Page 9 of A Court of Truth and Thorns (Royal Scout #2)

KALI

“ N ame yourselves,” demands a tall uniformed man around Trace’s age.

His sword is free of its sheath and glistens menacingly in the sun.

His four companions, all with equally sharp swords held in trained hands, surround our group with deadly calm.

I tense as Trace and Luca slowly lower Jasmine’s litter and raise their empty hands.

Despite purposely heading toward the Everett camp, having the patrol ambush us is bloody unsettling.

Wil steps forward, his back straight and face dirty. “Prince William of Dansil at your service, sir,” he says, executing a perfect court bow. “And what’s left of my court. Might I have the honor of meeting your commanding officer?”

The men exchange amused looks, but their commander gives Wil an appraising glance. “I am Lieutenant Copa,” he says, returning the bow. His sword point diplomatically lowers a few inches but still remains poised. “Might I inquire as to the reason for your presence here... Your Highness?”

Wil runs a hand through his hair, looking more like the boy I remember. “I realize you’ve no reason to believe me, but can we agree that our band poses a threat to nothing but a clean shirt?”

Copa raises a brow but nods, a small chuckle escaping his professional expression. With a signal of his fingers, the men sheathe their blades.

“Thank you,” says Wil, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“Now, I imagine that no matter what I say and claim, you’ve some protocol for what to do with us?

” He scratches the back of his head, his voice sheepish.

“We were rather hoping to find you, instead of the other way around. It would have made for a better entrance.”

“Quite so,” Copa concedes. “But as you said, we have protocols that make the particulars of how this encounter came about matter little. If you would follow us to Camp Vanguard, I’d be much obliged.”

“Of course,” Wil murmurs as if there is a choice in the matter. Copa gestures with one arm and two of his men step forward to take up the poles of Jasmine’s litter. Copa is anything but a fool.

My heart speeds as we hike the rest of the way, but I manage to stretch tall as we enter the war camp itself, keeping my chin up, my gaze straight ahead.

Anything I can do to create the appearance of confidence that I feel none of.

Our plan, if this desperation deserves such a word, is to convince King Owain to support Wil’s claim to the throne and back that support with armed forces.

For starters, this means looking more like worthy partners than scared children.

Unable to help myself, I steal a glance at Trace. However uncomfortable the entrance is for me, I know it’s a hundred times worse for him. But his steady gait and calm face give away nothing. Which is infuriating.

From the stares of Camp Vanguard’s soldiers at our procession of ragtag invaders, I’m certain we’ve failed to create the first impression we wished for.

The Everett soldiers, on the other hand, look every bit the part of a well-trained army.

Clean and orderly and similar, the men share Trace’s dark eyes and light hair.

Shades of blond and silver locks, cut short and neat, are abundant.

As are people. Young, vibrant, strong. Stars.

I’ve not the slightest idea how Dansil ever thought we could match Everett in combat.

Or in anything else. The Everett army has not stepped foot onto Dansil soil, yet I already feel conquered.

Or conquered again , since Bahir has laid his claim to Firehorn’s throne.

Trace’s gaze slides to me for the first time in days, and it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing his hand like some helpless little girl.

But stars, I want to. I want to feel his warmth and his strength and know that I am not alone, in a way that only touch can say.

I want it so badly that my heart races and my fingers twitch at my side.

I hate myself for the want. The need. Especially since Trace’s interest in me, if it ever existed, seems to have changed course the moment our lips touched.

Much like our first kiss, which disappeared the moment it was over, like Trace took a great broom and swept it from his memory.

“Are you all right?” he whispers.

“Fine.”

He turns toward Wil. “This is a large camp. Looks like one of the forward divisions. The commander will be a lesser general.”

“Is this a good thing?” Wil whispers back.

“Yes. It will be simpler to have decisions made with a ranking officer in charge. It also means military rules will be observed to the letter.” Trace’s gaze returns to me and stays, waiting for something.

“And one of those rules frowns upon women taking up arms, doesn’t it?” I guess, quickly adding a bit more boyish swagger to my stride. The last thing I need is to be separated out. Trace nods, his eyes leaving me immediately. As if it would kill him to speak to me more than necessity demanded.

Lieutenant Copa stops before a large tent. The guards posted outside snap to attention, touching their weapons and hearts. Copa excuses himself from us and ducks inside. Left without their commander, the other soldiers circle us in one silent, coordinated movement.

“General Hewe will see you now,” Copa says, emerging from the tent. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I must ask you to leave your weapons outside.”

Despite his perfectly polite tone, I know there is nothing apologetic in the request. Just as I know that, though we’ve been permitted to keep our swords until now, one of Copa’s elite warriors would have had a blade at the throat of anyone reaching for steel.

I surrender my sword; Trace, Luca, and Wil do the same.

Trace leans down toward me, his heat mixing with mine.

“Your throwing knives too.” I give my head a minuscule shake.

No. Not my blades. Trace growls softly. “They know you have them.” Indeed, raising my eyes, I see several of the soldiers waiting on something.

Copa smiles politely. Gritting my teeth, I unstrap the vambrace. Taking it off leaves me feeling naked.

“Thank you,” says Copa crisply. “This way, please. Your injured companion may remain on the litter. I’ve sent for a medic and I give you my word that no ill will befall the girl while you are inside.”

Luca hesitates but there is little choice. With Wil leading the way, we enter the general’s tent. Large and well lit, the space is set up for holding counsel. Maps cover the canvas walls, a table holds wine and is surrounded by matching chairs, and a clerk sits ready with pen and ink in the corner.

General Hewe rises from behind his desk.

For an instant, I’m thrown back to Firehorn’s study on my first day in the palace.

Thick with muscle, General Hewe has a mustache, intelligent eyes, and the weight of many lives plain on his shoulders.

His light hair is swept back from his face like Trace’s and his uniform is cut finely, though lacking any embellishment.

“Your Highness Prince William Firehorn.” The general bows with no hint of mockery or surprise.

Either he figures us for crazed imbeciles not worth contradicting, or detailed reports of the events in Delta have reached his desk a while ago.

“Welcome to Camp Vanguard. Please allow me to extend my deepest condolences for your father’s death and my outrage at the takeover of your rightful throne by an imposter. ”

Well, that conveniently takes care of the entire opening speech we prepared for Wil, who swallows and seems to shrink into himself without moving a muscle. “Thank you, sir,” he manages after a moment.

Hewe sits, motioning for us to do the same. “You appear startled, Your Highness,” he says with a tilt of his head. “What welcome did you expect when you set course toward my forces?”

“I expected you to require some proof beyond my word that I am who I claim,” Wil blurts. Blushing, he shifts his weight in his chair. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, sir.”

General Hewe lets out a deep, booming laugh.

“I like your bluntness, Your Highness. It is refreshing when dealing with the ruling class, if I might be so bold as to say so. Before you believe me too daft, allow me to return your bluntness with my own. First, however,” the general snaps his fingers, summoning a footman to pour us wine, “allow us to indulge in a bottle that I’ve been waiting for an excuse to open.

The grapes come from a small vineyard east of here and are picked just as the frost settles. I hope it suites your palette. ”

I watch the amber liquid burble delicately into my glass and take a slow sip, catching the clean, sweet taste that marks potent alcohol beneath. The wine is no accident. Especially on our empty stomachs.

Luca drains his cup dry in one gulp. Wil wraps his hands around the goblet but keeps it on the table, though I’d wager his hesitation has more to do with fear of shaking hands than with consideration of the alcohol’s effects.

General Hewe takes an indulgent sip and looks around the table.

“I promised to explain,” he says, picking up his former train of thought.

“As you are doubtless aware, an Everett delegation was in Delta proper when the coup started. I am pleased to report that they arrived safely at Camp Vanguard two days ago. Their description of the members of the Dansil royal family were collected as a matter of principle.”

Raza. I dare not look at Trace, but sitting beside him, I feel the loosening of his shoulders and the slow, relieved exhale of held breath.

“Envoy Jajack should be joining us any moment.” General Hewe watches Wil’s face as he speaks. “In fact, I believe I hear him now.”

As if on cue—perhaps deliberately so—the tent flap flies back to admit the envoy’s familiar face. Everyone smiles politely, commencing a triangulated evaluation of Jajack watching us, Hewe watching Jajack, and us watching everyone together.

“Your Highness,” Jajack says after a moment with a bow to Wil, “I am pleased to see you well. How might we be of service?”

Wil pushes the wine aside, his jaw tightening.

For a heartbeat, he stares into Jajack’s eyes so intently that I’m certain his mind is elsewhere.

But then Wil swallows and draws himself to full height.

“The day before Bahir’s attack, you came to an agreement with my father.

I believe leaked news of this agreement precipitated the coup.

I now ask for Everett’s help in reclaiming my throne in order to honor the agreement made before my father’s death. ”

I stiffen, looking between my companions, who seem as ill-informed as I am of the situation. Even Trace stares at Wil with widened eyes.

Jajack smiles thinly. “The situation has changed so greatly, Your Highness, that His Majesty King Owain must evaluate the request himself. I will have a dispatch sent at once.”

“Why are we entertaining this lot?” demands a familiar voice a moment before its owner storms into the general’s tent with a host of bewildered soldiers at her heels. “Should they not be in a cage somewhere?” Raza finishes, coming to a full stop beside the general.

At least, I believe the girl standing before me is Raza.

With one eye and half her face hidden behind a bandage, it’s hard to recognize the once-gorgeous princess in this wounded, furious creature.

The perfect posture and flowing gait are also gone, replaced with hunched shoulders and painfully forced bravado.

Her hands, nails broken and bitten to the quick, fold into fists at her hips.

Trace’s sharp intake of breath is covered only by the scrape of chairs as the room rises to its feet. Tension crackles like lightning.

General Hewe’s face takes on the color of Raza’s scarlet brooch, sending the soldiers on her tail into a panicked retreat. “Your Highness.” His glare finds the princess’s uncovered eye. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Raza’s hand sweeps over us, skipping over Trace with no more consideration than she granted the dirt floor. “I asked, sir, why these enemies of the Everett throne are without shackles. ”

“The Dansil delegation poses no immediate threat, Your Highness,” Hewe answers curtly.

“This Dansil delegation left Everett people to be slaughtered like cattle in the middle of the Delta Royal Palace.” Raza bares her teeth. “The next best thing to ordering our deaths themselves. You give them honor they’ve not earned, General.”

“I give them military courtesy.” Hewe’s cold voice would send any sane person into hiding, but Raza seems beyond caring.

“I was under the impression that military courtesy applies only to members of the military. Have these refugees turned into an army while I wasn’t looking?”

“Your Highness—” Jajack begins, but Raza cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Envoy Jajack, your authority ended when the mission to Dansil did. I remind you that you are now but an advisor to the throne, of which I am the sole representative in Camp Vanguard. General Hewe,” she spins, facing the military man head on, “this is a political matter, not a military operation. I demand you cage these animals at once, on charges of assault against my person just over a week hence.” Raza surveys us, her lips pulled into a tight line as if she is searching for something.

Someone. When her gaze finds me, she steps up close and studies my face very, very carefully.

When she speaks again, Raza’s voice is deathly soft.

“And General, this is a woman masquerading as a man. One of Dansil’s trained spies.

Have her separated out, chained, and questioned. ”