Sword's Call (37 page)

To see the twins fascinated, content, and connected to their heritage had affected Braedon’s emotions as much as it did theirs. And made him admire the woman he loved even more than he had before.

They’d never seen Aramour. Had no knowledge of their parents, or even where they’d been born. Their mother was most likely their elfin parent, but of that they weren’t even sure—although, Vanora and Hadrian both agreed it was probably the case.

Their earliest memories consisted of living in human slums, no adults to care for them. Jorrin was the first person they’d ever met like them; Hadrian was the first elf they’d ever seen.

Thank the Blessed Spirit the Leodins had found King Nathal.

“For a visit. They wish to return to King Nathal. They see him as a father in many ways.”

“The king is a good man,” Vanora said.

“Aye, he is, love. Our Jorrin is a duke,” Braedon said, wonder washing over him.

His son had never aspired to be such, but Jorrin loved Cera and he’d have to be strong for her.

“And you are my fine knight,” Vanora whispered, her smile proud.

Braedon grinned. “Aye, but I thought I always was.” He winked, and her smile widened to a grin.

“I don’t know . . .” his wife teased, laughing and shaking her head.

Lifting her, he swung her around much like Jorrin had when he’d seen her before the feast.

She laughed and hugged him tighter when he set her to her feet. “Are you still worried about them, love?” Vanora asked.

“I just hope love can conquer all for them.”

Vanora nodded thoughtfully, saying nothing.

Chapter Thirty-one

Cera knocked on the king’s
ledger room door. She waited for longer than customary before knocking again, but there was no answer.

“The king is not here, milady,” a small boy—a page— informed her as he walked past.

She whirled on him and his eyes widened.

He was a tiny thing, with bright copper hair, large brown eyes and freckles covering his face.

“Where did he go?”

The boy shifted his slight weight from foot to foot, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “I . . . I was not told, milady.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, Cera growled.

King Nathal’s gone?

She looked down at the page and he flinched.

Did he have any magic?

Her wild emotions seemed to be affecting him.

“Lady Ryhan, is there a problem with Padraig?” a voice asked, taking her attention from the young page.

Cera looked up, her gaze colliding with the knight who’d escorted Jorrin to the king the night before. “No . . . not at all. He’s been helpful,” she said wryly when she noticed the pure relief on the boy’s face as the knight approached.

Padraig excused himself, sprinting down the corridor. Had she not been so irritated at King Nathal, Cera would’ve probably been amused, but she took no pleasure in frightening a small boy.

“Can I help you with something?” The knight didn’t miss a beat, but she read amusement in his hazel eyes.

“Well, I need to speak with the king, Sir . . .”

“Sir Willum Maron.” He gave a small bow. His sandy hair was in need of a trim, and it fell forward. He shoved it out of his eyes and straightened to his full height. He was tall, and probably a few turns older than her. The smile he wore highlighted his handsome face.

He was clad in bright Terraquist blue breeches; his tunic a steel gray. He wore no belt, sword or doublet, but Cera figured he’d already finished training for the day. His hair was damp, and the soothing scent of sandalwood tickled her nose, as if he’d just come from a bath.

Forcing a breath, Cera squared her shoulders. “I seek an audience with King Nathal, Sir Maron.”

Maybe formality will help.

“I’m sorry, Lady Ryhan, but he’s gone.”

She almost stomped her foot, growling to stop the demand about to tumble out of her mouth. Taking another breath, Cera tried to smile.

Polite. Be. Polite.

“When will he be returning?”

“I’m not sure, my lady, but no more than a day or two.”

“Great,” she muttered.

“My lady?” Sir Willum asked, one fair brow quirked.

“Thank you, Sir Maron,” Cera said with a curt nod. She spun away without another word, silently chiding herself for being rude. Her steps were jerky as she made it down the wide corridor.

Was the king avoiding her?

All the positive feelings and energy she’d worked up at the training grounds beating Aimil’s arrows had faded away as she’d entered Castle Rowan, and once again her thoughts were of Jorrin and pain.

Cera would be unable to avoid him at evening meal—in less than an hour, to boot—they’d be seated together, unless she chose to stay in her room.

That would probably be for the best.

She couldn’t look him in the eye.

Outside her assigned chambers, Cera stared at the closed door across the hall. Squeezing her eyes shut, she refused to think about him.

Yes, because that’s working.

Ordering a bath for later in the evening, Cera smiled at Petra as the girl set out a light blue gown for her to wear to dinner.

Cowardice set in and she asked the maid to order food so she could take her meal in her room.

Petra appeared curious, but didn’t ask any questions.

Cera looked at Trikser, who wagged his tail at her. “You’re much better company anyway.” She ran her hand down her bondmate’s spine, savoring the soft feel of his white fur beneath her fingertips.

He lay beside her on the large bed, leaning into her hand and licking her wrist.

Reclining, she sucked in a breath and settled against the plush pillows, smiling slightly as Trik cuddled closer, resting his large head on her thigh.

She woke with a start at the gentle knock at the door.

Damn, she’d dozed off.

Cera hastily bid Petra to enter with her meal, smiling at the undisguised glare the young maid threw at her wolf for his location on the bed, but Petra said nothing.

“Will that be all, milady?” The girl’s eyes were glued to Trikser.

Cera chuckled, and Petra blushed when they made eye contact. “Yes, thank you.”

The maid curtsied, a smile on her face. Pink cheeks made her even more charming.

“Oh, Petra?”

“Yes, milady?”

“Can you please see that I’m informed as soon as the king returns?”

“Of course, my lady.” Petra bowed again.

“Thank you.”

“If you have need of me, please let me know.”

“I’ll be fine for the evening, but thank you. I don’t plan on venturing from my room.”

The girl excused herself, closing the door.

Cera sighed.

Why didn’t she feel better now that she was back in civilization?

Her mind drifted to how it’d been when she’d been hiding from Varthan.

Although Cera had been on the run, being away from people had been nice.

It was still hard to believe he was gone.

Shaking her head, she ate, pushing the dark thoughts away, and tried to look forward to a good night’s sleep.

As with her last several meals, she didn’t taste the food. Cera answered the demand of her body with no enjoyment.

Trikser whined and went to the door of her room, wagging his tail hard.

Cera laid the fork on her tray, freezing.

Her heart thundered at the footsteps in the corridor.

Jorrin was at her door.

She steeled herself for the knock that never came.

Biting her lip, she hovered on the brink of tears.

Should she be hurt or relieved the footsteps retreated?

When will this all stop?

“I’ll not marry him!” Cera burst into the king’s ledger room.

Sir Willum Maron had refused her entry.

He rushed in behind her, immediately apologizing to King Nathal.

Tristan Dagget stood next to the king as they studied a long piece of parchment.

Heat seared her cheeks as King Nathal looked up, exasperation evident in his pale gaze.

Tristan’s hazel eyes were wide, his mouth half agape.

Cera grimaced and glanced at Sir Maron in silent apology.

He’d been telling the truth when he’d said King Nathal was busy.

It’d taken the king two days to return to Castle Rowan.

Two days that only served to make her simmer.

Two days of excruciating pain and devising clever ways to avoid Jorrin.

She’d convinced herself the king was avoiding her, since Cera had sent word to him seeking an audience first thing that morning. She’d waited patiently all day for a call that never came, so she’d taken matters into her own hands.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty,” the knight repeated, bowing.

“It’s all right, Willum. Obviously, you had no choice,” King Nathal told him, but his eyes were locked onto hers.

Cera’s cheeks burned even more; she looked down.

“Have a seat, Cera. Tristan, please excuse Lady Ryhan.” The king looked at Tristan and then back at her pointedly, “Though this shouldn’t take too long, I’ve already taken up too much of your day
working.
We will resume in the morning
.
”

She winced at his emphasis.

“Of course, your Highness.” Tristan bowed and flashed a reassuring smile when Cera met his eyes.

Cera averted her gaze from the young lord. Her cheeks were even hotter. “I’m sorry, Tristan.”

He shook his head and left the room.

Sir Maron was not far behind, closing the door without a sound.

She met the king’s eyes.

His arms were crossed over his chest, head cocked to one side. He stared. “Now, what is this nonsense, lass?” His tone was unyielding.

“I will not marry Jorrin.” She sat taller in the chair.

“Blessed Spirit, you are Falor Ryhan’s daughter.” King Nathal threw his hands up. “I’ve never met such a stubborn lass in my entire life. Just like your da . . .” He shook his head before meeting her gaze again. His tawny hair danced across his impossibly broad shoulders.

“I won’t marry him,” Cera repeated, crossing her arms over her breasts.

“Why not, lass? I know you love him and he loves you.” King Nathal’s expression softened.

Cera blinked to clear her vision.

I will not cry.

“I won’t marry to gain something that should’ve been mine in the first place.” She straightened her chin and looked him in the eye.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Greenwald. It should’ve been mine. It was what my father wished.”

“Didn’t Jorrin tell you?” The king sounded exasperated again.

“Tell me what?”

“That Greenwald is yours—whether you marry him or not.”

Cera stared.

No.

Her heart sank.

Jorrin hadn’t told her that.

But had she really given him the chance?

She hadn’t listened, even when he’d begged her to do so.

No.

Oh no.

She’d been so awful to him.

Tears welled and started down her cheeks before Cera could stop them.

“Ah, lass, don’t cry.”

“I thought he wanted Greenwald, and not me . . .” She wiped her cheeks.

“The lad said you might think that.”

“He did?” Cera sniffled loudly and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

The king flashed a half-smile and tried to hand her a white silk handkerchief he’d pulled from one of his desk drawers, but Cera shook her head and King Nathal set it down on his desk. “Aye, he worried about it.” He sucked in a breath, his massive chest rising. “I handled this wrong. I should’ve talked to you first, but the lad . . . I know how unfamiliar this is for him. I wanted him to know my reasons and plans, to give him a chance to get his bearings. Honestly, I didn’t give him a chance to say nay to any of it. I didn’t think you’d object to him, lass. It’s obvious you love the lad. I owe it to your father to see that you’re happy. I thought I was doing that, he’s a good, decent lad. He’ll make a fine duke.”

Cera leaned across the oversized desk and reached for the king’s hand. She touched his rough calloused skin and thought of her father. She smiled as he squeezed hers in comfort. “I’m the one who handled it wrong, Majesty,” she whispered. “I jumped to all the wrong conclusions. The things I said . . .” her voice broke, and tears coursed down her cheeks again.

King Nathal wiped the tears from her cheek with one of his huge hands.

The corner of her mouth lifted; she was startled someone of his size could be so gentle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to speak to me again, King Nathal.”

“I doubt that, lass. He loves you.”

“I said some awful things,” Cera admitted. Shame heated her neck and cheeks.

“Apologize. I’m sure he’ll listen to you.”

Standing, she wiped the rest of her tears away and nodded.

Cera turned to go.

“Where are you off to, lass?”

“To go convince Jorrin he’s the only one who can make me happy . . . under order of the king.”

Cera flashed a smile at King Nathal’s bark of laughter.

“And, to grovel.” She winced.

“Then off with you.”

“Thank you, King Nathal,” she whispered.

He lifted his brows in silent question.

Her heart thundered as Cera reached for the door handle.

Chapter Thirty-two

“Gone? What do you mean
gone?”
Cera’s voice raised an octave with each word.

The young maid shrank away from her.

Cera winced. She hadn’t meant to intimidate the girl.

Trikser bristled at her side, growling, so that didn’t help matters, but she wanted to know where Jorrin.

Now.

“I saw Lord Aldern leave.” The maid studied her shoes.

No. I can’t be too late.

She closed her eyes as her heart dropped to her stomach. She hadn’t trusted Jorrin enough to listen to him.

It was all her fault.

Her chest constricted, and she swallowed back a sob.

Cera ignored Trikser as he whimpered and nudged her hand.

No.

He’d left because of how awful she’d been to him.

Cera wouldn’t get a chance to tell him what a fool she was . . . tell him that she loved him and she’d be honored to be his wife . . . his Duchess of Greenwald.