Page 36

W hile Rufe considered Niam’s office huge, the many nobles, secretaries, advisors, and who knew who else crowding the room necessitated a move to an even bigger room with a large, rectangular table and chairs for eighteen people.

The current crowd stood at twenty-two, with individuals constantly coming and going. How could anyone keep up?

He definitely tried, making discreet notes of names, ranks, and major viewpoints. He’d find out everything he could about each one later.

If only the man Rufe privately called “Lord Toad” would leave. The man thought way too highly of the sound of his own voice. “Lord Rufe. What assurances does the emperor give that he won't seize our lands for contrived infractions?”

Rufe replied for the millionth time, “If you’ll notice on page five of the proposal, paragraph three, Emperor Avestan has no intention of direct involvement in land matters.

Those will continue under King Niam’s watchful gaze.

” Why did the nobles repeatedly ask the same questions?

Were they deliberately stalling? At least they spoke Cormiran, mostly, allowing Rufe to keep his secret of how well he’d progressed with Delletinian.

Strange that so many spoke an enemy's language.

“Yes, but strange things are happening in the kingdom,” Lord Toad persisted. “Three more guards were discovered dead this morning. How do we know you’re not behind this action?”

Rufe fought not to seek out Niam. Three more guards dead? Why had no one told him? How many did that make since his arrival? Had they known something? “I’m watched by guards every moment. I never stirred from my room last night.” Darn the luck. He’d much rather have been in Niam’s bed.

Until the people came to accept the empire, Rufe, and his role in enforcing the emperor’s wishes, he and Niam couldn’t let anyone know of their relationship, and probably not even then. Why had he even come here? Why couldn’t Draylon have found someone—anyone—else?

The answer was startlingly clear: Rufe would worry even more if Niam were out of reach, a heartbreaking prospect.

The nobles wished to speak with Niam alone, leaving Rufe to his own devices. He wandered out to the stables, two guards trailing at a respectful distance. Maybe Princess might welcome his company if no one else would.

He found the fickle mule, head tipped to the side, a stable lad brushing her neck .

“Oh, pretty girl,” the lad crooned in Delletinian. “What a stunner you are.”

Rufe agreed. He spoke halting Delletinian. “A stunner, but willing to accept any attention, apparently.”

The lad jumped back, dropping the brush and clutching a hand to his chest. “I’m sorry. You scared me.”

People must come and go from the stables all the time. What had the lad so jumpy? Then again, knowledge of his predecessor’s demise would spook anyone. This stable lad might even have known the last.

“My apologies. I came to check on Princess.”

The lad smiled, bending to scoop the brush from the ground. “She as lovely as ever, aren’t you, my beauty,” he crooned to the preening mule.

Mules preened? Never had Princess more suited her name. Childish laughter had Rufe turning around. His heart caught in his chest.

The uncanny copy of Niam approached in a fur hat and a fur-lined cloak, a tall, imposing man behind him and his own guards. Smaller Uri walked behind him. Niam’s sons. Vihaan trailed behind with Uri, ever-vigilant.

“Greetings, Keth!” Quillan said, addressing the stable lad, sounding strangely formal for a boy of nine. So, the stable lad wasn’t new to the job after all.

Keth grinned. “Good morn, young prince.”

Young prince? Keth couldn’t have seen over sixteen summers himself .

“Hello, Keth.” Uri kept his voice soft, more subdued than his brother’s, and his eyes on the ground. Shy?

“Greetings, Lord Rufe.” Quillan made eye contact. Not a shy bone in this one’s body, apparently. Rufe definitely saw traces of Nera’s strong will in her grandson.

“Greetings to you as well, Prince Quillan.”

Quillan wrinkled his nose. “I’m just Quillan for now.”

An amused smile teased Rufe’s lips. “And when are you not ‘just Quillan?’”

Quillan glanced down at his worn riding clothes, boots noticeably scuffed. “When I’m dressed all fancy and warned not to get dirty or muss my hair.”

The imposing man cleared his throat. “You are always Prince Quillan, and those beneath your station like Lord Rufe should refer to you as such.”

Quillan rolled his eyes. “I get enough ‘prince this’ and ‘prince that’ from you and the guards. Don’t I get to be ‘just Quillan’ sometimes?”

Oh, Rufe liked this boy. So much like his father.

“I call you Quillan,” Uri piped up.

“Because you are of equal station.” The tutor sniffed. What was his name again? Master Wedgeworth?

“I thought it was because he was my brother,” Uri replied, a look of adorable confusion on his face. “Just like Papa isn’t King Niam, ’ cause he’s Papa.”

Looking at these two gave Rufe a picture of Niam at their age. “What brings you out here?” he asked, kneeling to put himself at eye level with the boys.

“We’re allowed to ride on nice days when we finish our lessons early.” Quillan puffed out his chest.

“Me too!” his brother said with much less exuberance. Rufe got the feeling the subdued reaction wasn’t because the boy didn’t want to ride, but from a somewhat timid nature.

Rufe asked Wedgeworth in what he hoped was passable Delletinian, “Would it be all right if I tagged along? I'd love to see more of the grounds, and I'm not currently needed.” He had visions of a good scolding for poor grammar.

Master Wedgeworth regarded Rufe thoughtfully, then took in each of the princes.

“Pwease?” asked Uri, smiling with two front teeth missing.

Quillan added, “We can practice our Cormiran with him.”

“All right,” the tutor relented.

Keth brought out two shaggy mountain ponies while several guards disappeared around the back of the stables.

“I’ll be riding, too,” Rufe told Keth.

Keth disappeared, reappearing with Princess’s saddle. By the time he’d saddled her, the guards had returned with their mounts. The sturdy mules might not share Princess’s pedigree but would serve the purpose.

Keth brought Master Wedgeworth’s mare last, the sole horse in the party. They were unlikely to ride rough terrain, then. Rufe checked his saddle carefully and gave a subtle once-over to the princes’ ponies.

Vihaan mounted a rather muscular mule, the possible offspring of a plow horse and a remarkably large donkey, which appeared made for work rather than pleasure riding. The creature suited Vihaan, its dappled gray color matching Vihaan’s beard.

They followed a well-worn path, with Wedgeworth and two guards in the lead, the boys in the middle, Rufe, Vihaan, and another guard taking up the rear.

Rufe turned up the hood of his cloak to protect his neck.

While the day wasn’t necessarily frigid, the climate took some adjusting to, especially for someone who spent most of their time in balmy Cormira.

Quillan dropped back. “Can I ask you some questions?” he asked in Cormiran.

“Certainly.” As long as they weren’t too personal.

“What’s Cormira like?”

A safe enough topic and likely covered in Quillan’s textbooks. “We don’t have mountains like you do. The land is mostly flat. Several rivers flow through. There are farms, and to the south is the Ryel Sea.” Oh, how Rufe would love to be on the beach right now, the sun warming his skin.

“Where is your home?”

“My family lives near Herix, in the rolling hills northeast of Cormir, Cormira’s capital city, but I spend most of my time at a garrison in Cormir.”

“Are your parents titled? ”

The question bordered on rude but was asked with a child's curiosity. “My father is a duke, my mother his duchess.”

Quillan peered up from the back of his pony. “Are you going to be a duke one day?”

The child couldn’t know the sore spot he’d hit. “No. That honor goes to my brother.” Not that Rufe wanted the title, but it would’ve been nice to be a legitimate son. If he had been, would he have looked down on bastards like the rest of society tended to?

Quillan wrinkled his freckled nose. “Too bad. I think you’d make a great duke.”

Really? “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re friends with the emperor, the king of Renvalle, and my father, so you have diplomatic ties.

You speak several languages, and you’re well-traveled.

Also, how you carry your sword implies you’ve been in the military and know how to fight.

You have scars that could be from a dagger or sword.

” Quillan definitely didn’t sound like any nine-year-old Rufe had ever met.

Rufe stared open-mouthed. “You gathered all that about me?”

Quillan shrugged. “If I’m to be king someday after my father, I must be observant.”

Impressive. He sounded mature for his age, too mature, making Rufe wonder if anyone ever allowed the boy to simply be a boy instead of a future king. “Yes, you do.”

“Am I right?”

While Rufe certainly wouldn’t make a public announcement, if a child so quickly figured out the truth, others would too, and the name Commander Rufe or Captain Rufe had likely reached Delletinian ears. Rufe also had no intention of lying to Niam’s child. “You have me figured out.”

“I knew it!” Quillan crowed. “You and Father are friends, which also says a lot about you.”

Rufe’s hackles rose. “Why do you believe we’re friends?”

“Grandmother said when you and Father met at the keep, you were injured, and Father spent a lot of time checking on you. He’s spoken of you often to me and my brother. Now, when you’re in public, he does his best to ignore you, but I see him watching.”

A shiver of pleasure trailed down Rufe’s spine. “Does our association bother you?” And was Quillan implying he knew Niam and Rufe were more than friends? He couldn’t possibly at his young age, could he?

“Why would it? Father needs friends. Lots of nobles pretend to be his friends, but they’re not. He stays stiff around them. With you, he relaxes. With you, he’s Niam, not King Niam.”

This boy might be too smart for his own good. “I do consider your father a friend. A good one.” Rufe ventured into uncertain territory. “I’d like to be your friend, and Uri’s.”

Quillan grinned. “I think I’d like having you as a friend.”

Uri shouted, “C’mon Quil! You’re being slow.”

Quillan clicked his tongue, urging his pony faster until he caught up with his brother.

Was it wrong to get to know the princes when Rufe’s time among them might be short?

They rode a path near the castle through a field he could imagine covered in wildflowers come spring—a sight he wouldn’t be here to witness.

The scent of pine and the crispness he associated with coming snow hung in the air.

What a beautiful place, so different from the hills back home.

The people here spoke with a gentle burr to their voices, adding a nearly musical quality.

Wedgeworth spoke to a guard while riding, leaning in at times. Sharing confidences? The young woman smiled brightly. Were they flirting?

Uri dropped back, even with Rufe. “I like riding,” he said. “I don’t have to watch my manners or wear scratchy clothes.”

Rufe would’ve agreed at six. “That’s a fine pony you have there.”

“This is Herix.” Uri leaned forward to pat the pony’s neck.

“Why Herix?”

“’Cause she likes to get out, and the stable master said she’s always halfway to Herix before he catches her.”

“How else do you spend your time?”

Uri sighed. “Study lessons, meet boring people, and visit Grandmother when I can. I don’t have to watch my manners with her either. And I can say whatever I want to.”

Rufe felt the same about Nera. “Do you ever go other places?”

Uri shook his head. “I have to stay here at the castle. Father goes places, but I don’t.” He released a put-upon sigh.

Right now, the political climate might be too dangerous, but once matters settled, Rufe would speak with Yarif about his younger siblings and inviting Niam’s sons for a visit.

A whistle sounded ahead.

One guard galloped toward them, snatching Uri off his pony. Rufe wheeled Princess, drawing his sword in one smooth motion .

The soldier pulled Uri to his chest, giving Rufe a raised brow inquiry. “Trouble ahead. We must return as quickly as possible.” He raced away with Uri.

Another guard galloped past with a white-faced Quillan, Wedgeworth right behind. A third soldier led the ponies.

Rufe fell in beside the last guard, riding at a fast trot. “What happened?”

“Two riders, hidden at the edge of the woods. They appear to be waiting.” The guard glanced down at Rufe’s drawn sword and then at Vihaan’s, giving a decisive nod. “It's nice to have extra protection for the princes.”

How good of him not to think the two riders were with Rufe.

Rufe slid from the back of his mule and handed the reins to the guard.

“I want to take a look. Please return Princess to the stables.” He disappeared into the trees before the guard could answer, back the way they’d been riding.

The guards had orders to protect the princes by whisking them away.

Rufe didn’t. There was more than one way to keep them safe.

The whistle came from ahead, with the strange riders farther beyond.

Rufe kept low, placing his feet carefully to minimize noise.

There. Two riders in black, on black horses, so likely local, with no need to navigate treacherous ground.

If they’d heard the mules galloping away, they showed no concern.

A third horse approached from the other direction, stopping at the other two. Though the men spoke quietly, Rufe understood a word or two. Craician .

His blood ran cold. “How lucky for you that you might be worth more to us alive than dead.” What were Craicians doing here?

The newcomer maneuvered his horse back the way he’d come, bearing no markings or colors to indicate his identity. The other two riders bled back into the forest. Rufe didn’t know one, but he knew the other too well. A man who’d once barged into Rufe’s sick room.

Lord Whreyn.