The prince blinked.
“I’m Prince Renard,” he said, aware that Serville’s eyes were immediately boring into the side of his face. “Who hired you?”
The kidnappers looked between each other.
With another nudge of encouragement from Nikola’s steel, the leader boy spat it out. “Prince Taillefer.”
“I’m Prince Taillefer.” Now the younger brother exchanged glances with both Serville and Renard. “And I did no such thing.”
The Eritrian dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of parchment. He unfurled it and held it out, though he didn’t let anyone from the Pyrenee party touch it. “Is this not your signature?”
Both princes of Pyrenee leaned forward to inspect what very much appeared to be a contract. Renard glanced at his little brother. They said nothing.
The blond boy looked at them like he was trying to read the princes’ faces, both locked up tight. “This contract was given to us by a courier five days ago. We immediately went into action, with the promise of payment tonight at the Hand.”
Renard managed to skim the contract across the distance. “Payment for exchange of the stableboy.” The prince made it a point to look all around the kidnappers. “You no longer have him in your possession, unless you’re hiding him in the girl’s hair. Did he escape? Die? Or was he never in your possession at all?” Renard nodded at Serville and avoided Osana’s open-mouthed stare. “Did he leave with the princess before you got there? Kidnapping her, perhaps?”
At this, the female kidnapper snorted in a way that almost sounded like a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
The girl answered without hesitation, “That boy never needed to kidnap that princess. She’s in love with him. And he with her. We don’t have him because she came and rescued him.”
Now it was Serville’s turn to laugh. “That sounds about right.”
Renard rolled his eyes. The blond boy pressed on, staring down Taillefer as much as Renard. “We kidnapped him successfully, and we ought to be paid.”
At this, the Ardenian guard tugged on his horse’s reins and made to turn toward the mountains at their backs. Renard caught his arm. “You’re staying with us, Captain Serville.”
The man simply laughed, dislodged his arm from the prince’s grip, and adjusted his reins. “I’m not catching sunstroke while you frauds figure out payment. You princes tried to sway Princess Amarande’s hand and put her in danger in the process, and it’s my duty to inform the Royal Council. It benefits Pyrenee to let me go—the councilors will likely be more fair to you if they know the story before the princess rides into the Itspi and tells them herself.”
The Ardenian captain urged his horse forward. The men who’d had their swords pointed at the three travelers swept them toward Serville. Two moved ahead of him, blocking his path. The captain’s smile dropped and he addressed Prince Renard, who was still next to him. “Don’t do this the hard way.”
Renard looked to the kidnappers. “Does the princess know about your contract?”
All three shook their heads.
“Does the stableboy?”
All three shook their heads.
He leaned into his brother’s ear, a whisper on his lips. “You and I will speak later, Tai.”
Then, without hesitation, Renard drew his own sword, the bejeweled hilt twinkling in the unforgiving sun, and stabbed Serville right through his side. Under the rib cage, astride the man’s chest plate, pinning the edge of the captain’s cloak as he ran him through.
Serville gasped, blood immediately soaking his elegant garnet-and-gold uniform. Renard had to yank with both hands to remove the sword. When he did, Serville fell from his horse.
Bile surged at the prince’s throat. Still, he forced himself to watch the lifeblood drain from the Ardenian onto the cinnamon sand.
His first kill.
When it was done, Renard looked to his men, who all sat atop their horses with mouths open in surprise. This was the type of uncertainty that rooted both fear and respect. It had to be done. Still, Renard swallowed again to ensure he wouldn’t vomit his breakfast into his horse’s snowy-white mane. “Strip him of his things, bury him, and give his horse to one of these three. They’re going to help us find the princess.”
“And then we’ll get paid?” the blond boy prodded. He was either overconfident or completely stupid; the prince wasn’t sure which. Renard was sure, though, of his growing annoyance. This boy’s temperament might not be worth his knowledge. The prince set his sights on the boy and made his voice as icy as possible.
“If we find her, you’ll get to keep your life. How’s that for payment?”
The blond boy said nothing and the guards went to work.
CHAPTER
31
AMARANDE pushed Mira to the limits of what she could run.
The sun was in the early hours of its long summer descent and the princess had set a course for a place she knew people would likely be in the vast space of the Torrent: the watering hole.
Before they’d begun to sprint again, the princess administered the only snakebite treatment she knew to work: removing Luca’s boot in case of swelling and covering the wound in a loose bit of cloth—another long scrap torn from her dress.
And that was it. That was all she could do.
Sucking the venom out was a myth. Cutting away at the infected skin, too—that didn’t halt necrosis any more than a pleasant bath. Over Mira’s hoofbeats and the rush of the wind, she could hear Medikua Aritza’s gravelly voice now, the old woman’s sharp eyes fixed on the princess’s face to make sure she was listening and not daydreaming about crossing swords in the yard.
Time spent is tissue lost—get anti-venom as quickly as possible.
Keep the person still—movement spreads venom.
The wound should be kept below the heart.
The first two instructions were an issue. Time was not on their side and keeping Luca still was an impossibility while thundering on horseback across the Torrent’s rivers of sandy earth.
Luca hung on to Amarande’s waist with renewed strength. And he made it a point to talk more than he did before, just so that she wouldn’t worry he’d fallen asleep or passed out or simply died on the back of her horse.
The stub of the watering hole loomed by midafternoon, and Amarande breathed a sigh of relief. They’d somehow managed to avoid the kidnappers, the inn and its keeper, and anyone else who would slow them down. Mira was running hot, her steps imprecise; she needed the break. Even in the state he was in, Luca was watching her vitals, paying close attention to the horse’s breathing and gait, making sure she wasn’t harmed from the hard ride. Whenever they had to slow to navigate a rocky path or tight, prickly brush, Amarande caught him detaching one hand from his hold on her and running it across the horse’s side, checking the rise and fall of her lungs.
Amarande dismounted and walked Mira toward the first of the trees shading the Cardenas Scar. Luca began to swing a leg off, too, but Amarande’s rebuke was immediate.
“No, no, no—walking will get your blood pumping, and that’s the last thing we need.”
Luca didn’t argue. “What’s the plan?”