Only the Valiant. Морган Райс
near here.”
“There are whole crowds in the streets who might prove otherwise,” Genevieve said, pushing herself to her feet. She wasn’t scared of Altfor the way she was of his uncle.
No, that wasn’t true. She was scared of him, but it was a different kind of fear. With Altfor, it was a fear of sudden violence and cruelty, but appearing to submit would do nothing to deflect it.
“The crowds?” Altfor said. “You’re going to taunt me with mobs now? I thought you had learned your lesson about crossing me, but obviously not.”
Now fear did come back to Genevieve, because the look in Altfor’s eye was one that promised something far worse than violence toward her.
“You think that you’re so safe because I will not harm my wife,” Altfor said. “But I told you the things that would happen if you disobeyed me. Your beloved Royce will be found, and he will be killed, if I have anything to do with it, far more slowly than anything my uncle might have in mind.”
That part didn’t scare Genevieve, although the thought of any harm coming to Royce hurt her like a physical blow. The fact was that he was gone from Altfor’s grip; she had already seen to that. There was no way now that he or Lord Alistair would be able to catch him.
“Then there are his brothers,” Altfor said, and Genevieve’s breath caught.
“You told me you wouldn’t kill them if I married you,” she said.
“But now you are my wife, and you are a disobedient one,” Altfor countered. “Already, the three are on their way to their place of execution, there to sit in a gibbet on the killing hill and starve until they are devoured by beasts.”
“No,” Genevieve said. “You promised.”
“And you promised to be a faithful wife!” Altfor shouted back at her. “Instead, you continue to help the boy you should have put aside all thoughts for!”
“You… I didn’t do anything,” Genevieve insisted, knowing that admitting it would only make things worse. Altfor was a noble, and he couldn’t do anything to her directly, not without proof, and a trial, and more.
“Oh, you still want to play these games,” Altfor said. “Then the price for your betrayal has gone up. You have too many distractions in the outside world, so I will take them from you.”
“What… what do you mean?” Genevieve asked.
“Your sister was an amusement for a brief moment the first time you disobeyed me. Now she will die for what you have done. So will your parents, and everyone else in the hovel you called home.”
“No!” Genevieve shrieked, grabbing for the small eating knife that she wore. In that moment, all sense of restraint or need to be careful fled from her, driven out by the horror of what her husband was about to do. She would do anything to protect her sister. Anything.
Altfor was faster though, his hand closing over hers and dragging it away. He shoved her back to land heavily on the floor, standing over her. He glared down at her, and only Moira’s touch pulled him away from doing more.
“Remember that while she is your wife she is noble,” Moira whispered. “Harm her and you would be treated as a criminal.”
“Do not presume to tell me what to do,” Altfor snapped at Moira, who leaned in even closer.
“I am not telling, merely suggesting, my lord, my duke. With a wife, and in time an heir, and the law on your side, you will manage to take that all back.”
“And why does that matter to you?” Altfor asked, looking over at her.
If Moira was hurt by that, she didn’t show it. If anything, she looked triumphant as she looked over to where Genevieve lay.
“Because your brother, my husband, is gone, and I would rather continue to be the lover of a powerful man than a woman without power,” Moira said. “And you… you are the most powerful man I have met.”
“And I should want you, rather than my wife?” Altfor asked. “Why should I want my brother’s cast-offs?”
Even to Genevieve, that seemed a cruel game to play when Genevieve had already caught him with Moira.
Again though, whatever Moira felt was carefully hidden.
“Come with me,” she suggested, “and I’ll remind you of the difference while your men go about killing all those who deserve it. Your men, not your uncle’s.”
That was enough for Altfor to pull her to him, kissing her even though Genevieve and the two guards were right there. He caught hold of Moira’s arm, pulling her off in the direction of the great hall’s exit. Genevieve saw Moira glance back, and the cruelty in her smile was enough to chill Genevieve to the bone.
Right then, Genevieve didn’t care. She didn’t care that Altfor was about to betray her in a way that he obviously already had so many times before. She didn’t care that she’d nearly died at his uncle’s hands, or that both of them clearly saw her as an inconvenience.
All she cared about then was that her sister was in danger, and she had, had to find some way to help her, before it was too late. Altfor was planning to kill her, and she had no way of knowing when it would happen.
CHAPTER THREE
Royce ran through the forest, feeling the crunch of branches underfoot, clutching his sheathed sword to his side so it wouldn’t catch against any of the trees. Without the horse he’d stolen, he wasn’t moving fast enough. He needed to go faster.
He ran faster, spurred on by the thought of getting back to the people he cared about. The Red Isle had taught him to keep running, regardless of the way his heart hammered in his chest, or his legs ached. He’d survived the trap-filled run across the island, so forcing himself to run further and faster through a forest was nothing.
The speed and strength that he possessed helped. Trees flashed by on either side, branches scraping at him and Royce ignoring them. He could hear woodland creatures scurrying to get clear of this thing running through their territory, and he knew that he had to find a better way to make progress than this. If he kept making this much noise, he would attract every soldier in the dukedom.
“Let them come,” Royce whispered to himself. “I’ll kill them all.”
A part of him wanted to do that and more. He’d managed to kill the lord who’d put him and his friends in the fighting pit; he’d managed to kill those guards who had come at him… but he also knew that he couldn’t take on a whole land’s worth of enemies. The strongest, fastest, most dangerous of men couldn’t fight more than a few enemies alone, because there would simply be too many places that a blade could come from unexpectedly.
“I’ll find a way to do something,” Royce said, but he slowed anyway, moving through the forest more carefully, trying not to disturb the peace of the trees around him. He could hear the birds and the creatures there now, the sounds turning what had felt like an empty space into a landscape of sounds that seemed to fill everything.
What could he do? His first instinct when he’d run had been to keep going, out into the wild spaces where men didn’t live, and the Picti held sway. He’d thought about disappearing, simply vanishing, because what was there to hold him there?
Briefly, his mind flashed to an image of Genevieve, staring down from the stands of the fighting pit, apparently uncaring. He pushed that image aside, because he didn’t want to think about Genevieve. It hurt too much to do it, when she’d done that. Why shouldn’t he disappear into the spaces where men didn’t live?
One reason was Mark. His friend had fallen in the pit, but Royce hadn’t seen the moment of his death. A part of him wanted to believe that somehow Mark might have survived it when the games had been disrupted like that. Wouldn’t the nobles want to see another fight from him if they could get it? Wouldn’t they want to get all the entertainment that they could from his friend?
“He has to be alive,” Royce