Page 6 of King's Warrior

“Then I’ll allow you more time to heal.” Draylon left for his turn at guard, not explaining what he meant.

They didn’t stop at the last inn, though. Rufe rode into the Cormiran capital, dirty, exhausted, vastly underfed, barely keeping himself on his horse. He hoped for a bath, food, clean clothes, and possibly a shave—things he’d longed for while being held againsthis will. Three city guards approached, one grabbing his horse’s reins.

Draylon shouted, “Let him go!” He dismounted, drawing his sword.

“Stand aside, Prince Draylon. We’ve heard the news. You know the law. This man has been in the hands of the enemy. How do we know what thoughts they’ve put into his mind?”

Draylon took up a fighting stance.

No. Rufe couldn’t allow his dearest friend to get on the wrong side of the law. He’d had days to consider what would happen and come to terms with the consequences. Yes, he was free in a way, but in another, he’d never be free again.

Rufe slid from his horse, clinging to the saddle to avoid falling. “No, Prince Draylon, they’re right. I must go.” Draylon’s title only seemed prudent when surrounded by adversaries, even if the adversaries were their countrymen.

He staggered past Draylon, reaching out to one man for support. The man jumped back as though burned. Rufe fell to his knees.

Draylon lifted a brow, offering Rufe a hand up. “Are you sure?”

Rufe swallowed hard and nodded. “I am.” He rose to his feet with Draylon’s help and doubled over, resting his hands on his knees.

Draylon sheathed his sword, glowered at the odious guards, and put an arm around Rufe to help him to the local jail, where the magistrate waited at his desk, uncharacteristic worry lines on hisforehead. He’d known both Rufe and Draylon since they were boys, training to be soldiers at the nearby garrison.

Any remaining fight went out of Rufe. A toady official might be one thing, but an old man who kept sweets on his desk was another. Rufe snagged a piece of honey candy from the familiar bowl for the comfort of its flavor.

“I’m sorry, Rufe.” The magistrate waved a hand to indicate the damning instruments and ink pots on the desk before him. “You know the law. The tattoo is required.”

Rufe remained quiet, merely sat by the desk stony-faced, extending his arm and trying not to grimace at the ink-dipped needle sinking into his flesh. From now on, all who saw him would see a traitor, someone untrustworthy. They’d gossip behind his back. Would his parents turn away in shame? He’d get no sympathy from his brother.

Draylon took Rufe’s free hand. Though Rufe couldn’t bring himself to look up and see disgust or pity, he took comfort in the quiet support. The magistrate put down his instruments, clearing his throat.

Rufe didn’t want to look. Looking would make the moment real, though his stinging hand told the tale of the last hour. No one spoke; they simply remained with Rufe until he summoned the courage to look up.

The magistrate had attempted an ornamental flourish, but the dark “T” for traitor remained clearly visible.

Being captured and surviving meant becoming an outcast. No one would respect him, and prospective mates might turn away.Maybe he could find mercenary work, but earning a living as a sellsword meant leaving the capital, Draylon, and all Rufe had known.

“What will you do now?” the magistrate asked, voice kind and eyes troubled as he gently dabbed blood away from the mark.

Before Rufe could say, “I don’t know,” Draylon replied, “He’s a soldier and now knows the enemy better than anyone. This mark means nothing. Fuck what others think; he’s more valuable to me now than ever.”

Draylon escorted a swaying Rufe from the jail to an inn, growling at anyone staring at the shameful tattoo. He paid for seven days and led Rufe upstairs. Rufe eyed the clean coverlet on the bed and the tapestried chair, then sank onto the floor.

Draylon lifted him with a firm grip under his arms and eased him into the chair. “I’m having a bath and food brought. I’ve also sent for a healer who’ll tend your wounds.”

“They won’t. They won’t want to touch me.” No one would, ever again.

“This one will.” A knock came at the door. Draylon opened to two tittering maids who eyed him appreciatively while bringing in a tin tub. Their eyes flashed when they spotted Rufe’s arm.

Draylon growled, “Tell the landlord you have displeased me greatly and kindly send others with water. Others who aren't so judgmental.” He slammed the door in their faces and placed the tub himself. “Sorry,” he said to Rufe with a sheepish smile.

Rufe shook his head, letting out a sigh. “Draylon, you can’t taint your good name by continuing to associate with me. What would your father say?”

“I don’t care what he says. Never have, never will. My brother sends his regards. That’s all I care about. I’ve also sent a message to your parents.”

“My parents!” They’d soon discover his new outcast status; Rufe wasn’t looking forward to the revelation. The news would give his parents’ servants more gossip other than him simply being a bastard, born while Mother and Father were both married to others.

“They’re concerned about your wellbeing and were worried when your scouting party didn’t return. I’ve convinced them not to come to see you, but only by telling them you’d visit when ready.”

Rufe’s parents hadn’t turned away?

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