Page 74 of King's Warrior

Her eyes darted back and forth as she read. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry about your brother. Wereyou close?”

“Thank you, and not really. What should I do?”

“Why, go home, of course. Your family needs you. He was the firstborn son, right? You’re the heir now, aren’t you?”

Rufe shook his head. “I’m firstborn, but my parents weren’t married then. I can’t inherit.” Nera already knew he was a bastard, didn’t she?

“Still, your parents need your support. You should go to them.”

“What about Niam and the boys? The threat to their lives?”

Nera took Rufe’s hands in hers. “Rufe, we have the best guards and are taking precautions. I know you’ll worry about him because you love him.”

A hard swallow didn’t dislodge the lump in Rufe’s throat. “Am I so obvious?”

“Only to me, who’s been hoping for someone to love my son the way he deserves, not as a king, but as a man. You don’t love him for his title, but despite it.”

The floodgates opened and out tumbled Rufe’s misery. “I don't think he realizes the depth of my affection.”

“He knows.”

“Nothing can ever come of it. He’s king. I’m a foreign bastard.” Rufe squeezed Nera’s fingers, his confession undoing all his denials about not caring.

“He loves you, too. And never try to guess what the gods have in store. They have their own reasons for what they do.”

Rufe didn’t ask which gods. He’d not believed in any of them except for the God of War and a goddess so ancient no onerecalled her name. “So, I should go?”

“Yes, you should. Hurry back as quickly as you can. You will be missed. Forgive me if I take liberties.” Nera leaned forward, throwing her arms around Rufe. “Your and Niam’s stories are still being written.” She kissed his cheek. “Now, what do you need to make this journey? Soldiers?”

“You’ve lost too many lately.”

“We can spare a few to keep my honorary son safe.”

Instead of reassuring him he’d be fine to go home, Nera made Rufe want to stay all the more.

Rufe spent much of his life in one battle after another, escaped from hostile soldiers, kept his head high when others threw taunts his way. His body bore the scars of a life hard-lived. He’d nearly died on at least three separate occasions and had his life threatened by an emperor, a few cutthroats, the odd jealous spouse, and even a horrifying fever.

All of those instances paled compared to the heart-ripping sensation of mounting his borrowed horse in the courtyard and bidding Niam farewell as though they meant nothing to each other, merely king and foreign emissary. However, with guards, advisors, and a secretary present, they kept their interactions slightly below formal.

Niam said a more intimate goodbye with those softly upturned lips when he’d kissed Rufe so soundly a fewnights ago.

Rufe poured his heart out with, “Until we meet again, King Niam.” There was so much more he should do or say, but this might be for the best. Without the distraction, Niam could focus on the kingdom, find a way to heal rifts, and perhaps even find himself a worthy consort.

The last part tore at Rufe’s heart. Political marriages were rarely loving, though Draylon and Yarif defied the notion. Apparently, Nera and her Reed had, too.

The expressions on the attending advisors’ faces ranged from sorrow to smug satisfaction, making Rufe long to stay.

“Stay safe, Lord Rufe,” Niam said, voice low. His eyes shimmered. Not good. There might be a mutinous asshole around who should never know of their secret relationship.

Rufe smiled, nodded, and maneuvered the white stallion as he rode through the castle gates, his honor guard falling in behind him. A dozen soldiers, Glendorans that had accompanied him from Renvalle, and Delletinians, hand-picked for their loyalty. They rode in formation until out of sight of the castle. Four more soldiers joined them there.

“All clear, Ambassador,” a lieutenant said. Her blue eyes appeared overly large in her pale face.

All clear, no one watching.

Rufe dismounted, handing over the stallion's reins to another soldier and claiming Princess instead—a sure-footed mule of fine pedigree that enemies wouldn’t expect him to ride after his very public departure on the stallion. Delletinians all knew lowlander Cormirans preferred horses.

Princess had changed Rufe’s mind. She carried ample stores in her many packs. Rufe braced himself for the cold and stripped beside her, ignoring the soft whistles from the men and women accompanying him, dressing in the clothing of a Delletinian farmer. Lots of clothing. Lots of layers. He didn’t mind the clothes but missed the fur hat and fur-lined cloak, donning treated wool instead. Whatever they used to protect the wearer from winter’s chill left the garments smelling strongly of wet sheep.

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