dressed in armor, and there were sheaves of golden wheat gilded on his dented breastplate. High Lord Damashere.
“Give it here then, girl.”
Lydia jumped, then realized the King was asking for the letter. Hurrying forward, she handed it to him, averting her eyes from his searing gaze.
Serrick broke the seal and scanned the contents. Lydia knew what it said—there’d been no chance of her delivering a message without reading the contents, so she’d lifted the seal with a hot knife on the journey. Within it, Malahi outlined the direness of the situation in Mudaire, begging her father to ride in all haste to the aid of the city. Though she obviously believed they were wasted words, or Lydia wouldn’t be here at all.
His brow furrowed, the King set down the page and retrieved a sheet of paper from a lockbox sitting on the table. Referring to the page, he silently circled certain letters in Malahi’s message, and Lydia’s stomach dropped as she realized what he was doing. There was a code hidden in the message.
She leaned forward, trying to read the coded message as the King transcribed it, but without her spectacles everything was blurry.
The King held up the scrap of paper so that the healer could read it, and the woman’s eyes widened in surprise before furrowing into a frown. Then, to Lydia’s dismay, the King held the transcription over a candle until it caught fire, tossing it into a silver basin, Malahi’s original letter following suit.
“Give the order to break camp in two hours,” the King said to High Lord Damashere. “We march to Abenharrow with all due haste.”
“But the scouts tell us that the forces from Mudaire are successfully holding the ford,” the High Lord protested. “If we come up behind them, we can crush them and end this war today.”
“And risk the ford falling while we are on the way to their aid,” the King snapped. “Once across, the Derin army will split their forces to hold us to this side of the ford, and we will have lost any chance of beating them to Abenharrow.”
“But Mudaire—”
“Mudaire is lost,” Serrick interrupted. “I’ll not risk the rest of Mudamora for the sake of the handful who willingly gave up their lives to hold that ford. The Six will take their souls and reward them for their sacrifice.”
Killian was one of those souls. And not just him. The Gamdeshians who’d sailed north to assist Mudamora and had already suffered so much. The civilians who’d volunteered to fight to give their loved ones a chance to flee. Even the Mudamorian soldiers whose duty it was to defend that ford deserved more from their king. Lydia’s heart hardened as she stared at Serrick Rowenes. It was him who didn’t deserve to live.
And it was clear High Lord Damashere agreed. “Your Majesty, with respect—”
“Damashere, you overstep yourself. You’ve spent your lifetime counting shipments of grain. Who are you to contest my strategies?”
“But—”
The healer spoke, her voice raspy. And strangely familiar. “His Majesty was chosen by the gods for this task, Your Grace. When you question him, you question the Six.”
The High Lord paled. “My apologies, Majesty. I let my sentiment overwhelm my good sense.”
Serrick gave the man a withering glare. “As you so often do. Go give the order; we have no time to waste.” Then he turned his head back to Lydia. “You may go.”
She was dismissed. Stomach hollowing, Lydia grasped about for a reason to remain. For time to do what she came for. For a plan that would see this monstrosity dead without costing her own life. But her mind came up blank.
Backing away, she retreated into an antechamber and, not knowing what possessed her to do so, she ducked behind one of the dangling tapestries.
Idiot! she silently screamed. What sort of plan is this? Do you think no one will notice that you never left?
Only before she could duck back out, the air filled with voices and the smell of food, servants coming and going. To appear from behind a tapestry would invite more questions, so she stood her ground, knees trembling, knowing the longer she remained the more contested her exit would be, but not knowing what to do about it.
Time passed. People came and went. Lydia did not move.
She was ravenous and desperately had to relieve her bladder, but peeking under the edge of the tent canvas revealed a perimeter of guards, the ground illuminated by dozens of torches. There was no sneaking out.