I don’t complain, though my stomach does.
I march for hours behind the cart with my men, letting Aren sleep in the back of the open carriage, curled under a pile of blankets. We can’t overburden our only horse.
The rhythmic impact of my boots on the dirt road sends occasional shooting pains up my spine. I’m still sore from the battle with the Kilandrar as well as the bandits on the bridge. But I can’t stop. The faster we reach the Great Waste, the faster I can put an end to this misery.
Marcus walks beside me, scowling. He’s giving me the silent treatment, his head held high and shoulders back. I hate awkward silences, especially from one of my oldest friends.
“I know it was foolish of us to cross when we did,” I say. “You can be angry with me. That’s fine.”
“I’m not angry,” Marcus replies, his voice icy. “You gave an order, and we saw it through.”
I sigh, pushing my hair from my forehead. “You know I had to. I hoped you, of all people, would understand. We couldn’t afford to linger.”
“I’m well aware that leadership means making difficult decisions, but I also hoped you’d have some common sense when it comes to your own safety. I promised your father I’d bring you back alive. Although your mother favors the Princess Royal, she’s no Namreth. Your sister would much rather have a life of horses and balls than the weight of the crown someday.”
His sensibility and knack for calling out my flaws rivals Aren’s. “I know, I’m an idiot.”
“Far be it from me to question orders,” Marcus says, “but you know what I think of this whole charade. A mission to the Great Waste is a death wish, no matter what your father says. And you’re marching your new fiancée straight into it.” His eyes remain fixed on the horizon, but his words carry a twinge of pain.
He’s probably picturing how devastated Sonja would be if harm came to Aren.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’ve seen the torture my father’s surgeons and councilors put me through trying to fix this, without any success. This is the only way.”
“I saw what you did on the bridge,” he says. “Perhaps you need practice, rather than”—he waves a hand at the cart—“all this. We’re men now, not boys in our fathers’ shadows anymore.”
I wish I had half his confidence. Marcus is already a fine general at our age, already a veteran and a leader, not a fuckup like me. When the Usurper attacks, my father needs to be the one wielding the Rings, not me. Even though he’s never used them, since he’s never had reason to, until now. The skirmishes and battles we’ve had in the past against ruffians and local warlords have been easily won by our armies alone.
I keep my eyes on Aren’s sleeping form in the cart ahead of us. Focusing on her helps ease the tightness in my back.
Marcus sighs. “Fine, I may not know anything about magic, but I’ll tell you what you should do as your general. Return to Lundenwic posthaste. The king needs you. There’s no safer place for you and Aren.”
I shake my head, noticing that the men are starting to look our way. They can’t hear us, but they can tell we’re at odds. They assume it’s regarding our next stop—so I speak up loud enough for them to hear. “Court is a fortnight’s journey. No. We will proceed to Alba for the Oracle’s blessing, as planned.”
The men nod and resume their low chatter among themselves. Marcus, however, stiffens. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
He knows me too well.
The gulf between us widens, and I struggle with how much to reveal. “You’re right. I’m hiding something,” I admit. “I plan to go to Estyrion, to the Great Waste,alone. But I need you to make sure Aren gets to safety. Take her where she wants to go—back to Evandale or to court.”
Marcus rounds on me. “Alone? That was never the plan. Are you so eager to jump feet-first into the Abyss to meet your ancestors?”
I close my eyes. “I need to do this alone. You just have to stop asking questions.”
“Fallen Estyrion is cursed. You can’t face that madman, that King of the Waste, by yourself!”
Fear holds my tongue. I’ve seen Marcus dead before me in my nightmares—dead by my own hand, the power of the Whisting ripping him apart.
“You’re one of my oldest friends. Don’t you trust me?”
Marcus lowers his head and takes a step back. “I swore an oath to protect you, and the king’s orders supersede your own. If you’re going to the Waste, I’m coming with you, Your Highness.”
The title strikes a vulnerable spot in my heart. Marcus never uses it when we’re alone.
Fine.If I can’t convince him, I’ll simply sneak off.
I’ve gotten good at that.
As we round the hill, everyone stops in their tracks. The cart screeches to a halt, and Aren, bleary-eyed, sits up from her blankets.
