She usually bedded down under the hollow of a tree and tried to ignore the smell of something rich and meaty drifting from the Tsaftown camp—she hadn’t packed enough food either. She desperately needed to purchase supplies from somewhere but worried that if she left sight of the army, she might never find them again.
And poor Bart! The horse ate constantly—grass from beneath trees or spindly branches. Yet Mistel could now see a few of his ribs through his thin brown coat. Could it be that the cold weather was making him hungrier? Or perhaps the dying grass simply wasn’t enough.
She should have thought through her plan more thoroughly before she’d stolen—ahem, borrowed—the horse and ridden north. But how was she to know that adventure this time of year could be so wretched?
She simply needed a hot meal, a warm bed, a stable and hay for Bart, and for Cole to take one long, stunned look at her, shake his head with that exasperated little smile, and admit that she was brilliant for coming along. Maybe kiss her hello.
Then everything would be fine.
A great deal of time passed before Mistel, Lysander Thane, and Cerdic Ironblade met up with a larger group—more than two dozen. A handful of soldiers made small talk with her, and she repeated her story about visiting her sister in Tsaftown.
Well, at least she could no longer complain about being bored, yet now her nerves tipped on the point of a needle as her gaze darted from one soldier to the next. She’d completely lost sight of Lysander Thane and his bearded companion. No sign of Cole or Kurtz Chazir either.
Up ahead, three soldiers broke into a bawdy drinking song. Mistel had to bite her tongue to keep from joining in as her voice would completely betray her.
A soldier rode up beside her and extended a bone-carved flask. “You look like you’re about to freeze solid,” he said. “A sip of this’ll chase the chill away.”
Mistel forced a tight smile. “I’d better not. If I like it, I’ll drain the whole thing, and you’ll hate me for it.”
The man chuckled and tucked the flask away. “Suit yourself.”
Mistel glanced north, where the snow-capped Chowmah Mountains loomed like a warning. Somewhere between those peaks and where she sat on Bart’s back, Cole was riding his horse Cherix, maybe playing his lute and singing songs she’d helped him write.
They were still too close to civilization for her to make herself known. Lord Livna might send her back to Mahanaim or even Allowntown. No, for now, she’d linger at the back of the line, pretending she belonged.
Pretending she wasn’t afraid.
Because even if she’d told herself she didn’t need anyone, she wanted to be with Cole. His kindness, his thoughtfulness, his irresistible grin, his companionship…
Something tickled above her ear. She shook her head, then winced as the tickle became a bite. She rubbed the spot, annoyed that on top of everything else she might be ill.
Achan Cham.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
Oh. Oh no.
The king was bloodvoicing her—using his magic to speak to her mind.
She recalled Sir Caleb’s lessons on how to shield and concentrated, but the uncomfortable ache in her temple spiked.
King Gidon.
Dash it! She supposed she must answer. How could she not? What did it matter that they had been childhood friends? He was her king now.
She tugged Bart’s reins and fell behind the soldiers. “Yes, Your Highness?” she whispered.
Mistel, Achan said to her mind, you stole a horse from my stables.
Thunder and rats. “No, Your Highness. I only borrowed Bart. I’ll, uh, bring him back.”
When might that be? he asked. Noam tells me you’ve been gone well past a fortnight.
“Well, I’m not sure,” she said.
You’re not sure. I can only guess you’ve followed Cole. Was it his idea?
“No! Of course not. He doesn’t know I’ve come. I, uh, wanted to surprise him. He would have said no, otherwise.” Had said no. Emphatically, actually.
