A short chuckle rumbled through his throat in response to her teasing tone. She pulled back and found her lips caught in a kiss.

  Then they were face to face again.

  “For certain I will take you,” she murmured. Long years spent in this tent had taught her how loudly she could speak without being overheard outside. “Never did I truly think that I might be…” Loved. But she would not say that fear aloud. “Never did I think that I might know such pleasure as you give to me. I have heard that I could do it myself but until you, there were always attendants in my tent. It was something Lady Faraine insisted upon. For my protection as well as to provide witnesses to my virtue. Because one day, I would marry. And the queen must be a maid.”

  As foolish as that tradition was. For it was only established to assuage the fears of potential king consorts who wanted to be certain their issue would inherit Aleron’s throne. In Elina’s mind, better to have a consort dedicated to the queen’s pleasure and the mutual devotion of their hearts. For what better way to make certain she would not take a lover?

  Elina had said as much once to Lady Faraine, who had agreed. Though when the time came, Elina’s preferences in a consort had not mattered at all. “I did not know then, but my marriage had become her only goal. When we heard that Kael the Conquerer was searching for a bride, we spent a full year traveling to his four kingdoms. For he matched the description of the warrior in the prophecy.”

  Warrick stiffened. He snarled something that she understood not at all—except in the midst of it, he repeated the name she’d spoken.

  “You know Kael the Conquerer?”

  She could not interpret his brief, steely answer but liked very well the sneering curl of his upper lip.

  “Even before the prophecy, I had told Lady Faraine that someone such as Kael was the sort of warrior that I needed. Not someone tied to their own kingdoms—for when he killed Geofry the Child-Eater, he was not yet king—or who would refuse to embroil themselves in the conflict of another realm. So it seemed a destined match. But when we arrived, he was already wed.”

  Warrick scoffed and spat a few pithy words that held a note of challenge. As if he’d declared that if Kael and Elina had married, Warrick would have taken her from him.

  The thought made her smile. “I was disappointed, but only on behalf of Aleron and my people. I had no feelings for him, and that held true during the winter we spent in Grimhold, his southern kingdom. No feelings for him, but for his wife…? Oh, I admired her so. And it was in Grimhold that I learned of true magic from Queen Anja. Of kindness and love as the most powerful of all magics. Sometimes I feel that my heart healed there. I was not so melancholy, at least—but we could not stay in her court. So we went onward, but I had new hope. Because if the prophecy led me to Kael, perhaps it would lead me to someone else who could help me. I was so eager to continue onward.

  “But Lady Faraine, she was…” What? Elina still didn’t know. “I like to believe she was tired. That she was longing for home. That she wished to be settled instead of always searching. Not that she merely wished to be rid of me. Because in Winhelm, she secretly arranged a betrothal between me and the crown prince of that kingdom. I had refused her suggestions, of course, because my intention was still to return to Aleron. But one night, after a feast when it seemed the toasts were never ending and I was dizzy from wine, I hardly knew what was happening before she had me standing up with the prince and a red ribbon around our hands. But I refused to say the vows and…and…”

  Her voice broke. But Warrick was there, murmuring her name, kissing her lips.

  Swallowing hard, Elina forced out the end. “We left her in Winhelm.”

  Eyes narrowing, he pulled back slightly to search her face. As if looking for what was still unsaid.

  And there was much unsaid. Hoarsely she confessed, “Never have I told anyone what she— She is a liar. I could not bear if what she said was true. I could not bear it.”

  Holding her face between his hands, Warrick gently kissed her again.

  She drew a shuddering breath against his lips. Her whisper was raw and thick. “She told me that before Serjeant Iarthil was sent to bring me to my mother’s deathbed, he’d vowed to keep me safe. Which is what he vowed when I was there. But…Lady Faraine said the first vow that my mother made him give was never to bring me back to Aleron. So that I would always be safe from my uncle. Because my mother feared I was not strong enough to defeat him.” Her breath hitched. “Lady Faraine said that my own mother thought me too weak to hold Aleron’s throne, so I might as well sit on Winhelm’s next to an equally weak prince.” She clutched Warrick closer, and closing her eyes did nothing to stop her streaming tears. “If true, my own mother had no faith in me. And Serjeant Iarthil has been leading me from place to place while only pretending we will return home. Keeping me safe, true. But not truly believing me queen of anything, with no true respect or care for me. Only duty, to a queen long dead. This, a man who I once wished was my own father—a better man than my father but no less false. But that is not all of it. That is not all.”

  Forcefully she stopped her sobbing breaths. But though her chest still hitched when she continued, her voice was flat. “Lady Faraine admitted that she had purchased the prophecy. That she had given it to the witch to recite. Because she’d known what I thought of Kael the Conquerer and had heard rumors of his bride search, so she paid the witch to give to me a prophecy designed to persuade me to marriage.

  “I’ve said nothing of it to those who are still with me. To some, the prophecy had given hope, because we were all so tired. And I knew not whether there was anyone I could trust. I do trust Serjeant Iarthil to keep me safe, but do I trust that he will not undermine my intention to return to Aleron?” She shook her head. “So I trust no one. Which is painful and lonely. But everyone whom I’ve opened my heart to—it seems that once they’ve seen what is there inside me, they no longer think me worth their loyalty.

  “But there was another reason I did not tell anyone the prophecy was false.” She swallowed hard against the ache in her throat. “In Grimhold, with Queen Anja, I learned that when wishes are spoken aloud, they sometimes become a spell—and that when something is said enough, it can become truth. And I so desperately wanted every part of the prophecy to be true. I wanted to find someone who would help me fell my uncle. Someone I could trust, because they would not care for me merely out of duty or because of a vow made to a dead queen—but because they had looked at me, and they’d seen someone worthy of their love and loyalty. I wanted to know what it is to be loved. Truly loved.”

  She sighed heavily, feeling completely emptied out. “And perhaps the prophecy has always been true. Lady Faraine might have lied about paying the witch. She might have been lying about all of it, so that I would lose faith in Serjeant Iarthil and give up my quest. But I could not be certain whether she lied or not. The truth seemed impossible to know. And after I was struck by my uncle’s curse, it seemed all the more imperative to speak the prophecy into being. So that I could help my people…and maybe know a little of love before I die.

  “So I never stopped speaking of it. Though I dared not hope it would come true. Until you. Now I pray that I am not wrong to open my heart to you, because I think another betrayal might kill me. If the curse does not do it first.”

  Elina laughed the last, because she was tired of crying—then could laugh no more with Warrick’s kiss fierce upon her lips. So fierce, and so deep, as if to persuade her that she was not wrong to open her heart. As if with this kiss, he vowed never to betray her.

  Perhaps the meaning she felt in his kiss was only a reflection of her own wish, but Elina wanted to let herself believe in it. He spoke her name against her mouth, then turned her again, her back to his chest, and held her securely in his arms. Almost like beasts. Yet never had she felt so warm and protected.

  Perhaps she could let herself trust again.

  Warrick the Trusted

  The Northern Road

  In the morning, Warrick gave to Elina a cup of poison.

  Or so it would seem to whoever had filled a jar of doxweed with bloodbane. The powders looked similar, but Warrick knew their smell and flavor—and despite Chardryn’s careful labelling, the contents were not doxweed.

  And it wasn’t a curse that was killing Elina.

  From the moment Warrick had given her his own breath, he’d suspected bloodbane from the taste of Elina’s mouth—but there was always something to prevent certainty. Her tooth powders. The raspberry. The sweetness of the tonic.

  But he was certain after tasting her cunt. Her body was steeped in the poison, its presence betrayed by the faint bitterness of an unripened cherry. So much poison, she ought to have been dead.

  Would have been dead, if not for the Stars of Anhera.

  I think another betrayal might kill me.

  It would not. Elina was strong enough to survive anything. Of that, Warrick was certain. But her heartbreak would become far worse before it was better.

  So would her illness. Because even as bloodbane slowly killed, the flesh came to depend upon its presence. Its cessation and the purge was more painful than the poison…and Elina had so much bloodbane to purge, she might wish that a curse had killed her, instead.

  But the jewels would help her. So would Warrick.

  There were a few days yet, however, before the purge would begin. In that time, he could help her by finding out who had changed the powders.

  Nurse Chardryn seemed the clear choice, for she carefully guarded her apothecary chest and monitored the contents. But anyone in Elina’s retinue could have found an opportunity—particularly the maids and attendants.

  In truth, after Elina had ripped out his heart with her tears and her story—and knowing that she would soon learn that Iarthil had betrayed her, as had whoever “cursed” her—Warrick was tempted to just kill them all.

  But that would not be the right thing to do. Surely at least a few of them were still loyal to her. He would not kill innocents.

  So for now, the right thing was to prepare the tonic under Chardryn’s watchful eyes, but use a bit of thieves’ trickery to make certain the bloodbane was never added to the cup.

  “Warrick?”

  Elina. He glanced through the carriage window. She reclined inside after sharing a saddle with him that morning. They’d both been quiet during the ride—Warrick brooding, and Elina almost shy with him, though whether that was a result of the cunt licking or her confession, he didn’t know. Yet now her brows were arched high and her voice betrayed a note of alarm.

  She gestured to his chest. “You’re, um…glowing.”

  That announcement was followed by every attendant within the carriage crowding Elina’s side to look at the golden glyph that covered much of his torso and the upper part of his right arm.

  Warrick had no need to look. He’d seen it many times before. “When did it start?”

  “He asks when it began glowing,” said Iarthil, riding up beside him.

  “It began just now,” she said with a smile curving her lips. “I like to watch him. So I have been for a while.”

  Warrick held back his grin until the serjeant translated her answer.

  She grinned back. “Ask him what the glow means,” she said and Iarthil did.

  “That a ghost is nearby. Likely ahead of us, as I only just now came near enough for the archer to glow.” Warrick gestured to the glyph, which resembled a bow and a quiver of arrows. “That means we’ve entered its haunt. So I will speak to it when I see it.”

  Iarthil stared at him. “A ghost?”

  “As I said.”

  “Is the queen safe from it?”

  “She is.” Warrick impaled him with a look. “She will always be safe with me.”

  “Serjeant?”

  Iarthil turned to her and spread his hands, as if to convey that he was trying to translate something that was beyond his ken. “He sees ghosts. We’re in a haunt. He’ll talk to it. We’re safe.”

  Now Elina stared at Warrick. “Can we see it?”

  Of course that would be what she asked. When Iarthil translated, Warrick held out his hand to her. “You can if you are touching me. Come.” To the serjeant he said, “Tell her it might be gruesome.”

  “I will bear it,” was her reply, and she clambered nearer to the window. Warrick pulled her through and onto his lap before urging Troll into a canter. Iarthil followed, along with a half dozen knights.

  “Ohhh,” she breathed, her gaze sweeping either side of the road, where shriveled trees stood over rotting vegetation and moldy soil. “I have seen blights like this before. I was told it was because of insects—or a disease that killed everything.”

  Perhaps some blights were caused by those things. This one was not.

  He gestured ahead, where a bridge crossed a sluggish brown river. In the summer’s heat, the water had retreated from the banks, which were thick with mud.

  Elina’s breath caught. Her fingers spasmed on his arm. “I see her.”

  A woman, her hair white—though that was true for all ghosts. Mud covered her clothing and was packed into her eyes and the gaping hole of her nose. Bilious green skin sagged in sheets from bony limbs.

  Dead for a year, perhaps two—though the mud and the water might have affected her appearance. He could not always tell how long it had been, and the ghosts did not always know.

  She stood on the muddied bank, downstream of the river crossing. He guided Troll onto the bridge, where Warrick could easily look at her and be seen in return. Dropping the eastern tongue, he spoke in the language of home. Ghosts always understood him, though Warrick couldn’t always understand them. Yet he’d learned enough languages that he could converse with most.

  “I see you,” he said. “Who has wronged you?”

  Mud fell in thick glops from the woman’s opening mouth. Elina gagged and turned her face, squeezing shut her eyes. Warrick wrapped his arm around her, tucked her head under his chin.

  “Renil.” The name fell from her mouth like another glop.

  “Did he kill you? Or did he wrong you in another way?”

  She wrapped swollen fingers around her throat. “Throw.”

  “From the bridge?” It was almost always so when the ghosts were near to one. At her nod, he asked, “What village?”

  She pointed north.

  “I will find him. Do you mark your body?”

  She pointed to the mud at her feet.

  “I will have your people come for you. What name will they know you by?”

  Her blackened tongue pushed more mud from her mouth. “Fajana.”

  “Have you another wrong to right—whether against you or committed by you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I will right this one, as soon as can be done. Good journey to the end, Fajana.”

  He reined Troll back toward Iarthil, who waited at the foot of the bridge, with the knights peering uneasily around them. “I will continue on to the next village, where I must right a wrong. Let us take Elina back to the carriage. When I am done, I will catch up to you.”

  “Right a wrong?” Iarthil glanced to the river. “Why? How?”

  “Serjeant,” Elina said, lifting her head, revealing a face nearly as pale as the ghost’s hair. “Whatever Warrick is saying that he must do for that poor woman, let him do it. We will ask our questions later.”

  Though he clearly wished to ask them now, the serjeant nodded. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  She exhaled a shaky breath, then touched her fingertips to the glowing lines on his bicep. “I know not whether to call this a curse or a gift.”

  Warrick hadn’t known either. Not for a long time.

  But it was a gift.

  Night fell before Warrick reached the camp. At the prison, the serjeant had warned him to stay away until dawn if he arrived after the rising of the evening star. Warrick would not. He had just begun to debate how best to penetrate the camp’s defenses when Iarthil himself rode out to meet him.

  “What happened?”

  Warrick had ridden to the village, found Renil, and hauled him into the market square. There he’d announced what Renil had done—and when he’d refused to confess, Warrick had tied him behind Troll and dragged him to the bridge, with most of the villagers following. By touching Warrick, they’d all been able to see for themselves who Renil had wronged.

  Though it was not true of every murderer he’d found, Warrick hadn’t needed to kill Renil himself. Instead the villagers had seen justice done—and Fajana had gone.

  Never would he regret doing what was right. But his gut had twisted into knots upon the realization that, in his absence, Elina had likely drunk a tonic prepared by Chardryn. The dose of bloodbane would not harm her worse than it already had—but it meant the purge would end a day later than it would have.

  And Warrick was in no mood to answer Iarthil’s demand. “Elina will ask me soon enough. Let me only tell it once.”

  The other man nodded. “Do all the dead become ghosts?”

  “The dead who were wronged—and only if they stay until it is made right. And the dead who committed a wrong, until it is made right.”

  “Those who were wronged. Murdered?”

  “Often.”

  “Then you could speak to Elina’s mother—or I could, as long as I touched you.”

  Warrick grunted a confirmation.

  Iarthil stared straight ahead. “If the opportunity comes, I would ask it of you. There is a wrong I have done that I would wish undone.”

  Such as promising not to lead Elina home? But Warrick held his tongue. He could hardly comprehend the sort of honor that placed a vow made to a dead woman above the harm done to the living.

  “If the opportunity comes,” he said.

  Warrick was accustomed to the endless questions that followed the discovery that he could see ghosts, along with the requests to speak to every dead relation that someone ever had. So he was prepared to sit at the fire and give answers. It was made all the more tedious by the need to wait for Iarthil to repeat every question and answer in the proper language—but with Elina at his side, easily bearable.