Page 116 of Bride of Ash & Dust

A kid walks two horses past me, heading out of the same gate we came in. I start to follow, then hesitate, turning back toward the palace.

The palace doors are still open, and I can see the lamp on the wall inside. That’s where Lilias just vanished, somewhere inside those bright, open doors that still somehow feel like the mouth of a cave.

I shake my head, then tug my hand through my hair. Gods, I want to be with her. It’s too damn risky, of course. Every speck of intuition that’s saved my sorry ass over the years screams at me not to go through that door until I understand what’s happening here, that I can’t be of any use to Lilias if I end up in a dungeon or on the wrong end of some pissed-off Marion soldier’s sword.

But she’s my wife, damn it. And even though I keep my head down and follow the horses out of the gate, completely ignored by the guards who are there to stop people coming in, some part of me howls in protest. And I feel like a coward.

Once we’re in the streets, the kid turns left, hugging the palace wall. I assume he’s on his way to the stables, which will probably be well guarded. I amble down the darker side of the street, keeping my head low, trying not to wince every time my boot hits the ground and sends a bolt of pain through my ribs, and hopefully looking like every other asshole in this town who’s just making their way home.

Money and information. The best way to find both is to find a pub filled with soldiers. I slip my hands into my pockets and wander the streets of Marion, listening for cheers and laughter.

And, like every other city I’ve seen, Marion’s pubs are clustered around a few streets. They’re near the center of town, but not quite in the center. I walk past the larger, more elegant establishments and head down a slight hill toward places where the windows are dirtier and the crowds louder. And then I lean against a wall in an alleyway and wait.

I want to enter when the crowd is drunk but still amicable, when I could challenge a few poor bastards to a friendly game or two and clean them out without provoking a fight. I want them drunk enough to share gossip, but not drunk enough to start sobbing about that one girl in their hometown who never truly knew how they felt about her.

With a sigh, I tip my head back against the wall. Pain pulses through my chest, a low, dull ache that feels like the ghost of the fists that pummeled me in Prince Syvan’s tent. Men’s voices rise in the street. I step to the end of the alley to see who’s heading toward the pub I picked out.

And my body goes cold.

I was right, of course. It’s a group of soldiers, large and loud, laughing with the excitement of men who’ve just gotten off work and anticipate a long night of carousing.

But it’s not Marion soldiers.

My breath catches in my throat. I step back into the shadows. The men walking down the middle of the street, looking like they own the place, are wearing the blue and scarlet of Vsenrog.

And I know them. They’re not just Vsenrog soldiers; they’re from the city barracks. These are men I’ve gambled and gossiped with. Every soldier in that crowd would recognize my face, and none of them would have any reason not to tell their commander that the snake of Vsenrog is in Marion. Especially if they’ve already received news of Syvan’s murder. And if they’ve heard that I’m the only realistic suspect.

My heart climbs the back of my throat as the soldiers walk past the alley. The warm light flickering through the dingy windows of the pub paints their faces, and I remember their names. Yalor. Elstin. Conrad.

And then I see the man in the back of the crowd, and I almost feel like crying.

Gods above, sometimes you just get lucky.

I whistle softly, imitating the call of one of the little black-and-white birds that spent the whole winter in the gardens of the Dungal palace. The man at the back of the group of soldiers stops walking. He drops to his knee as though he’s fixing the laces on his boot, then waits until the rest of the soldiers have entered the pub before crossing the street and staring into the alley.

“Gods above,” Petrys whispers when he sees me. “What in the nine hells are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too,” I reply. “I’d hug you, but I think some of my ribs are broken.”

My brother frowns as he ducks into the shadows with me.

“You have to get out of here,” he says. “Now. Before you’re spotted.”

“I will,” I promise. “But not without my wife.”

Petrys gives me a strange look. It takes me a moment to realize it’s pity.

“Haven’t you heard?” he whispers. “Princess Lilias started the war.”

Chapter 64

Lilias

ANOTHER LETTER

Itry to ignore the strange looks Owain and I get as we walk through the halls of the palace of Marion. I was taught to ignore the castle attendants, although I never quite managed to do so. But tonight, I try. I keep my head up and my expression regal as I follow Owain toward my father’s throne room.

The door opens, swinging inward on hinges that sigh as we pass, and there he is. The king of Marion, sitting on his throne, wearing a heavy silver crown with scarlet jewels. He almost never sits on the actual throne, an uncomfortable hunk of metal and hard wood; someone must have warned him that we were coming.