Please let Yarif be there for them when needed.
After one final look in the mirror, he plastered on the smile normally reserved for formal dinners, then slipped from the room, pausing in the doorway to observe the twins returning to their play. He smiled more genuinely this time, ignoring the guard standing inside the room.
The children would be all right as long as they had each other.
And Yarif.
One guard stepped away from the other side of the door, leaving another. The silent guard fell into step behind Yarif.
No smiling now. Not when facing the beginning of the end.
When Yarif reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to his escort. “I was told to wait here.”
A stranger approached, flanked by guards, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. Wait! Was that… “Captain Rufe?” Dressed casually, he could pass for a local if not for the dark hair and complexion. He must have stolen clothes from some nobleman’s abandoned quarters.
Thievesand barbarians. Judging by the cloying cologne—that assaulted just as surely as any sword—Captain Rufe had appropriated Lord Farren’s belongings. Yarif had nothing against the wearing of scents. Marinating in them? Another matter entirely. But at least Captain Rufe didn’t smell of rank sweat like many of the guards.
“I’m flattered you remembered.” Captain Rufe bowed.
He shouldn’t be flattered. Yarif had cursed him in six languages. The captain straightened; pinched face contrite. “I do apologize, but protocol must be followed.” To his guards, he said, “Gently.”
His two guards approached, patting Yarif down like some common criminal. Rage boiled in Yarif’s blood. After a moment of patting, the two faded back.
Neither noticed Yarif’s hairpin.
Captain Rufe offered his arm. Yarif ignored the gesture. The captain took the hint, dropping his arm back to his side. Yarif wasn’t some debutante at a ball who needed escorting to the dance floor. Nor would he pretend he’d agreed to this travesty.
“Aren’t prisoners normally put into shackles?” Yarif growled.
“I’m afraid they’d clash with your attire.” Captain Rufe flashed a bit of dimple and gestured down the hallway.
Yarif crossed his arms over his chest. “Where are we going?”
“It seems our dear commander made a friend in the kitchens who suggested you might like to dine in the rose garden.” Captain Rufe’s attempt at a charming smile did nothing for Yarif. Oh, to have his rapier…
But… a friend? Could he mean May? Yarif must speak with her—loudly. “The rose garden.” A pit opened up in the bottom of his stomach. His mother’s favorite place. Many afternoons they’d spent there, him with toys to play with and she with a book.
Captain Rufe’s smile fell. “Was she mistaken?”
“No, I love the rose garden.” So, Commander Draylon had spoken to May. How dare these beasts corrupt Mother’s memory by invading her sacred place! How dare May make such a suggestion!
Wasn’t there a God of Revenge for the commander? And a God of Hearth for May?
The captain’s smile returned. He turned down the hallway, gesturing Yarif ahead of him. Yarif hated exposing his back to someone who might plunge in a knife. His shoulder blades itched. Still, he led the way to his late mother’s garden, three guards trailing behind. The stained-glass door stood open, letting in a breeze, which sent Captain Rufe’s overpowering cologne downwind.
Commander Draylon rose from a small table. Like the captain, he’d dressed casually in Renvallian style. Whose wardrobe had he plundered? At least he hadn’t doused himself in scented oils. “I’ll take it from here, Rufe.” Commander Draylon extended his hand. “Please, be seated, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty. The commander acknowledged Yarif’s position, however tenuous.
How odd to be treated like a guest—or glorified prisoner—in his own home. Yarif sat, as did Commander Draylon. Captain Rufe smiled, coughed into his fist, then turned smartly on his heel and returned into the castle. Two guards remained by the door, along with the third who’d taken it as his personal mission to dog Yarif’s steps.
Two glasses sat on the table, glinting golden in the fading sunlight, betraying the plan. Wine, dine, then rip Yarif’s world apart. Maybe he’d get lucky and wind up poisoned.
Only, who’d take care of the children?
Knots twisted together in Yarif’s stomach. He sipped the wine. Hmm… surprisingly good. “I don’t recognize the vintage.”
“It comes from vineyards in the mountains of Herix.”
