“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“I don’t need you.”
“I promised Nim. And even if I didn’t, this is where I want to be.”
Val didn’t know what was worse. Wishing they wouldn’t leave him or wishing that they would. He rolled to his side, putting his back to Rafe and dislodging the healer’s hand at the same time. The soothing warmth evaporated, but he simply closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders. It wasn’t his first night sleeping where strangers could watch him.
And just like that, his eyes opened again.
It took long minutes, listening to Rafe’s quiet breathing, the low murmur of Nim and Tristan talking outside the tent, the familiar camp noises, people cleaning up and men going on watch, before he slowly sank into a restless, nightmare filled half-sleep.
By the time he finally opened his gritty eyes to soft early morning light, Val was almost glad that he didn’t have to try and sleep anymore.
Rafe was asleep in his bedroll nearby, snoring gently. Val damped down the urge to groan in case he woke the other man and pushed back the blankets so he could creep out of the tent.
He stood for a moment and stretched, working all the abused muscles that had tightened during the night. The lacerations on his abdomen itched like fire ants beneath the bandages, but that was probably a good sign, and his hot-cold shivers from the night before were completely gone.
His throat felt dry and aching, as it always did now when he woke, but otherwise he felt fairly clearheaded for the first time in days. A reluctant ripple of gratitude toward Rafe and Nim for their unflagging care swept over him.
Dawn had broken, and birds sang to each other in the trees around the camp as Val picked his way over to the fire. There was movement in the tents around him, soldiers too used to campaign to spend time asleep after dawn.
Even though they were all mercenaries now. Because of him.
He shook the thought off before he could follow it too far. He didn’t want to have to be grateful to the assholes.
Jeremiel sat on a fallen log next to the fire, eating something off a tin plate, and he looked up to watch Val as he neared. His purple-blue eyes were bruised with exhaustion, his red hair standing in spikes at the back as if it had been repeatedly tugged, and Val vaguely remembered Rafe saying that his brother planned to go back to the city during the night.
Val sat down next to him and quietly watched the small fire dance in the light breeze, giving the other man a chance to finish eating.
By the time Jeremiel had finished his last mouthful and set his plate aside, Nim and Tristan had emerged from their tent. Gods. He didn’t want to know.
He ignored them and focused on Jeremiel. “Did you learn anything?”
“They’re holding her in the Constable’s Tower.”
Val nodded slowly. It was probably a good thing. Better than holding her in the king’s rooms, anyway. Although… fuck, his mind filled with every kind of horror that could befall a woman in the cells, never mind just how bloody difficult it would be to get her out of there, and he physically felt the blood draining from his face.
“Sorry.” Jeremiel ran a tired hand down his face. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”
“No. It’s not… I mean, she wasn’t safe inside the palace either. The problem is how fucking difficult it will be to get to her in there. When they had me in there, before they moved me to the Great Hall, it felt pretty impenetrable.”
“Gods, I still can't believe he did that to you.” Nim’s voice was a rough whisper as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed him hard.
Val let her hold him for a moment, and then gently unwrapped her arms and made space for her beside him on the log as Tristan sat nearby.
Tristan glanced at Nim and then met his eyes. “Val, we’re all sorry that we doubted you. And we want you to know that we’ll do whatever we can to get your princess safe.”
Val shook his head, needing to clarify. “Not mine. Never mine.”
He didn’t know what else to say. Or what to think. He had woken that morning fully expecting to walk back to Kaerlud alone. And probably die there. And with Alanna being held captive in the Constable’s Tower, that plan didn’t look likely to change.
But Tristan was still speaking. “Our last few run-ins with the Blues have highlighted some major weaknesses that we think we can take advantage of. They will need to move Alanna eventually, and when they do—”
“Actually,” Jeremiel interjected, his face pinched, “the whole palace is in an uproar since Grendel’s death. Ballanor has gone completely insane. I mean, insane enough that people are talking. Several members of his retinue have been thrown out of the palace. He shot Grendel’s hounds with a crossbow. Furniture and paintings have been smashed. And,” he lifted sad eyes toward Val, “he’s announced that Queen Alanna will be executed today at noon.”
Today. At. Noon.
Noon.
