A Curse of Blood & Stone (Fate & Flame 2)

I catch the subtle shake of Zander’s head. “We require the lord’s manor for the night.”

The guard bows. “Yes, Your Highness. We will notify the lady of the house so she may prepare suitable accommodations for you.” He snaps his fingers at the other guard, who takes off running, his hefty armor hampering his stride.

Zander’s gaze skates over the parapets. “The Legion needs tributaries and supplies. I would hope that Freywich’s keepers will be generous in this regard.”

That earns a second bow, and a third. “Yes, Your Highness. We will make sure of it.”

Zander urges his horse through the gate, and we trail behind.

Freywich is a small but bustling town, the buildings situated around the square. Most have thatched roofs and are simple in design, some neglected. Here and there are more elaborate stone cottages. The keepers’ homes, no doubt.

“You said this place has struggled?” Scrawny children run in the streets, their faces streaked with dirt. Equally malnourished parents chase them in unkempt clothing. The sour stench of unbathed bodies surrounds us. Even the stray animals are gaunt.

“For years.” Elisaf smiles at a little girl. “Given their location away from the king’s road, they do not benefit from travelers’ coin, and their proximity to Eldred Wood limits their hunting grounds. Lord Danthrin beseeched King Eachann to excuse them a portion of their levies on more than one occasion. If I recall correctly, the last issue was a horrendous blight upon their crops.”

Townfolk pause in streets and shop windows to watch the legionaries peel off in various directions with their horses. To scout for enemies, or maybe for a vein. I wonder if these people have ever seen one of the king’s elite warriors before.

“Abarrane, seek out the supplies we need. And have Zorya collect a change of clothing for us.” Zander’s gaze stalls on a barefoot little boy strolling through the street, his pants torn. “Pay the people adequately for all that we procure. And stop intimidating them.”

“Your Highness.” She holds a hand in the air, palm up, and Elisaf tosses a hefty change purse he produced from his pocket. With a curt bow, she takes off.

“Elisaf, take five legionaries and escort Gesine and Romeria to the manor before you leave on your task. I will follow shortly.”

But worry gnaws at my stomach. “Zander, this is Lord Danthrin’s place. Do you remember? The asshole from the market? The one who burns children for eating wormy apples?”

His eyes shift to me, veiled of all emotion. “Yes, I recall. The one you wanted my guards to castrate.”

Horik clears his throat.

“He would have been at the square, and he knows my face. We can’t stay in his house with him. He’ll slit my throat while I’m sleeping—”

“He’s not here, and do you honestly think I would allow him in the same room as you?” Zander says with forced patience.

I swallow. I’m used to the aloof version of the king, but right now, I hate it. “How do you know he’s not here?”

“Because Danthrin would not leave the city when there is a new king buying loyalty with lands and titles. Lowly noblemen like him will force their way in for an audience. He’s probably in the castle, on his knees, groveling as we speak.”

An alarm swells inside me. “Gracen and her children are in the castle.” What if I rescued them only to have them land back in that monster’s hands—

“Atticus will not release that family to him,” he assures me. “Not if he knows the truth, and I promise you Corrin will inform him.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” Atticus hates me. Why wouldn’t he send them back as a punishment?

“I think I know my brother.”

“Given current circumstances, I beg to differ.”

Zander’s lips twist with distaste. “You are right. Perhaps not as well as you got to know him during all those late-night games of draughts on your journey south.” He sets his horse in motion, cantering down a side street.

That was not me,I want to scream.

A soft hand settles on my shoulder. “Let him be.” Gesine’s expression is full of sympathy.

I grit my teeth as we pass through town.

Where most homes within Freywich are built using everything from twigs to pine boards to plaster, Lord Danthrin’s manor is solid stone, five times the size of anything else in the village and surrounded by its own wall.

If he’s a lowly nobleman in an impoverished town, I’d hate to see how more prosperous noblemen live.