Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Jarek watches them go.
“I think she called you weak,” I mock whisper.
“We both know I am neither weak nor a nymph, and that she is mad.”
Eden rushes toward us from the barn. I'm noticing that she always moves in a hurry as if Lady Danthrin were still following her with a switch.
Either way, it’s another well-timed disruption, so I don’t have to deal with Jarek’s questions.
“Your Highness, we’ve packed your things. Can I help you with anything else as we prepare for travel? Some hot oats or fruit, perhaps? You haven’t eaten, and you must be hungry.”
“I could eat. But hold on a second. I need to talk to you, as soon as Jarek finds someone else to bother.”
Eden glances up at the warrior but quickly averts her attention to the ground when she sees that he’s studying her.
His lips twist. “Will I have the displeasure of riding with you today, Your Highness? Or will you be riding the king again?”
My cheeks burn. Does everyone know what happened in the bathhouse last night?
With a smirk of satisfaction, he marches toward his horse, not waiting for an answer.
I push aside my embarrassment. “Eden, did you tell the king that you want to come with me?”
“Yes. If I am adequate to serve Her Highness, that is.” She punctuates that with a curtsy.
“Of course. You are amazing, Eden.”
She beams.
I hope she’s still beaming in ten minutes. “But there is something you need to know.”
“Prepare to move out!” Jarek bellows.
The sun soaks the valley in morning light as the Legion mounts their horses. Rengard left with the fog and the Freywich mortals, minus Brawley, the sturdy twenty-year-old stable boy with an itch for adventure, and Eden, who I could not convince to leave regardless of how bleak a picture I painted. She’s now busy familiarizing herself with the Bellcross mortals and our new inventory of supplies.
Zander moves swiftly toward his horse. He seems more motivated—or maybe rushed—since his friend departed, and I know that once he climbs into his saddle, getting a moment alone with him will be impossible.
I intercept him as he reaches the animal. “Hey.”
He sighs as if he’d been expecting this encounter. “Good morning, Romeria.”
Back to cool and aloof. But I see through his guise now. “What did Rengard need to tell you?”
“He has received word of poisonings north of us. The villages and towns are reporting many cases. It only makes sense that we’re seeing its prevalence there, given where the Ybarisans are camped, but it will spread. Most land stewards have yet to hear of what has happened in Cirilea, but they must be warned. Rengard was up all night, dispatching messages.”
“This is the uprising you were talking about.”
“Yes, and it’s escalating rapidly. Atticus has sent a contingent from Lyndel to quell it, and they will travel through the mountain pass, which is why we must make haste to avoid them. Rest stops will be brief, mainly for the benefit of the horses. We may not even pitch tents.”
“How far is it to the caves?”
“Five days.” Zander peers at the wagons. “Possibly longer. I’d like you to spend as much of the journey with Gesine and Ianca as possible. I fear time is not on our side, in more ways than one. The seer is fading fast.”
“Yeah, I’m worried, too. You think we can learn something from her?”
“I do not pretend to know what to think anymore. About anything.” His hazel eyes skate over my mouth, stirring heady memories of last night, of his hands, his lips, the weight of his body on top of mine.
His mouth quirks. “Careful with those thoughts of yours. They tend to cause me difficulties.”
“And regrets?” I fight the urge to touch him … anywhere, really.
Zander’s attention drifts over the horde of waiting legionaries. “My only regret is that I had to leave you last night. And now.” He meets my gaze just long enough to show me the sincerity in his words before he hoists his body onto his horse. “We need to move.” He canters away.
I grit my teeth to keep the foolish grin from emerging.
Pan is waving me over to the forest-green wagon adorned with swirls of gold detail where his scrawny frame is crammed onto one side of the driver’s bench. The emblem on his thumb sparkles every time he moves his hand. He didn’t make a sound when Gesine emblazoned it into his flesh. In the end, the rush was unnecessary. The subject of Pan’s fate never came up with Rengard, unless he and Zander spoke about it on their walk. But now he’s marked with a symbol familiar to Mordain, though its meaning remains a mystery.
“I’ve never ridden in the front of a wagon before!” He gestures to the burly mortal driver who takes up most of the seat. “This is Bregen.”