“No offense meant, flower. Anyone who knew fighting would have tried to reach for a weapon by now,” the woman observed, but gently, as if she could read Fen’s thoughts.
Fen had in fact forgotten the practical knife at his belt. But she was right; he wouldn’t have known how to use it in any sort of combat.
“You could have killed me as I slept,” he murmured, as soft as everyone knew he was. “So why should I have bothered? It is not a skill for me, as many have said. And there are others besides warriors and guards. They should have value too.” That was probably too much. He stilled, waiting, but no sneered remark followed.
The largest one said, warm as butter, “So much value that I do not believe a skilled weaver hired into the service of the Lylanth would be permitted to wander through the woods alone, without even food to keep their strength up for the weeks of travel on foot, or a dog to help deter the bears and wolves.” He paused when Fen’s gaze met his. “Big cats live in the higher foothills and the mountains. Dangers exist outside the walls of The Acana’s household. Did you forget those? Or have you never encountered them?”
He moved fast, reaching for Fen and pulling him away from the bush and the illusion of protection. Fen stumbled forward without even a thought to struggle. He stared down at the strong hand encircling his wrist in stunned silence. The man could have broken the bones in Fen’s wrist with little effort. Struggling would have been useless and probably only injured him, but Fen was still mostly because that hand was the warmest thing in the entire forest.
The man turned Fen’s hand so the palm was up and pushed Fen’s sleeve out of the way. “Not the forearms of a regular weaver. Not the hands of a servant,” the man declared thoughtfully. When Fen darted a glance up to the man’s face, the man seemed to be expecting it. He raised his eyebrows. “Fine embroidery on his tunic. Simple but well-made clasp on his cloak—which is too small and light to be meant for hard travel. Quiet, courtly words.” He pressed his thumb into Fen’s wrist, his hold firm but not painful. Fen glanced up again. The dark eyes had not left him. “This is the cub of an Earl.”
Fen belatedly tried to pull away. The man did not let go.
“Shit,” the woman said succinctly, but Fen didn’t take his attention from the one holding him to look at her.
“Could be a child of a lesser noble,” the shorter one added without much conviction.
“Yet not trained to fight?” The large man phrased it as a question but Fen gave him no answer. “Not even in times when so many of them shove their cubs into armor and send them off to bleed and kill and possibly die for them?”
“Especially with the Wild Dog near their walls,” the shorter one commented. Fen thought that man was also staring at him but Fen left his gaze on the largest one for another moment before dropping it to their hands.
He wondered if the man could feel how hard Fen’s blood pumped at those words:the Wild Dog near their walls.Fen was in the hands of the Wild Dog’s people. He must be. And they would not be kind to an Earl’s child, not even a harmless one like Fen. The Dog hated the Earls. Although, even about to die, and perhaps painfully, Fen could not blame him for that.
Of the stories, the one repeated most, the one with the most details unchanged, was that the Wild Dog came from the lands of a smaller noble house. He might have been a member of that family, though The Acana insisted he could not be. Whichever it was, the Wild Dog had taken control of that family’s lands and then captured the holding of the nearest Earl. That Earl, as so many did, had probably ruled even the supposedly independent lands around them, overriding the lesser noble families whenever they wished. In order to take one land, the Dog would havehadto take them both. That was how Fen saw it. The Earls and other nobles did not share his views.
With an Earl’s entire domain now under his control, the Wild Dog might have settled there, defending his territory from anyone who challenged it, crushing the lesser nobles who lived in his shadow as the last Earl had done. Instead, he left that Earl to live, humiliated, alone, with no source of money or protection, in the holding he had chosen for his retreat, surrounded him with guards who—some whispered—came from the lands that Earl had tried to dominate, and then turned to face the attack from a neighboring Earl who must have thought she would crush the upstart and claim a wider swath of territory for herself at the same time.
Fen didn’t know exactly how the battle, or series of battles, had gone, because those songs were forbidden in The Acana’s court. But servants and merchants talked, and Fen knew that Earl had eventually retreated, missing a chunk of her land and possibly a chunk of her leg as well.
But she’d kept her head. So far, both Earls had. That might not have been the Wild Dog’s intent, which was why Fen didn’t imagine he was completely safe. But perhaps he might not be killed. It depended on the Dog’s motives and goals.
The Acana had not wanted to dwell on those things and would have cuffed Fen if he’d known Fen had. The Acana insisted the Dog’s victories were a matter of luck or surprise. Fen thought such a distinction didn’t matter to the Earl now without his land, or to the warriors without their lives, but he had kept that to himself too.
Despite the name the Earls had given him, the Wild Dog did not act wild with rage or madness. He acted like a man of reason, even if his actions were sometimes violent.
There had been many battles since then, most of them small, many of them taking nobles by surprise. Some not even committed by the Wild Dog but by ambitious nobles trying to take advantage of the confusion and fear spreading from territory to territory, family to family.
“None of that explains what an Earl’s cub is doing out here alone, Race,” the largest one commented, as if the shorter one, Race, had said something while Fen had been lost to his panic.
The three of them went silent. Fen swallowed, met those dark eyes for one beat of his heart and no longer, then kept his gaze on the hand on his wrist. There was dirt beneath the nails. The palm and fingertips were much rougher than Fen’s. Sword calluses, Fen imagined.
“The Geon is not old enough to have a son who is of age. But the Old Horror of the Acana certainly is. He has plenty.” A thumb swept over Fen’s skin, a confusing, odd sensation that did not calm Fen’s racing heart. “He has so many from all his alliances and marriages that he might trade some away if he were starting to worry.”
Fen would not raise his eyes. He couldn’t.
“Nobles do that,” Race remarked, “send their children back and forth for alliances. Didn’t they say something in the last village?”
“They did,” the woman confirmed. “They were upset The Geon would possibly barter their safety in an alliance to help The Acana.”
The Wild Dog would go after the Acana before the Geon, The Acana had been convinced of it. It was the Earls the Dog hated. Lesser nobles might be left alone entirely unless they chose—or were forced—to help the Earls.
“The Geon might save himself by doing nothing… or anger his more powerful neighbor.” The man holding Fen exhaled heavily. “So why not send a child of his to help the negotiations and encourage generosity? Help defend the Earl from the Wild Dog, or demand another ally if the Old Horror chooses to strike out with ambitions of his own?”
“Shitting shit.” The woman expanded upon her earlier sentiment. Fen looked up without thinking. She was scowling. “Scared Earls are liable to do anything.”
“Yes.” The largest one didn’t seem nearly as alarmed. “Like commit to an alliance with a noble he could conquer if he felt like it. The Geon is a dullard but he’s smart enough to know he can wait this out and see if The Acana is destroyed without lifting a finger himself. An alliance doesn’t promise anything.”
“Promises can be extracted. The Earl’s child might be very clever or charming,” Race said quietly. “But I believe the story was that the son was exceptionally lovely, a gift from his mother’s line.”
