Page 31 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

I feel Henrik’s eyes boring into me as Simon helps me atop his gelding, but I don’t bother to look at him.

11

Henrik

I tried to be cordial,but Clover refuses to be civil. Now she and Simon ride his horse, chatting like they’re the best of friends.

Irrationally agitated, I stare at them. Clover has been with the group less than four hours, and she’s already a thorn in my side.

I certainly hope that after I earn my seal, the royal family will see me as something more than a glorified nursery maid. Was Bartholomew not enough?

The reason why I’m tending Clover comes to my mind, and I frown. Camellia said she suspects Clover of sorcery, but that doesn’t seem right.

King Algernon sent a group of us to clear a coven of sorceresses from the Kessamare Woods several years ago, and I studied much in the weeks that led up to the mission. Dark magic users have a certain feeling about them—just looking at them makes your skin crawl. Besides that, the blood magic taints them and makes them age beyond their years.

Some say sorceresses can siphon the effects into a tambrel stone so it doesn’t affect them directly. If Clover were a magic user, could she have done that? If so, she would carry the stone upon her. Could she have tucked it away somewhere? Obviously, she wouldn’t be bold enough to wear it as a pendant on a chain.

I study the girl intently, looking for some sign she’s been corrupted by the dark arts.

Simon pauses ahead, and Clover gets off the horse. She hurries to the wagon in front of them, stopping next to a lamb that’s managed to wrap the rope lead around his front leg. The poor creature stumbles every time he takes a step.

Gently, Clover unwraps the lamb’s leg, laughing when it leaps forward. She then turns back to Simon with a grin.

I shake my head, suspecting Camellia’s wrong. Clover might be many irritating things, but she’s not a sorceress.

* * *

Several flies buzzaround my head, landing on me occasionally and nearly driving me mad. We plod along at the wagons’ pace, which I could easily outwalk, making me wonder if we’ll ever reach the guard post. The road is rutted and rough, and my spine is stiff from sitting on the hard wooden seat.

Thankfully, I’ve almost gotten used to the aroma wafting from the basket in the back. Almost.

I should have made someone else drive the wagon—I certainly have the right—but I felt responsible for the cargo and couldn’t bring myself to give the direct order.

Now I’m regretting that decision.

I’m rubbing the back of my neck, dreaming of a hot meal and a bath, when the horses slow.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask Simon, who finally rides alone.

Clover is ahead, on Bartholomew’s beloved horse, Vidnar, and my squire sits next to me. The only one who looks regretful about the new riding arrangement is Simon.

“I’ll go find out,” the captain says, nudging his horse forward. A few minutes later, he hollers back, “They’ve spotted a troll pit ahead.”

I groan, hoping it will be easy to avoid.

“An actual troll pit?” Clover asks, her voice bright with curiosity. She turns to Hector from atop Bartholomew’s horse. “I’ve never seen one.”

“They’re not terribly exciting,” Hector says with a laugh. “But they can cause all kinds of damage if you neglect to discover one. We lost a horse on the last supply run. We missed the blasted thing, and he stumbled into it, breaking several legs.”

“That’s awful,” Clover exclaims.

“The scouts found this one in time,” Simon reassures her as he returns. Then, to me, he says, “We’ll have to go around it, but it’s in a bit of a tricky spot.”

They’re always in tricky spots. Trolls, though vile, disgusting little creatures, aren’t stupid. They have a habit of digging their pits in the roads, and then they camouflage them with branches and dirt—whatever they can find.

A few days later, they’ll come back en masse, checking to see if they’ve caught any unsuspecting travelers. If you’re unlucky enough to get stuck in one of their traps, they’ll eat you and spirit away your belongings like packrats.

Thankfully, at only six to eight feet deep, it’s not difficult to escape a troll pit unless you’re wounded in the fall or frail to begin with. Still, Hector’s right—they can cause a fair amount of damage.

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