Page 102 of Poisoned Kingdom
‘What if all they’ve found is his corpse, Boyan?’
‘Then his killers will lie at the foot of his funeral pyre,’ he said with such calm reassurance I felt the choking band on my throat loosen a bit. ‘But don’t yet mourn a man who may still live.’
Boyan’s embrace was comforting, and I wondered why I’d never questioned why the ruthless leader had always shown me more love than my father ever did. I could barely recall the man who’d sired me—only his coldness, the absence of tenderness and affection. His trade kept him away more often than not, and eventually, his face faded entirely, replaced by Boyan’s.
Unfortunately, as much as I shamelessly wanted to draw strength from the old man, I couldn’t stay like this. The weak were prey in the Brotherhood.
I tensed, gathering my courage to pull away, when Boyan stopped me.
‘Stay,’ he said, his voice wistful. ‘Wait for Irsha. He will escort you wherever is needed. When you return, we’ll talk.’
I frowned. ‘Talk about what?’ I asked, pulling away.
‘The past, present . . . the future.’ He reached out and took my hand. ‘But don’t worry about it now. Find your friend but be wary of the king. He’s a good man, but even if he’s sincere, those like us don’t mix well with the nobility. We’re like a blend of oil and water—you can shake it and stir it, but in the end, they will always separate.’
‘How do you . . .? You had Observers follow me. Was that really necessary?’ I asked just as a decisive knock rattled the door.
A moment later, Irsha strode in, still in his training clothes.
‘You wanted to see me, sir . . . Sana, is everything all right? You look like you’ve seen an upiór.’1
‘She just received a message that her heart’s kin has been found,’ Boyan responded. ‘You’ll escort her wherever she needs to go. And Irsha—I trust you with her life. Do not fail me, Blade.’ His voice had lost all the gentleness he’d directed towards me.
‘Of course. When do you want to go, Sana?’ Irsha asked, and I realised I hadn’t even read the missive still clenched in my fist.
I unfolded it quickly, noting it was already late, and that the retrieval group was waiting for me to join them next to the city gates.
‘Shit, we need to go now. They’re all waiting. Fuck, wait. I need a horse. Can I take a horse?’ I rambled.
I stood rapidly, a chaotic whirlwind of energy, accidentally bumping the side table. Only Irsha’s fast reflexes stopped the small crystal rusalka displayed on it from smashing on the floor.
‘Yes, take a horse. Irsha can gather travel provisions and a change of clothes,’ Boyan said. He stood up, unexpectedly stopping me to grasp my face in a fatherly gesture. Irsha gaped as I awkwardly stood blinking in confusion. ‘Look after yourself, Sana. I can’t lose my shadow mage.’
There was more to his tone than a simple goodbye, but I was too distraught to think about it. We left his office in a hurry, and only when we got to the horses did I notice that Irsha was oddly silent, looking at me with a frown.
‘What?’ I asked, annoyed by his covert glances as we saddled the mounts.
‘Did you know that Boyan is from the Orcish Steppe as well? The way he treats you . . . It got me thinking.’
‘Let me stop you there,’ I snapped. ‘I know it’s a little odd, but maybe I just remind him of someone. Or he knows he’s dying, and I’m a convenient target for his affection.’
My hands stilled on my horse’s neck.
‘I’m sorry, Irsha. I’m not angry, it’s just too much to think about, especially now.’
‘I know, trouble,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s go get your wretched dwarf so I can teach him not to worry you so.’
I yelped when he effortlessly lifted me onto the animal’s back but didn’t waste any time.
People leapt to the side as we galloped through the streets to the city gates. We rode at a breakneck speed, but it still felt like we were taking too long, and the irrational fear that Reynard would set off without me grew stronger with each passing minute.
I bolted through the gates, pulling on the reins when I noticed the king’s strapping figure.
He looked even more imposing dressed in hunting armour. A black warhorse danced beneath him, massive and impatient, turning towards us as soon as the hooves of my mare thundered down the cobblestones.
Reynard didn’t wear a helmet, and instead of an eyepatch, a fragment of his wolf’s mask covered the scarred part of his face. He looked so otherworldly that I gasped when a stray sunray caught the iridescent blue of his ink-black hair.
He found Tova. Gods, he truly did it . . . for me.
