His chest and throat tightened, and he rolled his shoulders forward and back, trying to relieve the unsettled misery that skittered through him at the thought of leaving her forever. He needed to move, to do something, anything, that could take away that feeling.
He ignored the burn as he spread his wings and leaped into the sky, lifting himself with heavy beats. The long flight carrying Alanna in his arms the previous day had reopened some of the worst of the healing cuts and gashes and his muscles were cramped and stiff. But it was better than standing around, by himself, thinking.
He flew a long, slow spiral around the campsite before widening his circle into a sweeping arc covering miles of softly rolling hills and chalk ridges covered in a rich woodland of beech, ash, and yew. The flame-colored reds and golds spread out like a tapestry beneath him as the cool morning air whipped against his face.
He flew over narrow roads and small tracks, empty except for darting squirrels and a tiny spotted deer picking its way delicately between the trees. He made his way almost to the Great North Road where he landed and walked the final half mile, and then sat quietly in the deep shadows.
Occasional carriages and carts passed him by, but no great army, or team of military scouts disturbed the peace of the road. He flew up to the top of the tallest beech tree and stayed there, resting on the highest branch that would hold his weight, and stared long into the distance as daylight spread slowly over the woods and road. No clouds of dust revealed danger on its way.
Not yet.
Soon the king would be marching north with all his armies, looking for his war. And the Hawks would be directly in his path.
He could understand why Tristan had brought them here—the last place Ballanor would expect in the immediate aftermath of their escape—but they couldn’t stay.
He turned and walked back the way he’d come, finally lifting into the air and flying the remainder of the way. The brief earlier exhilaration of his flight sank under the weight of fatigued muscles and worry.
He landed heavily outside the campsite, tired and dirty and in desperate need of something to eat. Only to turn the corner and come face-to-face with the inevitable.
Alanna. Smiling and laughing. Her bare arms and willowy elegance on proud display, looking more like a queen than he had ever seen her before. Her slim hand was holding Rafe’s arm as she looked up at him with such appreciation and warmth that it took Val’s breath away.
And froze his broken heart.
Never, in all their time together, had she ever looked at him like that. And, in all those months, she had only willingly put her hands on him twice. Once, that first night, when she had begged him to keep her secret. And then, finally, standing on the dirt track, covered in the grime of Ravenstone, when she had held his hand. Right before she told him she didn’t love him and that he should leave.
He was done. He couldn’t bear it anymore. She didn’t want him, and he wasn’t going to stand around and watch her with anyone else. Tristan would have to figure out a plan by himself. Tor could help him.
He turned around and walked away, his appetite gone. He was wrong about waiting one more day, or even one more minute. It was time to go.
A soft voice called his name, but he ignored it.
He let himself into his tent and stopped, letting his head fall forward and his wings drop. He didn’t even know what he was doing there. The neatly tied bedroll, the folded blankets, even the clothes on his back—none of them were his. He had nothing. No possessions to pack, no home to return to. Nothing to hold him.
He could go, now, immediately. Take whatever scraps of his pride were left and set himself free.
He spun, ready to leave, and walked straight into Alanna, knocking her off her feet.
She had been so silent, or perhaps he’d been so lost in his misery that he hadn’t heard her come into the tent behind him. He hadn’t realized she was there, but now she gasped, flailing as she fell, and he reached out to catch her slim arms and pull her back to safety, into his chest.
He held her there, warm and alive against his body, her wide green eyes looking up into his, just for a second.
And then he leaped back, pulling his hands away in horror as if she’d burned him. And in some ways, she had.
They stood, staring at each other in silence as hurt flickered in her eyes. Well. What did she want from him?
She looked away for a moment, and then, seeming to gather herself, clasped her hands in front of her body and met his eyes. “Good morning.”
He sighed. She had put them right back to where they’d started. Polite and formal. Distant. He hated it.
He wanted to push past her and walk away, but he knew how the court had treated her for so long, how badly it had wounded her, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He nodded his head formally. “Your Majesty.”
She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, a spark of anger flickering in those luminous eyes. “Alanna.”
He had only ever called her Alanna once, and she had thrown it back in his face. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“What do you want, Your Majesty?” he asked roughly.
