Page 118 of Pretense

He fell. He might have blacked out for a moment.

When he gathered his senses and peeled his eyes open, he found himself curled on the ground several feet away from the border stone, his face pressed to the dirt.

With shaking arms, he pushed himself into a sitting position, swiping his hair from his face.

Iyrinder lay near his feet, shaking his head as if his ears were ringing. Nearby, Weylind’s guard was groaning while Weylind had pushed onto his elbows as he spat, as if he had gotten dirt in his mouth.

To Farrendel’s left, Melantha rolled onto her back, rubbing at her temples. Rharreth reached for her, speaking urgently in a low tone. Most likely asking if she was all right.

The troll guard, Zavni, yanked his ax out of the ground where it had landed only a few inches from his ankle. “Warn us next time. I nearly cut off my own foot.”

The other guard punched Zavni’s shoulder. “Your own fault for waving your ax around when we weren’t even engaged in battle yet.”

Weylind spat one last time and grimaced. “That had better have worked.”

A boom rang across the field. Then, a crackling blue wall shot from the ground, veined with streaks of both white and green, and incinerated the cannonball before it had a chance to cross the border.

On the other side, a squad of Mongavarian soldiers, who had been charging forward, skidded to a halt and gaped.

“I think it did.” Rharreth regarded the swirling wall of combined magics, a grin curving his mouth.

Farrendel studied the magic as well. It seemed strong. Though, the section through the center of the river had not felt quite as stable as the land border, which claimed the bedrock of the mountains as an anchor.

It likely would not matter. Crossing the mountains with an army was treacherous, but crossing the Hydalla with an army would be even more difficult. At the very least, Farrendel’s magic would provide a warning of any attempts, giving time to repulse an attack.

Farrendel pushed to his feet, brushing at the grass and dirt marring his clothes. He grimaced at the green smears of grass stains, already itching for a scalding shower to wash away the icky, dirty feeling crawling on his skin.

When he turned back toward the Escarlish tower, Averett and Julien were pumping their fists up and down, and the faint sounds of cheering carried on the breeze. Ryfon gave a whoop as well, then glanced about as if checking that no one had noticed a prince of the elves doing something so undignified.

Weylind’s hand rested on Farrendel’s shoulder. “Let us return. I believe you have your Escarlish home to show us.”

Farrendel nodded, and together they strode toward Escarland. Toward the train that would take him back to Essie, then eventually on to Aldon and their cozy Buckmore Cottage.

If they had a nice weather, Farrendel would show Weylind, Rheva, Ryfon, and Brina the family camping spot in the forested parkland by Winstead Palace. He would love the see the look on Weylind’s face as he tried to cook a marshmallow for the first time. It was a lot trickier than it appeared when Essie and her brothers did it. Ryfon and Brina especially would enjoy it.

Farrendel glanced over his shoulder where Rharreth and Melantha followed, now walking hand in hand. Perhaps he would invite them as well. They were family. There was something about sitting around a campfire cooking marshmallows that relaxed and bonded.

Behind Rharreth and Melantha, the blue magic retreated into the ground, leaving the border once again looking benign and peaceful. The Mongavarian soldiers still stood there, unmoving, and none of them raised a rifle to even attempt to take a shot at them.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The king of Mongavaria slept soundly in his massive four-poster bed, the silken sheets and finely woven blankets piled over him to ward off the damp chill of the ocean breeze seeping through the stones of the sprawling castle. The moonlight shone on the tufts of the man’s white hair while shadows pooled in the lines of his well-worn face.

Edmund might have felt bad for what he was about to do to a man in his seventies. But this was the king who had ordered Essie and Farrendel’s assassination, as well as the murders of the elven royal family.

Nor was this king a frail, elderly man. He was sharp-eyed and spry, the kind of man who would keep his heir waiting for the crown for many years yet.

Edmund had been there, hidden inside a dusty storage bench, while the Mongavarian spies had reported to their king. This man had raged about their failures.

Escarland might have shown them mercy. But Mongavaria had not. Even now, the shots of the firing squad seemed to echo into the night. Their blood stained the same stones where the three Escarlish spies who had not fled in time had also died.

A reminder of what would happen to Edmund if he were caught. Rharreth hadn’t wanted to kill a prince of Escarland, but the king of Mongavaria had no such qualms.

Edmund stalked to the bed, reaching with one gloved hand into the pouch he’d tied to his belt. With one swift motion, he tossed back the covers, clapped a hand to the king’s mouth, and pressed one of Jalissa’s magical vines to the man’s hand.

As the king’s eyes snapped open, Edmund gripped a fistful of his nightshirt and hauled him from the bed, spinning him to face away from Edmund before he could get more than a brief glimpse of Edmund’s silhouette in the moonlight.

The king started to claw at Edmund’s hand, only to hesitate when Jalissa’s vine sprang to life, twining up his arm with what had to be a constricting grip. With muffled yelling in the back of his throat, the king switched to yanking on the vine, only to have it catch his other hand and arm.

---