Taillefer unlatched his saddlebag. “Almonds, prunes, dried meat, horse bread, an extra waterskin.”
The princess’s saddlebags were full of a single waterskin and air. He’d packed both and had clearly given her the empty one on purpose. She’d been so focused on moving forward, she hadn’t interrogated him about it. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
“When you trusted me enough that I felt it right to share.”
“Taillefer, you are the most petty individual I’ve ever met.” She plucked his entire pouch of dried meat from the open saddlebag, tore off a heavy strip of it, and stowed the rest in her own bag. Chewing, she stomped toward the water’s edge. “If you don’t fill that extra waterskin, I will.”
Parchment crinkled as he unfurled her father’s map. “And ifyoudon’t want to tell me where we’re going, you must suffer my guesses as to the location in this vast wasteland of your Luca as we replenish our waterskins.”
Your Luca—that was the first time Taillefer had used her beloved’strue name instead of “stableboy”—and it caught her broadside. Her father had always taught her never to refer to an enemy by name and it was likely Taillefer had been exposed to a similar sentiment within the viper’s nest of the Bellringe, yet a drop of unease settled within her at his change in terminology. “The Warlord’s Inn.”
Taillefer crinkled the map pointedly. “Let’s see, given our early shot straight west along the line of plateaus and then our turn west- north-west and, well, the complete dearth of marked water sources, I’d say we’re currently at the Cardenas Scar, yes?” Taillefer was not truly looking for confirmation, but she grunted anyway. “Then the inn is… that way.” He pointed to the north and west.
“Yes, and it will be a long ride during the hottest part of the day, so let’s get our water and get going—”
The princess halted, smacked in the face by a sudden, putrid stench. Bastian struggled against the reins in her grip, planting his front feet and wrenching his muzzle away. Beside her, Taillefer and Balkan froze, and for once the prince’s lips opened but no words came out.
The Cardenas Scar was quiet, but it was not empty.
Bodies lined the creek bank—two, three… no, five—and two more floated in the shallow waters. No blood stained their sun-bleached clothes, no stab wounds obvious, no wounds at all. The toe of Taillefer’s right boot brushed against one of the corpses—a young woman’s. She wore the undyed roughspun of the Torrent, her golden eyes blank as they gazed sightlessly into the pitiless glare of the sun, her lips forever stretched open. In her clenched hand, a waterskin.
Taillefer knelt to her, unafraid, his gloved hands gently prodding for an answer as to what had happened. And though the princess did not know the natural arts as well as the prince, her father’s last moments, as described by Koldo, flashed before her mind.
A sip. A cough. Death.
“The water.”
It was all Amarande needed to say. Taillefer nodded, still examining the woman. “They’ve been poisoned. Recently.”
“How long ago? Based on…” She gestured to the woman’s state.
Taillefer stood. “A day, maybe two? The sun hastens things, but there is more shade here than most parts of the Torrent.”
The creek trickled along merrily without a definitive answer, butupon closer examination, fish floated on the surface—bloated and caught in the weeds. Snails and water snakes, even a Quemado Scorpion, too. Her preliminary guess was correct and the only question in her mind was if it was the same silent murderer that stole her father’s breath.
“Would the Warlord poison his own people?” Taillefer again unfurled his map. “There are only four marked water sources on this map. What happens if they’ve all been tainted?”
Amarande felt ill. “Control. That is what happens—eliminate access, and regulate safe sources and who is allowed to use them. In the Torrent water is everything. Control the water, control everything.”
Including rebellion.
“Let’s go. We need to get to the inn as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER22
FERDINANDdid not know what to do with himself in his new chambers—a vast maze of thick-walled rooms that had most recently belonged to the father he’d never met.
The quarters were a must after the coronation, the Queen Mother said, in the same breath that she announced she hated it all—heavily suggesting he adjust everything from the furniture to the sconces to make ithis.
Ferdinand wasn’t convinced the chambers could ever shed the presence of King Sendoa, no matter the changes—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to plaster over any trace of his father anyway. He liked the small finds—a jar of candied lemon peel squirreled away in the desk, satchets of sandalwood stuffed in pockets, the blocks of juniper berry soap stacked precariously by the claw-foot tub—that told him more about who his father had been than anything, or anyone, else in this place.
Still, having been raised in the wide-open spaces of the Torrent—no walls, no rooms, no prolonged shadows—the king found he could only stand to stay within the interior of his chambers for small amounts of time while awake. After more than an hour, the walls felt too close. Too stalwart. Too suffocating.
And thus, he was sitting, thinking, on his open-air balcony when his mother burst into his chambers unannounced, the three council members trailing in a clamor of staccato footsteps.
Without preamble, Geneva located him outside and thrust a wax-sealed scroll into Ferdinand’s face. “My king, read this immediately. It just arrived from Basilica.”
“Basilica.” Ferdinand squinted at the parchment. “Not Pyrenee?”
