He finally looks over at me. “Have you forgotten Gwenarie?”
Spires, why did he have to bring her up?
“I thought so.” He tsks. “She’s not going to stop. Your father made promises to her.”
“Father is dead.” I hate the finality of it, but it’s true. He and Mother are in the Glowing Lands, probably watching me make a mess with as much disdain as they had when still alive.
“Even so, that promise has shaped Gwenarie’s life. When you show up with one changeling as your consort, she won’t like it.”
I raise a brow. “Are you saying she’d prefer I brought ten?”
“Yes,” he responds as if it’s obvious. “With ten, you can play them off against each other, and no one among them is special. This one tonight, that one tomorrow, a third the next. But with one?” He whistles, and something shifts in the dark.
“What was that?” The tips of my pointed ears tingle.
“Likely a night animal.” Brock points to the nearest guard. “Go and report back.”
“My lord.” She dismounts and stalks into the trees, her sword drawn.
We continue, the horses snorting, their breath steaming in the chilly night air. I’m not used to this sort of coolness, and it seems to seep into my bones. I’ve visited the Nightlands before, but I’ve never thought about missing the day. I do now.
“Gwenarie still expects that she will be your fated mate, or if not, that you’ll forsake your fated love for her. When you arrive with one changeling, she will be hurt.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “She’s always hurt, Brock. She’s the most delicate flower in all of the day realm. She and Lunarie are like violets, easily trampled and always blue. But at least Lunarie is kind. Gwenarie …” I shake my head. She’s cruel and calculating at the best of times, and she’s never lost sight of the day queen’s crown. “Gwenarie is a problem.”
“A beautiful one,” he reminds me.
“Yes, but I don’t feel the bond with her.”
“You may yet.” He hangs onto the same hope that all in my realm do. They want a royal mating, one between the two oldest and most powerful families in the realm. But I refuse to forsake my fated mate and accept the pairing.
Brock turns and peers back. “Has she returned?”
The other guards respond in the negative.
“Stay sharp,” he barks.
And then I feel it. The oppressive weight of enemies encroaching all around us. I draw my blade.
“Steady.” Brock keeps the procession moving, and I spare a look at the carriage, worry trying to creep into my mind. But the changeling will be safe. After all, whatever hunts us is after my blood, not hers.
“King Sigrid promised safe passage.” Brock spits, the insult in it perfectly clear.
A scream through the trees sets my teeth on edge.
“Ride ahead, my lord.” Brock is battle-hardened, his sword imbued with the power of each foe he’s challenged and beaten on the battlefield.
“I’ll fight.”
“Solano.” He shakes his head. “We can’t risk you.”
“I say what we can risk.” I don’t look at the carriage, but I feel as if he knows my thoughts linger there, because he sighs. “Stay close.”
“I’m skilled in combat. You trained me yourself.”
“I realize.” He stares into the gloom to my right.
I follow the direction and see the glowing eyes in the dark.
