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All lies.
Lies he’d told to him and to her.
Edrick dug his hand inside his coat and withdrew the ornament he’d found in the village. It glittered in the sun’s dying glow.
A goat’s head.
He’d finished his business here, minutes ago, in the chapel.
Then in the rookery.
All the birds were dead.
And someone else too.
Now, he had business elsewhere. “You are cursed now, my friend,” he said, his words carrying to the castle on a breeze.
* * *
The day shone with a brilliance Rowan hadn’t seen for years. Or maybe he was just looking through renewed eyes.
He surveyed the tranquility garden—a flowing patch of blossoms, hyacinths, roses, and climbing trellises. He inhaled the sea-laden air, allowing it to fill his lungs and heart. But his mind kept tracking back to his conversation with Edrick. He stopped and placed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, a dull pang spiking through his chest. Smoke clung near to his heel, his head low and eyes glowing.
Had Edrick been right? Is everything I’ve stood for and fought for—is it all a lie? He fancied himself as the people’s champion, but after hearing Edrick’s spiteful words, he wasn’t sure what he was.
I don’t need to be the people’s champion, he thought. Only Blanchette’s.
Except that wasn’t true. If he wasn’t fighting for the people, if all this bloodshed hadn’t been for the greater good, then he was no better than King Bartholomew.
And therein where the danger lay. He exhaled a breath, then glanced at the towering castle, straight to Blanchette’s room. The room looked dark... where was she? Rowan nervously rubbed his fingers on the wolf pommel before moving farther through the garden. He fought to anchor himself in the moment—but Edrick’s words hung over him like a dark cloud. He still saw the young prince’s mutilated body every time he closed his eyes... and every time he slept, his wife was there.
There was another lady who had loved you.
And she’s dead because of your neglect.
Always remember that.
Like he could ever forget.
When can I wake? he thought.
Winslowe Castle seemed to glare down at him with a black judgment that he couldn’t escape. He continued through the garden, listening to the clatter of blunted swords crashing, horses neighing, and the barking and whining of kennel dogs.
A stark-white figure came into view. Mary wore a white dress with long v-cut sleeves, her blond curls tucked into a hood. Smoke padded over to her. “Mary. There you are.”
She bowed her head with respect, then came forward. The basket she clutched in her arms overflowed with herbs and blooms. The wolf followed her, as loyal as any foot soldier in Rowan’s army.
“Those smell lovely,” he said conversationally. Mary smiled, then plucked a thin, reedy-looking stem from the bunch.
“Blanchette’s teaching me how to use them,” she explained. Her blue eyes sparkled with interest in the early morning sun. “How to make medicine, I mean.”
“Is she now?” Rowan asked, returning her tentative smile. “Walk with me, my child.” My child. The word hung in his mouth, leaving behind a bitter taste.
Smoke followed them.
The path curved and led to one of the training grounds. Archer butts lined the wall, though the yard was otherwise empty. Rowan glanced down at Mary as a protective urge rushed through him.
He recalled the hatred in Edrick’s eyes. The way he’d stared at him from under the archway before his exile.
