“Ring-Around-the-Hill is a trade center,” Octavian explained. “It boasts four different markets and attracts people from leagues around.”
“Which makes it an easy place to lose yourself, if you know what you’re doing.” Radven appeared through the trees, once again managing to sneak up apparently out of nowhere. “I got you something, Oak. Hopefully this will make you a little less conspicuous.”
He tossed Octavian a big piece of tawny fabric, which turned out to be a cloak. Octavian slipped it over his shoulders, and while it didn’t hide his size, it covered his too-tight clothes, making it much easier to ignore the hard ridges of his muscles beneath.
“The southern gate is our best bet,” Radven said. “Once inside, we’ll be able to blend into the crowd, but we’ll be exposed on the road. We need to make ourselves look as little like ourselves as possible in case any of those zhespers show up.” He looked at each of us in turn. “Laitha will either be looking for us in pairs or all four together. The best thing would be for us to split up and enter the town one at a time.”
“Go in alone?” I asked, at the same time Octavian said, “We’re not leaving Marigold on her own.”
Radven nodded. “I agree, leaving Marigold alone is too risky. As is leaving Marigold with me, since Laitha already knows we’re traveling together. Among other reasons.” The wicked look he cast my way made my face prickle with heat, reminding me of all the promises he’d made about what we’d do once we reached this place.
I shifted my weight, embarrassed that my body still responded to that suggestion after all the awkwardness that had happened since.
“Oak and Marigold will go in through the gate together,” Radven said. “In fact, you two should bring up the rear. I’ll go first and scout ahead, and Alastor can go second.” He rubbed his chin, studying his surly brother. “I wish I’d had the chance to steal you a cloak, too. You’re too polished and stiff to pass yourself off as a farmer.”
“Forgive me for being clean and having good posture,” Alastor grumbled.
Radven ignored him. He bent down, scraping up a handful of dirt from the forest floor, then flung it at his brother.
“Hey!” Alastor jumped back, but there were now clumps of dirt clinging to his stolen shirt. “Was that entirely necessary?”
“Absolutely.” Radven grinned. “We can’t have you looking sorefined, Your Highness.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to throw clods of dirt at me.” Alastor’s expression was growing stormy, and he raised his hands in front of him, preparing to defend himself against his brother’s next missile. “And I’m already wearing farmers’ clothes. There’s no reason I must be filthy, too.”
Radven’s devilish smile widened, and he went in for the attack. This time, he didn’t throw the dirt in his hand—he dove straight in, grabbing Alastor by the shirt with one hand and attempting to smear the soil across his chest with the other. Alastor, no surprise, fought back, and within seconds both were on the ground, wrestling.
Beside me, Octavian gave a deep, rumbling chuckle. But despite the humor of the situation, I was distracted by something else. That wasn’t the first time I’d heard someone refer to Alastor that way.
“Why does everyone keep calling him ‘Your Highness’?” I asked.
Radven and Alastor froze mid-headlock, and all three brothers swiveled their heads toward me.
“I mean, I guess part of it’s obvious,” I admitted. “He’s royalty of some sort. But does that mean you other two are royals, too? I’ve never heard anyone call either of you ‘Your Highness’—not that I can remember, anyway. And if you guysareroyalty, shouldn’t there be alotmore people looking for you? Or are you telling me that here in Therador a band of crazy sorcerers can justpoofa bunch of royals without anyone caring?”
Radven and Alastor released each other, sitting back. For what it was worth, Radven’s plan had clearly succeeded, since Alastor’s clothes were now mussed and torn and covered with debris from the forest floor.
I turned to Octavian, since he was usually the one who explained things to me, but he was looking at Alastor, apparently waiting for his brother to take the lead on this one.
Which he did, eventually, with a sigh.
“Yes, I’m royalty,” Alastor said, rising stiffly. “I’m the prince of a place that doesn’t exist. Just call me the Prince of the Lost.”
And once again, one of these brothers had given me an explanation that raised more questions than it answered.
“Is that your…official title?” I asked. I glanced between Radven and Octavian. “And what about you two?”
“No royal blood here,” Radven said. “Not that I know of, anyway.” His eyes gleamed. “But I’ve been called a king in a few other contexts.”
“Alastor is the only titled one among us, yes,” Octavian said. “As you guessed before, we’re not related by blood.”
“And as much as I enjoy discussing my lineage, I’d prefer to get moving,” Alastor said, pulling a leaf off his dirty pants and scowling at it.
“He’s right. We need to go.” Radven was running his hands through his hair, ruffling it up again and transforming back into the slouched, rumpled version of himself. “If we follow the slope to our left, it’ll take us right down to the southern road. Wait several minutes before following me. Once inside, there should be a stable to your right. We’ll meet up in the alley behind it. If it’s no longer there, or if anything goes wrong, make your way to our usual guestrooms in the Hill.” He looked to each of his brothers, who nodded in understanding, then turned and disappeared through the trees.
Alastor went back to picking bits of leaves and twigs off himself, and I watched him, more curious now than ever. I supposed the wholeprincething explained his entitlement. But I’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d called himself the “Prince of the Lost.” There were layers to this man that I wasn’t seeing, and I had to admit I was intrigued.
He’d managed to pick most of the leaves off him—but very little of the dirt—when he finally muttered something and took off in the same direction Radven had disappeared.
