep the spite from her voice, Amarande did not pretend to sound grateful. Nor did she take the bait at mention of Koldo, despite the spike of sadness in her blood at her name on Renard’s tongue. Instead, she feigned interest in the castle views as they passed a bank of windows and the nearly fallen night. “It seems I am running out of enemies for my army to worry over.”
They were headed west, toward Renard’s chambers, but on the wrong floor. As they made a turn into the final crook of a wing, a young page ran up a set of stairs and straight to the king, and with a bow, handed him a square of parchment. Renard turned away from Amarande to read it. It only took him a few seconds and then the parchment was slipped into his doublet pocket without a word of instruction to the page, who hurried off anyhow with another bow.
“Surely you think of me as an enemy or at least an opponent?” Renard asked, as if the interruption with the page hadn’t happened. “Otherwise, why walk into my castle with your sword?”
“I’m the Warrior King’s daughter, I go everywhere with my sword.”
He answered with a laugh.
His mistake.
Renard directed her toward a pair of doors manned by guards. He unclasped a set of two keys from his belt and fit one of them in the lock. It gave with a metallic sound, and he gestured for her to enter.
Amarande stepped into an antechamber, another door beyond. Again, Renard inserted a key, and waved her ahead.
“After you, Your Highness. Your brother awaits.”
One wall was set with torches—up high and completely unusable should Amarande need them. There was a bare stone wall at the end of the room, and taking up the rest of the space, opposite the torches, was a long cell, twice the size of where she’d been held in the Itspi. Iron bars ran floor to ceiling with a door of more bars set in the middle.
And there, in the far corner, was Ferdinand. Living, breathing, and well enough to come forward as she entered. “Amarande.”
His voice was scratchy—water clearly lacking, as far as Renard’s hospitality for his high-profile prisoners went. Blood mottled his Ardenian uniform, but he appeared unhurt, thank the stars.
“Ferdinand,” she responded with a true smile, placing her hands through the bars to touch his, reassurance in her eyes. “I’m here to collect you.”
From behind, Renard laughed.
“Come now, Your Highness, don’t put the cart before the horse. We have much to discuss before we negotiate the prince’s release into your custody.”
“Amarande, I didn’t—”
“I know. And that’s what the king here needs to get through his thick skull. I have proof the Warlord ambushed you, and that though it was your knife that killed the Pyrenee soldier, you didn’t throw it, and that the soldier’s death should be added to Geneva’s crimes.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Renard said, sweeping past Amarande, “because you’ll see your wayward mother has already paid dearly for what she did in life.”
The king inclined his head meaningfully to the corner behind Ferdinand.
