If no one else betrayed her trust.
But what else could she do? More waiting? More praying for a miracle?
“Your Majesty!” one of the Sons called, waving her over. The large one named Rakon, the big, bearded brute, towered over nearly all others in the courtyard, almost as broad as he was tall.
Seraphina hurried that way, melding seamlessly into the pack of men and horses. The scent of leather and sweat slammed into her, overwhelming her senses as she forged deeper. The youngest of the Sons, Sven, offered her a shy smile. The rest paid her little mind, too busy in their own preparations to spare her even so much as a glance.
She finally found her Crow equally preoccupied next to his large, scarred warhorse, poetically namedMourn, his back facing her. The moment she drew near, she saw the set of Aldric’s shoulders tense beneath his leather armor. But still, he pretended as if he had not noticed her arrival.
“Calix,” he rasped, nudging the saddlebags resting next to his foot with the toe of his boot. “Strap these in for me.”
Master Fitzjesmaine hurried to obey, his bronze eyes flashing her way for a split second as he stepped around her, murmuring his apologies as he went.
Still, Aldric ignored her.
Seraphina pursed her lips. “Husband,” she greeted him, the word unfurling on a cloud of vapor.
“Wife,” he growled in reply, shooting her a look over his shoulder. “What are you doing down here?” His chin jerked upward, indicating the balcony overlooking the courtyard where her godparents, Sir Tristan and Olivia, gathered. “Better view up there.”
“I wanted to see you off in person,” she explained, circling around him until they were finally face to face. The unspokenpart—“for the sake of appearances”—lingered in the air between them. “There is no telling when next you will return, after all.”
Something stirred beneath the collar of Aldric’s undershirt, the material visible just above his jerkin. For some reason, he wasn’t wearing a gorget to protect his throat. She realized why in the next moment when a dark, serpentine head poked its way out from under her husband’s armor to gaze at her with shiny, black eyes.
Soot, his usuru.
“You are taking Soot with you?” she asked, trying to hide her dismay.
She failed miserably.
Aldric grunted and finished strapping his polearm’s harness around his chest. Under his breath, he pointed out, “It’ll look strange if I don’t take him.”
Taking a step closer, she hissed back, “It will look stranger still if he is spotted flying above you during our ruse. Usuri are uncommon pets, Aldric.” She didn’t know a single person who kept one for a pet besides her and him.
She stood close to her Crow now, close enough for the body heat radiating off his form to soothe some of the chill seeking to soak into her bones. Close enough to hear Soot purring in that odd, usuru fashion.
Aldric lifted his face, irritation flickering through the gold-flecked depths of his one eye. “I’m not an idiot, Sera,” he bit out. “And this is notourruse. It is yours.”
Master Fitzjesmaine cleared his throat from where he lingered nearby. “Your bags are all set, Your Majesty.”
“Good,” Aldric muttered, though his gaze never once left hers. He merely stared up at her, as if waiting for her to do something.
The weight of a dozen eyes prickled the hairs on the back of her neck, making her suddenly aware of how the Sons surrounding them now watched their every move. It seemed that the two of them together had garnered far more attention than she had warranted on her own.
Self-conscious, she took a step backward. Her attention shifted back to his destrier, her eyes flickering between Aldric and the stirrups of his saddle, which dangled far above him. It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t the faintest idea how he even mounted his horse. She frowned. “Do you…need any assistance?”
Aldric arched an eyebrow. “With what?” Turning his back to her, he lifted his hand and tapped his horse on the meat of its shoulder until, with a snort, the stallion lowered itself to the ground.
She watched, utterly fascinated, as her husband easily climbed into the saddle. A custom saddle, she noticed up close. Its seat was narrower than normal. Its stirrups, shorter. Even the cantle and pommel were both higher, no doubt to provide a more secure seat.
Realizing she was staring, she swiftly glanced away. Her eyes met those of the oldest of the Sons—the one with too little hair and too few teeth. Leif. He offered her a gap-filled smile before letting loose with a strange, warbling whistle so like birdsong that she would have thought it was a bird in truth if she hadn’t witnessed him making the sound. The Sons were always whistling back and forth to one another.
She suspected the sounds were meant to be signals of some sort.
Aldric shot a sharp glance toward the older man and fired off a curt whistle of his own as his horse shifted back to its feet. To the others, he barked, “Make ready to ride!”
Men swung into saddles. Horses stamped the ground and shook their heads. The jingle of bits rang in the air. Now, she was inthe way. She should fall back, escape to the balcony to watch the procession with her advisors.
But for some reason, she lingered on.
