More and more, the evidence stacks up in her favor, but there’s something still holding my bride back. If it were any other human, I would assume it’s fear, but I’m not sure my Ingrid has a fearful bone in her body. And I don’t think it’s that she feels out of place in our world, because she hasn’t let that stand in her way to this point.
So what is it?
What causes her brow to furrow even in her sleep?
And how can I fix it for her if she won’t tell me what it is?
“So you see, Your Highness, this is truly the only course of action,” Earl Brennar says, unaware of the glob of gravy clinging to his beard.
Travel from Amberfold to Threshward Plains went about as smoothly as every other leg of this journey so far. The cycle of thawing and freezing has left the roads impassable in places, and falling trees have spooked our animals more than once. If the weather doesn’t improve, we may have to circumvent Goldenmere, and that alone had me in a sour mood long before the earl’s preposterous proposal.
Ingrid and I have sat here listening to the man rant and rave about bandits on his roads and Wilds-touched beasts at his borders, every complaint coming laced with an accusation, a suggestion that the Crown is failing in its duty to Threshward Plains. For the entirety of his presentation, neither of us have said a word.
Now, for the first time since the earl started explaining his proposal, I look to Ingrid.
Eyes sharp, nostrils flared, her knuckles white where she grips her spoon—her fury mirrors mine, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She looks to me and her brow softens at the same time her jaw tightens.
I don’t have to ask how she feels about this to know my queen does not approve.
“Your Majesty clearly—understandably, of course—has his hands full with other matters. Allow me to save you the trouble and keep my own borders clean.”
There it is again. The suggestion I should cede control of my land to another. Only now it’s not the high generals making a power play, it’s one of my own.
The earl gestures around the dining hall, guards stationed at every door and window, far more than needed for such an occasion. “I have more than enough might at my disposal,” he adds. The subtle message isn’t missed on me.
Either I give him what he asks, or he takes it.
Unfortunately for him, I am a soldier, not a peer. His bluff won’t work with me.
“We appreciate the difficult position you find yourself in, Earl. Now is the time for unity, not further division. Crownwood needs Emerald to remain unbroken if it has any hope of recovery. The Wardens will send a company to help you prune the weeds you’ve enabled.”
Across the table, Ingrid’s approval erases any lingering doubt I had about the choice.
The earl clears his throat loudly. “Well, in that case, I wonder if you might lend your tactical expertise to my men?”
The request is innocuous at first. It’s not until the earl is making me repeat the same strategy for the twelfth time or asking me to demonstrate a particular maneuver against half a dozen armed guards that I realize what’s happened. How he’s made a fool of me.
I thought for a moment that my skills and talents might actually be valued among the nobility, that perhaps this could be how I win their favor.
And then I see the hidden smiles. The smothered laughs. The shared, knowing looks.
This is my punishment for refusing him. Proving in front of my men and his that I am nothing more than a trained beast performing to exhaustion.
It’s late when I finally make my leave. It started raining hours ago, but I wouldn’t let them end things on account of weather. The exhibition may have begun as a way to humiliate me, and I might be walking away bloodied and sore, but the disgrace left behind isn’t mine. The earl’s ‘considerable might’ folded against my full effort once I stopped holding back.
Another miscalculation on his part. One I hope he won’t make again.
My assigned room is warm when I step in, the crackling fire drowned out by the patter of rain on the windowpanes. It’s Ingrid’s presence that really drives off the chill, though. Curled into the seat of an armchair, knitting project dangling from her hand, a spot of drool darkening the arm of the chair.
Home.
The thought crops up so suddenly, with such clarity, that I don’t know what to do with it. With her.
Maybe for now I just get her a blanket.
“Xan?” her soft, sleepy voice calls while I’m at the bed gathering a quilt for her. “How late is it? Are you okay?”
My throat tightens, any words I can think of trapped behind the blockage. I keep my back turned to her, sure that she’ll beable to read the torment in my expression. She always knows so much more than I think she will. If she realizes what the earl did tonight, I’m not confident she’d keep her temper in check.
