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Draven
The West Lands
The Marechal lad and his beast were annoyingly efficient travelers. They made it to the guard’s hut before the worst of the storm made the trek impassable to all but the most sure-footed. Draven had hoped to find them still there, settled into spending the solstice. No. That would be too convenient for him. They had the impertinence to be elsewhere, which was considerably rude. At least their cart left a trail in the snow.
They hadn’t gone far, having reached an abandoned hunter’s lodge halfway down the mountain. In normal conditions, it was an easy day’s journey. In the grip of winter, it might as well have been on the other side of this blasted planet.
Snow drifted across the frozen ground. The wind had settled down. In the sun, the temperature was comfortable. From the grumbling and chattering teeth of his minions, Draven was the only one who thought the weather pleasant. Still, he understood their complaints. There were places he’d rather be. Someone he’d rather be with.
“You’ll be back in your beds soon enough,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed ahead on the farmstead in the distance. The grumbling ceased.
The beast waited outside the lodge—barely more than a hovel if Draven felt the urge to be unkind. Dark circles hung under his eyes. He looked gaunt and feverish. Draven would expect a beast with an anchor to not appear so sickly. He did not express this because, once again, he was not unkind and in a generous mood.
The beast tipped his head in greeting.
Draven drew the horse to a halt and held up his hand. The guards behind him fell into place alongside him, creating a wall of horseflesh and steel.
The Marechal lad emerged from the hovel, sword on his hip. His gaze swept over Draven and his guards. The color drained from his face. “Has something happened? Is Charlotte well?”
Draven stiffened at the familiar use of Charlotte’s name. Leather creaked as he tightened his grip on the reins. Only he should be allowed to speak her name. She was his woman. His anchor.
As if sensing the turmoil brewing inside Draven, the beast growled a warning.
The horse shifted nervously underneath him. He relaxed his hold and gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck. “Mrs. Wodehouse is well, but there was an incident.”
“I knew she shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”
The generosity of his spirit had expired.
Draven very much doubted that Charlotte would allow anyone to forbid her from grasping what she desired. “You do not dictate Mrs. Wodehouse’s actions,” he said in a cutting tone, as cold as the winter air.
The beast laid a hand on Marechal’s shoulder, causing the man to stop his prattling. “Tell us what has happened,” the beast said, his voice thick and barely human.
“What has happened is irrelevant. What is happening is that Mrs. Wodehouse is convinced I’m holding you prisoner.”
“Why would she think that?” the Marechal lad asked.
“Do not waste my time with annoying questions. Because she cares, I imagine,” Draven said, waving a hand. A guard stepped forward.
The beast flashed his teeth and growled again. The guard paused, glancing back to Draven for guidance.
“Such theatrics,” he sighed. This was tedious. “My man carries a letter you will sign attesting that you are well and enjoying your liberty, not being held captive.”
He snapped his fingers, setting the guard in motion. He hurried forward, holding the paper out like a shield.
Marechal read the script out loud. “Dear Mrs. Wodehouse, I wanted to reach out to you and assure you that I am not being held captive…” He made a noise of disbelief. “You expect me to sign this? It sounds fake.”
“Yes. I would very much like you to be agreeable in this matter so I may return to the Aerie. I do not mind the cold, but my companions are human, and they want a warm bed and a hot meal. Sign it without delay.”
Marechal shook his head. “She won’t believe anything I write. We need to go back.” He turned to speak to the beast, who fidgeted with nervous energy.
The calendar neared the winter solstice. Draven felt the pull of the Nexus energy fluctuations, but he was old enough to ignore it. Mostly. Occasionally it made his skin crawl and filled him with a hunger that nothing could slake.
Charlotte could. I never should have left her. The thought came unbidden, but it rang true.
Judging from the wan, sweaty appearance of the beast, he felt the same discomfort and more.
“Returning to the Aerie would be ill-advised. Write the letter in your own words. We shall wait,” Draven said, before nodding in the beast’s direction. “If that is agreeable to you.”
