Amarande’s first impulse was to tackle him, but she checked herself. Her fingers itched, ready to pluck her dagger from its sheath and bury it into his back before he sold them out, but that would be the end of a perfectly good blade—
“Ho, up there!” Taillefer called up to the second story of the gatehouse. Two faces peered out over the parapet. Amarande sank to the ground in the shadows, attempting to cover her exposed skin, which was so pale it seemed to catch the moonlight. “Word from the north tower—the prisoner is missing.”
“What prisoner?”
“The one guarded by Second Captain Pualo.” Taillefer gestured as if he couldn’t say the rest and had to be intentionally vague. “You know,thatprisoner.”
The guards looked at each other. And suddenly she understood the cleverness of his plan. It highlighted his observational skills—she hadn’t even said the guard’s name and title all together, and yet he’d managed to use Pualo’s predicament to his advantage. It would be wise not to forget this particular talent of Taillefer’s—everything she said or did could and would be used for his own gain.
“Told you she’d been reassigned,” one crowed, smacking the other. Amarande cringed. These guards were as green as an Ardenian spring. Inexperienced, raw, and much in need of Captain Serville’s guidance.
“Boys, not to upset your wager, but Pualo is injured and the prisoner is missing. We need you down here to aid in the search.”
“All of us?”
“Yes, all of you. Report to the north tower for further orders. Go, go, go.”
Amarande braced for them to question Taillefer on the prisoner’s identity yet again, but he’d played it correctly—no one knew anything but didn’t want to admit it.
Boots thundered down the steps and then whispered in a run across the flattened grass of the training yard. When the gatehouse door swung closed, the last boy lingered.
“We shouldn’t leave the gate unguarded,” he said, worrying his lip. “Our superiors would not approve.”
Taillefer didn’t flinch, answer at the ready. “I have been ordered to stand guard until the hunt has finished.”
“But shouldn’t we have more men up high? To get a better vantage point on the prisoner? Surely that point of view would help.”
A calculating look flickered across Taillefer’s face. He put a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m up there—in case the prisoner makes it out of the castle. But if you and the others keep the prisoner in the castle, I won’t have to be the last line of defense.”
“That doesn’t seem at all what the—” In the twitch of a moment, Taillefer’s free hand seized the guard’s dagger from the sheath at his belt, and sank it into the soft meat of the boy’s side. Taillefer’s other hand peeled off the guard’s shoulder quick enough to muffle his dying cry.
That’s when Amarande began to run. A straight shot, through the field, to the stable and the meadow’s juniper trees beside it. In another minute, she heard footsteps closing in behind her—Taillefer, sprinting full bore, bloodied dagger now stashed in his belt.
Perhaps Taillefer wasn’t just observant or a quick study but actually properly trained. She’d never considered that Renard truly knew how to use his ridiculously appointed sword, but perhaps she’d misjudged him. Or she’d surmised the dead prince’s skill properly and Taillefer’s talent with that dagger was an aberration, like almost everything else about this boy.
Whatever the case, Amarande wouldn’t dismiss what she’d seen, her father’s tenet sticking.
If you underestimate an opponent, you overestimate yourself.
Taillefer claimed not to be her opponent, but he was also not her friend—the tenet stood.
AMARANDEslowed as she neared the entrance to the stable, Taillefer on her heels. She unsheathed her sword and plastered herself to the side of the wooden structure, peering into the dim interior through cracks in the vertical boards. After making sure there was no movement within, they entered. Taillefer ran for the horse stalls, but she veered off to a door opposite the entrance.
“Where are you going?” he whispered, yanking a bridle off the wall.
“To change out of this. Ready the horses. Nothing too flashy.”
Amarande entered Luca’s quarters and shut the door tight behind her, ears and intuition ramping up for any sign of trouble. Because it was coming, no matter what.
Speed here was key. Amarande knew it in the forefront of her mind, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room that had been Luca’s home for so long, all the adrenaline from the escape fled.
For the length of a deep breath, she found herself suspended in amber, floating, surrounded by the presence of her love.
Pallet bed, neatly made with a quilt lovingly knit by Maialen, one of his foster mothers. Books borrowed from the Itspi library, stacked neatly beside it—Luca had a taste for poems. At the foot of the bed, a juniper-wood chest, stuffed with the warm woolens necessary to combat the cold Ardenian winters. Against the wall, by the single window, stood a scarred wooden wardrobe. She threw its twin doors open wide, revealing a set of cedar shelves, lined with neatly folded clothes.
Amarande grabbed a gray tunic, black breeches, and a worn leather belt to hold them up. Off came her prisoner’s shift, which she stuffed in the very back of the wardrobe. Amarande stepped into the breeches, tucked their extra length into the tall shafts of her boots—stolen from Pualo, along with a scabbard—and pulled the tunic over her head.
Closing her eyes, she couldn’t help but take a quick whiff of the shirt—one of his well-worn favorites. It smelled fresh and clean, like new hay and the mellow cedar of the wardrobe, but there, too, was the dreamy scent of the lavender oil he used on the horses.
