Page 25 of Bride of Ash & Dust

“I know,” I reply with a smile. I feel warm, like whatever was in her flask made me glow. “I’ve been running it for a decade. Not publicly, of course, but⁠—”

My voice fades. Elrick thought the deception was absurd, that I should take the public title of stable master if I was doing all the work. But my father threw over the dinner table when Elrick suggested it, and that was the end of that particular discussion.

I was going to do the same for Ethiria. I’d written dozens of letters to their stable master, and gradually, I wore him down to the point where he agreed to take me on as an apprentice, unofficially of course, after the wedding.

I blink at the little lake as it shimmers in the sunlight. Massive dragonflies race across the waves, their jeweled bodies winking in the light. Alia snorts.

“Look,” she says, “anytime you need to get away, just come by the stables. You understand?”

I meet her gaze. She’s trying to tell me something, some warning or promise that’s just below her words, like cold water hides beneath the dancing sunlight.

I nod. Perhaps she’s not a friend, but an offer of refuge comes pretty damn close.

“One more thing,” Alia says. “Don’t ever let King Malrik get you alone.”

I nod again. This time, a shiver dances up my spine as I do.

Chapter 15

Zarek

THE DEVIL’S ARSE

It’s a three-day trip to the eastern outpost where King Malrik keeps his feral second son. The tent barracks here are tucked into a series of low, dry hills, close enough to see the ocean on a clear day, far enough to be hot as the nine hells all summer long and miserably, biting cold all winter. The outpost is named Rholos, but the men who are stationed here just call it the Devil’s Arse.

It’s windy and cold as I approach the Arse. There aren’t nearly as many tents spread in the low valley as I was expecting, and I only see a handful of horses in the pasture. Smoke rises from a few of the long command tents, but not all.

Odd. I haven’t heard about any recent troop movements. Admittedly, I was rather distracted by my sudden fucking marriage.

My horse snorts as I approach the guards flanking the road. One of them gives me a broken-tooth smile that makes my heart sink.

There are two types of men who choose to serve under Prince Syvan, and both are assholes. They’re either willing to set aside any sense of decency to gain an advantage, or they’re complete sadistic bastards themselves. This man’s smile makes me think he’s in the latter category.

“What’s your business with the King’s Army?” the man calls to me.

The King’s Army. Bold. Most people think Syvan will succeed his father, despite the unfortunate fact of his birthright. After all, Malrik himself was also a second son. But it’s a little on the nose to call Syvan’s regiment in the Arse the King’s Army.

I open my jacket, revealing the massive amulet that marks me as loyal to Vsenrog.

“I bear a message for Prince Syvan,” I say. “From his father.”

The man’s eyes widen, but only for a heartbeat.

“Then come right in,” he says with a sneer.

I nod as I ride past him. My eyes stay on the road, but my shoulders pull tight, as if I’m expecting a blade.

I don’t think I’ll spend the night in this camp.

“So, it must finally be time,” Syvan says with a tight, predatory grin as I enter his tent.

He’s leaning back on a large couch with a robe slung over one shoulder. In the center of the tent, a brazier throws off heat and light, counteracting the chill wind. There’s a woman on her knees beside the couch who appears to be wearing nothing but a thin silver rope. I try not to look too closely, but it’s hard to miss her black eye.

It’s a weak man who hits a woman, my father would say. I clench my teeth and force myself to bow.

“Greetings, Prince Syvan,” I declare, staring at the dust on my boots.

“And what brings a snake to the Devil’s Arse?” Syvan asks. “Are you looking for a hole to crawl into?”