She felt a prickle of curiosity as she smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress and rebraided her hair. “I should check on Val. It doesn’t feel fair that I can leave this chamber and you can’t.”
“As long as you come back,” he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles. He held on briefly when she started to pull her hand away. “Wait. You, too, have a duty, Bryn. My father won’t live long. We should hold our wedding as soon as possible. I’d like for him to be there to give his blessing, of course . . . ” His face darkened. “But it’s not only that. If I’m to be king, it behooves us for you, as my wife, to be crowned queen at the same coronation. There will be less debate over our marriage’s legitimacy if we marry before assuming the throne.”
“Under what grounds would anyone object to my coronation as queen?”
“The same grounds my family forbade me from marrying you before—two siblings cannot rule competing kingdoms.”
“That was an entirely different situation,” she said, blinking furiously. “That was under the assumption that Trei would rule the Baersladen, and you would be king of the Mirien. Mars is now king. He’s my brother, yes, but not yours. A brother-in-law doesn’t fall under the same rules, surely.”
“I agree, but there are some who may not.”
She rested her hands on her hips. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I think you underestimate the lengths our enemies will go to sew discord among our kingdoms. Already, foreign rulers will be whispering that Valenden has a greater claim to the throne than me. Never mind that Val doesn’t want it.” He smoothed back an errant curl on her forehead that had come loose from the braid. “Mars and Illiana were smart to wed before their coronation; we should follow their lead.”
She twisted his ring on her finger, nodding. “I’ll plan the wedding. It won’t be the first—” She was about to say that it wouldn’t be her first time planning a Baer wedding but stopped herself. Neither of them needed to be reminded of the heartache of her first wedding.
“I’ll handle it,” she said softer.
As she went to check on Valenden, it felt strange to have free rein of the castle while Rangar was restricted behind guards. Bryn had forgotten the smell of Barendur Hold: It was like a winter feast on a snowy night, all savory meats from the kitchen and woodsmoke and the earthy smell of livestock. The castle had nothing of Castle Mir’s architectural grandeur, but she liked its simple construction. There were no secret passages here or hidden stairs for servants to use; Barendur Hold felt honest in a way her home never had.
When she entered the mage quarters, Ren looked up from a book. He cleared his throat. “Prince Valenden woke not long ago, if that is why you’ve come.”
She picked up a mortar and pestle to occupy her hands while she said, “It is, but I also wanted to talk to you.” She took a deep breath, unsure how to broach a subject that had been weighing on her. “At the battle of Saint Serrel, Calista . . .” Her words trailed off. Calista and Ren had been the only two mage apprentices at Barendur Hold, friends as well as fellow pupils. She swallowed down a lump before continuing. “I’m sure you heard the details of what happened, but I wanted you to hear it from me directly because I was there and saw everything with my own eyes. Calista kept an entire legion of rebels and Baer fighters protected. She fought bravely and with deft hexwork. Her death . . .” Bryn’s voice broke. “We are all worse off for having lost her.”
She set back down the mortar and pestle quickly, smoothing her hands on her dress.
Ren nodded slowly. “You speak the truth there, Lady Bryn.”
When she made her way back to Valenden’s room, she was pleased to find him sitting up, though he was scowling. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Val groaned. “My aunt says I’m to stay away from the bottle until I heal. That ale will only tax my body further.”
“She’s absolutely right.”
He rolled his eyes. “I should have known you’d be in league with her.” Then he narrowed his eyes as he studied her dress. “And what haveyoubeen doing, princess?”
Her hand flew to her collar, where she realized she’d done up her buttons wrong. Blushing, she quickly put them right again. Valenden cackled, though it turned into a terrible cough. Once he had downed some tea for his throat, he said, “Eager to give my brother an heir, eh? We haven’t even been home for a few hours.”
“Val, stop. How are you, really?”
His expression grew serious. He took another long sip of tea, then grimaced like he wanted something much stronger. “Ren used a hex to rid my wound of infection, but the bite marks are deep. He suspects the wolves’ saliva had a substance in it that keeps the wounds from being healed by any of our usual hexes. I’m going to end up with scars just like you and Rangar.” He smirked. “Do you like that, princess? I know you’re partial to scars.”
“You’re already covered in scars, Val. Everyone in the Baersladen is.”
He snorted. “Fair point.”
Bryn glanced down the hall toward King Aleth’s room. The door was closed. “And . . . your father?”
Valenden didn’t meet her eyes. “No better, no worse.”
She sighed. “Let me ask you something, Val. Be honest with me for once, since I don’t have a hexmark to tell me if you’re lying.” She dropped her voice. “Do you truly not want the throne? As the eldest living prince, it could be yours by right.”
Valenden took his time finishing his tea, then eased himself further into his sitting position. The lantern on his bedside table cast half his face in orange, half in darkness. “I don’t want the throne,” he said, studying the shadows. “I relinquished my claim long ago, and I don’t anticipate anything changing that. If you fear some stone chair will drive Rangar and me apart, you can calm your fears.”
She relaxed, but the truth was, no one knew the future. As much as both Rangar and Valenden reassured her that no questions of succession would ever come between them, she had seen families torn apart before over much less.
She went to fetch supper from the kitchen to take back to Rangar—who was a prisoner once more.
