Chapter 332: Is She Alive?

Nobody spoke until the sound of them had faded entirely.

"Corin," said Thorne.

"Majesty."

"Two riders. Your best. Mounted and ready within the quarter hour."

"Yes, my lord."

"They are to follow at a distance of a mile. They are not to be seen. They are to tell me where that coach stops for the night, and who comes to meet it, and what is said." His voice was very quiet. "They are not to engage."

"I understand."

"Go."

Corin vanished.

The courtiers began to disperse, murmuring, a drift of fur and silk down the steps. Cedric lingered a moment, leaning on his staff, and gave the kings a long, grave, unreadable look. Then he bowed, and withdrew.

The courtyard emptied.

Draeven turned to Morgana.

"We leave in the morning," he said.

She blinked.

"For Ashford." His voice was calm. "I have spoken to Rhen. The escort is ready. Twelve men, in plain clothes, to ride a day behind us. Kaelen and I will go with you."

"Both of you?"

"Both."

"And Thorne?"

There was a pause.

"Thorne stays."

She looked at Thorne.

He stood very still. His face had not changed. But she had spent enough nights with him now to read what lay beneath it, the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, the shadow that had gone suddenly still around his boots.

"I see," she said carefully.

"It is not a punishment," said Thorne.

"I didn’t say it was."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you looked very calm."

"I am furious," said Thorne, in a voice of perfect courtesy.

Kaelen made a small choking sound.

"Somebody has to stay," said Draeven. His tone was gentle, and very firm. "The mole is still in the palace. Pell is still missing. Cedric is still hunting for a hand he cannot find. And Carrick has twenty men on the north road who will report every step we take." He looked at his brother. "If all three of us leave, the throne is open to anyone with a clever tongue."

"I know."

"You are the best of us at finding what is hidden."

"I know that, too."

"Then you understand."

"I understand perfectly." Thorne’s voice did not change. "I hate it completely."

"I know."

"I hate it more than I have hated anything."

"I know, brother."

"I will find the hand," said Thorne. "I will find it before you are back. And when I do...."

"I do not doubt it."

Silence.

Morgana stepped forward.

She did not think. She only crossed the cold flagstones, in her dark red skirts, and put her hand on his sleeve. The black wool was warm. She felt his arm stiffen, and then, very slowly, loosen.

"Thorne."

"Yes."

"Do you remember what I said? In the bath?"

His eyes flicked down to hers.

"You said next time I could knock."

"I did."

"I have been rehearsing it." His mouth moved. "I am extremely good at it. I knock very firmly."

She laughed.

"When we come back," she said, "I want you to be the first one at the door."

"I will be."

"Waiting."

"I will be waiting at the door when you come home, Morgana." His voice was quiet. "I will be waiting with the whole palace turned upside down and the mole in a cell. And I will knock."

She squeezed his sleeve.

"Good," she said.

Something in his face eased.

It was small. A fractional loosening, a softening at the corners of his eyes. But she saw it, and she felt the shadow at his heels draw in and settle, quiet and warm, like a cat curling at a hearth.

"Go and pack," he said. "Take the grey wool. It will be cold on the road."

"Yes, my lord."

"And Morgana."

"Yes?"

"Take care of my brothers."

She smiled.

"I’ll try," she said. "But they’re a lot."

"They are."

Beside them, Kaelen cleared his throat.

"I’m standing right here," he said.

"We know," said Thorne and Draeven, together.

***

The rider came in at dusk.

She was at the window of her chamber when she saw him, a dark shape on the long road, moving too fast. He was bent low over his horse’s neck, and the beast was lathered white, stumbling as it came. He rode through the gate without slowing. The guards shouted, and scattered, and he flung himself out of the saddle in the courtyard and went down on one knee on the cobbles.

She was out of the room before she knew she’d moved.

She ran. Her skirts caught on the banister. She took the stairs two at a time, and Corin swore somewhere behind her and then she was across the hall and out of the great doors and into the cold blue dusk.

They were already gathered.

Draeven stood on the steps. Kaelen was beside him. Thorne came striding across the courtyard from the opposite direction, his coat flying. In the center of the cobbles, a grey-faced young man in a mud-spattered cloak knelt with his head bowed, gasping, while Rhen stood over him with a flask in one hand.

"Drink," said Rhen.

The rider drank. He coughed. He lifted his head.

"Report," said Draeven.

"Majesty." The young man’s voice was a croak. "I’m Doran. Captain Rhen’s second rank."

"Is she alive?"

The words came out of Morgana before she could stop them. They were very small.

Doran turned.

His eyes found her. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he looked, for an instant, almost startled. Then a faint, exhausted, astonished smile broke across his mud-streaked face.

"My lady," he said. "Yes. She’s alive."

Morgana’s knees went.

She felt Kaelen’s arm come around her, quick and strong, and she leaned into it and let out a breath that she felt she had been holding since the council hall.

"Thank god," she whispered. "Oh, thank god."

"She’s alive," said Doran again. "She’s well. Well enough. We reached the cottage three days ago. She didn’t want us in the house." His smile widened. "She came to the door with a ladle."