Okay. Maybe Draylon, Rufe, and Yarif weren’t about to die after all, and their care implied their rescuers meant no harm—at least not at present. “Where am I?”
“I am charged with seeing to your wounds and comfort, getting you food and drink if you need them, but any other answers than what I’ve given will have to wait.” The boy lifted the bandages with deft fingers, humming as he worked. “No major signs of festering, but you’ll need another dose of herbs.”
He crossed to the hearth, swung out the pot crane, and poured some liquid into a cup from a pot suspended above the fire. “We’ll need to let this cool. I’m Bertham, by the way, but folks call me Bert.”
Bert placed the cup on a table by the bed, straightened the covers, fluffed the pillows, and pressed the back of his hand to Draylon’s forehead. “A touch of fever, but nothing my teacher’s concoction won’t cure.” Bert handed Draylon the cup. “Drink all of it.”
Draylon sniffed the contents of the cup. So that was the source of the herbal scent. For a moment, he worried about poison, but if whoever these people were wanted him dead, they could’ve left him in the snow.
He drank, then slumped back onto the pillow. It wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a few moments. When dawn broke, he’d insist on seeing Yarif.
Wait a minute! Had Yarif claimed to be King Niam’s cousin?
Consciousness faded before Draylon could ask.
Draylon woke with a start to find himself dressed in a nightshirt, sunlight streaming through glass windows. Glass? This was no mere cottage.
An attractive man with flaming red curls and green eyes sat in a chair by the bed. He appeared a few years older than Draylon, though no white yet showed in his hair. If Draylon introduced him to Rufe, Rufe would think him a present.
The good humor forming crinkles around the handsome stranger’s eyes teased up the corners of his mouth. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Or are you still pretending to be a lowly merchant?” The man’s Renvallian was cultured and refined, though spoken with a distinct lilt.
“Depends on who’s asking.” Standing, the man probably came no higher than Draylon’s shoulder, appearing more idle noble than a battle-hardened warrior. However, it paid to remain on guard.
“Ah, where are my manners?” The man stood, performing a sweeping bow. “King Niam of Delletina, at your service.” The king’s demeanor spoke of a casual visit, but no mistaking the two guards standing behind his chair.
“King… King Niam?” Had they been brought to the castle in Dellamar? Unless Draylon had lost all sense of direction, the capital lay a good five days away from their last known location. Father would never forgive Draylon for letting himself be found out.
“Niam, please, whenever I’m not at court. I escape to my country estate when I simply want to be Niam. Imagine my surprise when my guards discovered you in a deserted village nearby.”
“You know who I am?” Obviously.
Niam gave a rueful head tilt, returning to his chair. “I’m afraid your consort talks in his sleep while delirious from fever. Don’t worry. I’ve never been one to act without thinking. I’m certain you have good reasons for trespassing, and as soon as you’re ready, I’ll hear your confession.” Niam threaded his fingers together in his lap.
Diplomacy. Never Draylon’s area. Saying too little might be equally disastrous as saying too much. “My consort was kidnapped. I came after him.”
“Why not bring a retinue? I’m told there was only a handful in your party and even fewer now.”
No use in lying. “I’d hoped to slip in, get him, and get out. I don’t want any territorial disputes. I just want my consort. Besides, we weren’t sure it wasn’t by your order that he was taken.”
Niam pursed his lips, bringing his fingertips to his mouth. “You love your consort.”
Draylon wasn’t in the mood to share his feelings. “I promised to protect him.”
“You were certainly thorough in getting him back. My men found a dozen bodies, all wearing uniforms of the Delletina forces, and a few wounded. Not a single survivor spoke our language. Curious.”
“Not so curious when I believe they intended to kill Yarif, blame Delletina, and start a war.”
“A war. Oh, my.” Niam didn’t sound the least bit concerned.
“You said there were survivors.”
“Yes, therewere. They didn’t survive long after being found. No, my men didn’t kill them. They succumbed to their injuries.”
“I could have questioned them.”
“Perhaps we’ll find another survivor yet. I have my men combing the woods. We should get to know each other since we represent neighboring countries. Unlike others, I seek no wars, particularly not when peaceful negotiations accomplish far more, with less loss of life. Unless one dies of boredom reading over contracts.”
What a strange little man. Draylon folded his arms over his chest, fighting a gasp as his wound pulled. “I want to see Yarif.”
