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I give him a flat look, which results in the corners of his mouth tilting up. “That was uncalled for, Ion.” Luka insists that I still wear my cloak to keep any lurking chill away from me and the baby.
“My a’deve,” a small girl cries. “Is this not right?”
I make my way over.
“My sister says I’ve spelled Sufan, not Susan.”
Smiling at them, I nod. “Your sister is right.”
“But I don’t want to be Sufan!”
“Well, that is the beauty of writing. You can start over.”
The poor child sniffles. “I can?”
“Absolutely.” I get her to erase the letters with her shoe and we start over.
Ion sidles up beside me. “Riders on the horizon.”
My head comes up. We’ve been expecting them for over a week now. It seems Kharon, First Deve of all the Realms, does not travel at a brisk pace.
“I’d like to move you back to the stronghold,” Ion announces as we watch the caravan come closer and grow longer. I guess Kharon doesn’t travel light either.
I give Ion a tight, “I think not. An a’deve should never skulk, I’m sure of it.” I gesture to the gold tiara on my head that Luka has required me to wear every day for the last week for precisely this moment. He claims the First Deve may need a visual reminder that my relationship with my husband is already permanent.
Ion grits his teeth. “I’d argue the point, but I wouldn’t want to waste my breath.”
“Excellent,” I say brightly. “Let us continue with our work here. I’m sure the high and mighty lord will head directly for the stronghold anyway.”
“You there!” Ion yells and I jump, turning to see him pointing to a boy of eight or nine. “Run to the stronghold and inform the deve, or one of his men, that there are riders on the road and that the a’deve is in danger.”
The child doesn’t need to be told twice. He dashes off.
Susan tugs on my cloak. “Are you in danger? Do not worry, I will stand for you like the women did in the courtyard.”
My heart twists in my chest as the rest of the children echo their support.
“Oh, you’re all sweethearts. I thank you. But Ion is making a mountain out of a molehill. There is no danger.”
A few minutes later, as if to make a liar out of me, the head of the caravan breaks off and heads our way. I laugh, but even to my own ears, it sounds hollow. “You will not stand in front of me, Ion,” I order him.
“This time you’re right,” he replies and I follow his gaze behind us.
I let out a huge breath of relief. Keeping Nightshade to a casual walk, my husband approaches, flanked by Eldon and Noé and followed by a few more warriors. I should have known Luka would be prepared.
As the parties draw up on either side of our little group, I notice Luka isn’t wearing a shirt under his warrior’s vest, which leaves the thick muscles of his arms on display . . . and the torque for all to see. And even more unusual, he’s armed with more than his dagger and axe; the hilt of his broad sword is peeking over his shoulder. He radiates arrogant dominance from Nightshade’s back, and I straighten my own spine, wanting us to present a united front.
After a tense silence, Luka inclines his head. “My deve.”
His deve,Kharon of the Bear Realm, sits atop a beautiful white warhorse with as much authority as Luka does. But he’s older than I was expecting and if he didn’t have huge men all around him, I’d be hard-pressed to understand how he’s remained in power.
His head has been shaved on the sides, creating a stripe of thick white hair that’s been braided into a long queue. It hangs over the fur mantle on his shoulders. The etched lines around his eyes and mouth are made more noticeable by the sneer on his face, one that tells me he’s loath to return the greeting of a man he considers beneath him.
I knew I wouldn’t like him, but Kharon has officially gained an enemy in me as he intones, “Lukaron Djothar.” He shifts his disdain to me. “I assume this is the woman D’heilar sent.” If he’s surprised by the crown on my head, he doesn’t show it. He only lifts his hand and gestures for someone to come forward. “Is that her?” he demands of the man who brings his horse up next to his.
My stomach congeals into an icy ball that slowly capsizes in a sea of nausea.
“Well,” the man says on a laugh. “She’s been tarted up, but yes, that’s her.”
