“Next. You there.” A heavyset sentinel in armor a few sizes too small beckons to me like calling cattle. He tugs on his breastplate uncomfortably, glancing at my sack of potatoes. “There’s a fifty coin tax to enter, and we’ll need to search your?—”
“Barthy, Barthy, ho there! I’ve got this one.” Another sentinel cuts in smoothly. “The Captain wants me to evaluate all horses coming into the city. You take that family with the ducks.” He gestures to the farmer behind us with his daughters straining under wooden cages full of ducks.
The pot-bellied Barthy looks like he might object if it weren’t for the three attractive, if painfully thin, teenage daughters. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands resting on his too-small belt, and signals for the duck farmer to step forward.
The swarthy sentinel faces us, scratches his ass, and then raises his helmet’s visor an inch.
Well, well.
I grin.
Folke. The old bastard in the flesh.
I mask any recognition on my face by wiping away phantom sweat, and keep my head bowed as a humble farmer.
“Potatoes!” Folke makes a show of digging through my bag, tossing a rotten one on the ground. “We have root vegetables aplenty! And what’s this? A knife!”
With his deft hands, he draws hisownhidden knife from the scabbard tucked into his waistband, flourishing it for all to see. “No weapons allowed—the punishment is imprisonment!”
I roll my eyes at his theatrics, wondering if this is necessary. But the other sentinels are watching, so I bow my head. “A thousand apologies. I only use it for potato peeling.”
“Off those horses!” Folke commands, grabbing Myst’s reins with a heavy hand. She jerks her head up, indignant, but she seems to recognize him enough not to bite his finger off. “I’m conscripting them into King Rian’s sentinel army. As for you and your wife, into the prison wagon with you!”
He jabs his elbow toward an enclosed wagon with barred windows. Another sentinel, this one young and slight, silently opens the wagon door for us.
Sabine raises her eyebrows toward me, and I nod for her to obey.
Folke roughs us up a little as we dismount, herding us at the knife’s point toward the wagon. Its two benches are empty—we’re the only prisoners. As I pass the slight soldier, something oddly familiar rings about him. A scent in the air, delicate and spicy. I hold my gaze an extra beat, but the man scowls at me and gestures inside, remaining quiet.
Folke ties the horses’ leads to the rear of the wagon, then climbs in himself and swings the door shut. He gives a quick sweep of the street before knocking twice on the roof.
The quiet young soldier climbs into the driver’s seat, and the wagon rolls forward through the city gates.
Once cobblestone rumbles under the wheels, Folke tears off his helmet and tosses back his messy, gray-threaded curls.
“Here you are at last, you beast,” he exclaims. “We expected you two days ago! I’ve had to pretend to be one of those piss-stinking sentinels for far too long!”
He breaks into a grin and leans forward to grasp my hand in his, a brotherly handshake that feels like putting on a well-worn glove.
I give a half-grin in return.
“We had…delays.” I glance at Sabine. “There was a…fire outside of Bremcote. But anyway, what the fuck happened here?”
I gesture beyond the barred windows to the once-orderly city, where a pack of feral children runs wild.
Folke snorts. “Didn’t Maximan tell you everything’s gone to hell since our coup failed? Rian’s disappeared. No one knows who to take orders from. Half the city still obeys our royal soldiers. Half obey the Golden Sentinels, run in Rian’s absence by a gang of criminals calling themselves the Cold Coins. Hell, half the people are still listening to the fucking Red Church preaching the fae’s return, even after Beneveto’s corpse marched dead through the streets.”
“That’s three halves,” I point out.
He groans. “Smartass.” He turns to Sabine instead, flashing that smile that dazzles the ladies and won Ferra’s heart. “Gods, is it ever good to see the face of someone reasonable.”
Sabine smiles, amused, though she keeps glancing out the rear door at Myst and Ranger in tow. “It’s good to see you again, too, Folke.”
He pauses, his keen eyes taking in the plump swell of her cheeks, the spark of light in her eyes. “Something different about you.”
I go rigid, forgetting to breathe for a moment—but her human glamour is still raised.
She clears her throat, waving away his words. “How is Ferra?”
