Page 23 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Rian knows this. He’s seen the monoceros trample half a dozen sentinels to death. Hell, he’s seen it stab his own father through the chest.

Truth be told, though, I understand why Rian would bring the monoceros to Old Coros despite the risk. Leaving the equivalent of a powder keg bomb in Sorsha Hall’s basement, without any supervision, would spell Duren’s destruction the first time someone forgets to feed Tòrr his favorite honey grain.

Besides, possessing a monoceros won Rian the Astagnonian throne over Grand Cleric Beneveto’s campaign. There wasn’t a chance in hell Rian was going to leave his prized weapon behind.

Rian’s mouth curves in a wry half-smile. “Good thing you’re coming along to protect me from my own idiotic tendencies.”

“Well, someone has to.”

“Truth be told,” Rian says in a low, dangerous voice that pulls my attention from the shaking box, “I’m less worried about being stabbed in the back by the monoceros than by you.”

I sit straighter in the saddle, cold rain dripping from the tips of my loose hair. I ask carefully, “What do you mean?”

Keeping his eyes on the line of carriages, he takes out his Golath dime and runs it over his knuckles. “My family held a meeting at dawn. The verdict was that I should poison your coffee at the first waylay stop on our journey and leave your body to rot in the woods. They think you’re a threat to all of us, given your birthright. The terms of our deal have changed, after all. I gave you Sabine in exchange for the crown, and now Sabine is gone. What’s to say you won’t renege on our deal?”

He catches his coin tightly in his palm, glancing at me. He speaks about plotting my murder as casually as discussing the route we’ll take to Old Coros.

I shift again in my saddle, trying to keep my face as much a mask as his own. “Is it wise to share a murder plot with the victim, my lord?”

A smirk flits across his face as he finally looks me plainly in the eye. “Tamarac?”

I pause. “Tamarac.”Complete honesty.

I’m not going to kill you, Wolf. You’ll be pleased to know I told my family that I’d sooner poison their coffee than yours. Yes, there’s no denying it: You fucked my bride in front of me, you bold, golden-cocked bastard. But do you think I’d let a woman come between us? After everything we’ve been through? After you gave me the crown that should be yours?”

His tone is jovial like we’re boys again, wrestling in Sorsha Hall’s rose garden. But I know that Sabine is no mere distraction like the pretty chamber maids we used to flirt with at Midtane parties. She meant something to him, too—I can see it in his eyes, in the slight tremor as he smooths a hand over his damp brow.

Rian spurs Colossus closer to Dare as he tosses and catches his Golath dime. In a cheerful voice that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he says, “In fact, instead of death by coffee, I’ve decided to make you First Sword upon my coronation.”

He flicks his coin in my direction, and I reach out to catch it on instinct.

Opening my palm to look at his prized coin, I croak, “First Sword?”

It’s the title given to the king’s personal advisor, his right-hand man. The shock of it leaves me reeling, more wary than ever, but I force a cheeky smile. “Bit of an upgrade, my lord. From, well, my death.”

He winks. “A bit.”

I stare at the coin again before closing one finger over it at a time.

Captain Fernbsy calls to him that the convoy is ready to depart, and with one curt nod, Rian spurs Colossus to the front of the line.

I finally let out the deep breath I’ve been holding, letting it bow my posture against the pounding rain as I slip his coin in my pocket.

First Sword? By the fucking gods. The title would be a great honor to any soldier, but I’d sooner drink the poisoned coffee. Leadership isn’t in my blood. The solitude of the woods calls me, not army barracks.

“Congratulations, Lord Basten.” A Golden Sentinel nods to me as I pass, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the honorific.

“Lord Basten,” another soldier says with a bow.

Bristling against the praise that everyone showers on me with more force than the punishing rain, I kick Dare into a canter and ride apart from the travel convoy, a few horse distances from the nearest carriage.

Finally—a moment to think.

Folke, naturally, takes this prime opportunity to sidle his horse up beside me. His gray-touched hair is pulled back messily. His shirt could use an iron. He looks as rough as the day I met him, half-drunk in the army barracks back when we were both trainees.

“They letyouinto the convoy?” I say.

He grins. “I’m Rian’s best spy.”

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