“In her prime, Mother could have eliminated an entire town without even leaving her bed,” Gennady quipped from his chair, but went quiet after.
“Would you like me to send guards?” Jesstin eased some when he realized that was her reason for coming. “I can have a dozen ready within the hour. I’d need until morning to gather more though.”
“No, Jesstin. I would like you to meet them outside the village and escort her home yourself.”
Jesstin choked on an uncomfortable laugh. “Me? If there’s anyone the people of Riverchapel hold in less esteem than your daughter or Considine, it’s the bastard without even a proper name.”
Esmeray’s veils shimmered as her head shook. “You wield the power of both Skylark and Edevane. People may turn their noses at you, but they would never touch you. They fear you. Your fathers are the two most powerful men for many, many miles. Together, they may even hold more power than Lord Quinlanden himself.”
There was no together for archenemies Mathias Skylark and Sestinn Edevane, and he considered neither man his father. “My birth father hasn’t been steward for almost a decade, Baroness. It’s his eldest son who runs Oldcastle now.”
“But Sestinn’s power has never diminished. Even you know this. He conspires against Theocratin, brokering his own deals from the shadows.”
Jesstin sighed, not because it wasn’t accurate but because he wished it were not.
“It needs to be you, because what I say is true. And I trust you as I would my own son.” Her chest shuddered.
Jesstin’s stare burned a hole in his desk in his avoidance of Gennady’s attempt to grab his attention.
“Please, Jesstin. I will ask nothing else of you. I need my Ellie home. I need her home safe. And I know you wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her because you’re like family to the Hawthornes.”
“She always was too sentimental,” Gennady muttered. “Just... go. Do as she asks. It’s the least you can offer her. And me.”
Jesstin felt no debt to the dead man who had turned him into a murderer, but he was loyal to Esmeray, because she’d always been kind to him and was all alone, save for that ne’er-do-well stable hand. Elloven’s arrival would ease that, which helped Jesstin too.
“I’ll go,” he said on the end of a resigned exhale. The deafening racket outside his door never ended. He loved the sound of morality’s contours crossed, over and over. Joy, however bought, however momentary. There was no room in Mythgarde for conscience and consequence. It was home to him, and after he did right by Esmeray, it would still be there, waiting, and behind him he could leave the restlessness he’d felt all day. “I’ll do what I can. But I think you’re mistaken about me and any authority I might have.”
Esmeray leaned in and gathered both of his hands again in her shaking ones. It struck him suddenly how much he missed his own mother, whom he didn’t remember. Every detail etched into his memory had been lovingly placed there by Rhiain. His only image of his mother had been constructed from her portraits scattered around Riverhelm Citadel.
“I think you’re mistaken about yourself, Jesstin. But it will not be me who convinces you.” She kissed his hands. “This mother owes you a great debt.”
Gennady shoved away from the chair and stormed out.
“You owe me nothing, madam,” Jesstin said distantly, already crossing the town gates in his mind.
If he was going to successfully intercept Elloven’s carriage before the villagers tore it apart, he couldn’t waste another second.
The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could put Elloven Hawthorne Quinlanden out of his head.
Chapter 2
Indifference Is the True Weapon Against Fear
Taven pressed his interrogation the entire harrowing ride from Whitechurch, but Elloven was in no mood for questions he already knew the answers to.
Yes, she killed her husband and his four friends.
No, she didn’t know precisely how.
No, it didn’t matter. They were dead.
No, she would not tell him about her years of isolation, neglect, and torture.
And yes, her feelings for him, for the man who had been protector, friend, and lover at varying points in her young life, were undeniably complicated.
She counted his questions. Twenty-eight in total.
They’d snuck out of Whitechurch by blending in. Taven had draped his cloak over her, and they pretended she was his son, which had been surprisingly effective due to how she disappeared under the bulky fabric. They’d cleared inspection at two checkpoints because Taven had had the foresight to attach a wagon to the carriage and fill it with fresh fruits and vegetables, many of them too expensive for the average citizen. She’d hidden at the bottom of a deep crate full of cabbage while he told the guards he was making local deliveries for the gentry. Hassling him had seemed more trouble than it was worth for guards who’d been pulled from their warm beds, so they’d waved them through.
