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She didn’t argue and climbed into the saddle with a step and a swing of her legs. Her fingers closed on the reins, and the mare beneath her pawed the stones, ready to bolt.
Andry’s skin crawled as more of the garrison burst from the castle gate, orange cloaks over their chain mail and leathers. The black wolf ran through them, a warning as much as a symbol. Most were grizzled, veterans of many years, with gray beards and stern jaws. They did not move like the disciplined soldiers of the Gallish legions or the Lionguard knights, but they were fearsome all the same, bearing swords and spears.
A horn sounded, a low, throbbing noise to split the cold air. Not from the castle, but somewhere in the city, rising up to meet them. It sounded nothing like the bronze trumpets of Galland, the ones he heard in Ascal all the time. This was deeper, meant to carry for miles, rattling Andry’s teeth.A wolf’s howl.
The Prince of Trec was coming.
Andry knew Oscovko was older than Erida by nearly a decade, almost thirty years old, and heir apparent to the kingdom of Trec. He tried to remember all he knew of court and foreign royalty, expecting silk and fine brocade, a bejeweled crown, a permanently etched sneer. Something to earn the titlethe Fine.
Oscovko was nothing of the sort.
He approached with a half-dozen riders, all weaving their wayup to the castle of Volaska. The prince sat astride a murderous red stallion, its head tossing against tight reins.
He drew up on the road and dismounted without so much as an introduction. There was no crown on Oscovko’s head, and his hair was cut short, dark as pitch. He waved at the Companions with sharp, quick jerks of his white hands, urging them to come forward. But before they could even move, he strode into their midst, stopping only a yard from Dom.
He was nearly a foot and a half shorter than Dom was, but just as broad, all muscle beneath his black doublet and rust-colored cloak. The wolf’s pelt across his shoulders made him even broader, its head dangling over his bicep, fastened with a dull iron chain. A pair of belts ran across his hips, holding a sword and a brace of daggers. The blades were the only clean thing on his body. The rest bore stains of gods-knew-what, but Andry wagered an even mix of wine and mud. Hardly a crown prince raised in a palace. He seemed as much a soldier as the rest of them, but for the single band of gold on his left thumb.
Prince Oscovko was perhaps the first person who looked on Dom not with fear, but fascination. His pale gray eyes barely flickered over the towering immortal, taking in everything from his sword to his half-ruined cloak.
With a snap, Oscovko pulled out a folded piece of parchment and held it out for all to see.
Fear leapt up in Andry’s heart.
Corayne’s face stared back at them, her name and likeness drawn on the parchment. Andry knew what the rest of the scrollsaid, remembering the posters plastered all over the Almasad docks. His own face among them, his own so-called crimes listed in black, burning ink.
Oscovko peered around Dom’s great bulk, finding Corayne on her horse.
She did not flinch under his scrutiny, even raising her chin in challenge.
“This is awful,” Oscovko barked, waving the paper back and forth. Then he grinned, showing several gold teeth. They winked in the gray light. “Looks nothing like you. No wonder you haven’t been caught.”
“Your Highness,” Corayne said, trying to bow from the saddle of a horse. She did her best.
It pleased the prince.
“Wanted by the Queen of Galland herself, dead or alive,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “What could you have possibly done to deserve such a sentence?”
Corayne dismounted in a single fluid motion. She landed gently, boots crunching in the frost. “I’d be happy to tell you.”
Andry followed, falling in behind her like a knight behind his queen. It was almost second nature now, to guard her as he’d once hoped to guard Erida.Corayne is far more important,he knew.To the Ward, and to me.
“Hmm,” the prince replied, tapping his lip. To Andry’s surprise, Oscovko’s attention shifted, snapping from Corayne to the squire. “You have an honest face,” he said. “Tell me truly, is all this worth the time of a Blood Prince of Trec?”
Andry expected to feel nervous in the presence of a future king, but he’d stood before far worse in the past weeks. His answer was easy, a simple truth.
“It’s worth all the time you have to give, Your Highness,” he replied, careful to use his title before bowing.
As he straightened, he offered the prince a look of regret.
“My apologies, by the way,” he added, offering an empathetic shrug. “Of all the men Erida could have chosen, I was rooting for you.”
Andry had little skill in politics or intrigue, but he wasn’t entirely ignorant of them.
Oscovko wrinkled his nose, going sullen. Andry knew it was a bold move, nearly overplaying their hand. But he knew pride. And while Oscovko seemed more soldier than prince, he certainly had the pride of a royal son. Erida’s refusal had stung his ego if not his heart, and it was an easy wound to prod at.
“Very well,” Oscovko said, sweeping his eyes over the Companions. His gaze landed on Sorasa, glowering next to her horse. “But I would be a fool to invite an assassin to my table.”
Sorasa seethed, her ragged hair loose about her face. It was almost as good as her hood, hiding most of the tattoos on her neck. She heaved a breath, reluctant, and opened her mouth.
