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“Lark, listen…” He twisted onto an elbow. “I’ll speak with Draven. About us, you and I—”
Us? There was no us. “It’s probably best you don’t.”
“What?”
“He won’t appreciate a third in your marriage.”
“I agree, and I need to explain to him that the joining was a mis—”
The tent flap rustled. “Lark.” Draven’s deep growl rumbled, shrinking the air inside the tent. The warlord barely spared me a glance and strode for Arin’s bedside.
“I was just checking on your husband here,” I explained. “He seems to be in fine health.” I hurried from the tent, having no interest in making the situation uncomfortable for Arin.
My escape didn’t last. Draven caught up and strode alongside me. “Now you’re both recovered, it seems right that we should decide how best to proceed. Let’s meet for breakfast—”
“Proceed with what?” I stopped and peered into his intense eyes.
All around people bustled and drank and sang and danced by the firesides.
“Retrieving War’s crown,” Draven said, firelight warming his face. But the fire didn’t soften his features. It hardened them, as it had Arin’s. “Stopping Razak.”
“At this point, we don’t know if the crown is even lost. You said you thought it was safe. And I’m not entirely sure what we can do to stop Razak, now he’s already in Justice’s hands.”
“You can’t be suggesting we simply give up?”
I wasn’t, was I? The desert had almost killed Arin, and since Arin had surprised my brother, Razak would kill him at his next opportunity. Draven was an exiled warlord who could swing a sword but not with political clout, and me… What was I, if not a fool? In what feasible way could we stand against Razak? No. Only I could stop him, and I alone. Razak would kill Draven and Arin. But not me. Not yet.
“We’ll talk in the morning.” I set off in no discernible direction, escaping questions I could not answer.
If I’d done more, I could have stopped Razak. Noemi, Justice Ines’s aide, was the only one who had come close to killing the Prince of Pain, and she was locked up somewhere within Justice’s icy castle, likely awaiting trial for helping us. We were fugitives. It would be better for us all if we went our separate ways. Arin and Draven could live their happily ever after in a corner of War’s lands, and I’d return to Pain, where I belonged. If I failed, Razak would steal his crowns and make himself a god, whatever that meant. Perhaps all the courts deserved such a fate after losing their way.
I wandered the camp, found more potent wine, and sat at the fireside with strangers until the hollow pain inside no longer consumed my heart and soul, and the sun bled along the desert horizon.
I couldn’t risk Arin’s life again.
He and Draven must live their happily ever after. Without me.
CHAPTER7
Arin
Lark sat across the bench,arms folded, his perpetual smile on his lips. That smile was the most shallow, empty mask he wore. He was hurting—we all were—but when Lark was in pain, he built walls, keeping everyone out. His smile was that wall’s locked door.
His eyes, always so elegant and bright, had dulled some since last night. He likely hadn’t gotten much sleep.
He’d been at his happiest in my court, juggling balls, singing songs, and making a fool of himself. Ever since then, his spark had faded, and I missed it, missed his scathing poems, his quick wit, missed him. He was here, with us, yet so far away too. I feared that smile, and that look. It meant something, something I didn’t understand about him, something he wouldn’t tell me.
“Arin?” Draven said from beside me.
“Hm?”
“Would you like me to collect you some breakfast from the spread?”
“Oh, yes… Thank you.”
Draven asked Lark the same, but he declined, and Draven left to collect food at the camp’s long feasting table. We’d soon outstay our welcome, and the caravan would move on without us, or we’d have to bring something of value to the people in order to stay. I wasn’t sure yet what tomorrow would bring or where we’d be. But that was why we’d gathered here, for breakfast, to discuss our future and stopping Razak.
“I haven’t spoken with him,” I said, noticing how Lark watched Draven in line at the feasting table. “But I will.”
