“I’m happy to see you out and well,” Marit said.
“They didn’t wish to let me go, but I had to see you before you left.” His eyes, a startling violet, shone with anguish. “I hate that you’re paying for helping Vale and Neve.”
He’d been whipped with an ice whip for the same transgression. His back had been torn to shreds, and his life had hung in the hands of the Fates.
“I don’t regret witnessing their wedding,” she replied. “The king’s choice later, however, well, it was too harsh. For the both of us.”
He nodded, and as his long black hair slithered around his shoulders, she caught Qildor’s scent of juniper. She inhaled deeply, always having loved the scent.
“You don’t deserve this. You deserve only good things. The best.” Qildor looked around. “And if I can, I’ll help.”
She smiled weakly. Qildor was a Clawsguard, an elite knight sworn to the royal family—to King Magnus. He could do nothing. Just as she couldn’t.
Still, it was sweet what he said.
He’s Connan’s best friend. By extension, he cares for me.
“Hug me,” Qildor said.
She blinked. “What?”
It wasn’t that they hadn’t hugged before. They’d kissed many times, and once or twice it had gotten heated. Hugging was nothing by comparison. However, since Qildortook the Clawsguard’s golden cloak, he’d barely touched her, let alone hugged her.
“I have something for you. Hug me.”
She opened her arms, making it clear that she invited him in. They embraced, and Marit allowed herself to lean into the familiar feel of him. He might be stronger and leaner and more masculine, but he was still Qildor, a commonborn male she’d once thought she might love. A knight she still had a bit of a crush on, though she’d never say so out loud.
His hand shifted, and Marit’s eyebrows pulled together as she felt something drop into her cloak pocket before he released her.
“There are instructions on how to use the herbs in the bag. I could get only two moons worth, but it might buy you time.”
“Time?”
His cheeks darkened. “To not bear his child. I assume that’s what you want?”
Oh!She gasped, unable to believe what he’d done for her. She had to be very careful with the bag in her pocket. No one could see it.
“Yes. Thank you, Qildor. I?—”
“We must go, Lady Triam,” the carriage driver called yet again.
Triam? Oh, no, that will not stand. I’m still an Armenil, no matter the words the king forced me to say.
“Lady Armenil, actually.” She did not miss Qildor’s smile at her words. “I follow the rituals of the Sacred Eight and will not be changing my lastname.”
She may be forced to do this, but she was who she was, and Marit was more magically powerful than her husband.
Marit waved goodbye one last time and went to the covered sleigh. Thankfully, her new husband was not traveling with her, but rather riding ahead so that he and his soldiers might collect taxes on the way. Taxes the king insisted on collecting.
Marit assumed the rush for more riches had something to do with the reappearance of Lord Roar back at court. An appearance that had caused a stir and more so when the king did not punish the Warden of the West. Rather, he’d elevated the lord, and the pair seemed to always be talking. Planning? That’s what it looked like, but no one Marit had spoken to could say for certain. Not even Saga.
As Marit climbed into the sleigh, one of House Triam’s servants shut her inside. She swallowed. The fine velvet of the cushions turned her stomach. This carriage, no matter how lovely, was taking her to a life she did not want. A prison of a different sort.
Marit peered out the window at her loved ones, and her heart clenched. This may well be the last time she ever laid eyes on them, but the herbs in her pocket gave her hope. Just as the determined expression on Qildor’s face did.
Chapter 11
NEVE
