“We’ll be back as soon as it’s safe,” Rey said. He’d gratefully accepted everything Sabre and Laurent had offered, which meant he was now wearing two scarves, a knitted sweater, andnew trousers and boots. “I’ll try to stop Eli from dueling any more nobles in the meantime.”
“They’ll be fine if they don’t try anything first,” Eli said, and Rey sighed dramatically.
Sabre straightened Eli’s collar. “Remember what I said about the way you point your feet,” he said. “And your posture. It can change everything in a fight. I did speak to Adrien about getting a pardon, so you shouldn’t have to worry about being followed.”
“I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll send you a letter to prove it.”
Sabre hesitated, then wrapped Eli in another one of his crushing hugs before he let go.
Eli and Rey walked alongside Unicorn, trying not to look like they had just run from the former king and his advisor a week before. The pleasure district was starting to come to life again, but the rest of the city was settling down. Smoke drifted in the air as people lit fires to stave off the chill of autumn, and Eli wove his arm through Rey’s.
They were just approaching the gates of Duciel when Rey tugged at Eli’s arm, gesturing toward the center gate. A figure stood there, a rock in the flow of people passing in and out of the gate around him. A sword hung from his hip, and he wore a severe blue coat and perfectly polished boots.
Isiodore de Mortain met Eli’s gaze.
“We can outrun him if we go for another gate,” Rey said, grabbing Unicorn’s reins with his free hand.
“No.” Eli stepped forward. “I’m not running from him this time.”
Of course Isiodore couldn’t let Eli just walk out of Duciel. It didn’t matter if Sabre convinced Adrien to let him go—Isiodore clearly had his own plans. Eli approached him steadily, a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Put your hand away, de Valois,” Isiodore said. “It’s rude to grip your sword in polite company.”
“We’re being polite, are we?” Eli asked.
“Not right now,” Rey said in a sharp whisper. He likely still wanted to bolt for it, but Eli shook his head. Rey gave him a pleading look, but didn’t try to drag Eli onto the horse.
“Emile was right about one thing at least. Your father couldn’t hold his tongue either.” Isiodore regarded Eli carefully, as though they were still facing off in the palace yards. “I think he might be the last de Valois to call me a bastard—before you, that is. You want to say that I no doubt deserved it.”
Eli glanced behind him. “Is anyone going to menace me with a weapon if I do?”
“No, I left the menace in the palace.” Isiodore held his hands behind his back. “I don’t regret signing your mother’s execution papers. She was a conniving snake who would have torn the palace down around our ears. And I did think you were no better than she was. Even when you met me at the training yards, I thought you might be returning for revenge.”
“I wasn’t.” Eli stepped closer, ignoring Rey’s cry of dismay. “I don’t want that. I never even wanted the throne.”
“I know.” Eli’s rising outrage sputtered out as Isiodore looked him in the eyes. He’d expected to see disapproval there, or even shame—what he hadn’t expected to see was grief. “I thought I was ridding Staria of another Aline de Valois. Instead, I facilitated the execution of another Arthur. Or someone better, perhaps, the person Arthur would have wanted to be, if he could have escaped his own nobility.”
“You shouldn’t have done it even if I was like my mother,” Eli said.
Isiodore opened his jacket and pulled a paper out of an inner pocket. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Emile certainly doesn’t expect that. But this at least, I can do.” He handed the paper to Eli. “A full pardon for Eli de Valois, second son of Arthur and Aline de Valois. Emile says it isn’tnecessary, as you were sentenced under a different name, but I feel that some things must be said outright.”
Eli scanned the paper. It was signed by King Adrien, but there was another signature just under his.Isiodore de Mortain.
“We can’t have Sabre’s brother slinking in and out of the city like a criminal,” Isiodore said. “And we never did finish our duel.”
“I’ll be sure to thrash you next time, Your Grace,” Eli said, and inclined his head in the slightest bow.
Isiodore nodded back. “I look forward to the attempt.”
He moved around Eli, ceding the way through the gate, and strode into the streets of Duciel. Eli turned to watch him go, clutching the paper in both hands. Rey gently eased it out of his grip, squinting at the fine calligraphy.
“You know,” he said. “A trickster could do a great deal with a copy of King Adrien’s handwriting. Hypothetically.”
“Don’t you dare,” Eli said, and snatched the paper back. “I’m not running from the guards a second time.”
“You will if you’re with me,” Rey said, and he winked. “Consider yourself warned.”
Eli folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. For the first time in too long, Eli wasn’t thinking of past winters spent huddled in makeshift shelters or avoiding his mother’s glaring disapproval. He was thinking of finding an inn up north and learning to skate on the frozen ponds when the snow came. He wanted to find the girl he’d rescued in the well and see how she was doing with her aunt and uncle. He wanted to listen to Rey talk about a narrow escape that didn’t involve spectral wolves or curses. King Tristan had tried to throw Eli into a Staria that was grim and terrible, but Eli didn’t think it had to be. There was good there—in Rey, in Sabre, maybe even Isiodore. It didn’t all have to be nightmares and terror.
