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“YOU KNOW WHAT MOTHER would say?” Minerva sat on Adelaide’s cot. Early evening light still filtered through the heavy green fabric of the tent. A few candles illuminated the interior—her cot on a small wooden frame, Giselle’s straw mattress in the corner, and a trunk with a cloak on it. A large rug covered most of the ground.
Adelaide sat on a stool, looking at her reflection in a small mirror hung on the tent wall. She stuck another pin in her hair to hold the ribbon-accented braid in place atop her head. “Probably something cautionary I don’t want to hear.”
“She’d probably say you can’t go getting swept off your feet by any good swordsman.”
“I’m not in love with him because he’s a good swordsman.” She stuck in another pin.
“Ah, but you admit you’re in love with him.”
“What? I—” She jabbed herself in the head with a pin and winced. “In love is a little much. Besides, I thought you were supporting this...whatever it is?”
“Courtship?”
She glared at Minerva. “We’re not courting.”
“Not officially,” Minerva smirked, “but you might as well be. Gracious, after his victory I thought you two were going to kiss. And not the little peck I saw you give him.”
“Hmph.” Adelaide turned back to the mirror, trying to act nonchalant. There was a moment there...he had been so close. She had felt a fluttering in her stomach. The look in his eyes, intense as a bonfire yet clear as an undisturbed lake on a cool morning. She had wanted him to kiss her. To put his hand behind her head and pull her in. For a moment, she had considered kissing him herself. But then that look of pain. That... Sadness in his eyes.
She tried to ignore the nagging impression something was wrong. Maybe she saw in him what she felt in herself. That feeling of lying. Of hiding the truth. When he reminded her of the cut on his leg, she had wanted to heal it. She could have insisted she go with him to the physician’s tent, pulled him aside on the way and healed him. Good as new.
As soon as the idea had occurred to her, she decided against it. Not yet. But if she couldn’t trust him now, could she ever trust him? Was her hesitance only the echoes of warnings from her parents? Or something more? What should she do when her heart screamed to trust him and her mind urged caution?
Minerva laid a hand on her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
“About why—or if—I trust Regulus.” Adelaide chewed on her lower lip. “I’m too used to not trusting. How do I know if I should? Father always says to never let emotions make your decisions. But when your emotions are so involved, how can you tell if you’re being rational or not? Am I paranoid not to trust him? Am I foolish to trust him?”
Minerva squeezed her shoulder. “These are things you can determine with time, Ad. You don’t need to decide if you’re marrying him today. Sooner or later, you’ll know. Like I knew with Gaius.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have a secret.”
“I knew yours. I still keep that one.”
Adelaide paused, her hands poised above her head as she checked the braid. “I’m sorry. It can’t be easy.”
Minerva shrugged and stroked her growing belly. “Sometimes, I’d like to talk to him. It’s not that I don’t trust him; I know if I told him he wouldn’t tell a soul. But it’s not my secret to share.”
“But it is mine.” Adelaide dropped her hands to her lap. “What if...” She fiddled with the belt of her dress. “What if I tell him, and it’s not that he wants to use my power, or he tells someone he shouldn’t? What if...”
“What if it scares him?”
Adelaide looked at Minerva. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach.
Minerva chuckled and shook her head. “Based on what I’ve heard, how he acts, and how he fought today, I’m not sure anything scares that man.”
“But what if it’s too...strange?”
“Regulus hasn’t lived his whole life in Monparth. For all you know, he’s met a mage before.”
She hadn’t considered that.
“All right.” Adelaide nodded. “I’ll get to know him more. Focus on that, not whether or when to tell him.”
“Good.” Minerva held out her hand, and Adelaide helped her to her feet. “Ready for supper and dancing?”
Adelaide smiled as her gaze went to Min’s belly. “Only if little Adelaide is.”
“Oh ho, really?” Minerva laughed. “Gaius’ mother is determined it’s a boy.”
Adelaide laughed and hunched over to talk to Min’s stomach. “You’re a girl, aren’t you? We shall throw knives and climb trees and speak Khast and I’ll tell you stories about your mother’s childhood shenanigans.”
“I think not on that last one.” Minerva rolled her eyes as she grinned. “And just because you’re the better knife thrower doesn’t mean you can steal my job. If the little one’s a girl, I’ll teach her like Mother taught me.” Her grin turned mischievous and her eyes glinted. “You can teach future little girl Hargreaves to throw knives.”
Adelaide choked on a gasp as her face flushed. “That’s it, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the night, Tha Lonri.” She took one final glance in the mirror and headed out, Minerva’s laughter following her.
––––––––
REGULUS WALKED INTO the gate at the end of the jousting arena and looked around, impressed. Benches and tables filled the arena. Lanterns hung from posts positioned around the low walls and in the stands. Candelabras glowed on each table. Commoners crowded stands, taking full advantage of the hospitality of the tournament. They would eat the same food as the nobles, but they weren’t allowed to eat with them. Nobles were already finding seats at the tables in the arena. No one told them where to sit in the spirit of the tournament. All hereditary nobles could compete, and thus all were equal at the tournament. Except they weren’t.
The nobles sorted themselves. Knighted freemen, like Regulus’ knights, sat with the commoners. They could get into the arena if they wanted, no one checked letters of nobility here. A title would suffice. But the legacy nobles made their disdain clear. Even most poor knights felt more comfortable with the other freemen. Within the arena, the wealthier and more famous nobles claimed the seats closest to Baron Carrick’s table, positioned below his viewing box in the center of the arena.
Regulus headed for that table. As one of the day’s champions, he had been invited to sit with the tournament’s host. Baron and Baroness Carrick’s high-backed chairs sat in the middle, flanked by two chairs on either side. A page stood to the table’s left. A couple other winners were also arriving. Regulus recognized the sturdy man with silver hair as Sir Gerald Malone, champion of the archery competition. He hadn’t watched or paid attention to any of the other competitions that day, so he didn’t recognize the tall, lithe man with the red hair and beard.
The page directed Sir Malone to the chair on the far right and directed Red to the next seat. He pointed Regulus to the chair on the far left. Regulus leaned on the arm of the empty chair next to him and extended his hand across three seats to Red. “Lord Regulus Hargreaves.”
The man shook his hand with a grip like a vise. “I know.” He had a deep, commanding voice. “Everyone is talking about you, Lord Hargreaves. I only caught your last fight, but it was impressive.”
“And you are?” Regulus felt a little swell of pride, but kept his posture relaxed.
“Lord Frederick Ganlar, son of Duke Ganlar. Long staff champion.”
Regulus nearly gasped. As one of three ducal families in Monparth, the Ganlars were practically royalty. Three barons and several lords, including Adelaide’s father, owed Duke Ganlar their fealty. What was he doing competing in a tournament held by a lesser noble?
Ganlar laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, Lord Hargreaves. I’m here for the same reason as everyone else. Sport, my friend.”
“Pardon my confusion, but you came all the way from Nueres Duchy to compete in the long staff?”
“And why not? As you can see, I’m good at it.” He held up his hands and lifted one shoulder. “But mostly, I can’t compete in Nueres. Men get nervous about fighting their liege’s heir. They make mistakes they otherwise wouldn’t. Takes all the fun out of it.”
“But...why not the sword?” Sir Malone asked the question Regulus hadn’t dared.
“Because that’s what everyone would expect.” Ganlar stroked his big red beard. “I enjoy surprising people. But mostly I enjoy the long staff. It has its own unique cadence. And the added challenge of not being able to rely on any sharp edges.”
“Speaking of which, that looked to be a nasty cut Sir Carrick landed on your leg,” Sir Malone said. “I’d rather expected you to have a limp.”
“Oh.” Dread circled Regulus’ throat. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked. And the physician did a good job.”
“Not to be crass,” Ganlar said, leaning back in his chair, “but you look like you’re not a stranger to pain.”
Regulus clenched his fist under the table. “I suppose that’s accurate.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Carrick’s voice behind Regulus was cold as ice. “Whose idea was this seating arrangement?”
“Mine.” Baron Carrick approached the table, his wife at his side. “I’m giving you a second chance to demonstrate honor in defeat. You have one victory and one loss today, but if you continue to act like a child, you will have lost your dignity.” His mouth turned down. “So far you’re not doing well.” Baron and Baroness Carrick took their seats, the Baron sitting beside Lord Ganlar.
Carrick hesitated for a moment, then took the seat between the baroness and Regulus. Regulus ignored him. He sensed Carrick’s animosity, and it sparked a reciprocal loathing.
The baron welcomed and thanked the attendees and praised the competitors. Carrick had won the polearm competition. Once the baron gave the word, servants began dispersing food and the cacophony of hundreds of voices in competing conversations filled the arena.
“My mistake,” Carrick said, his voice a low whisper, his head angled toward Regulus, “was doing polearm and sword. If I had skipped polearm, I would have had more energy. I would have beaten you.”
Regulus bit into a turkey leg. He wanted to ignore Carrick. Pretend he hadn’t heard. But what was the saying? Kindness burns like hot coals? Something like that. “You fought admirably, Sir Carrick. Particularly after winning in the polearm. Perhaps you are correct. But regardless, you should not be ashamed of how you fared.”
Carrick gripped his flagon so hard his knuckles turned white. “I’m the son of a baron. Shame isn’t an emotion I feel. But you will. I promise you.”
“Did you say something, Nolan?” The baroness looked at them with a smile, but her eyes were cold beneath her blue wimple. Such an old-fashioned woman.
“Just congratulating Lord Hargreaves on his win, Mother.” Carrick’s smile looked painfully forced. “And looking forward to tomorrow’s joust.”
Baroness Carrick sighed. “Perhaps if you had an ounce of humility and a touch more civility, you’d have a wife by now.” Her voice reminded Regulus of the time Caleb tightened the strings on his lute too far and one snapped.
Carrick aggressively bit into a piece of roast quail and didn’t respond.
Regulus looked over the crowd as he ate, seeking Adelaide. Wherever she was, he couldn’t find her among the crowded tables.
“Lord Hargreaves,” Baron Carrick’s voice cut through his thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, my lord?” Being so close to the baron felt odd. Regulus hadn’t spoken to him in the two years since he’d sworn his fealty and Baron Carrick had confirmed the transference of his title and land.
“I’m curious why I haven’t seen you compete before.”
The whole table looked at Regulus. The back of his neck itched. “I spent twenty-seven years of my life without a title, unable to compete in tournaments. Once titled, I hadn’t changed, only my legal status. I was in no rush to risk my neck seeking glory among those who hadn’t yet accepted me when I could finally rest and stop risking my neck for those too rich to risk their own.”
The row of faces stared at Regulus in mute shock.
He hadn’t intended to be so blunt or accusatory. The words just...spilled out. His mind seemed to relish the chance to lash out instead of suffering judgmental looks and whispered conversations in silence. Well done, Regulus.
“Then you’re not still a mercenary?” Carrick’s haughty tone made Regulus’ fingers ache to grip a sword.
“No.”
“And why would he be?” Baron Carrick pulled a grape off a bunch on the table in front of him. “Such pursuits are for men cut off, with no inheritance or title.”
Carrick shot his father a scalding glance before returning to eating and drinking.
“You think very little of the men who hired you as a mercenary?” Lord Ganlar asked, his expression solemn.
“By and large they seemed to think very little of me,” Regulus said, on edge. “When you fight another man’s battles and he treats you like a hunting hound, it’s difficult to maintain a high regard for that man.” He thought of the sorcerer with delusions of royalty. His fingers dug into his leg, and he willed himself to relax.
Ganlar looked thoughtful, if guarded. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“At least hounds are loyal to their lord. Mercenaries can’t even claim that dignity.” Carrick sipped from his tankard, the look in his eyes daring Regulus to retaliate.
Regulus kept his tone even. “I never took conflicting contracts, I chose my benefactors carefully, and I refused to work with unscrupulous mercenaries. I only helped innocents, never harmed them. So don’t think me without honor because I served no lord. I was loyal to my men, and my men to me.” He inclined his head, realizing he should cover his bases. “As Lord of Arrano, I am loyal to Baron Carrick and to the king.” Although I hope they never collect on my fealty.
“I am pleased to have men with skills such as yours I can count on.” Baron Carrick’s voice was steady and pleasant, but he didn’t look at Regulus. Eventually, the others fell to talking amongst themselves. Regulus ate in silence, and no one asked him any more questions.
After supper, Regulus wove between guests and dodged servants carrying tables and benches, seeking Adelaide. He found her as the musicians started playing. She grinned and his stress evaporated. Don’t get carried away, he reminded himself.
“May I have this dance?” Regulus bowed and held out his hand.
“I think you’ve earned it.” Adelaide took his hand with a teasing laugh.
Her skin on his sent a thrill up his arm. She wore a scarlet dress with a low square neckline. Swirling gold embroidery covered the bodice and cuffed the sleeves at her elbows. Below her elbows, sheer red fabric hung down to her wrists. A gold pendant set with a small ruby hung from the gold chain around her neck, the gold contrasting well with her soft brown skin. She looked like a dream.
As they danced, everything else seemed to fade. To become less important. More manageable. The awkwardness of supper seemed trivial. Even the mark on his arm seemed inconvenient rather than life-ending. The sorcerer said I’m getting close. Adelaide spun, the lantern light reflecting off the red ribbon and gold pins in her black braid. Her arm brushed his, and reckless hope burned anew in his chest. I can do this. I can love her and earn my freedom.
They moved through the steps. Closer together, her nearness an ache in his heart. Further apart, her distance suffocating. She spun as the song ended, and Regulus stepped forward. Adelaide bumped into him, her hands resting on his chest. A pleasurable tremor skittered down his spine as his hands found her waist.
His eyes darted down to her lips. The warmth of her body so close to his was intoxicating. He leaned forward. She didn’t pull back, but he thought of the sorcerer and hesitated. She deserved to know the truth first. To have a choice. He wanted to kiss her—Etiros above did he want to kiss her—but he wanted her to kiss him with full knowledge of everything he was. She bit her lower lip and his heart raced like a startled deer.
“Come to Arrano for supper,” he whispered, breathless. He forced himself to look back at her eyes.
Her gaze dropped momentarily, as if she were disappointed. “When?”
“As soon as you can.” Suddenly, he realized she couldn’t just come over. Not alone, anyway. “You, your sister. Sir Gaius. I want you to come to my estate for supper.”
She cocked her head to the side. “There’s the tournament. Then getting back. Five days from now?”
Regulus shook his head, remembering the sorcerer. “I forgot. I have an...engagement. I promised I would help someone and will be away for a few days. In twelve days?”
Adelaide’s shoulders slumped. “That’s the day before Lord Drummond is hosting Lord Thealane and his family for three days. We won’t be able to get away.”
“What about in eleven days?” The sorcerer needed his ingredients before the full moon, not on that day. He could get the ingredients and be back by then.
“All right. I’ll check with Gaius and Minerva.” She pulled away from him, and he let her go with reluctance. He moved further away from the couples trying to dance around him, some looking at him with pursed lips. Within a couple minutes, Adelaide found him again. She beamed. “We’ll be there.”
“Six in the evening?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Regulus took her hand and danced with her until the musicians stopped playing. They talked and laughed. As the last note faded, he cupped her face in his hands. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Not yet. He wouldn’t try to kiss her in front of all these strangers—several of whom cast disapproving frowns their way. No, he wouldn’t take advantage of the rush of dancing so close to each other. He still needed to tell her the truth. Patience. He brushed a soft kiss against her forehead and stepped away before he lost his resolve.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Adelaide nodded, a bashful smile on her face. “Tomorrow.”
He watched her find her sister and Sir Gaius and disappear among the crowd leaving the arena. He sighed. Deep. Contented. For the first time in years, he knew exactly what to do.
Joust. Win. Take care of the sorcerer’s shopping list. Have supper with Adelaide, Gaius, and Minerva. Get Adelaide alone. Tell her everything. And if things went how he hoped, once free, he’d ask her to marry him.
Regulus felt too exhilarated and nervous at once to sleep, so he exited the opposite end of the jousting arena. The waxing moon and glittering stars shone in the cloudless sky. The cool summer night air comfortable after so much dancing.
He wasn’t a good dancer, never had been. Adequate, sure. But Adelaide didn’t seem to mind. No one had bothered them. Even Carrick hadn’t shown his face. And Regulus had been too busy looking at Adelaide to bother noticing anyone else.
Footsteps. A rustling, behind him and to his right. He spun around.
Carrick stepped out from behind a large bush, sword hanging from his belt. “Hello, mercenary.” He sneered. “Where are your peasant friends? The Carasian who’s always trailing you like a shadow?” Four more men stepped around Carrick, although none of them carried swords.
Regulus reached for his sword. His fingers grasped at empty air. Feast. Dancing. No swords. A string of curses went through his mind.
“Missing something?” Carrick drawled. “You look better without the sword. More like what you really are—the son of a servant.”
Regulus’ hands clenched. “What do you want?”
“I’d like your head.” Carrick rested his hand on his sword hilt. “But it would be suspicious if you turned up dead. So, I’m not going to kill you. But I’ll settle for your humiliation. Kneel.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said you’re loyal to my father. Prove it. Kneel.”
Regulus worked his jaw and eyed the other men, weighing his options. If he walked away, Carrick could attack from behind. “I do not need to kneel before a spare son with a title beneath my own.” Carrick grimaced, and Regulus knew he’d struck a nerve. “But out of deference for your father...” He bowed at the waist. “Have a good evening, my lord.”
Carrick glowered. “Break the bastard’s arms.”
The four men moved forward. Regulus stepped back, trying to decide if he should fight or run. “You would assault a lord?”
Carrick shrugged. “My father and I are not on the best of terms, as you probably noticed. But who will he believe? You? Or me and the sons of some of the most respected knights in Thaera Duchy?”
“All this over a lost contest?” Regulus shook his head, watching the other four men. “Why is it so important to you?”
Carrick’s expression darkened. “You think this is about one contest?” He jutted his chin at Regulus. “Take him down.”
The other knights lunged forward. Regulus hesitated only a moment. He couldn’t risk them discovering his secret. He turned to run.
“Coward!” He ignored Nolan’s taunt.
An arrow whistled and Regulus scanned the darkness. An archer stood half-hidden in the shadow of a small tree ten paces ahead of him. He didn’t find the arrow fast enough to dodge it. The head bit into his left arm, the shaft sinking deep into his flesh. He gritted his teeth as he changed course away from the archer. The tip of his boot caught on the ground and he tripped. Not enough to make him fall, but enough to slow him. One of the knights threw himself against his back. Regulus fell to the ground.
