Page 143 of Keeper of the Word

Tolvar glanced at a body near the door and did a double take.

Crouching, he shifted the collar of the man’s tunic and noted the dark line etched into his neck.

Stars. Adrienne washere.

In Asalle.

Tolvar strode to the dais, and before one of the Warins could shift his position, he drove his sword through his middle. He jerked oddly, blood spilling from the wound. Tolvar propped his foot on the man’s back and freed his sword from the guard’s torso. His thigh wailed, but he was in a better position than the man on the floor.

Petre thrust his hands into the air, dropping his sword. “Do not kill me!”

Coward.

Tolvar was about to show him what happened to cowards, but the prince put himself between them. “Nay, Sir Tolvar. I need information as to the whereabouts of Aven. They’re holding her somewhere.”

“Aven?” Tolvar asked, as three guards rushed to bind Petre.

“The prince’s intended,” Elanna’s voice came from behind them. “You have much to catch up on, Sir Tolvar.”

“The sovereign!” someone shouted.

All attention rushed to King Rian. Tolvar crouched beside him. One of the surgeons had cut open the back of his tunic and worked to stitch up the wound in his back as the sovereign lay on his side. Rian’s eyes were closed; his face was lifeless. The amount of sovereign’s blood on the floor threatened to make even Tolvar ill. Tolvar focused on the surgeon to assess Rian’s chances. The surgeon was bone-white.

“Father,” Prince Dashiell knelt and took King Rian’s hand. “His hands are like ice. Bring blankets!”

Queen Ferika could only weep.

“Where do you hold Aven?” Prince Dashiell asked.

King Rian remained unconscious.

“Someone tell me!” Prince Dashiell shouted. He turned to Petre. “Where is she?”

“I know nothing!”

The prince wound up his fist and decked the Warin square in the face.

Petre groaned, his nose bleeding. Through his muffled hands, Petre said, “Promise me the sovereign’s immunity.”

Tolvar rose and bore the tip of his dagger into Petre’s chest. “Choose your next words carefully.”

Petre sealed his mouth.

Normally, Tolvar would be only too glad to cut away a man’s lips, but the prince—who may be the sovereign within moments—was frantic. He shook as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

“Your Highness,” Elanna addressed Prince Dashiell. “We shall find Aven. Now is the time to keep our heads.”

Without a word, Prince Dashiell took a dagger that was held in a dead man’s hand and launched it at Petre. With surprising accuracy—if that’s where his aim had been—it embedded itself in Petre’s shoulder. The Warin cried out.

“Enough.” Prince Dashiell’s voice was cold and mature. “I shall not ask again.”

“’Twas a farce. The girl was ne’er being held. But sheisbeing hunted.”

“Hunted? To what end?” Tolvar asked.

“The chancellor had convinced the sovereign to dispose of her when she is found. She will not beheldanywhere.”

Elanna exhaled. “’Twas true,” she whispered to herself.