“I was traveling,” Keira said distantly.
“Why don’t I pour you that drink, eh?”
She nodded, and Angus poured her a mug of ale.
Keira took a sip, the earthy taste washing over her palate. “Who oversaw… his final arrangements?”
The innkeeper sighed. “Well, that was a real problem for a time, as I recall. No one could collect possessions from his tower for the payments, you understand. Some magic, I suppose. Village undertaker waited a while to see if you or the lad who lived with you would show. What was his name?”
“Caspian,” Keira whispered.
“Right. But no one showed up, so he was buried in the village cemetery. It was a few months after that your Caspian came round and paid for a proper headstone. I suppose he has the money nowadays-”
Angus stopped short as Keira stared back at him in utter disbelief.
“Caspian is dead,” she said, her voice too harsh.
His brow furrowed. “Then a ghost wandered into my tavern.”
“He died in the Ogre Wars,” Keira added as if they were arguing, unable to temper herself. Caspian was dead. It was the terrible truth that had broken her heart, reshaped her life. To suggest any differently, to offer up that hope… It was too great an offense to leave undefended.
Angus let out a lengthy breath. “You left too soon to hear the news, I take it.”
“What news?”
“I guess he saved the prince’s life,” he repeated as if it was a common tale, as if he was amazed she hadn’t heard it before. “The crown gave him lands and title, few days north of here. They call him the White Knight now, Lord of- Well, I can’t rightly remember the rest. But I saw him here myself, dressed like a lord and all. Easy enough to recognize even so with that white hair of his.”
Keira stared back at him, mind blank.
“He asked about you too, I remember. Only no one knew where you’d disappeared to.”
“Caspian is alive?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The earth pivoted beneath her as time ran still. Her heart was going to explode out of her chest as she tried to quell the tide of hope swelling within her. It might not be true. He could be confused, mistaken, wrong. But it was no use. All her heart could sing washe’s alive.
Caspian
“Be careful,” Caspian called up the ladder. “The beam may be unsteady.”
Tristan’s shaggy blonde curls bounced as he nodded, testing the beam more carefully before he trusted his weight against it.
The thatching of the stable had collapsed in the storm the night before. It had flooded several bales of hay and left a damp layer over the whole floor. The stables now reeked of straw and mold and worse.
“You see the bit that’s come loose?” Caspian asked as the stable boy’s head disappeared into the rafters.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m handing up the thatch needle, ready?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s head poked back down.
Caspian raised the bucket of supplies over his head, and Tristan caught the handle in his outstretched hand.
“Lord Caspian!” Lionel’s voice echoed through the stables. “Sir! What are you-”
His steward’s eyes ranged from him to the ladder. He was wearing a blue doublet with silver trim, clean and creaseless as usual. His black boots were pristine and gleaming, as if daring the mud to sully them. Caspian surveyed his own appearance. He had shed his fine clothes hours ago and was now covered in sweat and straw and shit.
