Whatever the cause, France had decided the turmoil surrounding Eleanor inheriting her father’s kingdom presented a chance to try again.Cowards, Garin thought.Little did François know, she was a force on her own, fueled by others’ doubt in her and a developing love for her subjects who, in his opinion, did not deserve it. Necessity sharpened her wits; she wasn’t above using the blade, bribery, or magic to get what she wanted.
Maximilian was so confident in his offer, he’d sent an emissary to proposition her directly. His decision wasbrilliant. So unsettlingly so, thatthe waves of relief that had washed over Garin upon learning of it were tainted with a fetid, foaming worry—albeit one that could at least wait to be addressed. Not one king or prince had offered for her to keep her sovereignty the way Maximilian did. Not one of them offered her kingdom their unfaltering protection. He could at least respect the emperor for that.
But then, the queen had to go and enthrall herself to him. The envy he’d intended to drown with the bottle and bury under the code of chivalry was frothing over, and there was nothing Garin could do to stop it.
Garin ran back west through the moors now, cursing the injuries that slowed him. The metal bullets in the meat of his bicep and thigh were lodged deeply enough that his body couldn’t heal over them, or so it seemed. The worst of the bleeding had stopped, but each stab of pain that surged with every step strangled his breath. He needed help. He needed blood—blood from the vein. He needed that blasted Madame Kemble. Or Lorietta, or Adelaide. Maybe not Adelaide—she’d too gleefully attempt amputation. He was far away from anyone who could help.
Far from Lilac.
Long ago, he’d vowed to never again interfere with the affairs of mortal nobles, refusing to participate in another war that ravaged so many lives for the pithy honor of rulers who spurned the poor and arcane alike. Tonight proved love made fools of even the most hardened hearts.
Garin slowed to catch his breath as he finally approached the border of the Low Forest on his left, the pale gnarled trees making way for the lush canopy that made up the High Forest. The man’s quiet heartbeat was slowing, the rush of his blood struggling to keep up.
He groaned, trying to wipe his hands on his pants. He would have liked to clean himself before arriving at the farmhouse, but there was nothing he could do without a nearby creek that would wash the blood off his hands. Going for a dip in the Morgen-infested Argent was not an option. Blood, innards, and flesh matted his hair and congealed under his nails.
He was drenched in the aftermath of his destruction, and with the guard dying on his shoulder, he had no time to spare.
He hadn’t been travelling long after leaving the castle before he caught sight of a group. From what Garin could gather from downwind, there were three men: the former king and two heavily armed guards. He’d trailedthem quietly past the moorland and hills, to a forest just north of a small village.
Garin had sensed the enemy even before Henri and his guards had started charging.
He should’ve let the old king die, but doing so would only encourage François further. He was too stricken with alarm at the possibility of French troops west of Rennes, and acted without thought. The moment Garin heard the first musket being loaded, he knew he’d break his vow to himself.
The soldiers stopped firing when he’d lunged in front of Henri, upon realizing the person their poorly-aimed shotsdidhit showed no signs of slowing.
Garin laid waste to the entire encampment in seconds. Most of Lilac’s soldiers there were already dead; it seemed a dozen of them had broken off from their group to scout, and had been ambushed by François’s men.
Those who lay on the ground appeared either quite dead or well past the point of no return on the path to it. It came as quite a surprise when a feeble croak burbled from one of them.
“Yanna.”
Garin had recognized the name—it was one of Lilac’s handmaidens. Her friend, if he could call her that. Without thinking, he’d picked the guard up and slung him over his shoulder before retreating from Henri and his guards.
Garin managed to rouse the man for questioning, but he didn’t stay conscious for long. He was just coherent enough to tell him he’d been one of the troops Lilac and her father had sent east. Exhaustion began to take the man as he’d finished his answer, and he’d slumped, unconscious once again, onto Garin’s shoulder.
Since news of the skirmishes had broken, Garin had considered travelling to the bordering towns to witness the fights himself. He likely would have gone, had he not been commanded to do Kestrel’s bidding and nearly lost Lilac in the process.
Even in his second life, Garin had never killed so many at once. His skin tingled, the muscles of his jaw clenched and twitched, poised to snap. The urge to tear and maim and bite warred with his fraying self-control, setting his teeth to grinding. He’d been careful to avoid the latter until hisbusiness at the castle was finished, but he yearned to revel in bloodhespilled. Feel it running through his powerful fingers and taste it on his tongue, pumping from hot flesh.
He wanted to do it again.
His legs shook as he found a copse of trees to rest under. He placed the man down, being exceptionally gentle with his head and propping his feet up on a fallen log. Then, he wiped his fingers off on a clean patch of his blood-soaked shirt, so as not to stain the letter past legibility.
He slipped it from his pants pocket and read aloud the words that prompted him to leave Lilac’s castle in the first place.
“Dearest Eleanor,” Garin whispered, eyes flying across the parchment so quickly he had to double back at the near-illegible scrawl. “As it stands, my informants believe François’s generals are moving to encroach upon the settlements along your eastern border. Your safety is of great concern to me. Given the difficulty France’s location between our kingdoms poses to the task of traveling to you, the chances of me retrieving you myself are decidedly remote.” Garin scoffed, shaking his head in simmering disbelief. “I have impressed upon Albrecht that the acceptance or denial of my offer must remain your choice, and it is my hope he is conducting himself accordingly. When and if our union is made with my dear friend in my stead, please send a pigeon right away. As you can understand, my men are prepared to defend your kingdom once our crowns are joined, but not a moment before. Once I receive word, I shall dispatch a fleet of carriages and an army to aid in your defense, and provide any additional accommodations required for your court of up to ten. We stand at the ready.
It is my hope to see you very soon.
Warmly Yours,
Maximilian.”
What little blood flowed through Garin’s veins rushed to his head. This wasn’t the plan. It hadn’t been in his offer. Maximilian, send acarriagefor her? A fleet of them? What a fool. He’d draw attention. He’d put her at risk.
Part of him knew there was no need to panic. Wherever his forces gathered to start their journey—Vienna, most likely, but it hardly mattered now—there was no way they’d make it,throughFrance. Not unless the emperor sent several hundred soldiers to escort them. At that point, the effort would prove fruitless. The terrain was treacherous enough for a smallcontingent of troops moving discreetly. For an army of that size? One that would be so easily detected?
Impossible.
