“Yes.” There was no doubt on that score.
His father smiled. “I’m glad. Your mother will be, as well. You know she didn’t like the idea of you marrying a stranger, but she’s been praying Amryn would somehow be your perfect match. She’s even been planning a marriage celebration for you two, once we’re all back in Westmont.”
“She has?”
“I told her to wait until we heard how you and Amryn felt about the marriage, but she was rather insistent.”
“Mother? Insistent?Never.”
Cregon chuckled. Then—choosing his words carefully—he asked, “Does Amryn care for you, too?”
Carver’s response wasn’t immediate, as he was choosing his words with care. “She made the choice to save me, even when every instinct told her I was her enemy. Even when she was still allied with the Rising, she offered me kindness.” When he glanced up, his father was smiling softly. For some reason, Carver tensed. “What?”
A slow smile curved his lips. “When did she sneak past your guard and steal your heart?”
He didn’t know exactly when it had happened; when she’d cut through his barriers and made him fall. It had happened slowly. One late night conversation at a time until—suddenly—it happened all at once and he was lost.
His father’s eyes softened. He clearly didn’t need Carver to confirm what he could obviously see. “I look forward to getting to know her,” his father murmured.
Gratitude bled through Carver, though he shouldn’t have doubted his father would welcome Amryn into the family with open arms.
Cregon released his hold on the chair. “It’s late, and you’re exhausted.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me, it is.” He reached out, slinging one arm around Carver’s shoulders as he propelled them both toward the door. “You’re not getting off that easily,” he warned as they walked. “Some vague lines about how you’re not sure how she stole your heart won’t cut it. Your mother will demand details. And no one will pester you as much as Elowen.”
Carver groaned.
Cregon’s deep laugh echoed in the darkened room.
Chapter 11
Amryn
Thesunhadsethours ago, and Carver still hadn’t arrived at their room.
Amryn sat in one of the apartment’s cushioned chairs, her thick hair still damp from her bath. Her long curling locks took an age to dry, but at least she was blessedly clean. The scent of her favorite citrus and mint soap clung to her skin, a familiar and soothing balm. Her hair tumbled down her back, unbound and wild even though Ahmi had carefully applied the tincture that helped tame her curls, at least a little. The humidity in this region was not as intense as it had been in Esperance, but it still wreaked havoc on her hair.
She wore a soft, simple gown of pale lavender that brushed the floor. The sleeves were gossamer, falling all the way to her wrists. It was light, airy, and beautiful. She loved it, even if it was borrowed.
The clothing she’d brought from Esperance was covered in dust from the road, so Ahmi had sent for some items. Apparently, visiting nobles often left clothing behind in the palace laundry, so there were plenty of options. Ahmi had shown off her selections with a pleased smile. Amryn didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wouldn’t need so many dresses, because they wouldn’t be staying in the capital.
Amryn was exhausted, but she was unable to settle without Carver. She’d dismissed Ahmi over an hour ago. The food the servants had carried in after her bath was spread on the small table, mostly untouched on silver trays. It was an assortment of cut meats, aged cheeses, dates, nuts, and slices of crusty bread along with small pots of jam and soft butter. There was also a bowl of neatly diced exoticfruits, a pot of pungent coffee, and a tureen of soup that smelled strongly of garlic and onions. She’d tried to eat a little of the assorted fare, if only for something to do, but her stomach had cramped almost instantly. She was too anxious to eat. So, after carefully exploring the room, she’d turned to Saul Von’s journal for a distraction.
Curled in a cushioned chair, she flipped through the old leather book. It was stained and creased, and some pages had been torn out—by the author’s hand, or the knight who’d stolen the journal, Amryn didn’t know. While she’d read through most of Von’s words, she hadn’t made much sense of them. The entries were so disjointed, they were nearly unintelligible. There were codes of numbers, unfinished sentences, and nonsensical sketches. Some of the drawings were identifiable; eyes without faces, an open door with no wall around it, and—the most detailed she’d found yet—a mythical dragon with a sword plunged in its heart. But some of the sketches made no sense. A line here, or a circle there. Maps without starting points or landmarks, perhaps?
Murdon Savin’s notations were just as chaotic; the knight had clearly read the journal many times, but Amryn saw no evidence that he’d learned anything truly useful. At least, not that he’d written down in the margins. As Amryn scanned the page before her, she saw Savin had circled Von’s words:hidden from all,and he’d drawn a line to the question:Hafsin or Xerra? Both?
Overall, the journal seemed to contain the ramblings of a madman—and the frantic notes of a man obsessed with making sense of those ramblings. And yet, Amryn couldn’t let go of the feeling that something in this book might be useful.
Choosing to concentrate only on Von’s words for now, Amryn disregarded Savin’s notations. She kept turning pages until she came to a more cohesive entry in the journal.
A terrible price. Too terrible. Unbearable. So terrible, what we did.
Should we not make the most of it? Damned as we are . . . We must make our damnation count.
Not we.I.
