Chapter 2 of 2·6 min read·From dawn until dusk the next day
The Words Between the Lines
My horse stepped sideways before I had settled into the saddle, and Rowan caught the bridle before I could pull it hard enough to make matters worse.
“Easy,” he said.
“I was being easy.”
“You were pulling.”
“I was attempting to remain on the horse.”
He released the bridle. “Try not to fight her.”
The mare flicked an ear at me, unimpressed by either of us. Dawn had only just reached the palace roofs. We were already beyond the eastern gate, with two guards behind us and the pack mule carrying our food and my satchel of treaty papers. The royal carriage had been left in the yard. I had expected to feel triumphant about that. Mostly, I felt the saddle beneath me in places I would have preferred not to notice.
Rowan rode beside me, watching the road ahead. His own horse seemed to know the route and his opinion of it. The road narrowed as the last houses fell behind us, running along a wooded slope above a shallow valley.
“You said the east road was exposed,” I said. “You did not mention it was also unpleasant.”
“I thought that was clear.”
“From what?”
“The road.”
I looked at the ruts, the stones, and the long drop where the trees thinned. “Your powers of explanation are remarkable.”
He glanced at me. “You asked for the road. You’ve got it.”
The answer was rude enough to be honest. I let the horse pick her way forward and tried to imitate Rowan’s loose grip on the reins. When the path curved around a low ridge, the valley opened below us. The land was still scarred from the recent fighting: a roofless watch post, a field left fallow, the black ribs of a burned cart beside the stream.
Rowan saw me looking. “The lower pass was worse.”
“I am not blaming you for the state of the kingdom.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
He said it as if he had expected me to. I tucked the thought away, alongside the other things he did not volunteer.
At the first rest, I slid down from the saddle with more dignity than comfort. One of the guards offered me water. Rowan was checking the mule’s load, testing the knots and shifting a loose bundle back into place.
I took my satchel and sat on a flat stone near the roadside. The draft’s pages had been folded twice to fit. I arranged them across my knees, using a corner of my cloak to keep the wind from lifting them.
Next
Elara will demand Schedule B from Cedric and learn what Aurelion means by taking custody of Valemont’s eastern gates.
The first sheets concerned border tolls and the rebuilding of the eastern road. Those terms were familiar; I had heard them discussed at court. The numbers were still disagreeable, but at least they were numbers. Then I reached the clause marked with a neat cross-reference to Schedule B.
The schedule was missing.
I read the sentence again in the old court language. The modern translation in the margin called for “joint supervision” of the eastern gates until the roads were secure. That was the sort of phrase diplomats used when they wanted the reader to imagine two people holding a door open together.
The original was less courteous. *Custody of the eastern gates shall pass to the appointed captains of Aurelion for the duration specified in Schedule B.*
Custody was not supervision. It meant the keys, the guards, and the right to decide who passed through.
“Rowan.”
He came over, wiping dust from his hands. “What?”
“Read this.” I showed him the clause and pointed to the translation.
He glanced at the page. “I don’t read that language.”
“I’m not asking you to translate it. The margin says ‘joint supervision.’ The original says Aurelion receives custody of the gates. Schedule B determines for how long.”
His gaze moved from the text to my face. “That’s different.”
“It is rather.”
“Can you tell if the translation was changed on purpose?”
“Not from this alone. The handwriting is different, but the translator may have been someone else.” I tapped the words. “What I can tell is that the missing schedule contains the duration. Without it, this clause is a promise to hand over the keys and trust someone else to decide when we get them back.”
Rowan looked toward the road. “You’ll ask them about it at the castle.”
“I intend to ask before anyone puts a pen in my hand.”
“Good.”
It was the first time he had sounded pleased with something I said. He noticed me noticing and turned away to check the horses.
I folded the pages carefully. A treaty could be written to make a surrender look like cooperation. I had known that in theory. It was different to hold the words in my hands and see how little of the sentence had been included in the version sent to me.
We mounted again. The ground grew rougher past the ridge. Rowan pointed out a stretch of loose stone and told me to keep the mare to the inner edge. I followed his instruction, though I resented how quickly my body obeyed his voice.
Halfway across, the mare’s front hoof skidded. The edge of the road crumbled beneath her, sending a scatter of shale down the slope. I leaned back too sharply. Rowan caught my reins and steadied the horse before she could sidestep into the drop.
“Hold her,” he said.
“I am.”
“Keep your hands still.”
The mare stamped, then settled. Rowan stayed close until we had passed the broken stretch. His hand was scraped where the reins had dragged across it. He tucked it behind his thigh when I looked.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s a scrape.”
“That is not the same as unhurt.”
“It won’t stop me riding.”
I tore a strip from the clean edge of a handkerchief and held it out. He looked at it as if I had offered him a new assignment.
“Take it.”
“I can do it later.”
“Then you can do it now just as easily.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he took the cloth and wrapped it around his palm. He tied the knot with his teeth, which was efficient and irritatingly difficult to argue with.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
We rode on. When the castle came into view near dusk, I had stopped trying to sit perfectly and started concentrating on staying in the saddle. The border fortress stood above the road with its flags gathered in the evening wind. Fresh Aurelion colors hung beside Valemont’s, an arrangement meant to suggest cooperation. From a distance, they were difficult to tell apart.
A small party waited inside the gate. At its center stood Prince Cedric, dressed for travel rather than ceremony. He had arrived before us.
He bowed as I dismounted. “Princess Elara. I’m glad the road has delivered you safely.”
“Your Highness. I hope it has been kinder to you.”
“Only because I was spared the riding.” His smile was warm, but his eyes lingered on my dusty sleeves and the folded papers under my arm. “I had hoped we might speak before the negotiations begin.”
“That depends on what you hoped to say.”
His expression shifted, just a little. He seemed to consider a courteous answer and set it aside. “I hoped to ask whether you chose the horse.”
“I did.”
“Then I’m glad you did.” He glanced toward Rowan, who had remained at my shoulder. “And I hoped you had reached the treaty.”
“I reached a clause about custody of the eastern gates.”
Cedric’s smile faded. He did not look surprised. “Then you found the reason we need to speak.”
“Before I agree to anything, I want Schedule B.”
“You should have it.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “I’ll see that you do. But the schedule is only part of the question.”
“Then I’ll ask the rest when we sit down.”
He inclined his head. “Fairly said.”
Behind him, the castle doors stood open. I glanced at Rowan. His bandaged hand rested near his sword, and his eyes were on the guards at the gate, not on Cedric. He had not promised to obey me. He had helped me stay in the saddle, and he had let me read the page before deciding what it meant.
For the moment, that was more useful than a promise.
I followed Cedric into the castle with the treaty held against my side. The missing schedule had become the first thing I meant to ask for, and the first thing I suspected they would try to explain away.