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The guard hummed. “We both know that’s not true. Please do not make me waste my breath recounting all the reasons why.”
We walked in contemplative silence for a few moments, yet he couldn’t seem to help himself from continuing to speak despite what he’d just claimed. “His Highness helps you see the larger picture; you make him appreciate the smaller. Nerve and compassion, flexibility and tenacity, head and heart. Together, you-”
Jiron’s arm tightened around me. As I glanced up to ask what was wrong, his other hand clamped down over my mouth, warm and smelling of earth. I froze, wondering what had spooked him, but not daring to speak as he slowly removed his hand and ushered us behind a large tree.
Yet it was another half minute before I heard them for myself: first, the rustling of leaves and the snap of sticks as they moved recklessly though the forest, and then their words.
“…we’re getting close.”
“You’ve been saying that for hours,” someone else complained.
“I said we were gettingcloser.Now, he’s close,” the first voice said. “Within a mile, I expect.”
“You hear that, lads? The son of that fucker Iván Aratorre in our hands, at long last.” It was announced with cruel relish.
“Would have preferred it to be Horacio, but his youngest will do.”
“I expect he’ll do nicely.We’re gonna fuck that boy up so bad for what his daddy did to us.”
There were various cheers at that, enough to suggest the presence of a dozen men at least. I swallowed, tensing up and feeling my hands ball into fists. Jiron remained as cool and collected as ever at my side, but his expression was murderous.
“I’m going to cut out his tongue. Maybe make him swallow it.”
“You mad? Then we won’t hear him scream.”
“…or beg.”
“Orfucking beg,”another man agreed with a laugh. “By the Blessed, I wanna hear an Aratorre begging.”
Their noises grew louder, passing us by only a few yards away. Jiron swayed slightly to the left to glance around the tree, and I watched his eyes darting back and forth as he counted their number. The slightest of frowns gracing his brow made my heart sink but I forced myself to remain still. They didn’t sound like they were particularly alert to their surroundings, their own voices pitched loud and raucous, but I didn’t doubt they’d notice us if we moved.
“…after everything,” one of them was saying, to much agreement from his companions. “And when he died without ever having the chance to pay for what he did…I hope Ivánis watching from hell as we take his child apart piece by fuckingpiece.”
“Can you assholes let me concentrate?” interrupted the first voice, whiny and petulant. There was a loud sniff. “I can’t Scent shit with you lot nattering in my ears.”
Fuck.They had a tracker. Ren’s guards may have ensured that all the Blessed with the Scent in Quareh’s service were accounted for, but there were always some who managed to avoid royal conscription. These men, whoever they were, would be able to find the prince no matter where he was on the continent. Covering our physical trail through the forest meant nothing when magic was involved.
Jiron’s gaze met mine, steely and ruthless.
“Use your fucking nose instead of your ears, then,” retorted another, but he was drowned out by more eager suggestions of the torment they intended to inflict on Ren when they found him, their voices gradually fading as they moved further from us. My blood roared in my ears.
“Jiron,” I hissed when I judged they were sufficiently far away not to be heard.
“Get to His Highness,” he said, unsheathing his sword. “That way, andrun.Don’t stop for fucking anything, you hear me?” His eyes flashed. “Find somewhere to hide, and meet me back at the hut at dawn.”
I shook my head frantically. “There’s too many of them for you to take alone.”
The guard heaved out a breath, confirming my fears as to their numbers when he didn’t deny it. “I only need to remove their tracker. Then the rebels will be blind.”
They were rebels? I knew such groups existed: there would always be those who resisted whatever royal rule applied at the time, but I’d never had the misfortune to encounter them in either Mazekhstam or Quareh. Some were self-proclaimed freedom fighters. Others, little more than raiders, murdering and pillaging in the name of liberation.
These particular men apparently held a severe grudge against Ren’s father, which I suspected was likely justified considering what I’d known of the man, but to go after his kin in revenge – and it was small comfort to know they believed Ren was of Aratorre blood just as much as we did – was both fucking cowardly and wildly repugnant.
And also dumb, because getting on the wrong side of Jiron was nothing short of suicidal.
Yet as competent as the guard was, even he couldn’t work miracles. One man against all of them? If Elías had been here perhaps he could have taken out the Blessed from a distance with his bow, but Jiron would need to get within a sword’s length of the tracker. And then he’d be surrounded…
“Go, Mathias!” Jiron growled, shoving at me to get me to move. “Ren comes first!”
