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“Lord Dietrich hides behind the walls of Winslowe Castle, his tail tucked between his legs, crushed by a victory he cannot fully appreciate. Broken beneath the burdensome weight of a crown he refuses to wear, and his head turned by a queen he can’t help but love.”
Huntley inhaled a breath. He turned to his father and met a gaze that betrayed itself and flashed with emotion.
Indeed, the stone cracks.
“I have tolerated many things during my time as Lord of Shadowmoor and the admiral of our fleet,” his father finally said, his voice slow and calculated, sharp with distaste. “I’ve suffered a miserable castellan who thought he was a lord. I’ve suffered snows and famines, unruly peasants who overstepped themselves and swung by their necks for it. I’ve even suffered wolves. But this… I won’t suffer it—this betrayal. That spineless whore took a vow before her kingdom and mine. And now she lies in bed with the wolf who tore down her house?”
Edrick said nothing for a long, anxious moment. Only the rattling wind made a sound. It whistled and moaned through the castle’s cracks, fighting to break its way inside.
There is no escaping the chill, Huntley thought.
“I can’t say that she’s lain with him,” Edrick answered at length. “Does that matter so much?”
“No,” Huntley said quickly. “Rowan Dietrich is cunning… he’s turned her head, I’m sure.”
“This is true,” Edrick said, “Rowan is quiet and calculated and underestimated nearly every time he makes a move. He’s also making mistakes now. Dire mistakes. And I can help you,” he added with a quietness Huntley didn’t like.
“Why? Why are you betraying him, Sir Edrick? You’ve fought with him, feasted with him, traveled the country with him. Why turn your back on him now?”
“Because he turned his back on me,” Edrick said, the faintest note of disdain entering his voice. “I’ve ridden with him, fought with him, bled for him, and helped him take Winslowe Castle. And for what? I’ve only received disregard and apathy. His heart has turned his mind from conquest, and now he sits on a throne without a crown, dining on the old king’s larder and his daughter.”
Huntley inhaled a breath. Then his fingers found their way to the hilt of his dagger, and a crooked smile came to his face. “I don’t appreciate seconds,” he said, that smile locked in place.
He was used to being second—second to his brother. Always. Now he’d be first.
They’d be kings again.
Twenty-Two
Days later
The Kingdom of Demrov was nestled on an island surrounded by pristine blue waters. Lush forests and gently sloping hills covered much of its inland. Many called it a close sister to France. Most natives spoke French, dressed in racy, sweeping dresses, and gluttoned themselves with lavish banquettes.
At midday, Huntley, Edrick, and a handful of guards from their respective houses landed at Demrov’s port. The sun beat down and glimmered across the waters, and the air held that heady scent of saltwater that Huntley had grown to love so much.
It’d become an intricate part of himself, and for a moment, he wondered if he could ever sit on a throne without the sea air at his back, that salt-laden wind in his hair…
Anglers, merchants from all trades, and peasants gave them sideways glances as they broke through the afternoon hustle and mounted horses at the nearby inn Le Fleur.
Huntley preferred a deck beneath him rather than a temperamental mare. As he struggled with the beast, he eyed Edrick, who sharply dug his heels into his horse’s side. The creature neighed in indignation. Another hard kick, and he settled down with a resigned whinny.
“Is that how you tame your women, sir?” he joked with the knight.
Edrick’s face remained solemn and unchanging. “I ride them till they’re broken.”
Huntley waited for laughter that never came.
“Well, we best make haste if we want to arrive before dusk. Wouldn’t want to be surprised by a wolf.” Huntley laughed for the both of them.
* * *
The sky was moonless and black, slicker than ink. Huntley felt the trees pressing close as they tracked through Demrov’s forest and made their way toward the castle.
Its face was Gothic, and countless buttresses and towers stabbed at the dark sky. Courtyards and corridors tied the buildings together. Collectively, the fortress was as large as a city.
The castle reminded Huntley of a crouching beast.
He pulled on his horse’s reins as they approached the castle’s curtain wall and grand facade. Guards walked the walls and stared down at them, their faces as hard as the stones that made up the castle. Gargoyles also perched there, far too many to count. They glared down from the buttresses as if to say you’re not welcome here.
