Page 13 of To Kill a King

He tried not to stare as she rested on her side for several minutes, propping her arm under her head as a pillow. When that wasn’t comfortable, she flopped onto her back for a few moments before exhaling in frustration. Sitting up, she pulled her knees tight to her chin. Wrapping her arms around her shins and putting her forehead down, she closed her eyes. She subtly rocked back and forth.

Did she intend to sleep that way? That position guaranteed uneasy rest and a sore neck the following morning. He got his bedroll out and sat it beside her. “Here. Use mine.”

She studied the bundle as the silence stretched between them. “Thank you,” she murmured. Unpacking the sleeping bag and holding it up to the light, she rotated the material in several different orientations as though she had no idea how it worked. After a few minutes, she laid it down and climbed inside.

He tried to hide his grin as she struggled with the bedroll. With her determination, she’d be okay, if he could teach her some basic life skills. Then he could get back to his mission for the sun elves.

He laid down with his back against the rocks. For a moment, he listened to the rustling of leaves as he let his thoughts wander. He was much better at masking his curiosity than she was, but he still had questions. What made her so desperate she ran into the wild with no preparation? She likely wouldn’t answer if he asked outright. He wouldn’t, if their situations were reversed.

Eventually, he closed his own eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter 3

Malkov

“Where the hell is my bride?” Malkov Ulric Tybalt Cerel, King of Lions Grove and Ruler of the Human Realm, threw the latches on his study open and stormed inside. It was far too late at night to be dealing with this crap after a full day of wedding festivities. She should’ve been returned hours ago.

He didn’t know how she’d avoided his guards, but when his mage sensor had gone off earlier that afternoon…it must have been her. There was no other explanation.

His cunning little wife had figured out a way to outsmart his tattoo. A lead weight settled in his stomach. He’d have to consult with the Master Artificer to make sure whatever loophole she’d exploited was closed immediately.

Baron Larimar scuttled into the room behind him as the doors swung shut.

The four Larimar sentries stood at attention in front of his desk. Two had singe marks and rips in their cloaks and trousers. All stunk of smoke and sulfur.

Brooks lounged off to the side, his arms crossed. His black uniform was unmarred except for two holes in the corners of his cloak. The magestone in his hand sparkled as it pulled a steady trickle of power from Malkov’s tattoo.

Malkov turned his best glare on the baron’s men. “Well?”

They didn’t move, their eyes downcast.

At least they had backbone, if not much else. He let the silence linger and become uncomfortable.

Finally, the captain’s throat bobbed. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. She had help. An archer…”

“The four of you couldn’t handle one noblewoman and a bowman?” His rage flared, heat flooding his veins. “This reeks of a conspiracy. I think you helped her.” He glowered at the baron, who lingered by the door looking as though he would bolt at any second. The coward. “You surround yourself with fools and incompetents. Guards!”

Three of Malkov’s men, dressed in the royal black and vermilion, appeared. They elbowed past his new father-in-law into the center of the room. He smirked and turned to his soldiers. “Escort the Larimar sentries to the dungeons.”

The baron squeaked. “All of them, Majesty?”

“All of them.” Malkov draped his arm over the other man’s shoulders. “Relax, Walter. It’s just until Aliya’s back where she belongs.” Using the leverage his grip provided, he steered the man through the door after the guards, closing and latching it before Walter could annoy him further.

With a muttered curse, the king collapsed into his chair. He rested his elbows on the desk and massaged his temples. This was a disaster. She could be anywhere by now.

This is what he got for trusting in the competence of greedy, self-absorbed aristocrats like Walter Larimar. How that man had worked his way up through the noble ranks was beyond comprehension.

From Walter’s description, Aliya had the self-preservation instinct of a lemming. She was supposed to go meekly along with the flow and do as she was told.

So much for that.

“Mrow?”

Four soft paws landed on the table. A fuzzy head butted his arm, asking for pets.

“Hello, Shadow. No little kitty friend this evening?” It seemed everyone was disappearing these days. He paused, narrowing his gaze as he studied Shadow as it clicked into place.

It couldn’t have been…