Page 75 of The Sun King's Noon

Richard lay against the same wall, his hands now warm.

But he wished Kaelen would hold them once more.

CHAPTER 30

They arrived at Hollowmere two days later at noon. The potions had delayed them. Dianara’s vials were fiddly things, requiring the hair to be soaked and then left undisturbed for the better part of an hour while the colour took.

Kaelen’s transformation had left Richard gawking. His dark-blond hair shifted to a raven-black, and it suited him well, enrichening the brown of his skin and sharpening the line of his jaw. He looked, Richard thought with some irritation, much like a righteous outlaw from the stories he’d read as a boy.

Of course he did.

Richard’s own change, when he studied it in the polished flat of his sword, had been less impressive. His hair had transfigured into a sandy brown, akin to milk stirred with coffee, and it was with a scowl that he tugged at his fringe.

“I look ridiculous.”

“No, you look—” Whatever Kaelen had been about to say died in his throat as Richard turned. “It suits you.”

“It does not.”

“It does.” Kaelen’s ears had gone pink. “You look...softer.”

Richard had squinted, wanting to demand if that was an insult to his black hair, and decided against it on seeing the blush spread to Kaelen’s cheeks.

They galloped through the morning to reach Hollowmere, but the circus had ended their performance, their giant tent in the midst of being taken down. Richard and Kaelen rode past the wagons—bright as boiled sweet wrappers—parked in a field on the town’s edge, and relaxed at the sight of the cookfires. It meant the circus would be bedding down for the night. There was plenty of time yet to join their company.

The two of them rode into the town, eager for a decent meal. Hollowmere was a patchwork of moss-covered cottages, wells, ponds, cobblers and inns. The sort of place, Richard was sure, where all the townsfolk knew one another by name, and likely held meetings to coordinate the shade of their curtains.

After leaving their horses at a tavern—The Blue Hen—Richard and Kaelen wandered the market that sprawled along the green. Stalls draped in coloured oilcloth and trestle tables were heaped with goods. Richard lingered at each stall, marvelling at the knitted dolls and spending a long moment observing a sweetmaker shape taffy into a unicorn. Kaelen had laughed at Richard and bought a pack of honeyed walnuts to share.

At a stall of cheap jewellery and stage tricks, they found their disguises. Richard pressed a fake scar to his eye, while Kaelen fitted himself with a pair of studded earrings.

“I did not know you had had your ears pierced,” Richard remarked in surprise.

Kaelen examined his appearance in the stall’s mirror. “Father insisted once I came of age. The warriors from where my great-grandparents hailed wore studs. I do not wear them in the castle because Corwin would tease me something awful. Or worse, he might get his ears pierced too.”

Further on, Kaelen picked up a supple bow of yew, tested the draw with a hum of approval, and bought a quiver of arrows to go with it. He slung the whole thing across his back, and more than a few village girls tittered behind their hands as he passed. Richard walked closer to Kaelen, their elbows knocking, but Kaelen didn’t notice, too busy beaming at every villager that walked by.

As evening set in, they returned to the Blue Hen for dinner. The tavern was half-full, the air thick with pipe smoke—an Estaran invention Richard’s great-grandmother had long banned on Ardenian soil. They found a table near the window and were served by a harried boy—bowls of bean soup, rye loaves and two tankards of ale.

“I shall go up to the field.” Kaelen dipped the bread in his soup. “Mirthwell’s strongman is an old fellow, knees shot, and they’ve lost two hands to sickness this month. I’ll offer my services for whichever they need—performer or labourer.”

“And me?”

“Give it half an hour. Enough for me to be in their good graces. Then you wander up and introduce yourself as my old friend. I play the pleading pup and beg them to take you on. I’ve been reliably informed none can resist my charm.”

“Yes.” Richard sipped his ale. “I have every faith your charm will succeed.”

Kaelen froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, determination engraved into his features.

Richard groaned. At some point, he’d become all too familiar with the warning signs. “Do not?—”

“I shall not let you down.” Kaelen drew himself up to his full height. “You have my word upon it, my ki—Richard. I shall secure us both a place in Mirthwell Circus before this night is out, or else call myself a Haramont no longer.”

“Kaelen. Sit. Finish your?—”

“There is no time.” Kaelen swept on his cloak, and with a dip of his head—a habit they’d need to break—he marched out of the tavern, his new bow bouncing against his shoulder blades.

“Hopeless,” Richard muttered. He reached across the table to drag Kaelen’s abandoned bowl towards his own. It was as he chased the last of the broth around the bowl’s bottom that he noticed the table to his right.