Ah, there it is. I almost smile at his predictability.
“No, it makes sense,” Gwenydd says, clearly seeing what I do. “We need two people to carry the harp.”
“ThenI’llgo with Brioc,” Taliesin counters.
“Except you and I make the better distraction. I’ll loose a few arrows to draw them out. Your ice can keep them busy after that.”
Taliesin rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t like this.”
“Why?” Gwenydd jerks her chin toward me. “Worried about her? She can kill people with a single word. She’ll be fine.”
“Excuse me,” Brioc cuts in with a laugh. “Don’t overlook me. I’ve got more kills to my name than any other rebel, and I don’t say that to brag. It’s just a fact.”
“He’s right,” Gwenydd admits sourly.
“Anyway, it’s my choice,” I say, arching a brow at Taliesin. “This plan is the best one we have. And the longer we stand here arguing, the greater the chance someone hears or sees us. If we’re doing this, we need to move now.”
“Fine,” he grinds out.
We spend a few moments discussing the details before Brioc and I move deeper into the trees. Night has fully fallen, and with it comes the scent of smoke mingling with the rising tang of Order magic, so thick it almost feels like a blow to the chest.
At least we know we’re in the right place.
I take slow and careful steps. Twigs threaten to snap beneath my boots and leaves strain to rustle when my elbow grazes them. It conjures an aching memory of all the times I lurked in the shadows while Osian fought the enemy. The kind of enemy who stands beside me now.
Guilt flickers through me. Not for turning my back on the Order but for all those rebels I condemned…or watched die. From the moment I met Rhian and the others, I thought they were different from those Osian and I tracked down. And theyare. But are the others truly as evil as I was taught to believe?Or, like so much else, was the truth about their violence nothing more than a carefully spun lie?
Orange glows through the trees. A horse snorts somewhere nearby, followed by a soft bark of laughter. The rich scent of cawl wends through the air.
The camp is close now.
Brioc and I inch forward and crawl into the bushes along the perimeter of the camp. Through the foliage, I spot the tent Gwenydd mentioned. It’s slightly larger than the others and crafted from fine silk. Useless against the northern chill and more ceremonial than practical. Knowing Seren, that’s exactly where she’ll have stored the harp.
Four Rhyfelwyr guard its entrance. Two I recognize from a few assignments we did together. They stand at attention, but their slack faces betray their boredom. One even yawns. A few others are scattered around a fire, heartily eating their stew with their sleeves rolled up and their weapons discarded on the ground.
Beyond them, countless tents wind through the forest, interrupted by clusters of trees and dense undergrowth. If these guards sense too big a threat, they’ll raise the alarm, and hundreds will come running. I can only pray to the stars Gwenydd is in position and follows the plan.
She should be watching us from her perch above. Any minute now…
I wait, my legs burning from crouching for so long. As I listen to the crackle of fire, the moments seem to drag by, like time itself has succumbed to lethargy.
An arrow suddenly whistles overhead and thuds into a tree only a few feet behind us. The sound rents the quiet, and every guard turns as one.
29
All four guards stationed outside the tent go rigid, their hands moving to their sword hilts in unison as they stare into the forest. A long moment passes where it feels like no one breathes, like the air itself is listening. The guards’ attention remains locked on the trees. Mine is locked on them.
Come on. Take the bait.
Another whistle sounds, followed by athunkthat echoes through the night.
I bite the insides of my cheeks, silently cursing Gwenydd. It sounds too much like exactly what it is: an arrow striking a tree. If the Rhyfelwr believe an enemy force is attacking, at least one of them will run for the adjoining camp where the king’s soldiers wait. Brioc and I can sneak past a handful of the Order. We can’t hide from an entire army.
One of the guards steps away from the others. He wears his silver hair cropped close to his head, and a matching tattoo swirls across the back of his neck and around his Order talisman. I know him as Maelor. Intelligent, skilled with a sword, and…kind. Well, kinder than most Rhyfelwyr have ever been to me, though that isn’t saying much.
“You two stay here,” he orders, pointing at the guards I don’t recognize. “Owen and I will check the woods.”
He and Owen disappear into the trees while the other two remain posted outside the tent, their eyes more alert than they were the moment before. Around the campfire, the others keep laughing, eating and drinking, like nothing at all has happened. Either they’ve missed the commotion entirely, or they don’t care.
