Page 155 of The Princesses of Ruin
“Do you still want to be Alyse’s personal guard?” I ask.
He straightens and his face hardens. “I know I left. I didn’t want to; you have to believe that I wanted to be here when everything was happening.”
“I do.”
“She ordered me away. The night after the fire, she had me lead the citizens who wanted to flee Fynren.”
“I wasn’t aware, but it makes sense,” I say. “Have you vetted the people in this procession? Are they all ours?”
He shakes his head.
“We’ve taken on people at Midway and Galhad. Even some were stuffed away in Brackenreach. Not everyone has identification. Lots of land deeds burned with the homes, work orders, too. This is certainly more people than I left with, but I have a sense they’ve been trickling out for a while. Hearing about our return brought them out of wherever they’d posted up for the winter.”
What a bureaucratic nightmare.
“I’ll get up to the headquarters—ah, it’s the old agricultural building now. In any case, I’ll make sure someone is prepared to receive you and…” I sigh as I look over my shoulder at the mass of people hoping to return to their homes, all of which were used to shelter those who’d remained.
“We’ll figure this out.”
“Yes, my prince.”
I cringe. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry, my lord.”
“I will force so much air up your arsehole, you’ll fly home.”
He guffaws with little staccato hiccups in between breaths. I laugh too.
“We’ll have a meal ready for you and the rest of the guard at the headquarters. As for everyone else, we’ve doled out provisions for the week already, but I’m sure we can open some reserves.”
“Not to worry, we have ample supplies with us. A woman who claims to be Alastair’s mother and a gaggle of folk who look very uneasy on land have brought smoked fish, grain, fruit, and more. The Illyan government gave us a quarter harvest of wheat and onions, and the Nimpoi shipped us off with two thousand bags of rice. We’re well-stocked.”
Relief hits me. It must be why we weren’t aware of their coming. Cora foresaw that we would need the food, and didn’t bother sending word that she was shipping up with it.
“Seems everyone knows of the kingdom’s plights,” I say.
“Shows of goodwill.” Hemsworth shrugs. “That and they’re struggling with the Verdant Drown. The Burn needs soldiers, and their alchemists need solutions. They’ve heard ours are second to none.”
The blight of the south, the Verdant Drown. The policy in the Fynren Underbelly has always been that southern issues are for southerners, and it wasn’t anything I’d ever put my mind to, though I’d heard of it in passing before. Only merchants cared much for the goings-on down there and if it affected their profits, and I neverdealt with merchants—unless I was torturing them for information about the Master.
The Master…
I sense Alyse’s presence soothing my quickened heart and hot blood.
Right, this isn’t the time for my personal vendetta.
“We’ll have much to discuss. Meet us for dinner?”
“Of course, my lord.”
I push a gust of air against his backside, and he goes wooden.
“Forever farts, Hemsworth. Don’t test me.”
“Yes…sir, Orlov.”
I smirk and don my mask, then take to the sky once more. I rise to the dragon’s altitude and shout that I’ll be going back to the headquarters to report in. They grunt and click at one another in their language, and fly on when I dive back toward the city.
