Page 64 of Keeper of the Word

Her elbows resting in Hux’s and Joss’s arms for support, Elanna stood and scoured the crowds.

Had she truly met eyes with whom she thought she had?

Perpendicular from where they stood, there was a cut-in entrance to a narrow alley. A person stood at the edge, just within the shadow. Elanna gritted her teeth and took a step so her view was no longer blocked by the crowd. She had to know.

They locked eyes again, and the warmth and Light within her drained.

’Twas a witch.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

TOLVAR

The five-day journey to the rendezvous point on the Greenwood-Askella border had been uneventful. Tolvar was more than unhappy about that. Not a trace of Crevan. Not a sign that anyone followed them. Not an indication of a trail that Tolvar could pick up again.

Gus had been loyal. He’d tracked each area they paused at without question or comment.

If darkness cannot be raised, then…bring down the light.

Tolvar did not need to see Crevan face-to-face. Heknew’twas him. Gus and the others had not been there in Deogol. No one other than he could have written that statement in the dirt.

But now that Tolvar was at the base camp of Greenwood’s army, he had to shrug off this cat-and-mouse act. Stars.

From Tolvar’s vantage on the hill, the organized line of tents and stalls was a stark contrast to the scarred battlefield—strangely quiet this afternoon— a quarter mile from where the borders of the three provinces of Askella, Anscom, and Greenwood met. Anscom’s men had withdrawn at midday and not reentered the field since.

To the west of the battlefield, Tolvar’s men had shored up a temporary defensive fence along the Askella border. Sir Bernwaldhad traveled from Thorin Court, gathering forces along the way, and posted seven dozen soldiers there. The other five dozen of Tolvar’s men were either currently at Greenwood’s base camp or had headed for Lessio to resupply the camp.

Next to Tolvar, holding a spyglass to his eye, stood the Earl of Greenwood, who, in keeping with his family’s tradition, answered to his title, Greenwood. The older man was as tall as Tolvar, and despite his age, he’d obviously never slowed in his training. One might think he was only a decade older than Tolvar’s twenty-six years save for his grey sideburns poking out from under his cap.

In the two days that Tolvar had been here, neither man had mentioned the border skirmish. Greenwood had audibly sighed in relief when Tolvar and Gus arrived.

Greenwood held the spyglass at his side. “Still no sign of men preparing. I see no one armoring themselves.” His focus held to the Anscom camp. “What can Turas be thinking?” he said, referring to the Earl of Anscom.

Tolvar hadn’t yet pieced it together, either. When he’d arrived, his first suggestion was to parley with Turas, but Greenwood’s commander informed him that they’d already tried twice and that Turas would not consider it. Mayhap ’twas time for the Wolf to try his hand. Besides the two small battles—if one could call the second one a battle—Tolvar and everyone else had sat around in a stalemate of sorts.

Tolvar’s focus shifted to the mass grave that had been dug for Greenwood’s fallen men. He felt a pang for so many lives lost, especially given that what he’d witnessed thus far warranted nothing close to killing over.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since before dawn. Usually, his adrenaline suppressed his hunger during battles, but standing on this hill was naught to get excited about.

“Fetch me if any movements change,” Tolvar said, clapping Greenwood on the back. He made his way down the hill to where the camp for the earls and high officers stood. Gus followed, having stood in the background all afternoon.

They sat at a wooden table that had been brought in andcentered between the tents, a nearby cookfire wafting the aroma of a gamey stew. A burly cook dished up two bowls and placed them in front of Tolvar and Gus, took two small rolls out of his apron pocket and dropped them on the table, then shuffled off before Tolvar could thank him.

The stew being yet too hot to eat, Tolvar picked at his roll, which had been made with far too much salt. Ah, the food of wartime. Inspecting the stew, Tolvar only imagined how salty it would taste. The cook provided at Tolvar’s camp in the War of a Hundred Nights had been an eclectic chef, too. He’d used few herbs. But one wasn’t picky about meals in war.

War.

This was not a war. This was some sort of childish standoff. Tolvar meant to get to the bottom of this. And quickly. He could buy himself some time to hunt for Crevan.

Mayhap in the morning, he and Gus would ride out to Turas’s camp and figure out how to convince everyone to retreat to their own provinces.

Greenwood claimed Anscom had attacked unprovoked. Sir Bernwald had said that when he arrived three days ago, the two earls had withdrawn to their own sides of the battlefield—probably to bury their dead, he’d added.

Yesterday had been the only halfway exciting day: a short battle had erupted but soon declined after. Tolvar had stepped onto the field with two dozen men, but as soon as they attained the first sign of victory, Anscom’s army took refuge at their end. Tolvar had never experienced anything of the like. Certainly, it had to mean that Anscom did not wish to be fighting any more than Greenwood or he did. They were neighbors, after all.

Tolvar took his first bite of the stew; his eyes burned from the salt. After a few mouthfuls, he slid his bowl over to Gus. “Here.”