The princess will save y.., p.30
The Princess Will Save You, page 30
Amarande settled in, Luca’s arms about her waist. She wished for the warmth of his chest at her back, but he kept his distance; the press of any weight against his wound would be too much. Their return to the Itspi would be just as she’d pictured it before they’d been intercepted by Renard—Luca to Medikua Aritza’s workshop first to disinfect and redress his wound. Then to the Royal Council to prepare for what was to come.
The ravine bled out into a mountain pass, where, if it were daytime, they could easily see for miles. But in the pressing dark, all they saw was the flicker of torches on the main road below—winding down from the Bellringe. It was the one they’d taken up to the castle and the one they would need to follow to return to Ardenia.
“The castle has sent a party out looking for us,” Amarande said. The others nodded. “They will alert the camps at the border and no road we take will be safe.”
“Good thing we have a ship,” Urtzi answered.
True, not that it did them any good.
“I’m afraid it can’t help us much if it’s on the other side of the continent, Urtzi,” Luca said in his kind way.
“Luca, did you really believe everything we told you?” Ula asked, her eyes alight.
“Well, I didn’t really believe you had a ship at all, land pirates, but I’m giving Urtzi the benefit of the doubt at the moment.”
In response, Ula held up a small slip of paper. “We have a ship. We have the harbor receipt for the Port of Pyrenee. Which happens to be this way.” Ula pointed to a sliver of trail that went opposite the path that snaked through to the main road and the Pyrenee search party. Then she held out the slip so that Amarande and Luca could read the ink scratch in the moonlight.
It was truly a harbor receipt. Amarande smiled—yes, this was genius. “They can search every inch of these mountains, but they won’t find us if we’re on the water.”
Pyrenee would exhaust itself searching the mountains in vain before regrouping and declaring war—considering the political complications of what Renard was trying to achieve with the wedding, the stakes with the other players in the Sand and Sky in all-out war would be a delicate thing.
The princess pointed her horse for the Port of Pyrenee. “The ship. The water. The Itspi. And then revenge.”
CHAPTER
53
BUT it wasn’t that simple. Of course it wasn’t.
Obtaining the ship wasn’t the problem—Ula’s slip and one diamond from Amarande’s pouch did the trick.
No, it was after all that. By the time they’d loaded the horses, resupplied the food, water, and oats, and shoved out of the harbor, it was past midnight.
Under the stars, the ship, called Gatzal, angled toward the Divide—a waterway with sheer cliffs on either side. On one side, Pyrenee and the continent of the Sand and Sky. The other, Eritri and the mass of endless mountains beyond.
The waters here were so deep they seemed to well from the center of the earth itself, this gash drawn straight through a mountain range, doubly deep as it was tall. As if the stars in their wisdom had plucked up a dagger and carved straight through the face of the world, cleaving out an eye, blade dragging on bone.
Exhaustion hit Luca fast, the pain catching up as his adrenaline fled. The princess and Urtzi led him to the ship’s captain’s quarters. There, safely resting in an actual bed, Amarande undid his dressings and applied clove oil Ula had squirreled away, and he was out in five minutes, resting his head in the princess’s lap as he had done in Naiara’s carriage.
After a few minutes, Amarande gently propped him on a pillow and excused herself to the wash bucket, eager to finally remove Renard’s blood from her dress.
Even when the blood was gone, she knew she’d feel it, the weight of her first kill sinking below the stain to the silk and her skin. If she blinked too long, she could still see the look on Renard’s face when the knifepoint made contact—the shock, the recognition of what could not be undone.
Amarande had only made two passes with the rag, getting nowhere on the golden silk, when Ula appeared at her elbow. The girl’s face was drawn and serious in a way it hadn’t been even when she was fighting for her life. The joy of battle wasn’t there, but instead another thing entirely. Apprehension? Worry? Or perhaps … hope?
“I have something you need to hear.”
Amarande nodded and Ula didn’t hesitate, leaning in, her voice low and flaring with her eyes.
“Princess, believe me when I tell you I do not say this lightly … the ink on Luca’s chest? It’s the sign of the black wolf—the Otxoa.”
The princess stilled—movement, blood, breath.
The five points of ink bled into her vision. She’d always thought it a funny star, poorly drawn on a wiggly babe.
But now the face of the wolf she’d seen on the plateau pushed through, features lining up with the collapsed pentagram. Snout, jawline, ears.
Amarande’s lips parted, but no words escaped.
“I do not share this to raise your hopes, as mine are already to the stars.” Ula’s voice rushed with barely a breath drawn between words. “But there have been rumors for a long while now that the Otxoa had one final son before it all fell apart. No one ever saw the child or could confirm it, but … ink like that has had the same meaning for a thousand years. I believe Luca to be the Otsakumea.”
Something shot through Amarande at the word, her breath catching, as her mind scrabbled at Ula’s words. No. It couldn’t be. Her lips barely formed the words, her eyes shooting from the dark windows of the captain’s quarters back to Ula. This girl she now trusted with her life. “The wolf cub?”
“Yes. Torrence’s rightful king.”
From stillness, Amarande’s body jolted back into working order. Her heart quickened its pace, her head suddenly light. Maybe this was why her father had never healed the Torrent. It wasn’t that her mother was the Warlord—though the woman in the shadows of the Warlord’s camp still stuck in Amarande’s mind—it was that he’d been shielding the rightful ruler of Torrence all these years. Giving him lessons on reading, allowing him to learn to fight. Maybe this too was why he hadn’t worried over changing the laws of succession. Because he believed by the time Amarande was ready to rule, someone she loved like family would be a ruler himself.
The princess felt this like a truth, as tangible as her pounding heart. Her father was wise and never shortsighted.
“Does he know?”
Ula shook her head. “I haven’t told him. But there’s an underground movement of those who want to reinstall the family. I could connect him and challenge the Warlord’s rule.”
The clarity of what this meant hit Amarande in that moment. It was a long road, but the change it could bring … King Sendoa came to her again: Survive the battle, see the war.
The princess was bone tired, but suddenly she was ready to run, to go, to fight.
“We could heal the Torrent,” Amarande whispered, words gaining steam with each breath. “And give Ardenia a powerful ally against the wrath of the Pyrenee and the greed of the southern kingdoms.”
And, no matter the law, she would have her prince and love in one.
EPILOGUE
THE Itspi without its king or princess was a quiet place. In the days following the funeral and all that came after, the visitors fled, the soldiers, too, leaving a skeleton crew of those who only circulated at the most intimate levels of the castle.
The maids. The cooks. The council.
Those left waiting for word, going about their duties in an anxious daze, every unexpected sound an imagined threat of war on the Itspi’s doorstep. The Warrior King was still lying in state, rotting away and unable to defend what he built. Even his swords were gone and missing.
But one morning, the silence bent toward a low hum until the whispers rose to deafening.
At the gates, a rider swaddled in the copper exhale of the Torrent.
It wasn’t the princess, or even Prince Renard or his minder, Captain Serville. No, it was someone else, surfaced from the abyss of absence.
Slight form. Dark hair. Blue eyes.
They knew her in an instant, though it had been fifteen years.
The Runaway Queen.
“I request to see the Royal Council. Now.”
The north tower sprang to life, no hesitation. Satordi, Garbine, and Joseba were summoned from breakfast and straight to the council room. General Koldo, back to report from the front, was summoned as well, this visit more than falling under the duty of her regency.
The Runaway Queen was already in the room when the council entered, her riding gloves plucked off as she examined the scrolls left upon the council table—marriage contracts.
“It’s no wonder my daughter ran off—these stipulations are ridiculous. A military state in Ardenia until a male heir is born? She’s sixteen and she’s been signed away as a broodmare with war on her shoulders.”
The council scooted around the table. On gestured orders from Satordi, Joseba scooped up the scrolls and removed them. The Runaway Queen smiled. Satordi met her expression with something of his own, filled with brisk annoyance yet reverence—because the last time they were in the same room, this woman had worn a crown.
“Geneva, my lady, you forfeited your title long ago. Therefore, if you will excuse me, I will not address you as Queen.”
She was Domingu’s granddaughter by his third marriage and had been raised as a connection to be bought and sold. That upbringing sat heavy on her slim shoulders, and though she was as petite as her daughter, she had learned very early to hold a room as if it balanced on her palm. Her long absence hadn’t diminished that talent.
“Fine. I did not come here to discuss such trifles.”
“Yes, why are you here, my lady?” Satordi pounced. He liked to claim ownership of meetings in this room, even ones he did not call.
“I came to discuss succession. My daughter is missing, yes? You can confirm this news?”
“Princess Amarande is missing, it’s true, my lady.” Satordi bristled. They were teetering on the abyss of a dead line, and he didn’t want this woman who’d abandoned her station and her kingdom to believe she stood a chance. If that was what she’d come for, she would be sorely disappointed. “Until the princess returns and marries for her crown, General Koldo is regent. The general is within the Itspi and is on her way here, though I’m not sure it’s necessary to continue, as there is no need to discuss succession with you—”
“Permanent succession is indeed a discussion I wish to be a part of.”
Satordi sucked in a stiff breath and launched into a more pointed statement.
“I apologize if you came all this way—from wherever you were—to discuss this, because there may be a misunderstanding on your part.” Here, he stood, the implication clear—he was about to come around the table and escort her out. “My lady, a woman cannot rule on her own, as you know, and you have not the blood for this crown.”
Geneva didn’t move other than to grin again. “I don’t, but he does.”
The council room doors opened and in came General Koldo, donning fresh garnet and gold, and on her arm … a boy.
Sunset hair.
Green eyes.
A body built for battle though he’d yet to sprout a beard.
Satordi’s breath died out and his eyes swung to Geneva, who stood much taller than she had right to, a little smirk about her lips. The other councilors stilled to stone in their seats, and Satordi’s knees locked to keep him upright as he asked the necessary question: “Did you have a son with King Sendoa, my lady?”
“No, but she did.”
Geneva gestured to Koldo.
“General?” was all the lead councilor could force himself to ask. Behind him, he heard Garbine mutter, “A bastard?” under her breath.
Koldo lifted her chin, as proud as ever. “This is Ferdinand, my child with Sendoa. Born more than fifteen years ago. I had him while on injury leave at the Itspi. The king was on the front, aiding Pyrenee as they fought an invasion by the Eritrians.”
The Divide Conflict—where Sendoa was when his young queen vanished. The council knew what was coming next. The pieces were falling into place.
The Runaway Queen drew in a deep breath. “Upon learning of his birth, I worried about my daughter’s place and future—mine, too. Sendoa loved Koldo in a way he could love no one else. His lack of marriage all these years is proof of that.”
Satordi found his voice. “Did he want to marry you, General?”
“He asked, but I said no. More than once. I always rebuffed him—at first because I didn’t want to be queen, and later because I worried my son would die if I did.”
All eyes shifted to Geneva for confirmation of the last missing piece.
“I wanted to protect my daughter, who wasn’t even a year old. I did not think of anything other than that. And, out of love, I did something horrible.” She paused and not a soul breathed. “I stole away Koldo’s child and fled from the castle. Blackmail literally in my arms, and my daughter’s claim safe.”
As Geneva spoke, the council shifted in their seats, eyes bouncing from her to Koldo to this boy who indeed was the spitting image of his father. His nose was like Koldo’s, and the set of his stance, too—pin straight—but there was no denying who this boy’s father was.
“I ran him to the stable, intent on stealing a horse. It was past midnight; the woman who kept the stable was awake, her toddler fussing. But I couldn’t have her tell the castle where I’d gone and what I’d done.” She lowered her eyes. “And so … I ensured she didn’t.”
The stableboy’s mother long had been thought to have succumbed to sickness, her body found blue in the face, her son tucked away in their shared bed. She’d had a cough since the day she’d arrived in refuge at the castle. The boy was quickly adopted by the Itspi’s other Torrentian refugees, and his mother’s death wasn’t interpreted as anything more than simply a tragedy, further speculation lost to the drama of the queen’s disappearance. The Runaway Queen looked away as the truth became plain.
“After the frenzy of escaping with this tiny baby caught up with me and I realized what I’d done—to the baby, to Koldo, to the stable woman—I nearly came back. I was eighteen and terrified of my own decisions.” Geneva’s eyes shot up, ringed in dark blue. “But the truth was what the rumors have always whispered since—I wasn’t happy in my arranged marriage. I wanted to find love. What I didn’t know was that my heart would be filled while raising someone else’s son.”
Satordi’s attention turned to Koldo. “Were you aware she had taken your child?”
The general nodded at once. “Yes. Not in the first moments, but when the queen was reported missing, it became obvious. Then the letters began to arrive.”
Koldo reached into her cloak. Then she presented a scrap of parchment, yellowed and frayed. She held it out so that it could be read but didn’t let go of it—or the boy’s arm.
Keep the princess safe, teach her to rule, allow her to be fierce, and your son will live. Fail her and you fail him.
There was no signature, but it was not needed.
Satordi looked up from the parchment. “Are there more?”
“There were, in need of cipher usually—but I’ve burned all but this one.” She paused. “Councilor, can I be frank?”
Satordi nodded.
“I—I’m not a sentimental woman. I can’t be, with my path in life. But I am a human being, and though I knew it was dangerous to keep this letter, I did. I needed to remind myself that what happened wasn’t just a dream.”
Here, Koldo turned to Ferdinand. Her face, hard with the experience of seeing war so close and so often, softened in a way that none of the councilors had previously witnessed—and Koldo had been by Sendoa’s side for more than twenty years. His favorite from her very first days in the yard.
After a moment, Garbine broke her silence. “General, you never showed your letters to the king? Or told him you’d birthed a son? Did he even know you were with child?”
“I didn’t tell him, but we all know he was not stupid. And this castle has eyes.”
That was true—and though Geneva hadn’t gone into detail, even she had found out quickly about the bastard in the general’s chambers.
“Those eyes did not inform this council.” Satordi looked to both women now. “Who knows?”
Geneva’s jaw stiffened. “It matters not—you’re diving into long-dead weeds, Satordi. What matters now is that my daughter is missing, and though I am begging the stars for her safe return, Ardenia needs a ruler. A permanent one, or invasion isn’t just possible, it’s footsteps from happening—Koldo has seen it herself.”
The general nodded, gravely. “Before returning to the Itspi, I personally dispatched soldiers attempting to poison the water source of our southern military encampment.” Koldo pulled a small vial from her trousers and held it up. “Pure, distilled hemlock.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from all three councilors at once. Koldo’s description of Sendoa’s last moments replayed just then—a sip of water, a cough, death.
“Though this specimen came from Basilica,” Koldo explained, “the princess was correct when she characterized Myrcell as having the highest concentration of hemlock in the Sand and Sky.” Satordi’s jaw worked as the general continued, measured and clear—it wasn’t the full investigation the princess had ordered, but it was damning nonetheless. “I have every reason to think either kingdom, or both, may poison our water sources as a way to circumvent all-out war with our superior army. I am honored to lead as regent, but without proper succession we are vulnerable to great danger.”
Silence hung over the room, a shroud.
After a dark moment, the Runaway Queen turned and snatched the boy’s hand. He was bracketed now by his two mothers: The one who birthed him and the one who raised him. On their guidance, the boy took a step forward, eyes trained carefully on the councilors before him—polite yet powerful, his shoulders back and straight.
Geneva lifted her chin and looked down at them like the queen she once was.
