Page 8 of Hearts Lost

Warriors. Two old men and one woman, all farmers trying to eke a living out of the frozen Outer Ring. That slimy little son of a bitch Folwynn even manages to look smug about it.

King Grathgore’s expression barely flickers, but I sense he’s smacking his palm against his forehead on the inside. If Folwynn had denied any wrongdoing, then Grathgore could have spun this as an elaborate ploy. But the idiot prince just confirmed my story, and he did so before a crowd of witnesses who were probably, if my own experience with King Galan’s Royal Guard was any indication, incurable gossips. Now the entire kingdom might know this whole story before the glowsoft orbs dimmed.

“I fought valiantly,” Folwynn continues, throwing in a little hip swagger. “But they overwhelmed me, and I was captured.”

One of the guards looks like he’s trying not to laugh. King Grathgore’s eyes narrow in a way that makes me think of a barn cat watching a fat mouse.

“And why did they release you, my boy?” the king asks.

Folwynn seems to sense that something is amiss. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, and then looks around the room with just a hint of wide-eyed desperation.

“There was a woman,” I prompt. “From the Worlds Above.”

That catches the guards’ attention. There’s a subtle stir in the crowd, a ripple of bodies shifting with interest.

“Oh. Yeah.” Folwynn pouts. “Arryn was there.”

Someone makes a noise that isn’t exactly a gasp, more of a sharp and quickly strangled inhale. I turn; it came from the other woman in the room, the one who’d been holding the princess. I’d taken her to be some sort of chaperone, but on second glance she’s watching me, not the princess. And she’s also wearing a rather large sword.

“Lady Damoira was in the Lands Below?” the king asks.

Again, his expression says nothing, but something in the catch of his voice makes me think this is odd news. Perhaps even surprising news.

“Yeah,” Folwynn says, with a shrug. “She’s lost it.”

Irritation flares in my chest, as sharp as a pebble in my boot. I’d be the first to agree that the woman from the Worlds Above who’d offered her heart in exchange for Rowan had to be crazy, but she was also the only reason Folwynn was here. Dismissing her so thoroughly was horribly callous, even to me.

“The Lady Damoira negotiated Folwynn’s release,” I offer.

There’s another round of surprised shuffling among the guards. An expression flickers across the king’s countenance that suggests he’s considering murdering everyone in this room so as to have no pesky witnesses.

“If I may,” I continue. “This is the first diplomatic exchange between the Kingdom of the Summer and the Kingdom of the Fall since the war ended. In the Lands Below, an affair of this nature would typically take place over a meal.”

The swords pointed at my chest waver, and I can practically see the guards weighing the possibility of killing me against the possibility of having a huge feast. King Grathgore seems to realize that his control over the situation is slipping.

“Indeed,” the king says, narrowing his eyes. “Myrill, escort our… guest. To the secure guest chambers, please. And set a watch on this… thing.”

King Grathgore waves a hand at the portal between our worlds, and then he turns to Elanerill with another one of those smiles that makes me feel like my skin is being slowly peeled off my body.

“We do need to celebrate the rescue of my granddaughter,” he announces.

With that, Grathgore spins from the room and begins to descend the stairs. A mean-looking man with a nose like a squashed tomato walks up to me and gestures toward the stairwell with the point of his blade.

I get the message. No nonsense.

But I can’t help a sigh of relief as I leave the room. I’m alive, which is already more than I’d expected for my first steps into the brutal Kingdom of the Summer.