Chapter 308: Send Riders To Ashford Village

She stared at him.

"Do you?" he asked, more softly. "Carry it lighter?"

She thought about it.

"A little," she said, surprised.

"Then it was worth the telling."

Something loosened in her chest.

It was a slow, strange thing. It was as though a long-clenched fist had begun, finger by finger, to open. She let out a shaky breath. She looked at the three of them, at the grave kind faces of men who had every right to be angry with her, and who weren’t.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" Kaelen asked.

"For not asking more."

"We’ll ask," said Kaelen, hoarsely. "Eventually. When you’re ready. But not today."

"Not today," Thorne confirmed.

She laughed. It came out shaky and wet and strange, and it turned halfway into a sob, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. Kaelen crossed the room in two strides, dropped to one knee beside the chair, and put his arms around her.

She leaned into him.

He smelled of snow and cold iron. His arms were rough and warm. He did not say a word. He only held her, hard, with his chin against her hair, and she felt the silent rage in him, held down, folded away, put aside for her sake.

Over his shoulder, Thorne turned to Draeven.

"The master," he said, very quietly.

"I know."

"Astraea said Carrick serves someone older. Someone more powerful. Someone who has been moving pieces for longer than our curse."

"Yes."

"And Carrick said, your father sends his regards."

"They are not two men," said Thorne.

"No," said Draeven. His voice was low. "I do not think they are."

"Or they are bound closely enough that it makes no difference."

"Yes."

"The master is her father." Thorne’s face was a pale mask. "Or he is the hand that holds him."

"We cannot know."

"No." Kaelen replied.

"But we will find out."

She heard it all, muffled against Kaelen’s shoulder. And she thought, with a strange detached clarity, that she should be afraid. That she was afraid. That under the warmth of Kaelen’s arms and the soft gold hum of the three dragons in her chest, a very small cold voice was whispering, he knows where you live. He knows where your mother lives.

Ma.

She lifted her head.

"Draeven." She called out.

"Yes."

"My mother....."

"I know." Draeven responded.

"He knows where she is."

"I know."

"He said the cottage. He mentioned the mill." Her voice wobbled. "He said she coughs in the evenings. How does he know that? How could he possibly know she coughs in the evenings?"

Nobody answered.

It was Thorne who finally said, very quietly, "Someone has been watching her."

The room went cold.

"For how long?" she whispered.

"I cannot say."

"Days?"

"Perhaps."

"Weeks?"

"I do not know." His dark eyes were gentle, and unflinching. "But he did not learn it in a short amount of time."

She pressed her fist to her mouth.

Draeven rose.

He did it slowly. The gold in his eyes had gone hard and calm, and when he crossed to the door. he opened it. Corin was waiting, as still as a post.

"Get Captain Rhen," said Draeven. "Now."

"Yes My lord."

"And bring a map of the north road."

"At once."

Corin vanished.

They did not wait long. Rhen arrived within a quarter of an hour, scarred and grey and calm, with a rolled map under his arm. He bowed to the kings, and to Morgana, and spread the map across the desk with a sweep of his big hands. Draeven stood over it with his arms folded.

"Ashford," he said.

"Here, my lord." Rhen’s thick finger pressed a spot near the northern edge. "Half a day hard ride. A if the road is bad. There is a mill road here, and a ford, and the village lies in the fold of the hill."

"You know it?"

"I have been through it. Small. Poor. One inn, one smithy, a market once a week." Rhen glanced at Morgana. "Good people, as I remember."

"I need riders," said Draeven.

"How many, my lord?"

"Twelve. Your best. Men who can keep a secret and fight if they must." He paused. "They are to leave within the hour. They are not to wear the king’s grey. They are to arrive as travelers. Merchants. Pilgrims, if they must."

"And their purpose?"

"A cottage at the foot of the hill, near the mill." Draeven’s finger traced the spot. "The home of a woman named Elara. She is ill. They are to guard her. Quietly. By day and by night. No one is to approach the cottage who is not known to her. No one is to leave it without an escort."

"She is to be told?"

"She is to be told that Morgana sends her love." Draeven’s gaze moved, briefly, to Morgana. "No more. No less. The rest she may learn when it is safe."

Rhen nodded once.

"And if anyone is found watching the cottage?"

"Seize them."

"Alive?"

"If possible." Draeven’s voice was very soft. "I should very much like to ask them some questions."

"My lord."

Rhen bowed.

"I would go myself," Morgana said.

Her voice shook, but it was clear.

All three kings turned.

She had risen from the chair. She was standing with her hands clenched at her sides and her chin lifted, a small straight figure in a dark red gown, with a ring of tension drawn tight around her mouth.

"I want to go," she said. "To Ashford. Now. With the riders."

"Morgana," said Draeven.

"She’s my mother."

"I know."

"She’s alone. She’s ill. She doesn’t know what’s happening. Someone has been watching her for weeks and she doesn’t know." Her voice cracked. "I haven’t seen her in a month. I haven’t....I haven’t even written."

"Morgana."

"I could be there in half a day."

"Morgana." He crossed to her. His hands rose and settled on her shoulders, warm and gentle and absolutely steady. "Not today."

She stared up at him.

"Not today," he said again, softly. "I will not tell you no. I want you to hear that. I am not forbidding it. I understand why you must go."

"Then why...."

"Because Carrick Greythorne is still in this palace