Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“What was it like there?”
“Very different from the lush green islands of Mordain and the bustle of Argon. The city is built high in the mountains, with only one road leading in or out. Perhaps that is why the snow seldom leaves the ground.” Gesine smiles fondly. “Agatha said she spent most of her time wrapped in furs and warming by the fire.”
“I wouldn’t mind that mountain air right now.” Or at least the cooler morning air. I unfasten my cloak and drape it around my lap. “What about the people?”
She frowns in thought, as if choosing her words. “Simple in their priorities, abrasive in their communication.”
“Oh, well, Jarek! Something you have in common with your ancestors,” I say dryly, not bothering to look over my shoulder.
“I see you’ve been gathering information for your next attack. Tell me, do you have all my routines down yet?”
“I’m sure it won’t take me long. You have simple priorities, after all.”
He grunts. “And please tell us, witch, is all of Ybarisan royalty a pain in the arse?”
Eden’s eyes widen.
In a burst of spite, I collect my hair at my nape and flip it back, knowing it’ll feather across his face and—hopefully—irritate him.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
Jarek inhales. “Neroli oil. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
A shiver runs down my spine as it always does when one of these bloodsucking Islorians comments on the intoxicating scent of my Ybarisan blood. That means Gesine’s morels are losing their potency. It’s been days. Impressive for such a tiny piece of mushroom to work so well.
I push aside my aversion. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. “Too tempting to resist yet?” I tip my head to the side, exposing my neck as I mock him. There’s an odd comfort in knowing we each hate the other and we’re not going through the pretense of hiding it.
Jarek’s chuckle is deep. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d have my own horse.” A riderless one lingers ahead, tethered to a legionary. Apparently, the servant couple who left Danthrin’s manor on it ran from camp the first night. When I asked if I could ride it, Zander’s answer was a resounding no, not until I learn how to control one. The risk of an attack is just too great.
Abarrane raises her sinewy arm in the air and shouts a command I don’t catch. Suddenly, hooves pound on either side of us as the Legion splits into three groups, the bulk of them veering off the main road, their galloping horses vanishing down a steep hill to our left.
“What’s happening? Where are they going?” I ask.
“Cutting across a more rugged countryside to get to camp. Bellcross is known for its lookout glasses. They watch all who approach their city.” Elisaf watches Abarrane as she falls back behind us to join Zorya, the only warrior left besides Horik and Jarek. “The closer we get, the more likely they are to notice us. If they should see a band of legionaries, they will know who we are long before we reach their gates.”
“And we don’t want them knowing that we’re coming?” Eden asks curiously.
“Not until we’re sure of where Lord Rengard stands with the current … political landscape.”
“Right. Of course.” Eden nods, as if she grasps what’s happening.
I’ve been in her shoes—so many times.
Elisaf smiles at the back of her blond head, but it isn’t condescending—not like Jarek. “But traveling in this manner, they are less likely to pay us heed.”
I survey the group that’s left—nine servants, Gesine, and me, who wouldn’t appear to be a threat to the casual observer. Only three single riders. I see what he means—not exactly a threat. “When will we see the Legion again?”
“We will rejoin them closer to Bellcross, where we can set up camp away from view.”
They obviously came up with this plan when I wasn’t around. Resentment stirs inside. Not too long ago, Zander divulged everything to me. I miss those days.
As if privy to my thoughts, Zander half turns, gazing into the distance. But I know him well enough to know he can likely sense my emotions from there. Thanks to my inability to shield my feelings from him as the previous Romeria could, we've always had a peculiar connection. I only hope that changes when I learn how to hide them as Wendeline can. It’s high on my list of priorities.
Until then … I slip my ring from my finger and welcome that uncomfortable buzz, pouring all my focus into centering myself for the next several hours.
The trek away from the king’s road to our camp for the night takes us past fields of wheat and corn and along a stream the horses welcome. When we reach the crop of tents, a fresh kill is roasting over a campfire—a goat, from the looks of it.