Daughter of Fate - Chapter 8
Pela and her companions reached Lane late in the afternoon, two days after setting out from Townirwin...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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Pela and her companions reached Lane late in the afternoon, two days after setting out from Townirwin. By then the city was alive with the news, and even with sunset approaching, the streets were clogged with people and wagons.
King Braidon was dead and no one knew what that meant. What would become of Plorsea now? With the king’s son not even passed his fifth birthday, who would lead their armies, who would keep them safe? And what of Lonia? Would their war-faring neighbour turn its sights south?
Tens of thousands inhabited Lane, for it sat on one of the main trading routes through Plorsea. But if war came, the city would be one of the first to fall, for its walls were in disrepair and most of its buildings constructed of wood. Many stood five or six stories tall; a fire within the city would be terrible to behold.
Struggling through the crowds, Pela and the others tried to make sense of the news. Some claimed the king had been slain by rogue Lonians, others that it had been the Baronians, and still more that a great storm had swept his ship to the bottom of the ocean, that his sister had reclaimed his soul, or he had somehow suffered the wrath of the Three Gods.
The only thing for certain was that Braidon was gone, and the world had forever changed.
Devon led the way through the twisting streets. He had denied the news at first, but as it was repeated by each passing stranger, his face had darkened and he’d picked up his pace. It was even worse for Caledan. Pela knew of his agreement with Devon—that her uncle was to give him an audience with the king—but no one knew what he’d wanted from the man. Now he walked with shoulders slumped and eyes fixed straight ahead, as though he no longer had a purpose in the world.
Pela didn’t know where Devon was taking them, but within a few blocks she was lost. The buildings here were far larger than in Skystead or even Townirwin, and the streets were unpaved. Rainwater pooled in the grooves left by the passage of wagons through the mud, and the stench of sewage wafted from nearby alleyways.
Pela could not have imagined a fouler place. Townirwin had been chaotic, but at least the canals had flushed away the occupants’ waste with each outgoing tide. Turning to Caledan, she tried to draw him out of his stupor, to bring life back to the sellsword.
“Why would they create such massive buildings from wood?” she asked.
The sellsword did not so much as glance in her direction, though she was sure he’d heard her. She swallowed, preparing to try again, but Genevieve answered in his stead.
“Lane was never meant to grow so large,” she said. “Once, Sitton was the main hub for trade between Lonia and Plorsea. But it was destroyed during Archon’s second coming, and eventually turned back to forest. Even then, the Jurrien River was still used to ferry goods. Then the Gods fell, and the dark creatures within Sitton Forest revealed themselves. Now none pass that way. The Lane River became the new trade route, turning Lane from quiet backwater to bustling city.”
“But why didn’t they at least build in stone?”
Genevieve shrugged, gesturing into the darkness ahead. “Beyond the banks of the Lane lies the Forest of Plorsea. Though much diminished now, the forest supplied the original timber for the city. Those who came after have only added to them, building upon what the founders left. And so they rise, up and up, until their weight grows too great for the foundations.”
A shiver ran down Pela’s spine as she looked at the wooden structures. Many were lopsided, leaning against their neighbours as though the merest breeze might knock them down. She swallowed as the wind went howling down the street. She could have sworn some of the buildings began to sway.
“How can he be dead?” Caledan snarled so suddenly that Pela jumped. The sellsword’s face was like thunder and he looked ready to lay into the first person that crossed him. “How?”
“We’re about to find out,” Devon muttered.
The hammerman had come to a stop in front of one of the few stone buildings in the city. Built of worn red sandstone, it rose only two storeys from the muddy street, and was separated from its neighbours by an alley on either side. Bars protected the windows facing the road and two men stood guard outside its door, watching them with undisguised suspicion.
“Hey!” one shouted as Devon approached. He hefted a spear and pointed it at Devon’s chest. “Stay back!”
Coming to an abrupt halt, Devon lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “Easy,” he said, “we’re friends, boys.”
“We’re rather short of those tonight,” the second man growled. He stepped towards them and gestured with his spear. “Why don’t you get out of here, ruffians?”
Devon’s face darkened. “I’ve come a long way,” he rumbled, “and I’m in no mood for a fight.”
“Then you’d better piss off, hadn’t you?” the guard snapped.
Lowering his hands, Devon fixed the guard with a glare. Almost unwittingly, the man retreated a step. Devon advanced on him, and he fumbled with the spear, trying to bring it around.
“Easy, sonny,” Devon murmured. “I do not lie, I am…was a friend of the King.” He placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder and nodded to the door. “Whoever’s left of the King’s Guard, tell them Devon is at the door.”
The guard hesitated, glancing at his comrade in askance. Then, his courage seemed to snap, and almost dropping his spear, he darted to the door and disappeared inside.
Devon grinned at the second guard. “New recruit?”
The man glared back at him, spear still held at the ready. “Your story better check out, old man.”
Devon lifted one grey-streaked eyebrow. “There’s no need for compliments. Don’t see me calling you a piss-riddled biscuit, now do ya?”
“What did you say to me?” the guard grated, his face turning a mottled-red. “I’ll—”
“Devon!” A voice shouted as the door opened with a crash. The guard swung around at the interruption, but the speaker was already advancing through the mud, a weary grin on his face. He wore the familiar uniform of the King’s Guard. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you again in these parts!”
Pela breathed a sigh of relief as the men embraced. The second guard retreated to his post without a word. His face still showed rage, but it was impotent now. Laughing, the King’s Guard took a step back and appraised Devon, before turning his eyes to Pela and the others.
“You’ve brought quite the company, old friend,” he said, his voice losing some of its shine. He looked back at Devon. “You’ve arrived at a bad time.”
“So I hear, Rylle,” he replied, grimly.
Rylle nodded. “You’d better come inside.”
They bundled inside and a third guard slammed and bolted the door behind them. Though it was still light outside, it was dark within. Rylle ushered the group down the corridor. Silence permeated the house as they filed through the building, though Pela sensed there were unseen eyes watching them.
Rylle led them down several corridors, before they suddenly found themselves back outside. Several lanterns had already been lit, casting light over a courtyard stacked with crates and sacks of cloth. Taking one from its bracket, Rylle continued until the lanternlight caught on water.
Pela blinked as she came to a stop beside Devon. It took several seconds for her to understand what she was seeing. Amidst the tall buildings, she hadn’t noticed how close their journey through the city had brought them to the river, but the villa had been built right on the banks of the Lane. The courtyard led right out onto its own private jetty.
There was only one ship at the docks, though it was larger than any Pela had ever seen. With a raised fore and aft deck and twin masks, it was four times the size of the little fishing vessel that had brought them from Skystead. A dozen men stood watch onboard and spaced along the jetty.
“So it did not sink,” Devon murmured, looking from the ship to Rylle. “What happened?”
“Baronians,” Rylle replied. “They came upon us in the delta of the Lane. At first we thought to outrun them, but they had some magic that propelled them through the current without need of sails or oars. We fought them off, eventually, but the king was dragged overboard by one of the thugs.”
“Then he could have survived?”
“The water was infested with crocs,” Rylle replied, his voice thick. “Nobody that went in came out alive, though we looked for him.”
Pela’s stomach tightened as she remembered the Baronians that had attacked the Seadragon. Surely it couldn’t have been the same crew, and yet…
“Devon…” she started, but her uncle waved a hand.
“I know,” he said, slumping onto one of the barrels strewn around the courtyard. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I know.”
“Devon?” Rylle said, his voice raising an octave. “What do you know?”
“The Baronians were led by a man called Julian,” her uncle whispered. “They set upon us a week ago, but I knew him from my days serving beneath the Tsar. He spared us. I…I should have put an end to him then and there…”
Rylle sat down hard beside him. “You could not have known,” he croaked. “It was we who failed him, myself and the rest of the Guard. Braidon relied on us to protect him. In all these years…”
“What of the queen, and his son?” Devon croaked. “Did the boy…?”
“They’re safe,” Rylle replied quickly. “The queen was aboard, but her guard kept the Baronians from her. Once we fought them off and freed the ship, we made for Lane with all haste.”
“Thank the Gods.”
Rylle flinched. “Don’t let the queen hear you speaking of such things,” he murmured. “She’s in no mood for blasphemy.”
“Since when did it become blasphemy to speak of the Three Gods?” Devon replied, his voice hardening. He rose from his seat. “Though that is what brought us here.”
“What has happened?” Rylle did not move. His face suggested he could guess what was coming.
“The Knights of Alana sacked the old temple above Skystead,” Devon began.
“That’s not so bad—” Rylle tried to say, but Devon cut him off.
“They killed several of the villagers they found there and took the rest hostage. We followed them to Townirwin and freed most of them, though Aldyn lost his life in the effort. But…they brought Kryssa here, for some Great Sacrifice they have planned for the solstice.”
“Oh…” Rylle whispered, his face losing its colour. “Devon, I’m…” he trailed off, and sat staring up at Devon, as though waiting to hear it was all some joke. Finally his eyes slid closed and he wavered in place.
“Gods!” He said the word like a curse. “I warned Braidon not to trust them.”
“We must act quickly,” Devon continued, “before they realise I’m here. If they find out, Kryssa—”
“They’re already gone,” Rylle said.
Pela’s heart lurched in her chest. “What?” she croaked.
The King’s Guard frowned at Pela, before his eyes darted back to her uncle. “I’m sorry, Devon. I know how much Kryssa meant to you. But you’re too late, the Order and their Knights are already gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Devon growled.
“Whatever this ceremony of theirs is, they’re not holding it in Lane. The entire Castle is empty—the Knights and their followers all set off into the Forest this morning. From what I’ve heard, it’s the same all over Plorsea.”
No, no, no. Pela shook her head.
This couldn’t be happening, not again. Every time they got close, her mother slipped through their fingers. The solstice was less than a week away now. Heart in her throat, she looked at Devon.
“We need to go after them,” Devon said quickly. “How many of the King’s Guard can you spare?”
“None,” Rylle replied. He looked up at Devon, his eyes hollow. “The King’s Guard leave at first light.”
“Leave?” Devon yelled.
“The rest of the Guard is already on its way from Ardath,” Rylle continued. “Birds were sent as soon as we made port. We’re going to track down the Baronian who killed the king, and make them pay.”
Fists clenched, Devon stood towering over Rylle. For a moment, it seemed he would grab the man and shake him, but in the end he only shook his head. “Rylle, I loved him as much as you,” he whispered, “but he’s gone, and killing a few Baronians won’t bring him back. But there’s a chance we can still save Kryssa.”
“That’s not my decision to make, Devon.”
“Then whose is it?” Devon bellowed.
“It’s mine, Devon,” a woman spoke from behind them.
Pela spun towards the voice. Her sapphire eyes alive with grief, a woman threaded her way through the courtyard towards them. A rapier hung from her belt, though she was even shorter than Pela and of a lighter build. She wore a silken dress, all black, its edges seeming to merge with the growing dark, and her auburn hair was tied back at the nape.
A sinking feeling weighed on Pela’s stomach as she realised who the woman was, though Devon asked the question all the same:
“And who might you be, missy?”
“The queen,” Marianne replied. “It is so good to finally meet you, Devon.”
Devon sat in the dark, staring into the flickering light of a single candle. Pain was his constant companion now, an ache that started in his shoulder and radiated through his entire body. He still had not recovered from the battle in the Castle, and he found himself yearning for the old days, when he could fight all day and drink all night, then get up and do it all again the next day.
A smile touched his lips. Maybe it had never been that easy. But he was damned sure he’d never ached for three days straight after a fight.
A bang came from the door of the quarters the queen had offered them. He looked up as Caledan staggered inside. Crossing the room, the sellsword smiled down at him—then stumbled sideways into the table. His hands slammed onto the tabletop as he tried to steady himself, almost knocking the candle from its stand. Finally he managed to slump into the chair across from Devon.
Devon smelt spirits on the sellsword’s breath as he laid his head on the table.
“All this time,” Caledan muttered into the wood, slurring his words. “All these years, for nothin’!”
“I’m sorry,” Devon grunted. “Don’t know what you wanted from the king, but…” He trailed off as the warrior looked up suddenly.
Squinting, Caledan narrowed his eyes. “It’s typical, life.” His head bobbed up and down. “Should have known better. Learnt nothing all these years. Typical!”
Devon watched as the man put his head back on the table. He’d seen Caledan drink a time or two, but had never seen him even tipsy—let alone drunk to the point of falling down. Caledan was normally so controlled, calm even in the heat of battle. Whatever he’d needed from the king, it must have been important.
“What did you want from him?” Devon asked softly. “I swear, if it is within my power…”
“I don’t think so!” Caledan chuckled.
Sitting up suddenly, he jerked back in the chair, his head lolling. He leered at Devon, then reached into his coat and drew out a flask. Devon cursed and tried to snatch it from his hands, but the warrior still managed to take a swig before he could take it.
Devon returned to his chair as the sellsword cackled again. “Good stuff, that.”
A sniff of the flask confirmed his words. Devon’s eyes watered as he found himself staring at the candle again. Silently, he wondered what Selina would think of him now. It seemed everything in his life had fallen apart after her death. He’d fought with Kryssa not long after the funeral; though he couldn’t remember over what now. It hadn’t been important—Kryssa had never forgiven Devon for his part in her husband’s death. She’d only been looking for an excuse to cut him from her life.
That had stung, but Devon could accept it, so long as Kryssa and her daughter were safe. But then Pela had come running into his courtyard, upheaving his world yet again. And now Braidon was dead, and it seemed no matter what Devon did, things would never be right again.
The queen had listened in silence to their story, but not even Pela’s pleas could move the woman from her course. She would sail south with the king’s fleet in the morning, five ships to scour the River Lane and the southern coast until they found Julian and his Baronians. They were welcome to join the hunt, but Marianne would not spare any soldiers until the king’s killers were brought to justice.
So Devon would be left to search the Forest of Plorsea alone. A forest teeming with Knights who wanted him dead. The task would be the death of him, and yet he had to try. But he would not bring Pela with him, not this time, when death was almost certain. He would send her back with the queen in the morning. She might hate him forever, but at least Pela would be safe with the King’s Guard.
Remembering his friend brought Devon full circle, and he raised the flask. “To the king,” he said, and drank.
The liquor burned its way down his throat and he had to choke back a cough.
“To the king!” Caledan bellowed, raising an invisible glass. “May the miserable bastard rot at the bottom of the river!”
Devon frowned at the sellsword. “You never did say what you wanted from Braidon,” he said quietly.
“I wanted to watch the light fade from his eyes,” Caledan hiccupped. “For him to die by my sword. But the bastard Baronians beat me to it.”
For a full ten seconds, Devon sat staring at the man. Blood throbbed in his temples as he rose to his feet, fists clenched hard against the table.
“Ruined my life, you see,” Caledan continued, unaware of Devon’s rage in his drunken state. “Destroyed our family. Or at least, his sister did. Just had to die, and take the Gods with her, didn’t she? The Gods and their bastard magic.”
Now it was the sellsword who sat staring into the candlelight. Devon slumped back into his chair, the anger falling from him like water over stone.
“My father borrowed every shilling he could to pay for the healer, but when the man’s magic failed, he fled,” Caledan continued. “I can barely remember her face now. I wish I couldn’t remember my father’s. Bastard drank himself into a stupor for most of my childhood.” His eyes flickered up, though he didn’t seem to see Devon. “That’s why I wanted it to be me. I wanted him to suffer like I suffered. I wanted the witch to know.”
Sitting there in silence, Devon wondered how he could have been so blind. Madness shone from the sellsword’s eyes, borne of the pain he had suffered as a youth, of the hatred that had driven him for all his adult life. It made little sense, the blame he placed at Braidon’s feet, but who else could a child blame but the king?
“It wasn’t Braidon’s fault, you know,” Devon murmured, though he sensed it was hopeless to argue.
Caledan cackled. “Oh I know.” Now his voice took on a steely tone. “But an eye for an eye, as the Knights say, and nothing cuts quite so close as family.”
A chill raised the hackles on Devon’s neck.
“I wanted her family to suffer, as mine suffered,” Caledan spat bitterly. “To die, knowing it was justice.”
“Braidon was a good man,” Devon said. “What would murdering him have achieved?”
“Why should her family get to live,” Caledan roared, coming to his feet, “when mine is all gone?” He finished, his words a misery.
“And what about Plorsea?” Devon asked, mustering all the calm he could manage. “You’ve seen what his death has brought, the chaos. Is this what you wanted, for the sake of revenge?”
“What do I care for Plorsea?” Caledan retorted. Anger seemed to have sobered him somewhat. “What has Plorsea ever done for me? The only person you can rely on in this life is yourself, hammerman. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Devon laughed. “Quite the opposite. I wouldn’t be here if I’d stood alone all these years.” Faces flickered through his mind—Kellian and Merydith and Alana, and so many more now lost to him—and he continued in a softer voice. “I learned long ago that no matter how long I trained, or how hard I fought, there will always be someone better. Magic or no.”
“There is no one better than me,” Caledan hissed, drawing his sword and holding it aloft.
“Is that so?” Devon asked quietly. He rose and advanced on Caledan, until the sword pressed against his chest. His hammer lay at the foot of the table, but Devon had no need for it.
“What are you doing?” Caledan growled.
“I owe you a debt, don’t I?” Devon murmured. “You helped me rescue the villagers. I could not have done it without you. If you wanted to hurt Alana, to hurt the ones she loved, you never needed to kill Braidon.”
“What are you talking about, old man?” the sellsword slurred.
“Alana died to protect me,” Devon whispered. “That is a truth the Knights refuse to heed. She gave her life for mine. If you wish to hurt her, you only need kill me.”
Caledan stared at him, his face contorting with agony. The tip of his sword trembled, and the razor-sharp blade sliced through Devon’s tunic. Eyes wild, Caledan bared his teeth, an almost inhuman growl rumbling from his chest. Then he stepped back and pointed at Devon’s hammer.
“Pick it up!” he shouted.
“No,” Devon said, moving forward until the sword rested on his chest again. “I’ll not fight you.”
“Do it!” Caledan screamed. “Let us see who’s the better fighter!”
“No,” Devon rumbled, his voice echoing through the room. “If you want your revenge, take it!”
Caledan pressed down with his sword until blood began to flow. Devon said nothing, only stared at the sellsword, waiting to see what he would do. The strong spirits burned in his stomach and he had no idea why he’d challenged the young warrior. It was madness, and any second now he expected Caledan to skewer him.
What then for Kryssa? There would be no one left to rescue her from the Knights, no one to free her from their clutches. He could not afford to die here, so why had he handed his life over to a madman? Fists clenched, he waited for Caledan to strike the killing blow.
But with an awful scream, Caledan spun and hurled his sword away. Sparks flashed as it struck the bricks of the fireplace. He stumbled away from Devon and crumpled onto the sofa lying in the corner.
Standing by the table, Devon watched him for a long time, until the soft whisper of his snores filled the room and he was sure the swordsman was asleep. Then he retrieved Caledan’s sword and returned it to its scabbard. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned the sword against the sofa.
He hesitated again before departing for his own bed, staring down at the sellsword. The man had had his chance for revenge. Devon could not understand why he’d refused to take it, but he was relieved. Despite his aging body, he’d realised in that moment he was still needed. He could not allow despair to conquer him now, not so long as he still breathed. Only when he lay cold in his grave would he finally rest.
***
The next morning, Devon was woken by a groan and a curse. He looked up to see Caledan stagger into the room. For half a second his heart began to race…and then he recalled he was sharing the room with the sellsword. The man’s eyes were red and his face pale; it looked like he was suffering. Stumbling past Devon, he made for his bed before apparently deciding better of it.
He reached the window just in time to hurl the contents of his stomach out into the street. Somewhere outside a voice shouted out, but Caledan was already sinking onto his bed.
“Don’t think that’ll help our relationship with the door guards,” Devon remarked. “Better?”
Caledan shook his head. “I’m never drinking again.”
“I’ve rarely seen a man in such a state.”
Caledan shrugged. “The king is dead.”
Devon eyed him closely, but the sellsword did not seem to recall the conversation from the night before.
“I suppose you’ll be leaving us then?” he asked.
Caledan looked up. “Why?”
“The king is dead,” Devon said, repeating the obvious.
“Yes…” the warrior trailed off, his face taking on a pained look. “But…the Knights still have Pela’s mother.”
“Ay, but I can’t afford you,” Devon said softly.
Caledan shrugged, his eyes distant. “It can’t all have been for nothing,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then he shook himself. “You can’t rescue the woman without me.”
“I’m not sure we can rescue her with you.”
“Even so.” Caledan gave a pained grin. “I have a reputation to uphold. I cannot go abandoning a quest half-done.”
Devon eyed the man, remembering his rage the night before. Finally he sighed. “Very well.” He glanced out the window. The first hint of light now lit the world. “We’ll take the first ferry across the Lane. But first I need to talk with Pela. She won’t be continuing with us.”
“Good luck with that,” Caledan remarked.
“I wish I’d never let her come this far,” Devon murmured. “But it can’t go on, not now, when so much is at stake.”
“Did you have a plan for how to rescue the woman from a hundred of the bastards?” Caledan grunted.
“Ay,” Devon replied. “I have a few ideas.”
Caledan’s head pounded with each step as he descended the stairwell and stepped out into the backyard of the villa. His stomach swirled and he wanted more than anything to return to his bed and sleep. Silently, he cursed his weakness of the night before, for letting grief sweep away his self-control. After watching his father drink himself to death, he rarely tasted anything stronger than ale.
But the king’s death had shocked him, cutting him adrift. He had no purpose now, no dreams, nothing to aspire to. For so long, he’d dreamt of slaying the king. But always Braidon had been protected, surrounded by his Guard. Only the most loyal soldiers could join the King’s Guard, and Caledan had never been the soldier type. He fought for himself—or whoever could pay the most.
So why had he agreed to continue with Devon’s foolish quest? After all, his skills would be in high demand in the coming days, as vultures circled the flailing country. Nobles and merchants alike would offer good gold for his sword. Instead, he’d agreed to help a man who could pay nothing.
Yet his time as a sellsword had only ever been a means to an end. Now that that end no longer existed…what was the point? But neither could he simply retire. Sure, he had coin enough to buy a farm, but what joy would he find eking out an existence on the land? He was a warrior, and he would sooner lie down in a ditch by the Gods Road than surrender to such an existence.
So he would ride with Devon for now—at least until a better opportunity presented itself. Whatever he’d told Devon, he didn’t intend to see out his quest until the end. Storming a Castle was one thing; only a madman with a death wish would go up against the full might of the Order.
Caledan grimaced as the clouds parted overhead and the sunlight lit the courtyard. Spotting Devon standing at the docks, he started towards him. The hammerman wore a grim smile, but it fell from his face when he turned and saw Caledan approaching. Their eyes met, and Caledan hesitated.
If you want your revenge, take it!
A frown touched Caledan’s forehead. The words were spoken in Devon’s voice, but he could not recall the old warrior saying them. Dismissing them, he crossed the courtyard to where the rest of the King’s Guard were gathering.
Two dozen remained of the garrison in Lane, along with those men and women who’d survived the Baronian attack. All were garbed for war, their red and gold armour gleaming in the morning sun.
“Caledan!” Pela shouted behind him before he could join the Guard.
The young woman came storming across the courtyard, her face twisted in a fiery rage, and drew to a stop in front of him.
“You can’t let him do this!”
Caledan sighed, the pain in his forehead redoubling. The crunch of footsteps saved him from answering as Devon appeared alongside him.
“This discussion is over, missy,” Devon rumbled. “You’re going back.”
“No.” Pela’s sword flashed into her hand. She pointed it at Devon, her eyes shining. “You can’t!”
Devon lifted a finger and moved the point of the sword away.
“I can,” he said quietly, crouching beside her. “I told you at the start; I should never have brought you. In that forest, I can’t protect you—”
“And who will protect you?” Pela snapped. “Or did you forget I saved you in Townirwin?”
“I did not forget,” Devon murmured, crouching beside her, “and you have my thanks. But…”
“You don’t think we can win, do you?” Pela croaked.
The hammerman closed his eyes and his head bowed. “I…I won’t give up, Pela.”
“You need me.”
“Maybe we do,” Devon whispered, and for a moment hope showed on Pela’s face. “But Kryssa would not want you to trade your life for hers.”
“I won’t go,” Pela grated. “I’ll follow you.”
“I know,” Devon replied, coming to his feet. “That’s why I told Rylle to look out for you. You’ll be on the queen’s ship, nowhere near the battle, should they find the Baronians. They’ll take you home.”
“You’re passing me off to the King’s Guard,” Pela hissed.
“Yes,” Devon sighed, and Rylle stepped up beside him.
“You can’t—”
“I can,” Devon cut her off. “You’re going, Pela—if I have to chain you to the mast myself, you’re going.”
Pela’s eyes darkened. “I’ll never forgive you for this,” she hissed, then turned on her heel and stomped down the pier to the queen’s ship.
Genevieve appeared from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. She raised an eyebrow at Devon, but the old warrior only shook his head. “It’s for the best,” he murmured, then looked at Rylle. “You’ll look after her?”
“She’s the daughter of Derryn and Kryssa,” Rylle replied, as though that was all that needed to be said.
“Thank you,” Devon said. His eyes flickered to Genevieve. “Are you sure you’re up for this? Going against the whole Order is more than any of us bargained for back in Skystead.”
Smiling, Genevieve stepped around the hammerman and crossed the courtyard to where a line of horses waited for them. She swung herself into the saddle of a white gelding and took up the reins of the pack horse.
“Let’s get moving,” she said shortly, “before we miss the ferry.”
A smile flickered on Devon’s face and he followed suit. Struggling to keep the last remnants of his supper in his stomach, Caledan hauled himself onto the last horse and followed his companions out the side gate of the villa. Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of Pela on the deck of the queen’s ship. She stood with sword in hand, hacking and slashing at invisible enemies—or perhaps at Devon—and Caledan felt a touch of sadness at their departure.
Despite his initial reservations, he’d liked the girl. Terrified as she might have been, Pela had shown more courage over the last few weeks than many adults Caledan had known throughout his thirty-three years. But he supposed the old warrior was right—chances were, none of them would survive an encounter with the entire Order of Alana.
Which raised the question again: why was he following Devon on this suicide mission?
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