“The Horse,” Roan said.
The boy blinked, but then took it in stride. “The Horse it is. Come now, boy, we’ll take good care of you.” He started to lead the horse toward the stables attached to the inn, stopping only to call back over his shoulder. “My master is Carrington. Tell him the rate we’ve agreed and he’ll get you squared.”
“How did you do that?” Gwen whispered, when the boy was gone.
Roan laughed. “In Calypso, haggling is a way of life. Maybe the west isn’t such a foreign place to me after all.” But still, he felt proud to be able to do something that impressed Gwen. She seemed so capable of doing everything herself, better than anyone else. It was what attracted him to her—that free, independent spirit, like a wild stallion galloping across the plains.
“In Ferria, the price is the price,” she said.
Roan winked. “Where’s the fun in that?” He offered her his hand.
She looked at it, a half-smile curling the edge of her lip. “Wife?”
He shrugged. “The west is a religious place, though it seems the Western Road has descended into chaos. Still, I wanted to be safe. If we’re a legitimate pair, it will raise fewer questions.”
She took his hand. “He barely looked at me, did you notice?”
Though Roan hadn’t grown up here, Markin had taught him much of the west. “It is considered the worst behavior to stare directly at a woman.”
“That’s helpful,” Gwen said. “Strange, but helpful.”
Hand in hand, they stepped closer to the light of the inn. Carrington’s it was called. Roan opened the door, holding it for Gwen. He followed close behind, stepping back in front of her as soon as they were inside. Such behavior would normally earn him an elbow to the ribs or a push, but this time she allowed it.
To his surprise, the atmosphere inside the inn was subdued, the patrons hunched over bowls of soup and talking in hushed tones. A few glanced in their direction, but their gazes didn’t linger.
A man of average height bustled past carrying a tray of bowls expertly in one hand. “Be right with you,” he said. He had a broad bald head on top, shining in the lamplight, and a ring of salt-and-pepper hair around the edges, descending on either side into bushy sideburns that connected with his beard. He slipped between tables in an effortless manner that suggested years of practice. With a deft jerk of his wrist, the bowls slid from his tray onto one of the tables, alighting almost perfectly in front of each of the hungry men awaiting their suppers. The innkeeper pirouetted like a dancer, returning the tray to a spot beside a door that presumably led to the kitchen. He turned to face them.
“Did Pod get you all sorted out?” he asked.
“Yes,” Roan said. “He drives a hard bargain.”
The man chuckled. “Indeed he does. My margins have increased by ten percent since I brought him on. But I probably shouldn’t be telling you that.”
Roan smiled amiably. “We agreed on eight Silvers for room and board, for us and our trusty steed.”
The man frowned, as if frustrated, though Roan could detect the lie behind his eyes. “It seems you drive a hard bargain, too.”
“Is the rate too low?”
The man seemed to consider, though again, Roan could see the act behind his mannerisms. In his eyes glinted the light of greed. “For you, no,” he said. “I will accept it.”
“Thank you.” He counted out the Silvers, and threw in two additional Coppers, which he hoped was a reasonable enough tip to gain them preferred service. “May I request a room on the top floor, westward facing?”
The man pocketed the coins so quickly Roan barely saw him do it. If the inn didn’t work out he had a career as a pickpocket. “I will see what I can do. Right this way.”
He snatched a large key from a hook, two lanterns from a platform attached to the wall, and led them to the left, away from the tables, and then up a switchback staircase for three flights. On the landing, they took a door to the right into a hallway, the walls painted warm brown. Several doors down, he unlocked a room and pushed inside. He placed one of the lanterns on a small table. “Will this serve?” he asked.
Roan scanned the small room. There were two small no-post beds and a window facing to the west, though the dark curtains were drawn. “Yes, thank you. Can supper be brought up? We’d prefer our privacy.”
“Of course.” The man paused in the doorway, as if waiting for something.
Roan made a big show of digging around in his pocket before handing him another two Coppers. “Please allow for one bowl to be free of meat.”
The man gave him a strange look, but nodded. As before, the coins vanished, only the softest jingle giving them away in his deep pockets.
“At last,” Roan said when he’d shut the door. “We’re alone.”
“Hilarious,” Gwen said. She cast off her cloak, revealing her yellow eyes and silver hair. Her armor was orange in the lamplight. “What?” she asked, noticing Roan’s stare.
“You’re…”
“Don’t say it,” she said. “I am not some sprite to be wooed with empty words.”
Roan grimaced as Gwen strode to the window, peeling back the curtains a sliver to peer out. “Must you always be so…”
“So what?” She didn’t look back.
“Never mind.” Roan sat on the end of one of the beds. How had he made such difficult friends?
“Where is he?” Gwen muttered. “Gareth was supposed to follow almost right behind us.”
“He’s probably just taking his time,” Roan said.
If Gwen heard him, she gave no indication.
He came up behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She flinched at the touch, but then relaxed, rubbing her cheek against the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I am as sharp as my sword at times…”
“At times?” Roan japed.
She twisted her head back to give him a dirty look, but he could see she was amused. “Must you always joke?”
“Not always,” Roan said. He cupped his other hand against her cheek. His fingertips felt afire. She stood, her face so close he could see the individual flecks of color in her golden eyes. One hand remained on her cheek, while the other drifted down her neck, her shoulder, along the smooth armor protecting her arm, and finally dropping to the swell of her hip, resting there lightly.
He wanted her so badly he felt powerless against the desire burning inside him.
And then she pressed her lips to his and stars exploded across his vision. All the worry, all the fear, all the triumphs and defeats melted away into the kiss, which was nothing but pure sensation shooting through him.
With a gasp it was over and Gwen was pulling away and looking back out the window. Roan stared at her. What just happened? he wondered.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“It’s okay,” Roan said, though he felt breathless and weak from the kiss being broken off so early. “But I warn you, I will not give up. I promise to make the next kiss so good you shall not be able to withdraw.”
To his delight, she laughed, and the momentary tension was broken.
A moment later there was a knock on the door. Roan opened his mouth to warn Gwen but she moved so fast he didn’t get a word out before she was cloaked, turned away from the door.
“Yes?” Roan said.
“Supper,” came Carrington’s voice through the door.
“If you would, please leave it outside the door.” Roan wasn’t about to let the man swindle him into giving away any more Coppers, lest the innkeeper think him an easy target.
“As you wish.” There was a clatter and then the sound of footsteps departing on wooden floorboards.
In an instant, Gwen’s cloak was off and she was back at the window. Roan had the urge to go back to her, to rope his arms around her, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to suffocate her, not when it was clear she needed space and time. Instead, he opened the door and retrieved the tray Carrington had left. It contai
ned two mugs of water and two bowls of soup, one of which appeared to be free of chunks of meat. A small dish of salt accompanied.
Roan placed the tray next to the lamp on the small table and took his bowl to the bed, leaning back against the wall. He slurped a mouthful from his spoon, cringing at its blandness. He added salt, and the flavor improved. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Someone has to watch for the king.”
“Do you really think he’ll ever go back to Ironwood?”
Gwen turned to look at him, and her eyes were thoughtful. “He better. Grian is too impulsive. Guy was somewhat better, but still too quick to wage war. Gareth is a thinker, always has been. He would be the better choice of the three.”
“Except he doesn’t want to be king. And you said it yourself, a Shield who doesn’t fulfill his purpose will receive no respect from his people.”
“I know,” she said. “But there has to be a way for him to redeem himself.”
“Well he can’t do it from the west. He needs to go back to Ferria.”
“He won’t go without a strong reason.”
Roan finished his soup and took Gwen’s place at the window so she could eat. Now he was starting to get worried, too. Gareth should’ve arrived a long time ago, unless he’d stopped elsewhere for supper, or forgotten which inn they’d agreed to meet at…
And then he heard a noise, rising above the general bustle of the town. He scanned the main road, searching for the source. His heart sank when he found it.
“Gareth, what are you doing?” he muttered.
“What?” Gwen said, pushing beside him to follow his gaze.
Gareth stood on an overturned crate in the middle of the road, holding a large mug, waving it back and forth like a sword. He wore no cloak, like he’d promised he would, and his strong Ironclad features—his dark, curly hair, his strong, dimpled chin, his pale skin—as well as his armor bearing the eastern sigil, were revealed for every passerby to see.
And, to make matters worse, he was shouting, his voice so loud Roan could make out every word. “Come drink with your enemy, westerners! I am King Gareth Ironclad and my weapon of choice is ale. I challenge each of you to a duel. Whoever falls from their crate first is the loser!”
Gareth swayed, tumbling from the crate and spilling the strong drink all over himself.
“For ore’s sake,” Gwen hissed. “The fool! He will be the end of us all.” She swept away from the window and burst through the door. The corridor was already empty by the time Roan gathered up their things and moved to follow her.
He raced for the steps, taking them two at a time, ignoring Carrington’s question about the quality of the soup as he passed, bursting through the door and onto the street. To the right and down a ways, Gwen, fully uncloaked, was helping Gareth to his feet while other travelers stared at them, pointing. Roan could see why. Gwen’s armor was like a silver starburst, her hair like falling water. Even in the darkness, she was a spectacle the likes of which most of these people had never seen.
Not to mention her eyes…as yellow and bright as twin suns.
Several, rougher looking men crept around the edges, whispering to each other behind their hands. Not good, Roan thought, making his way toward his friends.
He boldly walked up to them, raising his voice. “Friends,” he said. “I should never have bought you those fake sets of armor or wigs. You make fools of yourselves.”
Gwen’s gaze darted up to his, and he nodded in the direction of the sinister-looking men. Her yellow eyes narrowed. Roan continued. “And you…”—he grabbed Gareth by the arm—“…should go easy on the drink. Do you remember that time in Talis when you ran naked through the streets? I feared the furia would hang you from your manhood as punishment!”
A few of the people laughed, but Roan was watching the rough men. They said something to each other and then left, off to find an easier, less public target.
Roan exhaled deeply. “C’mon,” he whispered to Gareth. “We cannot stay here any longer.”
“A shoft bed,” Gareth slurred.
“Some other time.”
“Hot shoup.”
“Later.”
Gareth shrugged, a lazy grin flopping across his face. “Fine. Take me home.”
Roan raised his voice once more. “We will, Your Highness. We’ll get you on the first caravan back to the Ironclad castle in Ferria!”
More laughter from the crowd, who finally started to disperse.
“Nice save,” Gwen said. “Your talents grow by the hour.”
“Sometimes it takes a fool to save a fool,” Roan said.
Together, they hauled Gareth out of town and back onto the Western Road, stopping only once the lights of the city were well behind them.
“We should go back for The Horse,” Gareth said loudly.
Roan regretted leaving The Horse behind, but the poor animal would probably be better off without them. The stable boy was a good lad, and would keep him warm and well-fed, which was more than they could promise. And if they set foot in Restor again, there was a good chance they would never leave.
They argued nonstop from Restor to Knight’s End. Two days had passed, but each was the same argument, one that had resumed after a brief pause for a midday meal of day-old bread and hard butter that they’d purchased from a passing cart-merchant.
“So I stopped at a tavern for a quick mug of the west’s finest ale, who cares? I was just trying to have a good time,” Gareth said.
“And lost your cloak somewhere,” Gwen said.
“And declared your true identity in the middle of the streets,” Roan added.
“And were so drunk you could barely walk.”
“And challenged every person you saw to a drinking duel.”
“And lost The Horse.”
“All right, all right,” Gareth said. “What if I said I don’t remember any of that, does that help my cause?”
“NO!” they both answered together.
“Then I’m extraordinarily sorry,” Gareth said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Well, about The Horse anyway. I miss him.”
It was, however, the first time he’d apologized, so Roan considered it progress. And he was joking again, though Roan wasn’t certain what that meant exactly. The last time Gareth had japed this much he was covering up the turmoil he was feeling inside.
They rounded a bend, curling over the crest of a small rise, and Roan stopped abruptly when he saw it.
Knight’s End.
Its high stone walls were tan, framing the city like a giant picture frame. Beyond the walls the city rose gradually, until it reached a hill where a castle stood like a beacon shining in the sun, three round towers stretching to the seventh heaven these people so devoutly believed in. Until this moment, Roan never expected to feel anything when he first laid eyes on the city of his birth. Instead, anger rolled through him like a slow-burning fire. His mother had been forced to send him away from this city with a violent Dreadnoughter because of his mark, something he’d been born with, something he had no control over. How was that fair? How was that right? How did a people who claimed to be holy treat a mere child like some kind of a demon?
“Roan,” Gwen said.
He barely heard her, the anger chased away by another feeling:
Sorrow. The sadness was rich and deep, a pool that rose over his head, stealing his breath. It was sadness for a lost childhood, stripped from him before he’d ever really understood why. He’d lost his family at the same time, and now both his parents were dead. He’d never feel their embrace. Never. That word was filled with so much finality he could hardly bear to think it.
“Roan?” Gwen said again. “Are you well?”
“Aye,” he said. “I was only thinking about what it will be like to meet my siblings at last.”
“We can’t rightly march up to the castle gates and declare your true identity,” Gareth said.
“No,” Roan agreed. “That’s your favorite thing to
do.”
Gareth winced, but he wore a smile. “I suppose I deserved that.”
Roan shook his head. He knew a fantastic way to chase away his own melancholy. Deflection. He turned to Gareth and said, “When I first met you, you were a brash, arrogant prince standing on high, looking down on the world with a smug grin. Now I know the immense weight you were carrying—the death of your mother, your role as the Shield—but you held that load over your head like it was nothing, a sack filled with air.”
Gareth looked away, back toward the city. “I was different then. I hadn’t failed.”
Roan felt like he could see the weight on his friend’s shoulders, a growing load, hunching his shoulders, making it difficult for him to stand.
Gwen seemed ready to say something, but Roan stopped her with a subtle gesture. “You’re the same person,” he said. “Except now you drag the weight around like an iron plow, and it’s pulling you under, burying you alive.”
Gareth looked back, and the weight vanished, the familiar cheeky smile returning like it had never been gone in the first place. “As usual, you are too serious, my friend. I only wanted a bit of drink and a good laugh. Yes, I took things too far. I messed up and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Roan glanced at Gwen and she shrugged. Gareth did seem to be back to his normal self all of a sudden. “Fine. Good. But we can’t make any mistakes in the Holy City. The furia will be here. Getting drunk or causing a disturbance will not go unpunished.”
Gareth bowed to him. “Yes, Your Highness. As you command.”
Roan rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the city. They made their way down the small hill to where a there was a steady influx of travelers, as well as lines of merchants departing the city. Those exiting were mostly ignored, while guards bearing the rearing stallion sigil on their chests eyed newcomers, asking questions and searching their belongings for weapons.
The southern entrance to Knight’s End was like a peephole into the enormous walled-in city, providing the barest glimpse of the cobblestoned streets and sturdy buildings beyond. This was the third major city Roan had seen, and he marveled at how different each was. Compared to the dusty clay and sandstone streets of Calypso, Knight’s End was a fortress, though even the tall castle towers lacked the beautiful symmetry of the Calypsian pyramids. And next to Ferria and Ironwood, Knight’s End felt so…open, almost unguarded, if not for the wall that surrounded it.