Gods. How had he spent so long wishing for his old life back instead of appreciating what he already had with the Hawks? How had he wasted so much time he could have spent with Keely?
The Hawks had joined him without hesitating. They would ride into the certain death of that narrow gorge with him. He’d been in mourning when his real family had been right beside him the entire time.
Tor cleared his throat. “Thank you. Both of you. That means—” He tried to find the words but couldn’t. “You are my true brothers,” he said eventually.
He brought his fist to his heart and bowed his head, honoring his brothers. They were all silent for a long moment as the wind whispered down the gully behind them.
He lifted his head and continued, “I can’t leave Keely, but someone has to warn Queen Lucilla that there is a fighting force building on her northern border. A force that, judging from that encampment, has discipline, military experience, and resources.”
He did his best to sound confident as he added, “And someone has to be here to meet us when I get her out.”
“I don’t like it,” Jos stated through clenched teeth.
“No one likes it,” Rafe said in a rough voice.
Tor nodded, agreeing. No one liked it. But it was all they had.
Jos reached out and shook Tor’s hand, his usually open face turned grim. “You are our brother too. Don’t forget.”
Rafe gripped Tor’s shoulder. “Do what you have to do. And stay alive. We’ll get help and come back.”
He dipped his chin in agreement. “I’ll do my best. And if you see the rest of the Hawks before I do—” He hesitated for a second. He wasnotgoing to admit that he might never see them again. “Tell the others thank you, for everything. And if Keely gets out without me, please look after her.” He met Rafe’s eyes. “Please look after them both.”
“Yes. Of course.” His friend nodded, no flicker of surprise in his eyes. “She’s our family too. They both are.”
Gods. Tor couldn’t have this conversation. It was killing him. He whispered a hoarse, “Thank you,” and then dug his heels into his stallion’s sides and sped away, leaving his brothers, possibly for the last time.
He rode hard over the ridge and then slowed as he reached the trees, walking the horse and raising his hands to show he held no weapons.
“I ask for passage!” he called loudly, praying they would let him get close enough before shooting, from curiosity if nothing else.
No one answered. But no one shot him either.
Within a few minutes, he was on a narrow path between tall, spiky pines, their sharp, sweet scent rising all around him. There was a still, heavy feeling in the wood. No birds sang. No small creatures scampered through the undergrowth. And it wasn’t only because of him.
They were watching him, and if he didn’t convince them to let him live, he would die within the next few seconds. He fought back the intense urge to pull out his greatsword and raised his voice. “I wish to speak with your leader—I have an offer for him.”
A second later, an arrow thudded into the soft carpet of needles two feet from his horse’s hooves. The stallion danced back, startled, and Tor fought to bring him back under control.
The arrow was fletched in black and carved with runes. Verturian.
Gods. Had Keely been taken by her own people? People who would love nothing more than to end the life of a man who had been one of the many soldiers who had thrown themselves against their border again and again. A man wearing the Blue of the royal guards. Was this how he would atone for taking so many of her people’s lives? By losing his own?
But if this was a Verturian fighting force, why hide on this side of the border? Why lurk down here surrounded by reivers and empty farmhouses when they could stay safely at home on the other side of the mountain passes and sweep down into the now undefended Brythorian moors when they were ready?
Or, if they were ready to leave their Verturian strongholds, why stop here? Why not simply continue the movement south and attack? It didn’t make sense.
He lifted his eyes to sweep the heavy gray-green branches of the pines. “I’m no threat to you. All I want is to speak to your leader. I can pay a great deal—although I have nothing with me, if you’re thinking you might kill me and take it now—or offer information.”
He didn’t have any wealth. The vast family holdings he’d been heir to were no longer his to claim. But they didn’t know that, and he had to start somewhere.
“What kind of information?” A voice demanded, far closer than he’d expected. Perhaps he’d been sneaking between the trees? “What, exactly, will you pay?”
It was a smooth, glib voice with a northern accent. A Brythorian accent. Had the Verturians in the camp recruited men from the starving northern towns?
Tor shrugged. “Why don’t you tell me what you want—that’s how negotiating works.”
“Why shouldn’t we simply kill you?”
