Dietan raises his eyebrows, and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking:something’s off about this so-called emissary.
“I am indeed Prince Dietan of Loegria,” Dietan says imperiously. “I wish to speak with your lord.”
“Of course. He is expecting you. Word of your engagement has reached our ears, and the king himself would like to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials.”
The emissary turns his gaze to the mound of sand nearby, then narrows his eyes. A stiff wind cuts through the sand, revealing the horses trapped underneath.
I gasp at the amount of control this man has over the Whisting, so unlike Dietan’s chaotic outbursts.
The emissary smiles, and it brightens his whole face, making him look even younger. “There you are.”
The horses are unhurt but dazed, and they stand up on jittery legs. They shake out their manes and stamp their hooves, clearly frightened by what happened. With high-pitched whinnies, they rear up on their hind legs, kicking out, and take off east, toward home.
I watch them until they disappear into the horizon, wishing Dietan and I were dashing away with them. If this emissary has such abilities, I shudder to think what powers Osian himself might wield. If Katharine is to be believed, fear twists my insides when I consider what he could be using that magic for.
What possessed me to insist on coming with Dietan all the way here? My heart squeezes uncomfortably, and I place a hand over my chest. I know the answer to that but don’t allow myself to dwell on it. There’s a lot more at stake than my silly feelings.
“You stopped that storm with the power of the Whisting,” Dietan says.
The emissary bows his head modestly.
“How?” Dietan asks, and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“The King of Estyrion is quite powerful,” the emissary replies. “He is very generous with his gift and will teach any who seek the knowledge of the Whisting, unlike those outside our borders. Now,” he studies us with a baleful eye, “I must request that you surrender your weapons to me before we proceed into the city.”
“May I ask why?” Annoyance is clear in Dietan’s voice. He probably doesn’t want to part with that knife he always carries with him. Harvest Mother, I’ll be dead before I give up my frying pan, though it’s not a weapon—in most hands, anyway.
“Everyone is most welcome in Engel, but those who seek our protection must surrender any instruments of violence. We are a peaceful people.”
Dietan looks wary as he hands over his royal knife and sheath.
I clutch my weathered rucksack close, and when the emissary gives it a pointed stare, I lift the flap so he can see inside. “It’s just a pan,” I say. “It’s for cooking.”
The emissary looks thoughtful. “I suppose if we are to be fearful of a skillet, we are not much of a people.”
Thank the goddess that worked.
Dietan straightens, standing tall like the real prince he is. “Lead the way,” he commands.
This is it, then. It’s time to meet the mad King Osian of Engel.
Instead of leading, the emissary walks by Dietan’s side. I follow, with only a skillet to protect us, hoping it’s enough.
I fall back a few steps, assuming the role of dutiful woman—not a role I usually play. But by letting the men walk ahead, I have a chance to finally breathe. Knowing the emissary isn’t watching my every move like a snake ready to strike gives me cover to observe.
But my relief is only momentary. As I trail behind these two men, it occurs to me that I don’t belong here. I don’t meanhereas in this hellscape; nobody belongshere.I mean I have no business consorting with royalty.
My eyes begin to water, and I blink to clear my vision.
Must be the sand.
I study the two figures proudly striding ahead of me. It feels strange to see Dietan acting all official. I haven’t thought of him as royal for some time now.
He’s just Dietan.
I only call him “my prince” or “your worship” to get under his skin because it’s fun to annoy him.
As we follow the emissary out of the sand dunes, my thoughts wander back to that kiss at Katharine’s.
