“I had a few cousins who’d visit from time to time, or I’d stay with them, but that ended when I started school, where I met Rufe.”
Yarif turned his face away. “You and Rufe seem rather close.”
Time to address issues once and for all. If Yarif hadn’t heard the rumors, he soon would. “Rufe is my friend, my greatest friend. He’s seen me through good times and bad, always taking my side.” Draylon pulled in a deep breath. “Our relationship grew physical occasionally, but we never developed a true emotional connection.”
“And now? Does he resent me?”
“Why should he?” Yarif’s cringe had Draylon rethinking his words. “There is nothing between him and me but friendship.”
“Our marriage did that?” Yarif’s voice came out relatively small.
Draylon caught the reins of Yarif’s mule, bringing them both to a stop. “Yarif, I made vows, and though nobility usually doesn’t hold to fidelity, I intend to be faithful.” If only Draylon’s words erased the worry from Yarif’s eyes. “I like to think that what we’re building is far more than marriage in words only. Besides, over the past few days whenever I came close to Rufe your cousin growled at me. And I could’ve sworn your aunt was already picking out fabric for their wedding.”
Yarif’s lips curled ever so slightly. “She’s angry she didn’t get to plan our wedding. What about Rufe?”
“Rufe enjoys many lovers, but I think he might finally have met someone to capture his attention on more than a short-term basis.”
After a moment of stony-faced silence, Yarif chuckled. “Captain or not, if Rufe hurts my cousin, my aunt told me about herbs that kill with no traces.”
“I’ll be sure to pass the information along.” Draylon released the reins and resumed his place to the right of Yarif, easily slipping behind when the pass grew too narrow to ride abreast.
Snow still lay thick on the ground in many places, and they skirted the remains of the avalanche. The air smelled cold and crisp, making Draylon miss the salty spray of his homeland. They soon approached the exit to the pass. Yarif gave a huge sigh, the stiff set of his shoulders relaxing.
Riding a mule, in borrowed clothes, there was still no mistaking Yarif’s royal bearing. Draylon and Yarif would never have their own children, but what if they formally adopted the twins? They’d have not one heir but maybe two. Attitudes would have continued to change by the time Adrina came of age, possibly allowing a woman to hold power on her own.
Hadn’t Illa been promised a throne?
Illa. No, no thinking of her. Or of her connections to Yarif’s father and Draylon’s own. Or her connections to Craice. Draylon would focus on the mysterious message once he reached a safer environment.
The sudden quiet caught Draylon’s attention first, how the guards with them stopped talking, some with their heads cocked to the side.
The two in front turned, pulling their swords from their scabbards. A snick sounded behind Draylon, a third guard arming himself.
Draylon drew his sword. What was happening? Where was the threat?
Then the first guard charged, sword held high, too fast to register the situation. The man came right at Draylon, teeth bared, while the second charged Yarif.
Nearly as fast as the attack, Yarif leaped from his mule, rolling on the ground and coming up mere heartbeats later, knife flashing in his hand.
The guard behind gave a battle cry. Draylon barely turned in time to block his blade. Niam’s men turned on them? Was Niam behind this attack?
Maybe not, for one of the three remaining guards—who’d helped Draylon search the bodies—galloped by, ramming his fist into one attacker’s face.
Three guards against three guards, Draylon, and Yarif. Certainly not a bright move. The man fighting Draylon overbalanced, tumbling from his mule. His screams cut off abruptly. Okay, three guards against three guards, Draylon, Yarif, and a battle mule. The beast snorted, dancing away from the trampled man and bloodstained sludge.
No time to assess now. Draylon squared off against another guard.
“We don’t want you pitiful lowlanders here,” the man spat. “King Niam is weak to even think of allying with you.”
With that, he thrust his blade forward, catching Draylon’s shoulder scale through his cloak. The sword glanced off Draylon’s left scale, the momentum overbalancing the guard. Draylon slashed, bringing his sword across the man’s back.
The man screamed and fell. Two down. Draylon spun. The three friendly guards stood watching Yarif square off against their enemy. Why weren’t they helping? Let them not have turned traitor too!
But no, they stood in a loose circle, swords in hand.
Yarif’s opponent gasped for air, his movements sluggish. Yarif, having thrown off his cloak, simply danced away from each strike, tiring the guard.
Would he then move in for the kill? He hadn’t hesitated to kill his attacker in the snowy garden for all he appeared so delicate at times.
