Page 31 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

I follow Kitty’s directions to meet Samson at the stables this morning, but for the life of me, I cannot recall what the damned bird means.

Goldfinch.

I should have paid more attention when he told me the code. But he said it all so quickly, in that thick accent of his. It’s a warning or a message or…

Something.

I’ll ask when he arrives at the stables.

It’s cold, the sky heavy and dark and threatening snow.

The perfect morning to sleep in next to a fire at the castle rather than stand outside on the frost-covered lawn with the scent of dirt and horse manure weaving around my cold breath.

I step inside, taking shelter from the icy breeze in an empty stall.

I hear the soft trill of a wren and look around, surprised. There are plenty of cats in the stable; birds dare not use the hay stored in the loft for nests, and not even the rafters are safe from the feline hunters. A moment later, Samson steps inside.

The code , I think. From his smug look, I can see this is a bit of a test. What did a wren whistle signify? I think over what Samson said. Robin was for danger; I remember that one. What was wren? Did he mention it?

“You have a message for me?” I ask.

His eyes crinkle. “That’d be a goldfinch.”

Ah. The letter from Kitty meant he had information for me. But the wren he just whistled means… “All clear?”

“Exactly that.”

I frown. “No, you said…a partridge meant all clear?”

Samson looks affronted. “That was a partridge call!”

“That was definitely a wren,” I say.

He puckers his lips and lets out a soft whistle. “Partridge,” he insists.

“You’re doing it too fast. That sounds nothing like a partridge.”

Samson rolls his eyes.

“We could have argued about birds inside,” I say, glaring at him. “Why did you have me come here?”

“It’s safe,” he says, nodding at someone over my shoulder. I turn around and spot Callum, a Leth. The boy ducks his head respectfully at me, keeping guard for us near the door. And taking the job very seriously, despite the fact that he’s half our age.

“And what’s this about a goldfinch?” I ask Samson. I already burned the page Kitty delivered, but Samson knows what I mean.

He tells me what he found from Darnley, ending by thrusting a letter into my hands.

“I can’t read this,” I say. The words swirl about the parchment; as soon as I focus on a letter, it transforms into a different one.

This is…complicated. Beyond a glamour. Could it have been made with a Red Cap tool?

Just because everything I’ve intercepted so far has been a weapon doesn’t mean it’s not possible for them to make something else.

Or it could be old magic, like the comb and mirror I have.

“See?” Samson says. “It’s fae!”

He’s all proud to have spotted the obvious, but I’m caught on the idea that for the first time, both of us have someone to confide in, someone to help the other.

Then he frowns. “But you can break the spell on it, right? Make it so the words stand still.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have that sort of magic.”

His shoulders slump.

Enchantments like this can be broken by someone who can see and pull on the threads of magic. I squint at Samson, looking at his aura—purple and orange and yellow. He’s so sincere; I’m certain he’s not tricking me.

At least not with the letter.

But the fae are notorious manipulators. A full-blooded fae cannot outright lie, but they know how to say just enough to dance around the truth or trick someone into believing something they don’t explicitly state.

“I can’t break the spell on this letter, but I know someone who can,” I add, holding my finger up to stop Samson from saying anything. “Before I take the letter to her…”

Samson’s face falls. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

I cringe. “It’s only…” What if Darnley is using Samson to lure me out? Samson may not know how rare this sort of magic on writing is and how only a handful of people have the knowledge to break such a spell, but Darnley might know, might be laying a trap for me…

Samson shakes his head. “No, I understand. Magic, royalty, murder. Big stuff. You’ve got to be certain.”

“A full-blooded fae cannot tell a lie, but with human blood, Leths have a little more flexibility.”

Samson ducks his head, then looks up and meets my eyes. “How can I prove myself to you?”

Ach, I’m mucking this all up. I don’t mean that I can’t trust him…just that this game is too dangerous to let my heart blind me. But I can tell from his aura that he won’t be swayed from this line of thought; he needs to prove himself to me. “Would you mind if I bind you to your word?”

“What would that mean?”

“Swear to me that you mean me no harm, know of no trap, and will protect me if Darnley or one of his ilk attack.”

I expect him to push back. This is too open of a contract, and I’ve offered him nothing in return. Instead, he says immediately, “I swear it.”

I’m stunned at him, the ease with which he tosses around oaths. “No,” I say. “You have to say the words entirely.”

“I swear that I mean you no harm, know of no trap, and will protect you.”

He’s made it even more open-ended, but I take the vow, wrapping magic around it as he speaks. It’s crude, but it works.

It pangs my heart a bit, to take advantage of him like this. But it will also protect both me and my country. I’ll warn him to make better deals later.

“Scotland’s magic is tied to the natural world,” I say. “If you break this oath—”

“Scotland will eat me whole?” He’s smiling, far too easy with this.

“Yes,” I say.

“What, really?”

I shrug. “I’ve never actually seen anyone foolish enough to break a sworn promise, but I reckon that’s a reasonable assumption of what might happen.

” I look down at the bespelled parchment.

“Anyway, I know someone who can help with this.” I pause, staring up at him.

“Also,” I add gently, “she will likely also know about breaking whatever Red Cap weapon cursed you once we find it.”

He sucks in a breath, jaw tightening, the only indication of how much this means to him.

Samson has such an expressive face—charming and handsome with a witty smile—but I realize that is also a mask.

I hide in the shadows, and he glimmers in the sun, but it is rare for both of us to show our true faces.

On impulse, I step forward, cupping his cheek. I don’t want to give him hope, but I can’t bear the idea of my contact not being able to help him. Red Cap magic is so foul; for Samson to have spent almost his entire life under one of their curses is unbearable.

For a brief moment, he leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed. I can feel it him—that tension and fear that there might not be a cure. I don’t need to say it.

“Let’s go now,” I say softly.

He nods, opening his eyes, but rather than move, he drops his gaze to my lips. I feel a blush washing over my cheeks.

“We’ll have to ride,” I say, taking a step back and hoping to distract us both from the way he looks at me now. “Walking would take too long.”

“Good thing we’re already at the stables.” Samson raises his hand to Callum, who calls the other boys to ready two horses for us.

I ride astride, and I catch Samson watching me mount. Perhaps the English ladies are more used to the sidesaddle than I am. I at least have on an extra pair of woolen leggings. I pull my hood tight over my shoulders.

“Ready?” I ask.

Samson definitely doesn’t look as if he’s thrilled about the prospect of riding horseback again, but he just nods.

We don’t talk until we’re past the castle gates, and I take the lead, heading west, toward the village of Kippen.

“So where’re we heading, exactly?’” Samson starts in a voice that tells me he’s been working up the courage to ask. “And what might I expect there?”

“A bog,” I say breezily.

Samson kicks his horse to get a bit closer to mine. “I’m sorry, did you say you were taking me to a bog?”

“Mm,” I say.

“A bog.”

“Peat, marshy soil, lots of heather, bad drainage? Yes, a bog.”

Samson levels me with a flat look. “Why are you taking me to a bog?”

“To talk to a witch,” I say. “Obviously.”

“A bog witch?” Samson asks.

“She’s just a regular witch,” I say, “who happens to live near the bog.”

“Oh, of course,” he says with a falsely haughty tone. “What was I thinking?” He pauses. “You’re an important person in the fae world, yeah?”

The political hierarchy of the part-fae humans hidden in the shadows seems perhaps too much information to throw at the lad, so I just make a noise of assent in the back of my throat.

“Can’t you just summon this witch who happens to live near a bog to the castle?”

I snort. “No.”

He looks as if he wants to press me on that but then just mutters, “Witches don’t do house calls, got it.”

The road west is easy and well traveled, one I know well. If I veered south, it’d take me to my family’s estate at Mugdock Castle. Continue on, I’d reach Glasgow. We don’t have far to go, so I keep our horses at a moderate pace.

“About this witch,” Samson starts.

I eye him. “Makes you nervous, does she?”

“No,” he says immediately. But then he adds, “Why? Should I be nervous?”

“Of course you should. She’s a witch, Samson.”

His face blanches. “She’s not gonna to turn me into a newt, is she?”

I shrug.

Samson yanks on the reins, his horse snorting in protest. “Alyth.”

I laugh at him, which lights up his eyes. “She’s a good sort of a witch.”

“So she won’t turn me into a newt.”

“I never said that. Just be respectful. Mind what you say, how you say it.”

“I’m not just out here blithering, you know,” Samson grumbles.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Might I remind you of how close the Green Lady came to killing you?”

“She did not,” Samson protests. “She found me a delight.”

“She found you annoying, and glaistigs tend to cut out the entrails of anyone they find annoying.”

“I’m assuming that’s after she waters the trees with my blood?” he says casually.

“Naturally.”