“Yes. So I’ve heard.” Tarron offered his older brother a stardew apple from the basket tucked into the carriage’s storage compartment; the fruit’s powerfully tart fragrance was enough to drive away the memory of most other scents. “I believe you’ve mentioned it, oh, around thirty times this afternoon?”
King Deven accepted the fruit and then leaned back, stretched his long legs out in front of him. He winced a bit with the simple motion, but quickly covered his pain up with a lazy smile. “Just making conversation.”
The prince acquiesced with a mere shrug, though he silently agreed; humans all smelled like forged metal and gunpowder to him. Likeunnaturalthings.
His bride-to-be had been no exception— though there had also been another scent clinging to her that he couldn’t place, something that had struck him as neither particularly naturalorunnatural. Something that made him uneasy.
But then again,mostof what had taken place at that bridge had made him uneasy.
They were at least twenty miles from that human kingdom now—already well past the Veil that separated their realms— and he was only just starting to breathe normally again, and to relax the tension from his muscles.
Their carriage bumped along. The brothers were silent for several miles, until Deven, who was never content with silence for long, cleared his throat and said, “Ah, but we’re almost back to the Solturne border—and better smells— thankfully.” He looked to Tarron, clearly expecting his younger brother to offer his opinion on the matter.
“Yes,” Tarron said. “So we are.”
Tarron’s gaze shifted to one of the windows of their carriage, to the slashes of countryside that were visible through swaying curtains.
They were rolling over the Bloodroot Fields, and the hazy outlines of the distant, hillside houses of Solturne’s Outer Ring were starting to take shape. When they were younger— and both of them carefree and overconfident princes— they used to make a game of trying to catch and ride the wild elk that roamed these poppy-strewn fields. A dangerous sport, but certainly not themostdangerous game they had played growing up.
Those games had all stopped nearly a decade ago now, soon after the fateful night when the walls of the royal city had been overtaken by thebelegor. Those shadowy, shapeshifting beasts had been swiftly driven out, but not before one of them found its way into the chambers of the sleeping king and queen.
It had taken three days and a small army’s worth of servants to clean all of the blood from the walls and furniture.
The death of their parents had thrust Deven onto the throne long before he was prepared to take it, and there he remained.
So they couldn’t afford to play any other dangerous games now.
Not when they were already tied up in the ever more dangerous games of politics and crowns, of treaties and bargains…
“So it’s done, then.” Deven paused. Waited again for Tarron to offer his own commentary. When the prince remained silent, the king sighed. “Well? What do you think of your bride-to-be?”
“What should I be thinking, precisely?”
Deven huffed at the question. “What should you be thinking? What a ridiculous question! Think your own thoughts, my dear little brother.”
Tarron arched a brow. “Our subjects expect me to feel a certain way about the matter; you know this as well as I do. The marriage fulfills our side of the bargain. It continues Middlemage’s obligation as a buffer between our lands and Nocturne, and it will unlock my magic… these are the important things, and they are the only things that I amthinkingabout.”
“Yes, but how do youfeelabout her?”
“I don’t intend to mix my precious feelingswith my duties, thank you kindly.” He absently rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and touched the golden bracelet that was resting, smooth and cold, against his skin. It matched the one he’d wrapped around the princess’s wrist. “They’re irrelevant to most of our subjects, and therefore they’re irrelevant to me.”
“You should care less about what those subjects expect of you.”
“And you should care more.”
“Perhaps I will, one day,” said the king with a roguish grin. But they both knew he wouldn’t. Deven had never cared what his subjects thought of him. “But then again, I suspect my reputation is too far gone to save, so why bother?” he added with a quiet laugh.
The corner of Tarron’s mouth twitched as he fought off a frown. He cared deeply for his older brother, but sometimes…
Sometimes, he felt as if Deven had inherited the crown from their father, but that he himself had taken on its weight. And he also cared deeply about the lands that crown oversaw, which made his brother’s casual attitude all the more difficult to deal with.
His eyes fell on Deven’s hands. One of them had started to shake. The king subtly attempted to slide it into the pocket of his coat, but he moved too slowly; Tarron had already gotten a good look at it.
It was yet another part of their lives that was growing more dangerous by the day.
“Your illusion spell has faded,” Tarron said. The skin on his brother’s hand was terribly dark—almost black, rather than the pale grey color it had been for the past several months. “And how long has it looked that awful? It’s getting worse, I think.”
“It’s been a long day. I didn’t even think of it.” Deven waved the concern away with his unpocketed hand, as though it was an annoying fly that had slipped into their carriage. He clearly wanted Tarron to drop the subject.
