Page 85 of Stolen

I shrank back, tears burning my eyes.

The knight walked right past me, not even glancing in my direction.

Trembling, I lowered my hand. He hadn’t seen me. Just like the first time I visited Sithistra, the knight had swept by me as if I didn’t exist.

In fact, the only time I’d been visible when farseeing was when I visited Laurent by accident.

I spun in a slow circle, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how I’d landed in the camp without trying. My gaze snagged on a familiar tent, and my heart stopped.

It was the king’s tent—Rolund’s tent, topped with the green flag of Sithistra. The banner waved limply in the light breeze, the Towers of the Mir encircled by the Solgard River beneath a blazing sun.

Movement inside made me hold my breath. A silhouette stood, Rolund’s tall form unmistakable even in shadow. He buried his face in his hands. After a moment, he gave a deep, broken sob.

My feet moved without my permission, taking me around the tent. I spotted a sentry and ducked close to the canvas. When the sentry merely stood there, I eased from the shadows.

A pair of knights approached, their boots crunching in the dirt and gravel. One talked animatedly, his hands flying as he complained about the soup being served for dinner. The knights nodded to the sentry, who nodded back. One of the men looked straight at me as the pair passed.

They didn’t see me. My heart thumped. Maybe it was as simple as choosing not to be seen.

A wild impulse seized me, and I stepped away from the tent and waved my arms. The sentry stayed put, his expression unchanged.

Another muffled sob drifted from Rolund’s tent. I hesitated, recalling Cathrin’s recent death. Rolund was clearly hurting. When Helen died, grief had consumed me.

I opened the flap and stepped inside.

My brother stood over a campaign table, his back to the tent’s entrance. His head was bowed, his dark hair disheveled as if he’d been running his fingers through it. A corner of the paper before him drooped over the table’s edge. I squinted, drifting closer, and saw “Lar Katerin” stenciled over a drawing of a castle.

My throat went dry. Rolund stood over a map of Nor Doru. He was, at this very moment, likely planning a war.

I moved closer, trying to see more of the map. Rolund straightened abruptly, his bulk blocking my line of sight. Great, now I couldn’t see anything. And I needed to see. If I could get a good enough look at that map, I might be able to learn something that could help Laurent or Varick.

Rolund moved again, further blocking my view.

I crept forward, my bare foot shifting gravel.

My brother whirled, and I froze. Rolund’s mouth opened on a gasp. “You can’t be here.” He squeezed his eyes shut, like he was trying to rouse himself from a dream. “It’s not possible.”

My initial shock wore off, and anger flooded me. I stepped forward. “What’s not possible, Brother? That I’m here in your camp, or that I’m alive?”

He recovered quickly, his expression going from startled to stern. “Who brought you?” His eyes took in my robe and nightdress. “What game do you play, Given? Something cooked up by the priest, no doubt. That snake is probably invading as we speak.” His chest lifted, and he opened his mouth like he meant to shout for his men.

“You coward,” I spat, rushing forward before he could summon his knights. “If you want me dead, at least have the courage to kill me yourself.”

Rolund’s mouth snapped shut. Surprise flashed in his gaze. There was guilt, too, which he hid quickly.

But not quickly enough.

I nodded, anger rising. “That’s right. I heard you give the order. I was there the night you spoke to Crasor about sending the solstone to Nor Doru. He repeated the prophecy and said Laurent would throw me into the Rift if he found the blade. And you said so be it.”

The blood drained from Rolund’s face. “This is exactly what Crasor warned about.”

“What?” I raised my chin. “People finding out you’re a murderer?”

His expression darkened, and he stepped toward me. Light flashed, drawing my attention to a small, mirrored pendant around his neck. “No,” he said, “Crasor warned of foul magic that comes from the Fir. Demonic forces who leave their bodies and spy undetected.” He took another step forward, and I remembered he’d been a formidable warrior in his youth. Although his middle had thickened with age, he was still a powerful man.

My heart thumped as I stumbled back, willing myself to farsee to Laurent’s chamber. I waited to blink and open my eyes in Nor Doru, but nothing happened. I remained in the tent, Rolund slowly bearing down on me.

“Y-You don’t want to do this,” I said. I’d been stupid to enter Rolund’s tent. But his weeping had kindled compassion. Despite everything, some part of me had clung to the hope that maybe I’d been mistaken about my brother—that he was still the man I remembered instead of the man he’d become.

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