(A while earlier)
Ignoring the innkeeper’s call, Meya crashed through the wooden doors onto the courtyard, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She regretted her words soon as they leapt from her tongue. Yet, in them were truth they must heed. How could Arinel fend off the king if he bore down on Crosset? And what might she sacrifice? How could Coris and Zier place this danger on her and her people without hesitation? Arinel was too generous and honorable for her own good. Of course she’d hold the red-glowing gold until it melted her hands off her wrists!
Yet, as she fumed at her friends, she puzzled at herself. Why wasn’t she brave and optimistic as always? Why was she the one, now, to hesitate? When the gamble had never slowed her before?
Then she realized, and her breathing stalled as she did—she’d never faced true sacrifice. Not since the one time she risked her family’s survival saving Coris from ransom.
When she negotiated with Gillian, she was also saving herself, and she gambled Coris and his family’s safety without a second thought to save her skin. When she saved Atmund and Persephia, exposed blood-sellers and eyeball-harvesters and cult leaders, she did it as Lady Hadrian, under the name Arinel Crosset, knowing deep down no matter what come would befall Hadrian, be it broken alliances or war.
Perched grand like a chough volant on her moral high ground as defender of Greeneye rights, she wielded Coris’s wealth, authority, might—friends, even!—like her own army at the hill’s feet, taking the worst, dying in her stead.
This time, for the first time, Coris faced an adversary far more wealthy and powerful than he—the king. And he’d cast aside his nobility to widen that gap. Worse, when it came to who had the righteous claim to the three lands’ most dangerous secret, the Hadrians were down a trench, wolves closing in on all sides. And once they were done with Meya, they’d turn on her family.
And she was terrified—of returning to the failure that was Meya Hild, to her old life with more mouths to feed. What horrors awaited them should Arinel's protection fail? Would Dad and Maro be tortured? Would Mum die of heartbreak? Would Marin lose her babe? Would Morel be dragged by the hair from the Crimson Hog into this mess as well? What about Deke and Draken and Jason and Jezia? Would whoever Fyr spared live out their days hidden, starving, in squalor?
Marcus would never get to travel with Jason’s caravan. Myron would never be a blacksmith. Mistral would never weave the longest Fest Trail in the duchy. Meya’s babe would never have his father, his birthright. How would she explain to him why he weren’t the rich and powerful little Lord Hadrian he should be?
She was also terrified of what she’d just realized Coris expected—assumed of her. Remarkable. Marvelous. Brave. Strong. Beautiful—words he’d reserved to describe her. A maiden fair like no other. Emerald of his eyes. She was his May Queen, the fiery dawn that ended his night, his savior. Pure and brave-hearted. The Meya he admired wouldn’t care for the mundane fears of an embittered, scarred peasant girl. She’d fight for the cause even at the cost of all she held dear. And if he discovered the truth, she’d lose his love.
“Lady Hild?”
An unsure voice jolted Meya out of her dilemma. A slim young man drab in gray lurked by the gates. Frowning, Meya nodded cautiously. He scurried up the path to share her circle of torchlight. He bowed, hands outstretched, a letter under his thumbs.
“A message for you, from milord.”
Meya pulled the envelope from his loose hold, tearing her eyes from his trembling head to inspect the seal. Ashen gray with a peacock dusted in silver.
He didn’t move as she cracked the wax and read the short message. He must’ve been told to wait for her reply. Yet, he jolted and scampered for his life when a cry echoed from the inn behind—
“Meya?” The messenger cleared the gate just as Coris exploded through the doors. His eyes instantly found Meya petrified on the gravel.
“Meya!”
He stumbled down the steps, sweeping her from head to bare toes curling against the icy stone. He slid out of his slippers and knelt to push them under her feet. His worries assured, he straightened with a stern way about his face.
“You should not have said that to Arinel!”
Meya’s heart writhed with guilt, but not enough to shore the wave of jealousy.
“You came runnin’ all the way here for that?” She scoffed, muttering petulantly, “’Course, I’ll always be second thought. Shoulda known.”
Coris fell silent, contemplating his sins. He drifted close, his hand yearning for hers.
“Meya, I—” He stopped— “What’s this?”
A chill swept down her spine to her hand clutching the letter. Meya whirled back, her hand sinking behind the swells of her dress, her breath coming in short puffs. Coris frowned down at it. He reached out his hand.
“May I see it?”
There was no hint of anger in his soft voice, yet his eyes were wide and unblinking, brows raised like a mother demanding her unruly tyke bare his hands lathered with honey. Meya trembled as she glued her frozen arm to her side. Coris narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re having secrets with me?”
The letter crumpled in Meya’s shivering fist. A sudden impulse tore through her to rend it to a dozen pieces, but Coris always knew how to get what he wanted from her. Grudgingly, she stuck out her hand, grumbling as he untangled the parchment.
“’Tis Baron Graye. He invites me for tea tomorrow, ’tis nothing—”
“—Except you’re thinking of going?” said Coris, his voice fierce. Meya reared back, chained by his cold, imperious eyes. He shook the letter, enunciating.
“This is my brother’s life, Meya. I forbid you from going!”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
They shared a gasp. Meya saw in his eyes the scene from the past playing in her head—
If you betray me, I’ll tell everyone where The Axel is, putting Lord Zier in grave danger?
Include Hadrian and Latakia, for good measure. It’s common knowledge I’m not exactly a loving brother.
The notion chilled her. Meya couldn’t believe she’d ever be tempted to execute that cruel term in their contract she added as an afterthought and he’d encouraged as a lesson, no matter how briefly. Judging from Coris’s look of heartbreak and terror, he also couldn’t believe he’d ever be at her mercy. He’d taken her loyalty for granted. And it pained her that was his undoing. Shouldn’t love be unconditional, after all?
But he must understand how much he was asking her to risk. She’d care less if it were only her skin that would be flayed, but if it were her babe and Mum and Dad and Maro and—
Coris drew a shivering breath as he drew near. She was no longer his beloved. She’d become one of his deadliest foes. It killed her like poison rot from the core out. Why couldn’t he understand? Why was he afraid? Why was he forcing her to choose between him and Dad, the two men she loved above all others in the three lands? And lose both?
“Meya, I know how difficult it would be for you—”
“NO, YOU DON’T!”
Words deserted him, scattered by her snarl. Meya shoved her nose against his, teeth grinding as she hissed through them.
“You’ve never gone a week without a morsel of food down your gullet. Never swung a shovel at clay after a drought nor an axe for firewood until your hands blister then break then burn numb. You’ve never hung from a pillory, never been tied to a pole, had your head locked in a bridle and whipped until your cloak turned to blood!”
“You’ve never heard the last throes of crooks swinging from the gallows, the cheer of crows picking flesh from bones rattling in gibbets. Have you seen babies dying in their mama’s arms, while your mother decides which of her seven gets the last sliver of winter meat? So don’t you dare say you know a smidgen how difficult it would be, being a peasant, pregnant and a fugitive’s wife!”
Her scream echoed far in the solid silence that had swallowed cricket song. Meya whirled away, panting, clutching her middle. Coris said nothing, feeling as she did more profoundly than ever the yawning chasm between them, of nobleman and peasant woman. Still, he tried to close it, bridge it at least.
“Meya, I’m sorry—” Coris breathed as his arms embraced her, and Meya unwound. “I wish I could promise all will be well, that I’ll return in no time, but the best we can do is hope. If you leave tomorrow with Arinel, while you can still claim ignorance, and disavow all our bonds, the king would likely overlook you. And Arinel will keep you and your family safe and fed. And if I don’t return—”
Meya waited for the rest of his argument, which didn’t come. As if he’d just realized what he was undertaking, and it stole his breath that for once, he couldn’t finish his sentence. He had no plan. He forgot to consider the worst case scenario. The one time it mattered most. Again.
But there’s still time, this time.
Meya turned around. The sight of him rooted, frozen and downcast, eyes shackled in the past softened her. She took his hands, kneading warmth into them.
“Give Graye what he wants.” She whispered as he raised his eyes to hers, pleading. “Buy us-selves some time. He can’t possibly do anything that bad. He might not even be as bad as we think. If you can’t do it as a noble, what hope d’you have as criminals on the run?”
Coris pursed his lips, eyes wide and defiant under knotted brows. Meya’s patience ran dry. She stormed away.
“Meya!”
“DUN FOLLOW!” She snapped through sobs.
He didn’t, as she tore into the waiting shadows of the night.
----------------------------------------
Meya hung her head over the fence, mired in despair as the sleeping horse blew warm air onto her forehead. Crunching footsteps drew near. Wiping her tears, she dropped to the hay-strewn floor and spun to meet her assailant.
“Knew I’d find you with the four-legged kind,” grunted the man, a note of pride in his gruff voice. Meya’s eyes widened as moonlight lit his familiar, rugged features.
“Dad?”
She jolted and whipped back. The horse had blown a loud snort, startled by her shrill cry. Watching him warily, Meya edged out of head-chomping range.
Dad blinked at the sight of her tear-stained cheeks. He spread his arms, his voice tender.
“Come, lass.”
Tears welled in her eyes anew. Meya hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaped into his hug. His sigh flowed down her hair as he petted it.
“How d’you know to come find me?” She blubbered against his chest. Dad shifted his arms to give her a more snug fit.
“D’you always quarrel with your husband in public?”
Meya’s cheeks burned as she counted how many windows must have been open in a summer night such as this. Shrinking in shame, she squeaked,
“You heard?”
Dad snorted as if to say, the whole square heard!
“Most of it. Boy filled me in on the rest.” He jerked his head towards the main building, then met Meya’s bulging eyes. “You may go see Baron Graye and hear his offer—long as I’m goin’ with. You’re to say nothing about you-know-what. Or show you know what or where it is. You know what he means.”
Meya’s eyes widened. Her foremost concern wasn’t what Coris had told Dad but what he might have left out.
“Dad, he’s gunna break out of jail and run from the king to Everglen with you-know-what. Did he tell you that? He’s putting us all in danger! You all right with that?”
Dad nodded calmly, his eyes still. Meya snatched his shirt.
“He’s throwing all his riches and titles away and he’s leaving me behind! What if he never comes back and I’m having his babe and I can’t work the fields no more? I dun wanna be a burden. I won’t let you work ’til you die. I dun want us to be poor no more, Dad! I can’t take it no more—!”
Meya trailed off into a wail, crumbling to pieces in Dad’s arms. Dad held and rocked her as she sobbed her heart onto his, his sad, gentle voice whispering into her ear,
“Meya, sooner or later in a man’s life, he’ll be called to war for a cause larger than he. Most times, we get no say what it’ll be. The scores and whims of our lords we die for in droves, whether we agree or not. But your husband—this is the war he chose. For the future of your folk. Of your babe. Who might be born just like you—” He cradled her glistening face, staring deep into her glowing eyes. “And may-beetle, there ain’t no war I’d be prouder to die in.”
Meya whimpered, a fresh deluge of tears tumbling down her cheeks, scalding her lips. Dad clasped her shoulders.
“If he’s crossed swords with this Graye feller before, and he knows how rotten he is, how much damage this you-know-what can do in his hands, a good wife would trust her husband’s judgment, and stand by him.”
His eyes narrowed, as if he saw unruly old-Meya rearing her head inside her eyes.
“The way your mother’s stood by me for all these years. We’ve always did what’s right, haven’t we? And if right is ever easy, why, we’d be having the Heights here on land! But you’ll know what’s right because it dun’t weigh on your chest. ’Tis the one easy thing about it.”
It’s unfair, it’s hard, but when is there ever honor in what is easy?
Baroness Sylvia’s voice echoed. Meya lowered her eyes as she mulled over it. Dad stepped back, but left a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about us. We’ll get by as we always have. Lady Crosset and the Baroness will protect us.”
Meya raised her gaze, taking in Dad’s sunburned, veined hands and arms, his wrinkled, freckled face, his tangled hair and beard streaked with coarse, frazzled strands of gray. His palm chafed against the silk of her gown. When a decade ago, his thick golden hair shone in the sun bright as Myron’s, his constant frown hadn’t worn welts into his handsome face. And her heart mourned what he lost to what was right, what was honorable. Why did he care so much for people, dragons, who had little to do with him? Why would he give so much to a land that had paid him so little?
Dad clapped her shoulder then turned to leave. As Meya roused herself to follow, he crumpled—
“DAD!”
She dashed in with a scream. Dad propped himself up on one knee, one hand clutching his right hip, the other waving in annoyance.
“I’m fine!” He barked. “Spent a week holed up in that blasted wagon, now me bones’ gone lazy! Help me, will you?”
Meya bore Dad’s weight on his bad side, hobbling forth one step at a time. Dad grunted whenever his right leg touched the ground, grumbling how he’d never understand the allure of adventure.
A tear rolled down her cheek. And this, she thought, Coris would never understand.