Page 9 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

“Permission to commence our journey, Your Highness?” the coachman shouted a bit too eagerly, rousing a grimace from the horrified guard, who darted a glance in Lilac’s direction from atop his own horse.

Lilac couldn’t help it. “Permission granted, sir,” she laughed, his pleasant mood probably just what she needed to abate her building nerves.

She peeked through the curtains. Guards were lighting the bailey, starting with the torches lining the massive double doors before them. Stations were closing; sentries were changing the evening shift .

Finally, the carriage lurched, and she dug her nails into her palms as they rolled toward the open gateway.

Lilac was free. Free to leave her fortress, both in daylight and in a carriage. Free to travel to one of her towns at a moment’s notice, so long as the main roads remained accessible and the weather, fair.

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the slow rocking of the carriage as they burst into the glow of summer evening.

They embarked with the company of a light breeze, as well as the crickets, emerging with the drier season and whose faint song quieted her nerves.

Working against that was Giles, as her coachman had introduced himself with an eager shout.

He spent the first few moments of their trip loudly telling the guard riding slightly ahead of them—no royal livery visible, to Lilac’s relief—about a recent rodent influx in the stables and how he’d enlisted the help of a spoiled barn cat to deal with the matter.

She should’ve been grateful for any distraction, but she was too nervous, watching and listening out the window. Garin had told her to organize the carriage and that he would take care of the rest. He hadn’t lingered long enough to clarify what that entailed.

Giles must have greeted half a dozen carts traveling in the opposite direction over their first hour.

Despite her instruction on history and the economy, she was still shocked to find the road that cut through Broceliande so…

occupied. It was the turn of the season when crops increased, and with that came an influx of trade.

Travelers on horseback and those with produce-filled carts and yawning drivers rode by, possibly with goods for the castle.

Or perhaps they’d veer north to Mauron, south toward the riverside estates of Campeneac, or continue west until they hit the sea.

The Chateau de Trécesson—and Paimpont by extension—sat at an agricultural crossroads from the growing coastal cities, so the roads were bound to be busy.

It wasn’t until they reached a point where the trees bunched together and a dense fog settled in, so thick that the sunlight struggled to reach anything past the road, that travelers grew scarcer, and the false feeling of reassurance from these passersby dwindled.

The road was empty for several minutes when, without warning, the carriage slowed.

Giles had stopped talking some minutes ago.

At first, she thought they might be allowing a faster carriage to pass, but when she peeked out the back window, she didn’t see anything beyond the red-tinged fog of the sunset and dark masses of trees close on either side.

The guard suddenly shouted something unintelligible.

Gravel crunched under the wheels as they came to a rumbling stop. Lilac was already fumbling with the latch of the door when the guard’s voice rang out once more, clearer this time.

“I said halt!”

She slipped through the carriage door and squinted into the haze. Nothing could be seen through the mist. She pressed herself into the shadows as her guard shouted again, and a form became visible—an advancing specter. It was obvious they were not interested in halting.

A cloaked figure sat atop an onyx horse with a obsidian mane, its hood obscuring any discernible features.

The animal was not sleek like her Camargues or stout like the horses in town or the ones servicing her carriage and guard.

The horse and its rider both towered, hulking toward them at a leisurely gait, right down the center of the path.

“We are traveling on official business,” her guard shouted. “I command you to move out of our way!”

The figure pulled on the reins and came to a stop in the middle of the road, still blocking their course. Before she could move from her hiding spot beside the wheel, a sharp whistle cut through the air. There was a grunt—a male’s voice—and then the mystery rider toppled forward off the horse.

The scream that ripped from Lilac’s throat left her lungs raw. She hadn’t seen the guard draw his bow; she should have stopped any further interaction before it began. She should have told them she was expecting company.

She darted toward the figure, despite the shouts of the guard and Giles, and dropped to her knees before him.

She slid her arm under his neck, cradling him even as he groaned.

The horse whinnied and shuffled back a few steps.

Then, the man sat up as if there was a kink in his muscle and not a long shaft of wood sticking out of his shoulder.

“I agree to help retrieve your entourage, and this is what I get?”

That voice .

She yelped and shuffled back, dropping the hooded figure. With an irritated sigh, he righted himself and his hood fell back. Dark hazel-green eyes beneath cool blond brows sneered up at her.

The last time she’d looked into those eyes, they’d been red, and she’d been slapped in the face and nearly eaten.

She watched from the floor, horrified, as Bastion gingerly straightened, gave her a half-hearted bow and extracted the arrow from his joint with a sickening squelch.

He rolled his eyes and extended a calloused hand to her, but she refused, already back to watching the guard.

The lad struggled with his bow and another arrow—which weren’t made of hawthorn, based on Bastion’s recovery.

Lilac shouted for him to stand down—for his own sake—when he raised it again.

It seemed either the boy hadn’t heard her order, or he was too afraid for his life to follow. Another bow was shakily fired—but not in their direction this time. It whizzed over them.

“Come now,” came a familiar voice, laced with dark amusement.

He was stalking toward them, hands in his pockets, seemingly materializing from the fog. She rose to her feet as he passed her and Bastion, walking toward the guard with a clean arrow in his hand.

Garin motioned hither to the guard. “Try again,” he said quietly. Encouragingly . “One more time. Try me, I won’t kill you. I’ll stand still.”

Giles gave a supportive clap and holler from the driver’s box as the horses secured to the carriage and the one under the guard stomped nervously. All the blood drained from the poor fellow’s face. His fate had been sealed the moment he’d been assigned to her journey.

Next to her, Bastion ran a hand over his face. “He is so dramatic.”

Despite standing still with his arms out, the second arrow would have flown past Garin’s body if he hadn’t caught it too. He sighed and shook his head as he made his way to the guard’s horse.

He hushed the nervous animal and, with what must have been an enormous amount of self-control, ignored the trembling arrow pointed in his face. Before the guard could react, Garin’s hand was wrapped around the tip of the arrow he was struggling to nock.

He was trembling so hard that she barely heard him choke out a plea for his life.

She moved to approach them, but froze when the guard nodded at Garin.

Blood was beginning to return to his face slowly but surely.

Garin was speaking, slowly and quietly. With him, not at him.

Her insides twisted, and she imagined the way a snake or cat toyed with their prey before devouring them, coaxing their victims to calm.

It was what had happened with Piper. With Renald.

The guard then reached down to shake Garin’s outstretched hand as if they were friends striking a casual deal. As if the boy wasn’t so close to becoming someone’s dinner. All fear had dissipated from the guard’s expression.

Speaking of, Giles didn’t seem caught off guard by the vampires’ arrival at all. He was waving Garin over.

“Young lad, I brought your tool, as requested.” He shook a palm-sized tin in the air. Its contents rattled along with it. He looked around before continuing his inquiry, tapping his fingertips together. “And I was wondering, erm, where might this er… this soup be?”

Garin suppressed a laugh as he retrieved the tin. “Patience, my friend. We’re nearly there.”

Friend? He seemed in an exceptional mood tonight, and the furthest thing from the bloodthirsty sort of creature capable of murdering the duchess and arranging her dismembered body upon a dining table.

Perhaps he hadn’t done it, and he would address it with her now.

He would reassure her he was not involved, that his ravenous brother was instead to blame.

But when Garin turned slowly and their eyes locked as he made his way back to her, she knew she was wrong.

He wore a cream-colored shirt, this time with a tan vest tucked into a pair of canvas trousers and his usual black boots.

The same baldric he’d stolen from Sinclair’s guards wrapped snugly around his shoulder, and the ivory and gold hilt of the longsword he’d once pressed against the marquis’s heart bounced behind him as he approached her, as did his mop of black hair.

It was a bit less tousled than usual, some of it artfully swept to the side and maybe even brushed .

She couldn’t help but watch the curve of his lips as he grinned. The air seemed to crackle as he closed the space between them.

“I may or may not have told him about Lorietta’s mushroom pottage.” Garin swept his index finger under Lilac’s hanging jaw. “It is not very queen-like to stare with your mouth open.”

“Told him?” She swatted his hand away. “You mean you entranced my driver.”