Total pages in book: 208
Estimated words: 209645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1048(@200wpm)___ 839(@250wpm)___ 699(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 209645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1048(@200wpm)___ 839(@250wpm)___ 699(@300wpm)
She threw it and watched it skitter down the narrow, not-oft traveled road through a thick forest. The road where she’d been traveling for some hours now.
But her eyes narrowed beyond it.
Was that…?
She stared.
It couldn’t be.
She clicked her tongue to tell her horse, Fortune, to follow her. She put one hand to the hilt of the dagger on her belt and opened her senses before she moved forward slowly.
Very slowly.
The glow in front of her did not get stronger, but it also did not waver.
A healthy, fit being would glow much brighter should she send a seeking pebble in its direction anywhere near it.
She could not be twenty meters away, but that glow was barely lit.
And it couldn’t be anyone else.
No one.
But G’Seph.
That kind of glow could only mean…
She began to move more swiftly, staying alert and aware of her surroundings, both through her actual senses, as well as her magical ones.
She felt nothing.
Except the life force coming from the direction of that glow.
He was hurt.
Badly.
Perhaps even dying.
And he’d been left in this wood.
Who would do such a thing?
Melisse got closer.
And closer.
He was lying in the leaves, a thin blanket pulled over him, held tight to his chest by his arms.
“G’Seph?” she called softly, feeling Fortune shift uncomfortably at her back. “G’Seph?” she asked more firmly when he did not answer.
She cast a spell to light the area about him and gasped.
Her horse whinnied and shifted again.
“Good goddess, what happened to your hands?” she whispered, reaching out to him, staring at the bloody stumps expertly bound where his hands should have been.
When he didn’t answer, just seemed to be attempting to slide away from her, she lifted her gaze to his face.
He smiled, and it was grotesque.
Fortune neighed, and Melisse sensed her steed starting to rear.
It was then the warning her Dellish sister Rebecca gave her—a warning in all that was happening she had not remembered—came to the forefront of her mind.
Unfortunately, it did this right before the pain exploded at the back of her head.
67
The Confrontation
Queen Mercy
Grand Corridor, Second Floor, Birchlire Castle, Notting Thicket
WODELL
“Queen Mercy!”
Mercy pretended not to hear him and kept moving.
“Your Grace, Queen Mercy! One moment!” Carrington called.
She carried on walking, not rapidly, but decisively away from him.
“My queen!” he snapped loudly, much closer, as if he were running, and she sadly could no longer pretend her thoughts were elsewhere and she hadn’t heard him.
Therefore, with resignation, she turned, pretended to look surprised and remarked, “Why, Carrington.”
“I’ve been chasing after you since Stand Hall,” he noted irritably.
“Have you?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice. I’ve much on my mind.”
“We must speak,” he declared.
“Of course,” she agreed.
He opened his mouth to do that.
However, she continued.
“Talk to my secretary. Find a time. Much is going on, but I’ll have a word with her and make certain she fits you in.”
His face grew hard. “I meant now.”
Mercy put her hand to her chest in apparent astonishment. “Now?”
“Yes, now. I have urgent matters to discuss with you.”
“Well, then, first thing in the morning,” she stated. “I have things on my schedule at that time, but I’ll see if I can shift them around.”
His expression changed again, this time to one she did not like.
It was smug.
“My queen, the things I wish to discuss are messages from your king. And as you know, there is nothing more urgent than that.”
Of course, he would be smug about this, for he knew Mercy was no longer sleeping in the same bed with Wilmer. Not only that, they weren’t even speaking.
So now, Carrington thought he had the upper hand, for if there was something Wilmer wished to share with her, Carrington would be sent to share it, thus whatever it was, he would know it before her.
And whatever it was, he likely had a say in the message itself.
“Your king,” she returned blithely and watched shock hit his eyes at the inference he thought she was making. “My husband,” she finished.
He frowned and took the decision to ignore that.
“It’s come to our attention that you’ve ordered a new wedding gown.”
“I have,” she confirmed.
“You must demand the seamstresses cease production on it immediately.”
She showed no reaction to this declaration except curiosity. “And why would I do that?”
“You’ve been given a strict budget for this wedding, my queen. No more, no less. The figure was astronomical to start with—”
“Hardly astronomical,” she interrupted him to say. “The crown prince of Wodell is getting married. The king’s own nuptials had the same budget and that was thirty-three years ago.”
“Regardless, it was what you have to work with and what we could afford, and you do not have permission to go above it.”
Permission?
She did not have permission?
Mercy stood completely still and stared at him.
The superciliousness returned to his expression, for with this message, and the fact he’d been sent to deliver it, it was clear he thought he finally had a firm grasp on the upper hand.