Page 35 of Keeper of the Word
But Tolvar had already forbade her from revealing herself. She’d Seen a few fortunes of strangers in Karutown and even wished to speak to one, an old man who was about to be evicted from his dwelling for not paying back rent. The poor man would never know it was due to his son robbing him rather than paying the landlord unless she revealed it. But Tolvar had told her nay. ’Twas enough they were pursued. Their only hope was to reach Asalle before the Order of Siria did and beg King Rian to give them asylum. They did not need added complications, he’d stated.
Complications. Elanna had ignored any nudge of Tara’s StarSpeak, but she could not fully block the force of Tara’s anger through the cord of light she’d managed to press into the pit of herself. It lashed out every now and then, reminding her how far away she was from Ashwin.
The scruffy man pounded the table with his fist, bringing Elanna back from her daze. He spoke to neither her nor Tolvar but to Barrett. “I swear I know you. Are you Prince Dashiell?”
Quiet Barrett’s mouth gaped; his cheeks reddened. Joss slid her knife from its sheath.
But Gus laughed, clapped Barrett on the back, then stood in the scruffy man’s face. “The prince? What would Prince Dashiell be doing in a starsforsaken inn like this?”
“Stars, I meant nothin’ by it. I saw the prince in a tourney once.” He hiccupped.
They were drawing attention to themselves. A few men stood and craned their necks.
“He is not the prince.” Tolvar’s voice was quiet yet commanding. “Go away, old man.”
He shuffled away, and the knights’ shoulders relaxed. Joss resheathed her knife.
“We should retire,” Tolvar said, downing the rest of his tea. “Gus, you and I will take the first watch. Joss, you and ‘the prince’ will take the first rest in the room closest to the common room. Elanna will take the other.”
As they stood, the knights snickered at Barrett. His cheeks reddened, but true to form, he said nothing.
Another patron, thin with a long nose, approached the table. “I beg your pardon, sir knight, but Old Mo didn’t mean nothin’. Fact is, Prince Dashiell is said to have been sighted in these parts over the last few days.”
Tolvar furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“The prince. Rumor has it that he left Asalle without warning. The news has spread all over. You haven’t heard?”
Elanna’s throat tightened. Stars. Events were already being set in motion. Prince Dashiell. She’d hoped they’d make it to Asalle in time.
“Speak plainly.” Tolvar towered over this second man.
“Prince Dashiell hasn’t been in Asalle in a fortnight. Something about his upcoming betrothal, I’ve heard…m’lord.”
Tolvar’s mouth was a grim line. A fortnight. Longer than they’d been traveling. Why had they not heard this news in Karutown? Tolvar’s focus turned on Elanna. And not in a friendly manner.
“Let’s leave,” Tolvar said, giving the man no more attention.
Tolvar directed them out of the inn’s common room, down the corridor, and to their quarters. He entered the room assigned to Elanna, checked the wardrobe and under the bed, then faced her.
“Did you See this?”
“Nay. But I do know that the future hinges on Prince Dashiell. He must marry. And soon.”
“Why soon? His betrothal will not be sealed for another moon.”
She stood resolute. “Trust me. The line of King Rian hangs in the balance.”
Tolvar walked to the shutters and jiggled the lock. Then he stood regarding her with arms folded.
“Enough of the evasiveness you have displayed thus far. Tell me.”
“The House of Sidra—the capital city of Asalle, in truth, the Heart of the realm—keeps the two countries of the Capella Realm united. You know this. The heir to the throne must choose a match from the country opposite the land of the last sovereign’s match. King Rian’s queen hails from Lenfore. Prince Dashiell must marry a bride from Grenden.”
“And he is,” Tolvar said. “Wenonah is the daughter of Lord Ulara of Norcliffe. Which, if my geography lessons serve me correctly, is in Grenden.”
“But what if Prince Dashiell does not choose Wenonah for his bride?”
Tolvar’s eyebrows knitted together. “You make little sense.”
