Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set, page 20
part #1 of Scout Series
“I didn’t mean what I said,” Trace says finally. He rubs his palm over the side of his face, where a bruise is blossoming in earnest, and adjusts the log he sits on for a more comfortable fit. I have my own sitting log. And my own bed of gathered pine brush to sleep on. Trace clears his throat. “About being owed anything. I was frustrated. The words slipped past better reason.”
I add a slab of firewood to the flames and watch them lap it up hungrily, changing colors in their bliss. I don’t disbelieve Trace exactly. I just know it’s not really Kali he sees sitting beside him, but the woman he thinks I should be. I choose my words carefully, as if handling eggs. “I’m sorry about your face.” Truth. I regret his bruises. I don’t regret taking the swing.
Trace braces his forearms against his knees. “You didn’t know who you were fighting.”
I tense. “Someone who was trying to take my life. The specifics seemed of little importance.” Truth. Rising, I stack our remaining firewood into a neat pile. It keeps my hands busy.
“And now?”
“The specifics still seem of little importance.”
Trace makes a sound of disagreement.
I throw up my hands and turn to him. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a fight, Trace.” I pick up a branch and start stripping it of its leaves. “And just a kiss. I imagine it wasn’t your first—of either. Don’t make an epic battle from a few glancing blows. Would you even bring the bloody thing up again if I were Luca?”
He crosses his arms. “What we did wouldn’t have happened with Luca. Either part.”
No, it wouldn’t have. I rather doubt Luca would have started that fight at all, much less ended it entangled in Trace’s lips. “I’m not going to Everett. If that’s where this conversation is heading, save your breath.”
“I’m just asking that you listen. The decision is yours.”
Fine. I raise my brows expectantly.
“It was five years ago that Viva captured me. When I escaped, I knew that my death would serve my family better than news of my capture and questioning. So I ran.”
I drop the stripped branch back on the pile and put up a hand. “Trace. Drop it. I’m not running away or doing anything stupider than usual. I’m—”
“Shut up and listen. This isn’t about you.” His voice is hard and shadows play along the angle of his jaw. A trick of the fire. When I look into his eyes, though, there is no steel there. Just resolve and fear in equal measure. I shut up as he asked and wait for him to break the silence. He draws a breath and stares into the flames. “For the first two years, I ricocheted from one master to another, the harsher the better. Trying to get tougher, stronger, faster. Then I went to the Monastery of Qilar, in part to train, in part to test myself, and in part to pay penance for my weakness.”
I start to nod but halt myself, lest I interfere with his words.
“Meanwhile, Bahir’s power continued to grow. We’d suspected he could manipulate magic for years, but the trail of blind devotion and self-righteous hate that he sowed in his wake took even pessimists by surprise. It was time to return to the duties I was born to fulfill, even if I had to fulfill them from a different role.”
“Wait,” I frown. “Born?”
“Yes, born,” Trace snaps. “I needed to learn where the true threat to my kingdom and my people lay. And how to stop it.”
The implication of Trace’s words brushes my hackles, shifting and turning as it tries to arrange itself in my mind. “So you joined Firehorn’s Royal Guard?” I say.
“So I joined Firehorn’s guard,” Trace echoes in unapologetic agreement. “To keep an eye on the Dansil king and the magic-wielding Bahir, who was ensnaring Delta in an ever-tightening noose.”
My breath catches, as though a draft horse struck my chest. “Princess Raza isn’t your lover, is she?” I’m only half-surprised at my words. Of all the things to ask just now, this is by far the stupidest.
“No,” Trace agrees, and an owl hoots her assent as well. “Raza is my sister.”
Stars. Prince Rune. I knew as much many moments ago, but hearing the confirmation . . . I stand. Pace. Stop. Sit back down. Feed more wood to the fire that I’m bloody sharing with Everett’s long-dead crown prince. Except he isn’t dead. He’s a spy. “That night outside the Wandering Dog—I was right when I said your hatred of Wil was personal, wasn’t I?” I say finally.
Trace shrugs. “I know the damage an heir’s recklessness can do firsthand.”
“And the prisoners . . .” I sort through my memories, examining my conversations with Trace anew. “Since you—your kingdom—has been watching Bahir, did you know he uses Viva Sylthia to collect whisperers? When I said the Holy Guard was expecting prisoners, did that mean something to you?”
“I did not know about Bahir’s connection with Viva Sylthia, no. Did not even suspect it until you mentioned Samuels—and even then, I had little reason to think you were correct.” He stretches, cracking his back. “But yes, I did know that Bahir’s guards round up whisperers for forced labor. I’ve helped several escape to Everett over the years—it was the best I could do.”
My memories of watching Trace disappear into the forest at night take on a new light. I thought he’d been trying to find his lover. But now . . . Trace is Prince Rune. Of course he’s been doing something at the palace these past years besides protecting the king of Dansil. I idly wonder whether, like me, he was supposed to have not interfered.
Right. I blow out a long breath and brace my forearms on my knees. “All right, Trace. Rune. Why did you just tell me all this?”
“Because we need to stop Bahir before he strangles Dansil and starts in on Everett. Because there is something about you that threatens him. You may be the key to peace.” Trace swallows and I know there is something he’s not saying, though what he does utter is potent enough. “I’ve tried asking and intimidating and demanding. And now . . . now I’m begging you. Showing you what I’m willing to risk for your trust and for your consent to go to Everett.”
My chest tightens, but I’m back on familiar footing now. I’m a tool, like I’ve always been. Except now I’m a tool with enough potential for Trace, for Prince Rune, to find it useful. I summon my own stony expression and still my face. “Thank you. That was . . . helpful. I will think on your request and give you an answer once I report my own—and only my own—findings to my king. You must agree that’s fair, as one spy to another.”
“Kali—”
“Kalianna. My name is Kalianna.” I move away from the fire and curl onto my sleeping pallet of sweet pine. “Let us get some rest while we can.”
The following day, Trace and I finally near the edge of the North Wood, where the forest opens to the palace’s back courtyard.
“Wait.” I hold out a hand to stop Trace’s advance. The familiar smell of sap mixing with the spices of the palace’s latest deliveries tickles my nose in welcome. I close my eyes to draw a deep breath and feel my muscles tighten instead. Something feels wrong. It’s too loud. Not shouting or banging or anything in particular—just an increased volume of the regular, everyday din that I’m used to hearing from this spot.
“I don’t hear anything unusual,” Trace says when I share the observation.
“You are not the scout who’s spent days sitting here.” Finding a wide-branched tree—one of Kal’s favorites from his days of watching the palace traffic—I swing myself up to survey the palace grounds. The now-familiar sights splay out before me, from the royal stables on the castle’s eastern side to the keep on its southwestern side. The rich colors, the flowers that house those bloody wasps, the scurrying servants, strolling courtiers, patrolling guards—all is as it was. But there is something else too.
“There are too many roses around,” I tell Trace as I scurry back down to the ground, my forehead tight. “They are everywhere—an extra two hundred men, at least. Like there were after the Viva Sylthia attack.”
Trace’s brows pull together. “Another attack while we were gone?”
I shake my head. “The Royal Guard’s numbers are standard for this time of day. Just more roses. A lot more.”
Trace raps his knuckles against the tree trunk. “All right, then we adjust. You stay here, I go fetch Lady Lianna’s clothes, and then you enter in her persona. There is no reason to risk the roses catching sight of Kal just to get you into your rooms.”
“Nooo,” I drawl, a small smile touching my lips and growing as Trace rolls his eyes to the stars. “On the contrary. Let the bastards catch a glimpse of risen-from-the-dead Kal in the keep. It will send the lot into a tailspin that may tell us something. Kick up dust.”
Trace curses.
My grin widens. “Chin up, Prince. They can’t kill Kal right then and there in the middle of the keep, and we won’t linger long.” Adjusting my clothes, I widen my stance to fall into Kal’s male stride, claiming more space. “I wasn’t making a suggestion,” I tell Trace over my shoulder as I start toward the keep.
Despite my swiveling neck and rising pulse, the roses we pass on our way to the barracks are preoccupied and apparently unaware of Kal’s recently attempted murder. We are ten paces from my door—with me contemplating walking up to a random holy guardsman and starting a conversation, just to stir up some action—when someone finally approaches.
“Where in stars’ name did you two disappear to?” Luca demands of Trace and me, a mix of fatigue and frustration weighing down his words.
“Kal had family matters,” Trace says dismissively. “I ran into him—”
“Tell me later.” Grabbing Trace, Luca manhandles him into the closest of our rooms, which happens to be mine. Ignoring my torn, bloodstained clothes, Luca wheels on Trace. “The Holy Guard has been searching the whole bloody palace for you since yesterday. They are trying to arrest you.”
“Arrest him for what?” I ask.
“Last night, two young girls—both runaway whisperers—killed a rose,” says Luca. “When caught, they claimed to be working with Trace.”
32
Kali
Days ago, I would have thought the accusation absurd. Now I can only curse the damn timing. Not that there is ever a convenient time to be exposed.
“Am I on the Royal Guard arrest list as well?” Trace asks after a pause, his voice as even as if discussing new mess-hall bannocks. “Or only the roses’?”
Luca groans. “I was really hoping to hear you curse and proclaim your innocence just now.”
“Anyone who believes I ordered those girls to commit murder would unlikely be swayed by my insistence to the contrary,” says Trace. “Are you supposed to be arresting me?”
“Stars, but you are a pain.” Luca sighs with resignation. “No, Wil is holding up the roses’ request for a reciprocal warrant. He wants to talk to you first.”
I clear my throat. “Is this why the palace grounds are bleeding holy guardsmen?” I ask. “Two hundred of them are all looking for Trace? They are not doing a very good job of it, considering none challenged us on the way here.”
“Let us not stop to offer critique,” Luca tells me, his face tight. “And yes, that is why they are here. The numbers are all about politics—a demonstration of Bahir’s outrage and all that.”
“Or they are not truly looking for Trace,” I say, though neither man pays me much mind.
“You said Wil needs to see me,” Trace tells Luca, his shoulders tense despite an even voice. “Then take me to him.”
“Us,” I say, my glare daring him to object. After years of ignorance about Bahir’s allegiance, Firehorn can wait another hour while I see what other trouble is brewing.
Trace’s jaw tightens. “Us,” he finally agrees but waves a hand over my tattered clothing. “Though the shorter part of us might wish to change and arm himself as befitting a guardsman before attending the crown prince.”
“Trace,” Luca studies the floor, his voice quiet, “the prince waits with Questioner Calvin in the dungeon hold.” He focuses on straightening his own clothes as the words and their meaning percolate. After a moment, Luca turns on his heels, nodding to no one in particular. “I’ve something to attend to before meeting you there.”
The words Luca didn’t say aloud squeeze the air from my lungs. If you need to disappear, this is your chance. Never mind that Luca would be flogged within an inch of his life for it.
Lord Gapral warned me about the dangers of friendship.
Trace’s hand snaps around Luca’s wrist. “Escort me first, if you don’t mind.”
Dread and relief flooding me in equal measure, I quickly turn away to pull on a fresh tunic and breeches, letting Trace subtly nudge Luca out of the tiny room. Another few moments to strap Leaf’s pouch to one thigh and a sword to my waist, and I’m as ready as I’m getting. My forearm is bare and too light without my vambrace of throwing knives, but there’s little to be done on that front. Even with the knives missing, the change of clothes feels unexpectedly soothing, like a bandage topping a wound.
When I step outside, Trace gives a small, understanding nod.
Hooded cloaks covering our faces, Trace, Luca, and I walk purposefully toward the dungeon. Around us, red-coated holy guardsmen scurry about like cockroaches. Spotting Sergeant Samuels across the courtyard, my hands tighten into fists.
Luca shoots me a dark look, then slows as we approach the dungeon doors. “Trace . . . you can still—”
Reaching past Luca, Trace opens the door to the moldy gloom and starts down the steps. Lanterns in hand, Luca and I follow the echo of Trace’s boots against the stone. My chest squeezes at the thought of what each of these motions costs Trace. And if he is discovered as an Everett spy . . .
“It will work out,” Luca tells me quietly, having read my tension if not my thoughts. “That one always lands on his feet.”
No, he doesn’t. Except I’ve neither the heart nor the right to tell Luca exactly how much worse this all is than he thinks.
We are halfway down the staircase, bracing for the inevitable stench, when Calvin blocks our path.
“Hoods off,” he orders with a deathly quiet that allows no disobedience. Holding up a lantern, he inspects each of us, moving from one set of eyes to the next, until coming to a halt before Trace.
“Allow me to make something perfectly clear,” the questioner tells him. “I have two young girls in a place in which they have no business being. If I so much as smell an intention to intimidate them into anything, your day will go from bad to worse very rapidly. Prince William or no Prince William. Do you understand me, guardsman?”
“It’s a misunderstanding, Calvin,” I hear myself say. “There is—”
Trace silences me with a hand. Raising his chin, he stares at the questioner and, after a moment of heavy silence, bows with his hand over his sword. With a jerk of his head, Calvin leads us the rest of the way down and into the dusty meeting room.
Wil stands with two girls of twelve or thirteen years. One petite and agile with coal-black hair and an angled face, the other plump and ungainly. Both frightened. The girls shy away from us. If they’ve seen Trace before, they give no sign of it now.
Wil, his hair and clothes equally disheveled, steps forward. “I think I like it better when it’s you pulling me out of trouble,” he tells Trace.
Trace bows his head, the short nod carrying more weight than a glamorous display. “I understand that I’m wanted for murder.”
“You are not wanted for anything,” Wil snaps, though his voice’s rising inflection takes some of the power from the words. “Not by the Crown, at least. The Holy Guard has made a claim based on Alexa and Jasmine’s words.” He points to the girls. “They are—were—runaway Order of the Goddess acolytes. A rose caught them in the North Wood and attempted to take them back to the temple. Jasmine hit him on the back of the head with a rock, which ended the pursuit more permanently than intended. The guard’s partner found the body and, shortly after, Alexa and Jasmine themselves. Who gave the Holy Guard Trace’s name.”
“An accident, then,” I say. “Not murder.”
Luca and Trace exchange glances. “The specifics will little matter to the Holy Guard,” says Trace. “And King Firehorn may be pressured to agree to the charges to appease the Order. I wager it is the escape more than the guard’s death that upsets Bahir.”
The girls shrink back, pressing against each other, and Calvin shifts his weight to subtly impose himself between Trace and his accusers.
“It’s all right,” Trace tells them. “You are whisperers?”
Hesitant nods. Trace turns to Wil. “Bahir’s men round up whisperers and force them to labor in the Order’s fortress. Kidnapping, enlisting, buying—whatever it takes. ‘Acolyte’ is the bishop’s term for slave. I help escapees get to safety.”
I glare at Trace, whose meddling in Dansil’s affairs—and putting himself in danger of several executions—appears vaster than even I imagined, the matter of this being the pot calling the kettle black notwithstanding. Being an Everett prince in Dansil court isn’t enough? You needed to subvert the Order of the Goddess while you were at it?
His eyes flick to me. What did you expect me to do?
“Slaves?” Wil shakes his head, his long lashes cutting the air with a sharp arc. “Surely you exaggerate.”
Trace snorts. “What exactly did you think happened to all the whisperers turned over to the Order for ‘salvation’?”
Calvin rubs his top lip. “How do you go about the rescues?” he asks mildly.
Trace draws a breath and faces the questioner. “A meeting point in the woods. I check it routinely for runaways, but I’ve been away for several days.”
Because of me. Trace is a hair’s breadth from being uncovered and it’s all because of me.
