“I questioned you both last night, and you had nothing to say. Why the change of heart?” Abarrane’s attention has swung to Fearghal, her hand on the hilt of her dagger.
“Aye. I wasn’t too eager to get involved with any of yous. You’re a vicious lot,” he admits. “But Pan’s my kind, and he swears on his life by her”—he looks at me—“and she saved a lot of lives. People who didn’t deserve to be in pillories. I don’t like seein’ my kind hang or be kept in cages ’cause they want to live like I do. That’s not right.” He looks to Zander. “And if you spoke truth back there, it seems like you don’t think so neither. We need a king like you for change.”
Zander’s chin drops, his focus diverted to the barn floor. I know what he’s thinking. They had a king like him, but he never had a chance, not the second Princess Romeria crossed the rift.
“We’ve likely gotten all we will from this lout. I will follow the road north to see if I can find any clues.” Jarek makes to move.
“No.” The single word from Zander’s mouth freezes him. “I need every warrior. These people need every warrior. And we do not know what we’re facing. If you go out alone, you could end up shackled like the others.”
Jarek looks to Abarrane. For a different answer? For an argument?
Her face is unreadable. “As the king orders.”
After a lengthy pause, Jarek offers a curt “Commander,” and then strolls out, his posture stiff.
Abarrane’s sharp gaze drags over Flann, as if considering how she’d like to carve him up. “At least we know where to look now.”
“Thanks to Pan,” I remind her. Maybe she’ll stop threatening the poor guy now.
“I figured I’d help in whatever way I can,” he chirps.
“You did help, in a big way.” I smile. “Why don’t you go ask Gesine to heal you?”
His mouth falls open. “You think she can do that?”
I chuckle, remembering the arrow embedded between Zorya’s ribs. “Yes, Pan. She can fix a black eye.” Then again, I would be wise to remember that it wasn’t too long ago I was in awe of Wendeline as she erased my cuts and bruises.
Zander’s rapt focus is on Fearghal. He’s searching for any signs of deception. “You two were at the tavern together. How did you know he would have information about our scouts?”
Fearghal’s gaze narrows on the hamstrung lout. “Aye, we’re both from Woodswich, and we’ve traveled together the odd time, but we’re not the same, Flann and me. I don’t look for opportunities like he does. But I keep my ears open enough that I know he’s made friends in bad places.”
I know what Fearghal means. Opportunities that might benefit him, even if it involves stealing, raping, killing. People who look for opportunities like that tend to befriend others of the same ilk. Korsakov made it a point to know every unsavory human within a fifty-mile radius.
“If you wouldn’t be mindin’, I’d like to travel back north with yous,” Fearghal says. “Somethin’ tells me I don’t want to be a mortal in Norcaster in the comin’ days.”
After a moment, Zander nods.
“What do you want me to do with this sack?” Abarrane hoofs Flann with her toe.
“Keep him tied up. We still need him.”
“You know he tried to get me to feed from him, back when he thought I was one of you. He’s going out of his way to bait and kill Islorian immortals.”
Zander’s teeth clench. “Have Gesine mark his forehead.”
The sun is high when our company is ready to leave Norcaster.
“Make sure the path is clear.”
“Aye, Your Highness.” Abarrane swings herself onto her horse and moves for the gate.
Zander observes the growing collection of wagons and horses. “How many in total?”
“Eighty-six new mortals. Twelve children,” Elisaf confirms. Of the fifty mortals found in cellars, forty-two are leaving with us. The other eight decided they could not abandon their keepers or were too afraid of what lay ahead. They vanished quickly. No one is likely to see them again. The rest are made up of those who came for a mark and those who heard Zander’s offer of protection and abandoned their keepers.
Eighty-six new mortals, on top of those from Bellcross, and only seventeen legionaries left. The ratio is far from ideal, but I set my chin with determination. We’re doing the right thing.
Zander worries his lip. “Do we have enough food? Skins? Clothing?”