Tristan glared at him as he wiped the tear away with his thumb and then lifted Nim into his lap and wrapped his arms around her.
Fuck. Now he’d made his sister cry.
And she was sitting in Tristan’s lap. He honestly didn’t know which was worse.
Val lowered his head, linking his hands behind his neck, elbows down, and closed his eyes, trying to breathe steadily through the pain in his head and the confused anger and guilt rioting through him. This was exactly why he needed to be as far away from other people as possible.
He took three slow breaths, got himself back under control, and then lifted his head and looked around the fire at all his former friends.
Nim was right, they were going to have to work together if there was any chance of fulfilling his promise and rescuing Alanna. He was going to have to swallow his hatred and work with the Hawks one last time before he was free.
And Tor was right too. That’s what everything came down to. Choices. He had chosen to try to save the queen. And somehow managed to sacrifice Nim in the process.
He’d been prepared to sacrifice himself. He had chosen Alanna, fallen in love with her. But she hadn’t chosen him back, and she had never loved him in return. And here he was again, faced with the same choice. Did he walk away and leave Alanna to her fate? Or did he put everyone at risk and try to save her one last time?
In the end, it was a question of honor. He had to do what was right and fulfill his promise. And if these men and women were going to go back into danger with him, then they had to make that decision for themselves. He wouldn’t ask for their help. They had to offer it.
First, though, they had to know the truth. The truth that he had kept from them, as he’d promised, and for their safety, all this time.
Gods. And look how well that had turned out.
He let his arms fall back down to his sides and started speaking.
Chapter Two
9 months ago—January
The winter wind was biting,and the mud was frozen solid on the parade ground. Even the officers’ quarters were bleak and freezing. Which was why Val had chosen to sit in the general mess room, packed with bodies and warm from the nearby kitchens, to sharpen his sword while he waited.
Tristan and the rest of the Hawks were making the most of the celebratory mood in the town and had ducked down to the nearest alehouse as soon as their squad of Blues was released from guard duty.
Everyone had expected a massive wedding, joyful celebrations, and general festivities. At the very least, some commemoration of the treaty. The war was over, thank the gods. Finally, they could stop throwing away lives on those bleak northern fields.
He had spent too long on campaign. Too long far from home, in the cold and dark and wet, hungry and exhausted. For what? For a generations’ old feud—turned to war—over the death of a Brythorian princess sent to Verturia to marry into their royal family. A woman who died soon after childbirth, like so many women had before and after her. Hell, King Geraint’s wife herself had died in the exact same way. What sense was there in blaming the Verturians? In waging years of war over something no one could have prevented?
It was a view that Val kept to himself. The war was popular with Prince Ballanor and his circle of cronies, and it would have been career suicide to disagree with the new Supreme Commander of the Black and Blues—the nickname for the combined cavalry and palace guards.
Prince Ballanor saw the war as a perfect opportunity to distinguish himself from his aging father, to forge his reputation, at the same time as dramatically extending his power and adding immeasurably to his wealth by taking control of the rich Verturian mines.
But if Val knew anything about people, the biggest benefit to Prince Ballanor, far more motivating than the money and the power, was the massive “fuck you” a win would send to his father, King Geraint.
The king had made no secret of just how little he liked his son. Constantly demeaning him and keeping him away from court for years. And, now that Ballanor was back, leaving him out of important council meetings and making decisions behind his back. Geraint couldn’t even look at his son without a vague sneer of disgust.
King Geraint was well respected; liked even. But the one thing he’d never managed, despite the many years of campaigning in the north, was to defeat the Verturians. If Ballanor, newly returned and reluctantly allowed the responsibility of command, had pulled it off, it would have been a dramatic, public slap in the face for the old man.
Val could easily understand why Ballanor was bitter that the war was over. Why the prince had fought so hard against the treaty Geraint had brokered. But even with the king and the prince’s acrimonious disagreement over the treaty, most people had expected that there would be festivities of some kind to mark the end of the war. Their soldiers were home. They could turn their attention to their own crops and industries. And there was still a marriage to celebrate, after all.
But the new princess had refused a public wedding. Court gossip told how she’d thrown a tantrum and refused to meet her Brythorian people, not even prepared to wave from a carriage. How she was spoilt and petulant and making the prince’s life a misery before the ink was even dry on the marriage contract.
Gods. It must be terrible to have to marry a sulky, pampered little wench just because your father said so.
Still, from Val’s perspective, a tiny, closed wedding made security significantly easier for the Blues to manage—less work, and infinitely less stress. With the added benefit that the excitement of the royal wedding, however subdued, had filled the city with talk of princes and princesses and royal love, and sparked lavish dreams of romance.
Which was why Val was sitting in the barracks while his friends were out without him. He had plans to help the new girl who worked in the barracks kitchens with a few of those romantic dreams. She was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and had the kind of full lips that gave a man ideas. Lots and lots of ideas. And she had been very clear that she had a few similar ideas herself.
He grinned as he pulled out a cloth and started polishing his newly sharpened blade. She would be finished her work in an hour, and then they could go on a little tour. Of his room. That should warm it up nicely.
He was just imagining the best ways to achieve warming them both up when there was a commotion at the door. Rough orders were barked, and there was a sudden flurry of soldiers abandoning their food and card games to stand to attention.
