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“Because I know you, Aiken. If you wished me to have the knowledge of your identity, you would have told me. But this?” She pats the cloak. “Very few could afford such quality. And tis one of four garments you sent. I do not understand.”

Nor will she, ever.

“We must go.”

Not waiting for her, I stop a passerby to ask directions to the blacksmith’s shop.

“That way, Father. Just to the left of the main gate.”

With a quick word of thanks, I breathe in the smell of damp earth with each step, hoping Hilla is behind me. Only after turning a corner, to ensure her safety, do I look back. She is there, still angry, but following me.

After she catches up to me, we walk in silence. The shop comes into view, smoke from its chimney signaling the smithy is indeed inside, and we continue toward it. Entering the building, we find a well-stocked workshop and fine weaponry hanging from poles stretched between the walls. Behind the forge stands a man just as Aedre described him. He looks, for lack of a better description, very much like a blacksmith from Murwood End. It is no wonder he’s produced a woman such as Lady Aedre.

Formidable. Like Hilla.

Do not think of her sacrifice now. It would not do anyone well to become angry once again.

Goddamn Bowes. Whitley. Cettina’s lady-in-waiting. And worst of all, her father. All but one of them, dead. They should be thankful for it as I’d send all three to their graves again for what they put Hilla through.

“Dal Lorenson?” I ask, pulling down my hood.

“Aye,” he says, looking between us.

“I am Father Aiken and this is Lady Hilla, Princess of Edingham.”

His surprise is evident.

“We’ve come with a message from your daughter.”

30

Hilla

“This reminds me of Crow’s End,” I say as we enter the inn. “With more sailors.”

“Voyagers,” I remind her, the term not always relegated to those who sail and trade from Murwood. Some use it for all those who live in this northern land. One not ruled by either kingdom.

“Do you see them?”

Aiken and I look everywhere, but there is no sign of Salvi or the other men.

“Nay.”

He removes his cloak, helps me to do the same, and places them on a metal hanger near the door before nodding to a table in the corner, Aiken’s most favorite position. Always separate, away from others. His caution kept me alive, so I should be thankful. Instead, I am becoming increasingly impatient with the reasons for it.

Telling myself that had it not been for Aedre, I’d still think Aiken an Elderman, and that he clearly has no intention to share any more of himself than is necessary, I still am unable to shake the desire to know more.

Dangerously, I’ve begun to think of a future beyond this mission. Tis difficult to imagine my life without Aiken in it. A silly notion if ever there was one. The man will not even share his true identity with me.

“Two meat pies and ale,” he says as we sit, the serving maid curtsying to me.

“Why does she curtsy?” I ask. We were quite clear with Master Lorenson. None should know my true identity.

“Your gown,” he says, “marks you as nobility.”

“Tis a fine gown,” I say, aware of my confrontational tone—I’ve held back for so many days, it seems I can do so no longer. “But I thought such stations meant little up here, in the north.”

“Hilla—”