ITwas too still.
Ferdinand and Osana kept to the shadows, only the salty air whispering in their ears as they climbed the incline from the royal quay toward the Aragonesti’s resting spot above a tree line of thick tropical plants. The vegetation was almost as much of a surprise to Ferdinand as the silence, given that the Basilican border with Torrence was flush with mountain pine and juniper like Ardenia.
Meanwhile, Osana’s memories were flowing heavy and fast now with recollections of the royal quay. She led the way down an unmarked path parallel with the road with stealth and skill, the sword she’d received from Amarande stowed upon her back in a sheath that did well to keep the moonlight from blinking off the famed Basilican steel.
“There’s a boulder through the trees, twenty paces out. Excellent for hide-and-seek from your endless line of piggish cousins, but also likely a decent spot for infiltration reconnaissance.”
Osana picked up the pace and Ferdinand did, too, grateful for the rush of adrenaline that returned immediate strength and competency to his movements after so many hours of bowing to nausea’s every whim. His head was clearer than it had been since they set sail, his thoughts moving double time, every sense tense and on alert.
A moment later, the boulder loomed ahead, a dark spot nestled behind a screen of palms. The trees did not have low branches, but they were thickly grouped—once they climbed the boulder and crouched together atop it, Ferdinand and Osana not only had cover from the castle side, but also a higher vantage and a better view.
And yet that view gave them nothing.
The rampart railings were free of movement, torches, any signs of life at all. The windows were dark, hinting at candles deep within and only at the bare minimum. From Osana’s description, the reception grounds weren’t visible from this vantage point, but it was not hard to imagine them cloaked in shadow as well.
“Whereiseveryone?” Osana whispered, cross. “IfIreturned home to find a usurper in my throne room, you’d better believe I would have the guard doubled the second I dragged her to the dungeon to rot. Or, if I bent the knee to that usurper, you’d think she’d have me out on the ramparts with a full quiver of arrows, prepared to take out anyone willing to put up a fight.”
Ferdinand did not disagree. But he also did not believe those were the only options.
The Aragonesti was still half a mountainside away, and even with their vantage, they were peering nearly straight up its side. Looking at it was like staring at a wall spun out of a moonless night. “Perhaps we should simply appr—”
Ferdinand’s voice cut off with a sharp sting to his jugular. A short puff of wind followed, and Osana grunted out a small sound beside him.
Darts.
His body lurched to the side as if he were again at the mercy of theGatzal. His shoulder knocked into Osana as her crouch keeled into a kneel, only the sturdy trunk of a palm keeping her from rolling off the boulder altogether. His vision swayed as his cheek came to a rest on the pocked top of the rock, his body useless beneath him, his sword useless at his back.
A rustling came, shadows, too. Then there were hands on him that he couldn’t shake off. He couldn’t respond in any way. Beside him, Osana was still.
“No uniforms, but they’re Ardenian—bet you a turn at laundry duty.”
Soldiers.
There was a sharp swat of knuckles upon skin and then another voice. “Look at her face—she’s Basilican. We probably share a grandaddy.”
The first one laughed, the sound dying as consciousness began to fade from Ferdinand’s mind. These did not sound like men serving under the chokehold of his mother. They would not be so free with a usurper in their midst. Would they?
“You need to look in the mirror more often—you look nothing like her. Come on now, to the king with them—protocol.”
Ferdinand’s mind snapped upon that word—king—just as the night turned to full, deep black.
CHAPTER 9
RENARDwelcomed the sycophants as his mother would have: standing on the ramparts above the gate, looking down his nose at them, firm smile in place.
The wagon train from the Port of Pyrenee was long, and easily spotted miles before it crested the final, winding hill, toward the Bellringe at the cradle of King’s Crest. For nearly an hour as they approached, Renard stood there in the sunset’s yawning warmth, eagerly awaiting the recognition to set in.
He imagined a collective gasp—a flash of disbelief stretching along the writhing mass like a cutting sunbeam. Instead, he got hesitation. The ride was narrow, which meant there was a lot of stumbling or halted steps as riders wrenched around to discuss the mirage before them in the sinking sun.
Not as he had envisioned but satisfying all the same.
His mother was not on horseback, which meant one of two things. Either Inés was with members of the Royal Council within the royal carriage—whichfinallyapproached—or she was still in Basilica, consorting with her ancient husband in ways Renard could not wait to ruin.
He straightened his back, tipped his chin up, and regally,patiently,awaited to see which it was. No matter what, the message was simple: He was alive and well and duly in charge.
The single carriage fully halted with what Renard could only imagine was a fervent bark of orders from his mother, if she was indeed within. The lathered horses’ stride slowed to stomping in place as the gilded door popped open a sliver. A moment later, the balding head of Councilor Menon—the youngest of his mother’s advisors by far—appeared above the doorframe, the man clearly standing upon the runner, his hands grasping the hood of the carriage as he stared up to the ramparts.
Renard dipped his chin in acknowledgment that yes, he was real, living, breathing.
