Page 166 of Given to the Black King

He stands among southern saplings in the black country, one hand on a crooked stake, glaring at the sky as if winter has personally challenged him.

“Tell them he waited,” I say. “The rest is politics, and they can read the treaty.”

Torgan feels the words through the bond.

His gaze meets mine.

Only the truth between us.

Maren nods.

“I will write it carefully.”

“Perr will check.”

“I assumed.”

The final sapling goes into the ground.

Torgan tests the stake.

“It leans.”

I throw a handful of soil at him.

It strikes the front of his black coat.

The court goes silent.

Torgan looks down.

Then at me.

His claws extend.

Maren takes one quick step away.

I run only around the first row of saplings, laughing while he comes after me at a pace deliberately slow enough to keep the trees standing.

He catches me beside the winter cherries.

One arm around my waist. Mud on both of us. His mouth at the bite.

The soldiers look at the sky.

The priest looks at the gate.

Maren laughs into both hands.

The new trees stand in two untidy rows, southern roots packed into northern ground.

All twelve survive the first night.

The following dusk, I find Torgan in the nursery wing.

The corridor has been shut for a century. Dust lies thick at the edges, but the windows are newly glazed. Fresh iron fastenings. New mortar around every frame.

He stands in the largest room with his back to the door.