Page 26 of Bride of Ash & Dust

The guards flanking the entrance to his tent both snigger. I smile politely. I have seven knives hidden on my body; I could take down every man in this tent if I had to.

“I bring a message from your father,” I announce.

Given the way he greeted me, Syvan already knows what I’m about to say. He either has a spy in his father’s court, or he just assumed there’s only one reason I would ever pay him a visit.

“That old bastard’s not dead yet?” Syvan replies.

I clench my jaw, continue smiling, and remember my long-held hope that I never have children.

And then I think about my quite possibly pregnant wife.

My smile falters. I bow to hide it.

“He’s quite well,” I say. “And he wishes for your return.”

Syvan laughs. “I bet he does.”

The prince comes to his feet. The woman kneeling beside him flinches as he moves, and rage rises in the back of my throat, hot and sharp. Syvan adjusts his robe.

“Finally,” he says. “It’s time.”

I keep smiling. Syvan’s made no secret of his plans to seize the throne, which is how he ended up in the Devil’s Arse in the first place. He probably thinks this is an open invitation to sink a dagger between his father’s shoulder blades.

Gods, I’m tired of this. I remember sitting across from Petrys in the nasty little pub, drinking bitter ale and watching the lines that now branch out from his eyes, an indelible record of all the years we’ve given to the Kingdom of Vsenrog.

I want out, I realize with a sudden ferocity. I want a little cabin in the mountains, maybe some chickens, maybe a few fields to grow my own malt and barley and brew my own beer. Maybe with a wife⁠—

The memory of Princess Lilias bending over my sword flicks through my consciousness, bringing an entirely inappropriate flash of arousal. I bow again.

“What message shall I bring to your father?” I ask.

Syvan chuckles. “Good little snake,” he says. “He keeps you close, doesn’t he?”

“I serve Vsenrog as best I can,” I reply.

“That you do,” Syvan remarks with a nasty grin. “I’ll write him a note. As for you, tell him I’m coming. And my men are ready.”

I bow again, then turn and step out of the tent. Away from the brazier, the wind feels even colder. I walk back and forth on the tent’s rickey porch, running my hands up and down my arms, as I wait for Syvan’s letter. He was never the world’s fastest writer, and I doubt his literary skills have improved much out here.

Finally, a guard pulls back the tent flap and thrusts a scroll of parchment into my hands. It’s closed with Prince Syvan’s wax seal, which is still warm.

It’s only once I’m back on my horse and heading away from the Devil’s Arse that I remember Syvan also has a wife, a small, pretty little thing, the daughter of some insanely wealthy merchant whose competitors were served with eviction notices after the wedding.

She sobbed during their wedding ceremony. She cried so hard, in fact, that she couldn’t say the vows, and the priest had to wave his hands and claim Mirdia’s unheard blessing.

I could have offered to bring a message back to her, but I quickly dismiss the thought.

I doubt Syvan even remembers her name.

Chapter 16

Lilias

OUR DEAR HUSBANDS

“Apparently, they’d like to meet you,” Anura says.

I frown, then put down the strip of silk I’ve been stabbing with a needle. My needlepoint is atrocious, but boredom will drive a woman to attempt many ill-advised hobbies.