Yes, Leo could definitely use that.
The boy didn’t respond, but his expression told Leo that he quite plainly did believe in such nonsense.
Interesting.
* * *
They rode into a riverside town sometime in the middle of the night. It was walled, as all surviving settlements in the Breachlands were, according to his lessons, and they had a garrison, too. Guards greeted them at the gate, as tense as the kidnappers. Mutters of bandits roving the countryside rippled through their ranks, though Leo heard nothing about corpse queens.
The bag was firmly in place again. He could see through the rough weave, though it reduced people to simple silhouettes, a contrast of light and shadow. He’d found a small hole earlier in the day and did his best to peer through it. It narrowed his field of vision to a pinprick, but it helped him make better sense of his surroundings in the darkness.
Bone protections were mounted along the walls of the town, but they appeared old and outdated—a far cry from what he was used to in the Dominions.
“Welcome to Southbridge,” came the sentry at the gate, saving Leo from having to pry the information out of someone later.
He pictured the many maps of the region he had seen in his lifetime. They were near the Serpentine River—yes, he could hear it if he ignored the chatter and stomping of hooves—and were on course to continue south toward the Coastal Road, which led all the way to the Iron Citadel. It was the only destination that made sense.
They were quickly admitted, the town a rundown place that had traces of lost grandeur—wide streets and neat stone buildings in organized rows—that had given way to squalor. Empty houses and heaps of garbage, plus gangs of children everywhere, lurking on street corners and peering out from darkened windows. Orphans, he supposed, though they were too young to have lost their parents to the Breach or the Uprising. He thought of the Corpse Queen and missing people, of a land without bonesmiths to properly protect them. He shuddered.
Guards were posted on streetcorners, moving stragglers along with a forceful hand, giving the place a feeling of wartime, though the Uprising had ended years ago.
They were fighting a different kind of war now, and they had the wrong soldiers.
Wren and her bone blades popped into Leo’s mind. The way she had defended him without question or hesitation, squaring off with a damned ironsmith—completely and totally outmatched—left his stomach tight with guilt.
Especially since she’d been one of his prime suspects.
His entire tour had been an exercise in futility, a means to keep him out of his father’s hair. Too many manure cart rides, apparently. Leo had always seen his antics as little more than a humorous annoyance to his family, but apparently his father had disagreed. He’d wanted to put Leo to use, and while Leo had suggested a variety of other occupations—further education, positions on various councils and governing bodies—his father had decided that out of sight was out of mind.
Leo had accepted the task with as much good grace as he could manage and had even allowed himself to be ordered about by his cousin Galen, who was wielding the first scrap of power he’d ever had with a frankly embarrassing amount of pleasure—until he’d ended their previous inspection without warning or sufficient explanation. That had caused Leo to go snooping, and then he’d discovered the letters.
As it turned out, Galen was being paid to set Leo up—to hand him over to the very people who now had him in their clutches.
At first Leo had despaired.
He’d wanted to confront the man, to tell his guard captain and raise a self-righteous stink. The problem was, his father had ordered the royal guard to heed Galen’s orders over his own—Leo had several years of adolescent mischief to thank for that—and while he could have tried to find help at the Breachfort, he had no idea who else was involved. He might make things infinitely worse for himself if he went to the wrong people, and if he confessed to having seen evidence of Galen’s shady dealings, he might find himself not simply a kidnapped prince but a dead one.
After that he’d grown angry. That emotion served him for a time and allowed him to hold it together every day while his good-for-nothing cousin smiled and lied directly to his face.
But then? Then he had become curious, and that was a far more dangerous thing.
He was just so incredibly bored… not only with his daily life but with his place in his own family. He was tired of not mattering. Tired of being the spare’s spare, no matter how much he joked about it. Maybe he wanted to see if his family cared. Maybe he wanted them to worry, to barter and beg and shell out sacks of coin for him. Maybe he wanted proof not only that he mattered but that he was valued.
And if he happened to be fascinated about the world beyond the Border Wall… well, that was his business.
So he’d been ready. Resigned, maybe, but ready.
Then the day of the inspection had come, and his carefully held composure had begun to fracture, and he’d started to question all his choices.
Maybe allowing himself to be kidnapped wasn’t the smartest idea?
Wren Graven certainly hadn’t thought so.
There weren’t a lot of people in the Dominions who had the gold to pay the price Galen was asking, nor the incentive to do so… but the Gravens of Marrow Hall had been at the top of Leo’s list. They had risen high in the wake of the Breach, so maybe they wanted some action on the front lines again. Some more relevance after too many years of peace.
Imagine his surprise when one of them was a tribute at the Breachfort—and very recently appointed? It had been suspicious, and so he’d done what he could to get close to her.
He hadn’t anticipated liking her so much. He hadn’t expected her to fight for him tooth and nail.
Had she survived that dangerous fall?
Leo had asked for her. Had sat her next to him. Had put her in the line of fire on purpose.
Of course she had survived. She was safe and sound back at the Breachfort. The alternative was too much to bear.
Their party rode through the silent streets, braziers flickering at the major intersections as they made for a large building in the center of town—the inn, no doubt. Their journey seemed to be coming to its end for the day, but Leo’s mind refused to settle. He couldn’t shake the image of Wren’s fall… nor the assassination that had preceded it.
While the majority of Leo’s less-than-stellar day had admittedly gone as he’d expected—Wren’s heroics aside—that stray arrow had torn the entire plot wide open.
Why had they killed one of their own? Ironsmiths were supposed to be extinct, which meant one as young and talented as that should be valued highly, not a target for murder.
It didn’t make sense. He needed more information.
Leo guided his horse closer to the young kidnapper. “I never got your name,” he said, wishing he could flash his winning smile. He didn’t know if he could properly flirt with a sack on his head, but if anyone could do it, it was him. “You already know mine, of course. But please, call me Leo.”
The guard glanced around before fixing Leo with a somewhat suspicious look. He pondered, and upon deciding his name gave Leo no true upper hand, he shrugged and offered it.
“Jakob.”
While Leo often gilded his naturally light-brown hair, Jakob was a true blond, his cheekbones dusted with freckles and his eyes an ethereal, crystal-clear blue. The color was magical enough to make Leo believe in the old tales about watersmiths who lived in the sea, guiding ships safely home… or pulling sailors under.