Page 11 of King's Warrior

“We need the healer,” Casseign shouted, reaching to take the obviously injured man.

The rider scowled, then maneuvered himself to the ground, taking the barely conscious man more securely into his arms. The rider proved to be larger than even Casseign, with dark hair and eyes. He wore no armor, only torn clothing and a tattered cloak. Blood smeared his face.

“Get them inside,” Niam ordered. “They’ll freeze to death out here.” He disappeared into the keep to locate Mother.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind Niam. “Your Majesty.”

Niam whirled to find Casseign a few steps below him. “Report.”

Casseign bowed as best he could on the narrow spiral stairs. “The men we found are two Cormirans and a badly injured Renvallian. I believe the Cormirans are Draylon Aravaid and Captain Rufe Ferund. They claim to be mere merchants.”

The breath caught in Niam’s throat. Draylon Aravaid? The emperor's son?

“The third man claims to be your cousin,” Casseign added.

Cousin Yarif! He’d looked so pale… “Get them settled,” Niam snapped, fear spurring him into a near frenzy. “We’ll talk later. How badly is my cousin injured?”

Casseign raised his brows but didn’t question the relationship. “Someone whipped him, Your Majesty. He appears starved as well.”

How dare someone attack Niam’s kin! “While I hate to move him more than necessary, we must place him in a room near mine on the family’s floor for his protection.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Niam barely tapped on the door before bursting into his mother’s solar.

“We have visitors, I take it.” She bustled about the room, assembling dried herbs in a basket. “Visitors needing my care.”

“How did you…?”

His mother smiled. “Nothing avoids my notice. How many, who are they, and what should I bring?”

“Three men. Our nobles would revolt if they knew we had Draylon Aravaid under our roof. There’s also a Cormiran captain. The last is…” Niam needed to be delicate and not simply blurt out something that might cause his mother pain.

“The last is…” Mother rolled her hand in an “out with it” gesture.

“Possibly cousin Yarif, in terrible shape.”

Mother gathered a few more things. “Take me to him at once.” She pushed through the door before Niam got the chance. He rushed to keep up, but no one could match his mother on a mission.

She burst into a room a few doors down from Niam’s private chambers, though how she knew the location was anyone’s guess. Two soldiers held a man between them dressed in bloodied rags, pain twisting his face. The soldiers backed him toward the bed.

“No!” Mother yelled. “On his stomach.” She approached the wounded man. “It’s all right now, lad. You’re safe. Lie down and let me tend to your wounds. Afterward, we’ll find you a nice bowl of stew.” Mother narrowed her eyes at one soldier, then took his place supporting her patient. “Go to the kitchens. Get food.” He dashed out the door.

Keeping up a constant flow of instructions—to the remaining soldier and her patient—she maneuvered the injured man onto the bed.

“I’m dirty,” he protested. “I’ll ruin the nice sheets.”

“Shh…” Mother soothed. “We have plenty more. Now, lie there. Let me look.” She ordered the other guard, “I’ll need water, soap, and cleaning cloths. Hurry.” The soldier fled the room.

She glanced at Niam. “Go see to our other guests. This poor, unfortunate man gets the next few hours of my time. If I’m needed, send word.”

Niam tried to find traces of the boy he once knew in the man before him, but dirt, pain, and a few weeks of hard living would make his closest friends appear unfamiliar. He backed from the room, turning at the sound of approaching footsteps—coming face to face with dark hair, dark eyes, and an angel’s face.

If the angel came fresh from battle.

Chapter Three

The two soldiers gripping Rufe’s arms weren’t gentle—he was an enemy, after all—nor were they overly cruel.

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