Chapter 472: A Partner’s Burden

Chapter 471: A Partner’s Burden

Lyria’s POV

"Since you are so eager to discover what I have to say, Jim, I shall endeavour not to keep you in suspense," Duke Valenridge said.

"I shall show you the route to the spring I discovered," he continued. "However, there is one condition. Once we have stepped beyond this building, Her Highness must return to the inn."

"W-what?" I asked, in shock.

Duke Valenridge, however, did not so much as glance in my direction.

"Would you be willing to accompany me, Jim?" he asked instead.

Jim appeared momentarily bewildered by the suddenness with which the Duke had changed the subject, but after a brief pause, he nodded.

"Aye. If ye know the way, then there’s little sense in wastin’ time. I’ll find a few folk wot can go wiv ye."

"Splendid."

"Though," Jim added, his gaze shifting towards me, "is this on account o’ ’er ’ighness bein’ ’urt?"

For a moment, it seemed as though the whole room had grown suddenly small, pressing in upon me from every corner.

I turned towards Jim so abruptly that the movement sent a dull ache through my side. I had been careful not to draw attention to my discomfort, particularly for the sake that he and his people need not know of it.

"I had thought you might not have noticed," Duke Valenridge muttered.

Jim gave a slight shrug.

"I did, when she first sat down, when we were conversin’. Thought perhaps ’er ’ighness didn’t want ter make it noticeable."

"Then, since you have already observed it, there is little need for me to explain further," Duke Valenridge replied to him.

I could only stare at the two of them.

They were discussing my injuries as though I were not sitting directly between them, perfectly capable of hearing every word spoken.

I opened my mouth, intending to make my displeasure known, but Duke Valenridge had already turned towards Brayden.

"Once we have concluded our business here, might you escort Her Highness back to the inn without delay?"

"At once, Your Grace," Brayden replied.

"P-pardon m-me?"

Neither men appeared inclined to acknowledge my interruption.

I drew myself up, ignoring the discomfort that accompanied the movement, and fixed my gaze upon the Duke.

"Your Grace, d-do you p-perhaps r-realise t-hat I am q-quite w-within y-your presence?"

At last, he looked at me.

"I am perfectly aware of that, Your Highness."

"Then p-perhaps you m-might explain w-why you are m-making a-arrangements c-concerning me w-without so much as a-asking my opinion u-upon the matter."

"Would everyone present be so kind as to excuse us for a few moments?" he asked. "I should like to speak with Her Highness privately."

Jim did not require the invitation to be repeated.

"Don’t need ter ask me twice," he muttered, already turning towards the door.

He departed with considerably more haste than I should have expected from a man who had spent the greater part of our conversation regarding every word I uttered with suspicion.

Brayden, however, remained where he stood.

His attention shifted from the Duke to me, and it was plain enough he felt some hesitation.

Duke Valenridge regarded him calmly.

"I have no intention of doing Her Highness any harm," he said. "You need not look as though I am about to draw a sword upon her."

"Your Grace will forgive me if I remain mindful of my duty," Brayden replied instead.

"Of course. Nevertheless, you know me well enough, do you not?"

"I do, Your Grace."

"Then you may rest assured that she shall come to no harm on my account."

But even with such reassurance, Brayden turned to me first.

"Your Highness?" he called.

I looked directly at Duke Valenridge before answering.

"I s-shall b-be out s-soon, Brayden. You m-may w-wait b-beyond t-the door."

"As you wish, Your Highness," he said, with a bow, and then he too walked out, the doors closing behind him, leaving only myself and Duke Valenridge within.

For several moments, neither of us spoke.

"Your G-Grace," I began, my voice considerably firmer than I felt, "w-what, precisely, d-do you i-imagine y-you are doing?"

"I might put that very same question to you, Your Highness," he replied at once.

"W-what?"

"Have you forgotten that we are partners?" he asked. "And that you and I are to learn from one another?"

"I h-have n-not f-forgotten."

"Is that so?" he asked, calmly. "For I do not recall ever telling you that strength requires you to work yourself into the very ground, much less to disregard an injury merely because you would prefer that others not see it."

"You are hurt, Your Highness," he continued, "and you are pretending otherwise, because you would rather endure the discomfort than allow the people of Gallowshill to see you in need of rest. Am I mistaken in this?"

I could not answer him, for he had spoken the plain truth.

The people of Gallowshill regarded me as a princess who knew nothing of their hardships. I had wished them to understand that I was willing to labour beside them, that I should not retreat merely because the work proved difficult, or because I had been injured in attempting to save a child.

If I were to return to the inn now, should they not think I had merely been awaiting some excuse to abandon them?

"I k-know w-what i-it is I am d-doing, Y-Your Grace," I told him firmly.

"I never said you did not."

"Then w-why a-are you b-behaving as though I c-cannot m-make such a d-decision for m-myself?"

"Because to make a decision, and to make a wise one, are not always the same thing."

I drew in a breath, but before I might respond, he continued.

"You may wish to demonstrate your own strength, and I have no intention whatsoever of discouraging you from doing so. Yet what good is strength, if you lack the very capacity to preserve it? What is the worth of all your determination, if you exhaust yourself to such a point that you can no longer stand to show that you possess it at all? To carry out that which you set out to carry? For if you exhaust yourself in body, how do you suppose you shall continue to function in mind? And who ever claimed that strength must be measured by how one appears physically? That was not a part of the lesson I gave you, was it?"

There was no warmth in his voice; he spoke as though he were thoroughly vexed with me.

"And what shall happen," he asked, "should you collapse before you have accomplished what you set out to do? Shall the impression you have laboured so diligently to create remain unaltered? Or shall every effort of yours be rendered fruitless, because you refused to recognise when you ought to rest? Has it not been made known to you that one mark of strength lies in knowing when to step back, and when to advance?"

I attempted to look away, but could not.

For how was it that, even without a word of explanation from me, he had understood my intentions so precisely?

"I had thought Lucian might have persuaded you to take some rest," he continued, drawing me from my own thoughts. "He appeared quite determined to see you properly cared for, and yet even he seems to have failed in the endeavour."

"I a-am the only p-person who can t-truly know what I am f-feeling," I argued, using the very words I had employed upon Lucian. "I k-know my o-own pain, and I k-know when I am—"

Duke Valenridge scoffed, interrupting me at once.

"Oh, spare me that wretched argument. You, of all persons, ought to know better than to suppose that pain is always borne by the one who suffers it, alone." His voice was sharper still than before.

"You and I know perfectly well that suffering does not cease to matter merely because the one experiencing it has learnt to conceal it. Nor does one’s capacity to bear it mean that those who care for them must stand aside and watch them struggle in silence."

He took a step towards me, and the change in his expression was so subtle that I might have missed it entirely, had I not been watching him so closely. The vexation and irritation remained, but there was something that resembled hurt. I could not quite make sense of it.

"I behave this way," he continued, his voice grown soft, "because I have no wish to see you hurt. I should hate for matters to worsen, until there was nothing left to be done but regret that I did not act sooner."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"You have suffered hurt enough already, curious wolf. But now that you have people who might tend to you," he said, "now that you possess the means to obtain proper care, why must you deny yourself so simple a kindness? Why must you go to such lengths, merely to prove your own resilience?"

He drew closer still, and I found myself quite unable to look away.

His pale green eyes held mine, and as he bent towards me, closing the distance between us, the words I had been preparing dissolved before I might give them voice.

"Your pain is my pain, curious wolf," he said softly. "Your hurt is my hurt. You forget — I am an anchor to you. I bear whatever weight you carry. Do not suppose your burden is yours alone to shoulder, for am I not meant to steady you, as an anchor ought?"