But then a voice he didn’t recognize broke the heavy silence. “The stableboy is missing as well.”
It was an Ardenian guard up front. He stood slightly out of line from the other guards—the man in charge with General Koldo out.
At Renard’s shoulder, his younger brother spoke. “I saw the princess with this boy yesterday morning. He very clearly likes the look of her.”
Renard was unsure as to whether Taillefer had actually seen such an interaction, but the muted reaction among the councilors was enough to confirm that it was a likely scenario.
Satordi scratched his nose. “Princess Amarande and the stableboy have a close relationship. They were babes together.”
Dowager Queen Inés shifted in her chair with another crack. “And King Sendoa allowed this?”
The old woman on the council spoke up next. “Our king,” she said, as gently as she would if speaking to a child, “did not subscribe to separation of social classes.”
Renard’s mother huffed but said no more.
“He must have stolen her away—this boy. Jealousy affects commoners much differently than those of us with means,” the prince said, his voice gaining steam as he sensed an opening. “The princess must have informed him of her impending marriage to me and his jealousy took over.”
“There is no evidence to indicate that.” This from the young man on the council. Joseba.
“What do you mean there’s no evidence?” Renard knew he sounded distraught. It wasn’t a bad thing.
Joseba continued. “As you know, the princess is a very strong-willed young woman, who often does as she pleases. It could be—”
“Both of them are missing, as is her horse. We must search out their path as soon as possible. She could be in danger.” Renard took a step toward the council table. “I do not understand this inaction of yours. Her whereabouts should have been questioned the moment she didn’t return to her chambers from dinner. How can you sit there?”
His voice grew louder as he spoke, but the council remained in silence.
“I will go after her,” Renard announced, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. The way he said it might have sounded just a little bit like he loved her. “I will follow her path. There must be tracks. A single set—leading somewhere.”
Satordi seemed unimpressed. “With the parties from Myrcell and Basilica heading out this morning, any tracks her horse left may be gone. It might be best to wait and see if she returns.”
“Is this what you said when her mother rode off in the dark of night?” Renard’s mention of the Runaway Queen was met with complete silence. All but Joseba were old enough to have been on the council when Queen Geneva earned her nickname. “We cannot gamble on her return. If that stableboy fancied himself with her, he could have stolen her away. Decided if he couldn’t have her, no one could. This is a very grave situation.”
Renard was breathing hard, his anger and frustration escaping into the room. He was usually so good at remaining placid in public, though in that moment he was anything but. Again, not a bad thing, given the circumstances.
Finally, without a word to his other councilors, Satordi spoke.
“You will bring Captain Serville with your party,” the councilor declared, looking down his hooked nose at Renard and gesturing with a sweeping hand to the guard who had mentioned the stableboy.
Renard nodded at the captain. A babysitter. Insurance that he would do as he said he would do.
Believe me, I need the princess more than you people do.
It was done. He would retrieve Amarande himself.
“We leave within the hour,” Renard said before anyone could question him and his intentions again. He turned to the leader of his own guard. “Captain Nikola, ready the horses and begin the search for her tracks.” The captain led the royal party from Pyrenee out of the council room in a swift exit.
This was what ruling was, Renard was sure—being of action. Making decisions. Getting your way.
As they walked down the passage to the guest chambers to prepare, Renard’s mother made all the right noises at his side. But the prince knew she was happy to see him off—if something were to befall him in the Torrent, it would only make her path to permanent rule that much easier.
A son dying on a brave quest? All the more heartbreaking.
And if anything, her final statement before she retired to her chambers made it absolutely clear the opportunity she saw in her son’s bravery.
“Take your brother with you.”
CHAPTER
15
THE adrenaline from her first battle shook everything loose that Amarande had been ignoring on her way to this point.
Her stomach rumbled.
Her dry throat ached with thirst.
The princess was happy to be alive, clothed, safe. But suddenly she wished she’d bothered to pause long enough that morning for a bit of food or a sip of water. Or, at the very least, to afford those things to Mira.
The princess’s eyes wandered to the filly’s shiny black flanks.
The saddlebags were perfectly filled.
It didn’t do to dwell on their loss. Comforts were the last things to mourn. Especially on a journey such as this. But a thread of sadness ran through her still—she’d learned how to pack a saddlebag properly from Luca. He was excellent at matching every need to a crevice and fitting a plethora of items that gave everyone else trouble. There was an art to it, if you had the patience. She didn’t, not naturally, but she admired Luca’s talent for packing things away so that everything had a place, nothing squeezed, squashed, stuffed. And so she had learned.
But she’d also told it true when she’d reminded the Royal Council that she could track prey as well as she could hold a sword and throw a knife.
Human or animal, she could find it, and those skills in this environment could lead her to exactly what she and Mira needed at this moment: food and water.
The princess mounted her horse and reset her focus.
Birdcalls, bees, animal prints, vegetation—all proved useful in tracking down what she needed.
The landscape was in a heavy, dry roast under a climbing sun. To the north, the dragon’s spine. To the east, the mountains and home. To the west, Luca’s trail. And, to the south … nothing but russet dunes. That was the direction the bandits had gone.
No birds circling. No animal prints. No vegetation.
Somewhere out there were landmarks—the Hand, standing as high as the tallest juniper tree in Ardenia, its stone fingers reaching for the stars. The Warlord, pulling strings from his caravan. Great fire pits dotting the landscape, littered with the bones of the defiant.
These were the things Amarande was certain to find in the Torrent, along with Luca. As for anything resembling sustenance and hydration? Even if metered by the Warlord, they were necessities. They existed, too.
But where?
Luca had once told her horses could go ten days without food. Without water that span dropped to three days—the same time frame for a human. But all those estimates considered ideal conditions, not the Torrent, with its heat and open spaces and unrelenting sun.
More than a half day, gone.
“I’m coming, Luca,” she whispered as she tapped Mira into motion, and pulled her handkerchief up over her nose and throat. “I just hope I won’t be near collapse and dragging a dead horse when I find you.”