“Go after her,” I say to him.
He frowns. “My lord—”
“Go after her,” I say again. The castle is full of people whose motivations—and whose loyalties—would scatter across a map. Harper just made me a target, but she made one of herself as well. “Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t leave the grounds.”
“You believe she would?”
I remember the numerous times Grey and I had to race after her in the beginning. “Right now, I’d be more surprised if she stayed here.” I turn away.
He hesitates. “But—”
I turn back, and there must be enough ice in my eyes, because he gives me a nod and says, “Yes, my lord. Right away.”
Grey wouldn’t have hesitated.
Finally, a servant approaches with a tray, and I seize a glass of wine. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from downing the entire thing in one swallow. As it is, I drain half.
One of the Grand Marshals approaches. Conrad Macon, from Rillisk. Because of his city’s distance from Ironrose, I don’t know him well, but that’s not a bad thing. The only Grand Marshals I know well are those who live nearby—or those who were at odds with my father.
Conrad has been quick to respond to any request since Grey was captured within his borders. And he showed up here tonight.
“Forgive me,” he says, and his voice is conciliatory. “I did not intend to cause tension for the princess.”
“There is more than enough tension to go around,” I say. “You are not the cause of it.”
He looks relieved to hear that. “Ah … yes, my lord. I agree.” He hesitates. “I understand you are preparing the army for another attack by Syhl Shallow.”
Now I do drain the glass. “Yes.”
“Rillisk has a small private army, as you know,” he says. “I know you have faced … conflict with Silvermoon. But I was speaking with the Grand Marshal of Wildthorne Valley, and we believe that by aligning our soldiers, we could present quite a large force in the west, which may be large enough to prevent any other cities from attempting to defect to the false heir’s rule.”
My thoughts were still tangled up in what Harper said to me, but this gets my attention. “You believe your armed forces would be enough to stand against Syhl Shallow?”
“Well, Marshal Baldrick has a woman in his employ who’s been able to discern information from Syhl Shallow’s soldiers.”
“A spy,” I say.
He winces. “More of a mercenary,” he says, his voice low. “From what I understand, she’s not cheap. But she was able to infiltrate their forces before, and she kept Wildthorne Valley from suffering many losses.”
If there’s anything I have, it’s plenty of silver. In Emberfall, five years passed without much activity from the royal family, because I had no need to spend a single copper. It’s part of why Syhl Shallow is so desperate to take over. “Have Marshal Baldrick plan a visit with this mercenary,” I say. “If money is a concern, I’ll make it worth her while. I would like to hear more from her directly.”
“No need,” Conrad says. “He brought her with him.”
Chesleigh Darington is younger than I expect, somewhere in her mid-twenties, with waist-length dark hair, olive skin, and calculating gray eyes. She has a scar on her cheek similar to Harper’s, though Chesleigh’s stretches into her hairline over her ear, where the hair has grown back in a narrow white streak. Unlike the rest of the women at the party, she’s wearing trousers—black calfskin, laced boots, and a slender tunic in deep purple. She’s more armed than most of my guards, and I notice that several of my guardsmen hover close when she joins us at a table in the corner.
Marshal Baldrick and Marshal Macon sit at the table, sipping from glasses of wine, looking proud that they’ve brought something to offer. In another lifetime, I might be dismissive about their gloating, but tonight, I want people to envy them. I want people to seek my favor. I need Emberfall to be whole to stand against Grey. He’s already endeared himself to many of the northern towns, and I am on rocky ground with Silvermoon Harbor. It’s likely a miracle that Marshal Perry even showed up tonight.
I wish Harper had not stormed out of here.
I trace my finger around the stem of my wineglass and pay attention to the matter at hand.
“You believe you have information on Syhl Shallow’s military?” I say to Chesleigh.
“Not just on their military,” she says. “I can cross the border at will.”
I frown. “How?”
“I speak Syssalah. I’m familiar with their customs, and they’ve come to see me as a citizen.”
I lean in against the table. “How?”
“I was born there.”
The Grand Marshals at the table exchange a glance, but Baldrick clears his throat. “Chesleigh is loyal to Emberfall.”
My eyes don’t leave hers. “Why?”
“Because their queen slaughtered my family.” Her words are even and unaffected, her eyes cool. But I was a monster created by the enchantress, and I slaughtered my own family, so my tone is just the same when I speak of it. I know how much anger and fury and loss can be hidden by a pair of cool eyes.
“When their army first came through the mountain pass,” she continues, “I was surprised how easy it was to lose myself among their ranks. Few people in Emberfall speak Syssalah—and even fewer would walk right up to a Syhl Shallow soldier without fear after what they’ve done. Bold women are rarer here, but they’re common in Syhl Shallow.”
“And they let you cross the border?” I say. “Just like that?”
She gives me a darkly conspiratorial smile. “They believe I am a spy.”
I don’t smile back. “How do I know you’re not?”
“How do you know anyone is not?” She glances at the Grand Marshals at the table, then back at me. “I understand your … princess from Disi did not bring about the military forces that were promised. That the royal family perished while under the king of Disi’s protection. Perhaps she is the spy.”
“I thought we were here to talk about what you could offer,” I say.
“We are.” She pauses. “I can assure you that my word is good.”
“Prove it.”
She draws back in her chair and takes a sip from her glass. “I don’t work for free, Your Highness. A girl has to eat.”
She’s very forward. I can see why she wouldn’t have an issue assimilating in Syhl Shallow. I’m used to polished doublespeak from the men at this table, so a forthright request is almost … refreshing. “Fifty silvers,” I say easily.
She smiles. “Two hundred.”
Marshal Macon snorts with laughter and someone else mutters a curse, but I don’t smile. “You must be very hungry.”
Her eyes flash. “You have no idea.”
“Fifty,” I say again.
“You won’t negotiate?”
“Not yet.”
She studies me for the longest time. “There is a narrow passage through the mountains, three or four days’ ride northwest of here. It’s not wide enough to support the movement of troops, but it’s unguarded from this side.”