Page 64 of The King's Man 4

His gaze clashes with mine and it’s hard for me to brace against the emotions flickering through him. He balls his fists underwater and presses himself more firmly into the corner of the bath.

It’s time now.

With trembling hands, I pull my feet from the water, the warmth lingering even as I clutch my boots to my chest. My heart pounds with each step I take toward the door and my last words are whispered. “I wish you success as a king. And happiness as a man.”

I pack what’s left at the inn and head into the woods. Before I pick up my things from the constabulary, I take refuge in Grandfather’s cabin.

I spend the time reading every book there that references southern healing. I commit it to memory.

Two days later, I leave it all behind.

The forest is cool and damp, and water from an earlier rain drips from leaves overhead like tears. At the fork in the swiftly flowing river, I indulge the pull I’ve tried to ignore for days. Something still niggles in my chest, something that has been niggling at me since my last trip into these woods; no, before. Since the coffin. I feel like... whatif...

I’m leaving, I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever return, I...

I follow the river towards the memory of my childhood.

The violet oak.

Winds blow and large, hand-like violet leaves wave, capturing my attention. Beckoning me closer. The scent of the powerful wood has me imagining two young boys curled tight in the hollowed trunk, telling stories and falling asleep, heads tucked together.

I bite my lip and move slowly towards the rush of indigo and bursts of lighter purple. I touch the rough surface of the trunk, and the past comes alive. If I close my eyes, I might imagine I’m a child again, crawling in here for the night. I can almost hear our voices...

I duck into the hollow and step on something out of place. Hard, the wrong shape to be a protruding root. I shift my foot and crouch, and wipe away a layer of dirt.

My fingers tremble.

I rub my thumb over the riverpearl edging and over the four carved stamps inside the frame.

I sink onto my haunches, heart hammering.What if...

He’d lost my soldad. Here.

He’d come here.

I shut my eyes as it all slides together.

He’d called himself Prince Nicostratus, but back then, Nicostratus’s mother had wanted him dead. He’d known it. He couldn’t use his real name. His safest bet, outside, was to assume another identity. What better than pretending to be her son? Hired hands would make sure not to harm ‘Prince Nicostratus’.

My chest seizes with a flutter and the swoop of something inexpressible, the sudden dropping of my stomach. Hollowness. Something’s been torn from me. And then... I’m laughing.

How did I not see it sooner? How stupid. How utterly mortifying.

He’s always been wearing masks.

My laughter keeps coming. I can’t stop. It’s this or complete loss of feeling. And I have to cling on, to this at least.

I laugh so hard tears stream down my cheeks; so hard birds lift from their perches and rush crying into the sky.

I laugh so hard I won’t hear the crack of twigs where he waits, where he watches from the darkened bushes.

The prickle of his gaze skitters alongside my hectic bouts and I brandish the soldad in my firm grip as I push my feet away from the violet oak, away from the stream, away from him.

Must. Go. On.

Rain lashes against my soaked arms as they shield my belongings.

Behind me is the capital that believes I’m dead; that will kill me if I’m not. Behind me is Hinsard and vitalian magics I can no longer wield. Behind me are two royal brothers vowing loyalty to one another.

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