Page 132 of Heartbreak Prince

Before answering, I get up, stoke the fire, and add another log. Then I settle in at his side again and arrange a couple of the blankets over both of us.

“We’ll do it again,” I tell him. “A long night, blankets and sex, wine and dice. And then your question… if you still want to ask it.”

“Oh, I will.”

I smile at the resolve in his tone. “Maybe by then, I’ll be ready to answer.”

26

I peer through the spyglass handed to me by the commander at Tularesk’s western gate. “All seems quiet. No wyverns, and no Redeemer helmets that I can see.”

“I should go with you to the Belavrin wall,” Severin mutters. “What if you find enemies there and you have to flee quickly?”

“I wish you could come, but you’re too recognizable.” I run his tassel through my fingers. It’s the one that was damaged in our last conflict with the Redeemers.

Severin gives a ripple of pride. “I will admit, I find being a roguish fugitive far more pleasing than I expected.”

“Easy, Tassels,” I throw him a grin. “Take care of Vawn for me, please. Don’t let him—” I hesitate, trying to find the words. “Keep him hopeful. And don’t share dismal facts, I beg.”

“I will attempt to contribute only the most upbeat and optimistic of information,” Severin promises. “And we will both be listening for your call.”

He flutters toward the door of the watchpost, and one of the Tularesk soldiers lets him out. As he soars away into the brilliant afternoon, I swallow a lump in my throat. I never thought I would be so fond of a magic carpet, and yet he has become a dear friend. I can only hope that he and Vawn don’t argue too much without me there to mediate.

I turn back to Cordall. “Ready for this?”

He nods, although his deep brown skin looks sallower than it was when he found us at the Celestial Seat. A fortnight residing in the depths of the hoarded palace hasn’t been healthy for him either.

I worry about how Vawn will survive there without me. But if everything goes according to plan, he should only have to remain at the Celestial Seat for a few more days, or a week at most.

My disguise consists of a wig that Jillia provided from her own collection. It’s a simple one—long brown hair, pieced together so painstakingly that once I clip it on, it looks natural.

Over my black leather bodysuit and my weapons belt, I wear a plain blue dress, and I carry my satchel, which, in keeping with our ruse, contains a simple change of clothes, a few cosmetics, and some small canvases. An invisible persuasion glyph, painted on the nail of my broken finger, will help to convince anyone who gets suspicious that I’m exactly what I claim to be—Cordall’s humble assistant.

After flying the carpet everywhere for the past few weeks, riding two mules toward Belavrin’s west gate feels painfully slow. It gives me time to notice things that I was too distracted to observe the last time I crossed this land, like the clusters of tents off to the east. They belong to refugees from Tularesk who are waiting in the cold, hoping to be allowed through one of Belavrin’s gates.

There’s no food out here—no fields, no supplies, and few trees amid the scrubby bushes, which means very little firewood for warmth. If these people are not allowed into Belavrin soon, they will die just as surely as if they’d fallen into a sinkhole.

Belavrin is a wealthy and populous nation, and I can see how the former King and the Crown Prince might have been reluctant to allow an influx of desperate people from the north. Their arrival would have altered the well-oiled flow of the economy. Fates forbid that the citizens of the upper classes and the nobility should have bumps introduced to their smooth path through life.

But the coup has caused a shift in the normal function of Belavrin society. Everything has been disrupted, in a thousand small ways that I’m sure are making themselves more evident now that we’re weeks into the regime change. What harm is there in letting people in? Saving lives? If I were in charge—or even if I were a simple guard at the border gate—I would have allowed refugees to walk through months ago. And now, there’s simply no excuse.

Cordall and I halt at the wall, where archers hold their bows ready in case any of the people from the tents try to rush the gate. Cordall shows his merchant’s license, stamped with the seal of the Twin Lieges, as proof that he was in Tularesk for work.

The guard that checks his license makes us both dismount, takes a hard look at us, and does a cursory check of our bags. Then he waves for the gate to be opened.

We lead the mules through the gate, and it clangs shut behind us. A stone tunnel leads through the thickness of the wall, with a second gate at the other end.

On my right, a door leads into the wall itself, and a set of wooden steps climb upward to a second door, higher up—probably the entrance to a watchtower or the guard stations at the top of the wall.

The guard who admitted us blocks our path. “We heard there was a tragedy in the Celestial Seat. What news do you have of that?”

Cordall glances at me. When I nod, he says, “We can tell you the whole story.”

“My superior would be very interested in that information,” says the guard. “Walk with me, if you would. This way, please.”

“But our mules—”

“Will be fine,” the guard assures us. “Up here. Watch your step.”