Harlan glanced over the wall at the sea. ‘It was rougher out there today. Guessing that’s why you didn’t send anyone else.’
Shapur nodded. ‘Good way to clear the head. Get that arm cleaned up. King Oswin and Prince Borin want the bodies hung.’
Harlan’s eyes closed. ‘The lesson’s in their death. Displaying them will only provoke the merchants.’
‘King Oswin wants to address them. Make it safe for him to do so.’
‘Address them from the wall?’
‘In the borough on horseback.’
Harlan cursed inwardly. ‘Emotions will be running high in the borough. He’ll be safer up on the wall.’
His father turned away. ‘I said make it safe, Commander.’
Chapter 3
For three days, Blake watched the busy street from the shop window. Men and women walked along praying that Kingsley would miraculously appear wearing that lazy smirk of his. He would have dark circles around his eyes from lack of sleep and muddy clothes that Lyndal would manage to get every stain from.
She was the fixer of the family.
Lyndal had spent the previous three days flitting between the shop and the house, finding minor tasks to keep herself busy. ‘He’s likely stuck in the farming borough,’ she would say. ‘You’re all going to feel pretty ridiculous when he walks through that door.’
A fixer and an optimist.
The youngest of the three sisters was never home. Eda claimed she was hunting, but there was nothing left in the borough to hunt. More likely, she was up a tree somewhere, watching for her brother’s return. On the rare occasion Eda was home, she passed time sharpening her knife or adjusting the string of her bow—like she was preparing for war.
‘Are you sure she’s a girl?’ their father used to say. ‘The warden will poach her if we’re not careful.’ He would always wink at Eda when he said that part.
Blake was seated at the table by the wall where Kingsley normally sat, trying to make sense of the notes in the ledger. Dates, orders, payments. She could read just fine, she just could not read Kingsley’s handwriting. They were five days from their next delivery, and Kingsley was not there to collect it.
Blake looked over to where her mother was seated in the chair by the open window, sewing like her life depended on it. Candace had barely moved from that spot since Blake had returned from the forest alone. Every few stitches, she glanced out before returning to her work.
‘Good news,’ Lyndal said, entering the shop from the house. She held up a turnip the size of an egg. ‘It’s small but oh so beautiful.’
Candace smiled—barely—then turned back to the window.
Lyndal’s hand fell a few inches, but she maintained her composure. The girl was pure sunshine, from her golden hair to her glittering laugh that could lift the mood of any room—except that one.
‘A successful harvest,’ Blake said, trying to make up for their mother’s mental absence.
Before Lyndal could declare her plans for the turnip, Eda burst through the shop door, causing the bell to go flying across the room, clattering to a halt against the reams of fabric leaning on the far wall.
Kingsley had promised to fix it the morning he left.
Blake’s stomach fell as she took in her sister’s pale face and shiny eyes.Come, she signed.
Eda had not spoken verbally since their father’s death. When her voice had failed to return, she had been forced to figure out another way to communicate with her family. A secret language that came in handy whenever their uncle visited.
There are defenders gathered in the square, Eda signed before fleeing once more.
The turnip fell from Lyndal’s hand, and the tablecloth their mother had been embroidering floated down to the floor.
‘I’ll fetch our cloaks,’ Lyndal said before disappearing into the house.
Blake went to help her mother up. ‘You don’t have to come,’ she whispered, taking hold of her trembling hands.
Candace gave her a weak smile. ‘He’s my only son. Whatever happens, I must bear witness to it.’ Her hand fell away when Lyndal returned, wrapping a cloak around each of them.
