The narrative took hold. Marin’s guilt shifted into a desperate pity.
“She is not well,” Marin agreed, clutching the gloves. “Out there alone… in her state… who will care for her?”
“We will,” Polan promised, squeezing the old man’s shoulder. “Fetch Kestrel and have Cook prepare a basket for him. The vintage brandy and his favorite travel foods. He will need his strength to bring our mistress home.”
Marin practically ran to obey, his despair transformed into frantic, grateful purpose.
He trailed a hand along the wainscoting. Once, this wood had been rotted, the estate drowning in his father’s debts. He had cut out the rot, polished the grain, and made it strong again. He did the same with people. He found the flaws, the cracks, and he smoothed them away until they were perfect extensions of his design.
Inside his study, the severe, perfect symmetry of the room never failed to ground him, but the order was broken. The top drawer was unlocked. The coin pouch was gone. He opened the bottom drawer.
The space in the corner was bare; she had taken the entire velvet box. But Polan’s eyes went to the parchment. It was skewed slightly, but intact. He smoothed it out with a reverent touch.
It was an ancient thing, vellum cracked with age—a map passed down through his family for six generations, detailing the forgotten pathways his family had been the first to chart.
He traced the route with a finger. By right, these should belong to his family. They had discovered them, yet others had misused them.
For generations now, the Spurs had held the kingdoms by the throat, bleeding the merchant guilds dry with their tolls, deciding who prospered and who starved based on their arrogant, unbending code. It was a tyranny disguised as a service. Polan intended to break it. He would open the routes. He would bring grain to the starving lowlands and iron to the coastal cities without the Spurs’ tax. He would be the liberator of the common man.
And naturally, as the architect of this new age, the governance of it would fall to him. It was only right.
But the map was useless without a navigator. The Old Ways were fraught with magic that devoured the unguided. He needed an heir with the blood of a Wayfinder—his blood, his name—to secure the route.
He leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow. He had thought this matter settled.
Only a week ago, he had found the contraceptive herbs hidden in her vanity. It had been a difficult night—painful for her, exhausting for him—but necessary. The correction had been severe; she hadn’t been able to get out of bed for two days afterward.
But as she lay there, recovering under his care, he had explained it all so clearly. He had wiped the tears from her face and told her of the starving families in the lowlands, of the children who would be fed by the trade route their son would open. He had made her see that her small, selfish desire to remain barren was hurting the very people she claimed to care about.
He had seen the understanding in her eyes. The quiet submission.
To run now, after he had opened his heart to her, after she had accepted the weight of their shared destiny, was baffling. It was a bitter disappointment. He was gifting her the privilege of being a pillar of the dawn of a new age.
He glanced at the ledger on his desk. He was due to ride south in two days to talk about the iron shipment—the second part of the plan, the men who would advance the revolution once he proved the route was viable. Gessa’s timing was inconvenient.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Kestrel.
The tracker stood there, unwashed and reeking of sweat. He didn’t bow. Polan allowed Kestrel his arrogance; it made him a better tool.
“Marin says the gelding is gone,” Kestrel said, his voice a gravelly rasp.
“Shadow,” Polan corrected gently. “And my wife.”
“Three days cold. Rain last night. Hard tracking.”
Polan turned, resting his hip against the desk. “If it were easy, I would have sent the stable master. I sent for you, Kestrel, because there is no one else in this region with the skill to save her from herself.”
He let the compliment land. Kestrel straightened and stood taller.
“She is unwell, Kestrel,” Polan said, weaving the net. “The illness… it twists her thoughts. She believes I wish her ill. She may tell you I hurt her. Wild tales.” He let a shadow of concern darken his face. “She has a locket—stolen, of course—and she may claim it was actually hers. She is a woman alone, vulnerable, with a mind that is unstable. I only want the best for her.”
Kestrel’s jaw tightened. Polan knew exactly where to press.
“Bring her back,” Polan said softly. “She is injured. She will be frightened. She may fight you like a trapped animal. She may scream lies about me, about this house. It is the fever talking.”
He walked over to Kestrel, invading his space just enough to assert dominance, holding his gaze.
“Do what you must to secure her. If she is broken, I can put her back together. I have done it before.” His voice dropped, draining of warmth, into pure, clinical instruction. “But Kestrel… the womb must be safe. The vessel is precious only because of what it will soon carry. Do you understand?”
