Page 15 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and his wrinkled lips quirked in a quick smile. “Always nice to have some company.” Once he got the signal from the lead guard, he snapped the reins and urged his horse to walk.
The road was wide enough for two carriages to pass each other. Two guards with their riders in front, followed by Father, then the cart with the farmer and me, then Dad and Delilah, and then the last two guards and their riders took up the rear.
If bandits were watching us, we wouldn’t make easy targets.
But I’d known for a while that the real danger sat beside me.
“Who are you?” I demanded, keeping my voice low so the others couldn’t overhear our conversation.
“The master wants a word with you,” the farmer replied.
“So, you staged an accident? You could have killed me.”
Dark eyes flicked over me in a perfunctory assessment. “You don’t look injured.”
I glowered at him. “I took a health potion, which is beside the point. Who the fuck delivers a message by cutting down a tree?”
“You didn’t bring your mirror. I had to get creative.” He offered an explanation but not an apology.
“Do you know how much that stupid thing weighs? I can’t drag it around the five kingdoms in case he wants to chat!”
He shot me a dark look, the farmer persona slipping. “Don’t treat the master’s words so frivolously.”
“First: fuck you.” Startled confusion twisted his face, as if he didn’t expect me to bite back, but I continued before he could rebuke me. “Second: stop calling him ‘the master.’ If anyone overhears you, they’ll grow suspicious.”
“The Lord of Grimnight,” he tried again.
Gods save me from incompetent minions. My hand twitched as I contemplated smacking it over his mouth, but I didn’t want to draw attention to our argument.“That’sobviouslyworse.”
Huffing in exasperation, he demanded, “What do you call him?”
“Old Man.”
The horse slowed, responding to the fake-farmer’s tightened grip.
“Everything alright?” Dad called, pulling his horse up beside us.
So much for not drawing attention to ourselves.“We’re arguing about carrot cake,” I replied, smiling tightly. “I said the best ones always have raisins.”
“And I think the clash of textures ruins a perfectly good cake,” the fake-farmer added, his expression the perfect imitation of a grumpy old man arguing with a young whippersnapper.
Dad eyedus, then nodded and moved back into position so he wouldn’t block the other side of the road.
As soon as he was out of earshot again, the fake-farmer hissed, “You can’t call the masterOld Man.”
I shrugged. “It works for me.”
“Someoneneeds to teach you proper respect.”
“It certainly won’t be one of his minions,” I replied dryly. “So why don’t you tell me his message and—”
“Apprentice.”
“What?”
“I’m his apprentice, not a minion.”
The old man had never mentioned an apprentice. My reports had grown scarcer over the years, but he should have told me. Taking on an apprentice was a huge responsibility. They would learn from him, live with him, work closely with him foryears.
