The Withered behind him stepped back, parting to reveal a small camp just barely visible inside the trees—tents, horses, the faint shimmer of a campfire’s flame.
Rydian’s hand brushed my arm, a silent warning.
Callan caught the motion. “You’ll be safe enough,” he said smoothly. “Unless you intend to start a war in what’s left of my kingdom.”
What’s left?
“And your companions are welcome to refreshment and a warm seat beside our fires.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” Rydian said.
“No,” Callan agreed, “but I think we both know Aurelia makes her own decisions. I only ask for a conversation with her.”
The tension between them didn’t diminish in the ensuing silence. I glanced at the Withered gathered behind Callan. He must have promised them something in exchange for their help. Or, more accurately, in exchange for his own life. Whatever it was, they stood with him now. That meant something. At least until I knew what he’d promised them.
I exhaled. “Fine. You have five minutes.”
Rydian turned to me sharply. “That’s not wise.”
“It’s necessary.”
His jaw tightened. I expected him to argue, but he only said, “We’ll be close. Checking the perimeter for any kind of trap.”
“Of course you will,” Callan said dryly. “It’s what you’re good at—lurking on the edges of what’s mine.”
I glared at Callan. “Don’t push it.”
“Say the word, and he’ll have a scar across that mouth to match my own,” Keres murmured.
I shuddered at the utter conviction in her voice.
“That won’t be necessary,” I assured her.
She scowled and stalked off toward the fire.
Callan led me through the rows of tents, the Withered soldiers watching from beneath their hoods. Some bowed as we passed, but most just stared, their faces pale and wrinkled.
Vanya walked just behind me. An escort. A maid again. Or just a friend. Either way, I could think only of those last days in Grey Oak—when she’d been forced to report to the donation center. To give what should have been hers by right. Magic. Life force.
All of them forced to donate themselves.
My heart hurt for what Duron had taken from them. How Callan could walk among them now with his head up only fueled my anger on their behalf.
Callan’s tent stood at the center of the camp, larger than the rest, its canopy stitched with the golden stag of Autumn. Inside, warmth bled from a brazier that made me grateful and hungry for the heat it offered. My wet clothes were beginning to chill me to the bone though I refused to acknowledge it. The interior smelled faintly of mint and herbs, but it was different somehow than the scent that had always clung to Callan before.
He gestured to a chair. “Sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
He poured hot tea, the gesture smooth, habitual. Then he held it out to me. “Here. Drink.”
I hesitated.
He sighed then took a sip.
“See?” he said, holding it out a second time. “It’s not poisoned. Now, drink it. You look like a drowned rat.”
