Page 86 of King's Warrior

The woman’s mule had bolted, so she mounted a foundling. “Damn it. I liked that saddle, too,” she grumbled.

“Round up any mules and supplies, but be quick about it,” Casseign ordered. The woman and two others saluted and rode away.

They tended wounds until the woman returned, leading several mules.

Casseign climbed onto his mule’s back, his wince hardly noticeable. Had he been loyal to the commander who’d betrayed them? “Let’s ride out.”

They continued along their way, keeping watchful eyes. Niam breathed a sigh of relief when they exited the pass onto a little-known pathway. He’d long appreciated Delletina’s military forces, but never more so than today.

Recalling Casseign’s and the others’ moves, Niam couldn’t help but think of Rufe, his many scars, and how he’d never been a stranger to such action.

Niam was developing a whole new appreciation for him, too.

Chapter Thirty-three

Rufe stopped Princess on a hilltop overlooking his childhood home, apprehension singing through his veins. When he entered Myerly Hall, it wouldn’t be as the bastard son, but the heir. Would the servants who’d made snide comments about his parentage still gossip in the hallways? What about Ronwith’s friends? And more threatening, the friends and servants of his uncle and cousin vying for the title. This might be the most dangerous battlefield he’d ever approached.

He’d come alone, without even a valet or luggage, behaving no differently than he ever had, wearing his uniform. Until Father made the formal announcement, Rufe would present himself as a Cormiran soldier. Emperor Avestan hadn’t widely communicated Rufe’s change of circumstances.

Would that he could continue as a mere soldier. The thought niggled in the back of Rufe’s brain that Ronnie’s death might not have been an accident. Maybe the castle intrigue of Delletina made conspiracies appear everywhere.

The mule must’ve sensed a barn ahead and nickered. Rufe didn’t want to hurry. He’d arrive just before the dinner hour, with timeto freshen up and hopefully have a plate brought to his room. He’d rather not have judgmental eyes on him tonight. Let him rest first.

He clicked his tongue, setting Princess into motion—his mule something else for the locals to laugh about. But in the mountains, he wouldn’t trade her for any horseflesh. This vain yet sure-footed creature possibly saved his life, becoming a comrade-in-arms, or hooves, rather. Like Niam, who’d gifted her, she was a beauty, tightly muscled with her head held high. The name Princess suited her.

Back and buttocks hurting from too much time spent in the saddle and sleeping on the ground, Rufe traveled the packed-earth road where countless generations of Ferunds once traveled. No servants waited by the door to greet him, proving Father hadn’t made announcements yet. Should Rufe be happy or terrified?

He rode around the hall to the stables, where a young lad of perhaps fourteen summers stepped forward for his mount, far too young to have worked here for Rufe’s last visit. Rufe swung down from the saddle, grimacing at his sore muscles, handed Princess’s reins to the boy, and removed his meager pack from her back.

The lad rubbed Princess’s nose, earning a gentle nicker. “Take good care of her.” Rufe slipped the boy a coin.

The boy nodded and tucked the coin into his pocket without looking while leading Princess away. Rufe watched her go, perhaps his only friend here, and judging how she nuzzled the stable lad, a fickle one. An apple might make her forget Rufe entirely.

Time to face the music. The path to Myerly Hall seemed familiar, yet totally unfamiliar at the same time. Mother’s small rosepatch now covered an entire corner of the garden, preparing to bloom with Cormiran spring weather on the way. At least he’d been able to change into better clothing and no longer watched the sky for snow.

What would his genteel mother have thought of his appearance mere days ago? The image of her horrified expression coaxed a chuckle from Rufe.

He trudged to the servants’ door, where he’d often entered the house as a child, to shed muddy boots and clothing before advancing into the house proper.

The door opened before he arrived. A pleasantly plump woman stopped short, eyes wide. “Master Rufe!” Her surprise turned to mirth. She grinned, made to grab him, and stopped herself, dropping her gaze to the ground. “My apologies, Milord.”

Rufe eyed the woman up and down. More gray streaked her blond hair, and lines crinkled her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Hello, Emma.”

Emma peeked sheepishly from beneath dark lashes and dove when he dropped his bag and threw his arms wide. Her head rested on his shoulder—she’d seemed much taller in his youth when young Rufe fancied himself in love with her.

And her brother.

“The day you can’t embrace me is the day they lay my sorry carcass in the ground,” he told her. Emma, who’d doted on Rufe and snapped at the other servants to be more respectful when they gossiped.

She stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling loudly. “I’d begun to think I’d never see your handsome face again.” Emma reached up to ruffle his dark curls. He’d allow few people the liberty.

“I hadn’t intended to come back.” The confession hurt. Rufe hadn’t merely cut himself from his brother’s life, but also his parents and the servants who’d been good to him.

Emma’s smile fell. “I cannot blame you, but for every person who disrespected you, there are two here who have always loved you.”

Really? “I take it my parents didn’t tell anyone to expect me.”

“They had us looking for a group, not a single rider. We prepared your room.”

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