Striding across the room, he knelt to retrieve it, frowning at the unmarked blue wax that closed it. Generic, the kind of wax used in temples, where people who couldn't read and write, or afford the supplies, went to have letters and such written for them. The paper was slightly better quality than that, but only just.
Returning to his desk, he picked up the crystal-handled letter opener that had been a gift from Ballior years ago, part of a handsome desk set Davrin still treasured. Slicing the wax seal, he set the opener aside and flipped the letter open. The contents did not lessen his bemusement.
Farlow. Old grotto. Two hours. Knock three times on door to acknowledge receipt.
Who in the world wanted a secret meeting with him, and in such a remote place? It would take nearly all of the two hours to reach it, assuming horse and weather cooperated, which were not assumptions he would lay a single pence on.
Striding back across the room, he rapped three times on his door. An answering knock came and then he heard steps hasten down the hall. Shaking his head, he threw the letter in the fireplace and went to his wardrobe.
Half an hour later, he was heading away from the castle, precious minutes wasted to drop enough word with guards and servants that anyone looking for him would be told he'd gone into the city to run some errands. He'd also paid a girl to run a few errands for him, and to leave the purchases at an inn he'd used before for such matters, so that when he returned home later it would indeed look like he'd spent his day on mundane chores.
He rode as quickly as the horse was comfortable doing, hating every single moment of it. The weather was bitterly cold, the kind of cold so deep that even snow wouldn't fall, and the snow already on the ground crunched and snapped like broken glass. He had the best cloak, the best furs, that money could buy without getting into smuggling and other illicit methods, and still he was cold all the way to his bones.
Hopefully Cimar and his squire were doing all right, because the weather wasn't going to get any kinder the further north they went.
The overcast sky made the journey gloomy, and the lack of any other life along the old road leading to Farlow, or what was left of it anyway, made everything dreary and slightly creepy.
He reached Farlow just past the two hour mark, but hopefully his mysterious host to this strange meeting would forgive him being a few minutes late.
Farlow stretched out before him, derelict and depressing. It had been a happy, bustling little town once, well known for its cider, but plague had wiped out nearly all the residents, and those few who survived had been quarantined in the temple for weeks, until all signs of illness had passed. The victims had been burned and scattered, survivors eventually permitted to leave but allowed to take nothing with them on the chance the disease lingered. They'd been compensated by the crown, but gold didn't replace the heirlooms and memories they'd been forced to leave behind.
Since then, lowlifes of all sorts had stripped the place clean of those treasures, hopefully not taking the plague with them. Six years had passed since, and with each one the surrounding woods reclaimed the abandoned town a little bit more. A few more years and no signs of it would remain.
He pushed onward through what remained of the street running up the middle of the ghost town, beyond it to the woods, where he had to dismount and lead his horse through the dense underbrush, as the path that had once been there was long gone.
A short distance into the woods was a steep dip, at the bottom of which was a cave, the mouth of it wide and towering, like a natural great hall or temple sanctuary. The founders of the town had turned it into a beautiful grotto, though now the benches, fountain, and other touches were, like everything, succumbing to the surrounding forest.
Sitting on what remained of one of the benches was a figure in a long, dark green cloak trimmed in fur that had been dyed to match, and lined in additional cream-colored wool for added warmth. The hood was up, giving no indication of their identity, though the slightness of the figure made him think woman.
Davrin had never been much with a sword, but he did well enough with his knives when there was no avoiding a fight, though the few he'd been in had been routing would-be thieves while he was walking about late at night or in the earliest hours of the morning.
The figure didn't react, not even to look up, as Davrin crunched his way to the grotto.
He took the bench opposite, awkwardly planted between an overenthusiastic tree root and a tangle of ivy.
The figure pulled down the cowl covering most of their face.
"Not what I expected, or would have even guessed if given fifty tries," Davrin said. Ever cautious of eavesdroppers, he kept his voice pitched low and said, "My lord."
Princess Korena chuckled softly. "Well met. Thank you for coming."
"I could hardly refuse such an intriguing invitation. I hope there is an explanation here at the end of my journey?"
"May I speak frankly?"
"My lord, I would be grateful. Most of my life is spent speaking sideways and in riddles. Frankness would be refreshing."
"His Majesty is a growing problem, and his little thugs are bringing matters swiftly to a boiling point. I worry what they will do with this challenge, or worse, what they'll do to disrupt it, since King Rorlen's favorite can hardly be seen losing a challenge that accuses him of murder. I admire your bravery to face him despite the odds, and I'm pleased that Sir Cimar stepped up for you."
"It's an honor I do not merit," Davrin replied softly. "Sir Cimar is one of a kind."
"I agree, but you do yourself a disservice by dismissing your own merit. But we'll leave that for another time. There is something I want to share with you, but it requires absolute discretion."
"You have it, my lord. Always."
She smiled faintly, something in it bittersweet and longing. It faded after a moment, and she somberly continued, "His Majesty is dying. Worse, the healers tell me he is likely to start going mad—has already, in very minor ways, but he is going to worsen exponentially, likely over the course of months, but possibly it will take only weeks."
Davrin inhaled sharply through his nostrils. That was an alarming bit of news for the crown princess to share with a minor, if respected, diplomat. "I assume you want my help regarding the matter?"
"Yes. First and foremost, it is vital you win this challenge. I will support you as much as possible, but there's only so much I can do without drawing attention and risking everything. I must have Tekker and Grayne dishonored and thrown out of court before my father begins to collapse entirely. I worry what power he will give them before I am able to wrest it all away. If you win, he'll have no choice but to throw them out, and that will solve a great many problems before they begin. Your timing is fortuitous, though I realize you did not do this for me."
"I have always believed strongly in efficiency, my lord. The more problems that can be solved by a single action, the better. Have every faith that Sir Cimar and I will fight to the death to see Ballior is avenged and those two left in ruin. What else did you need of me?"
She offered another soft smile, this one far warmer, a hint of amusement in it. "You, actually, my lord."
Davrin frowned. "I do not follow."
"I am being pressured to marry; I have been for some time."
Davrin's confusion turned to shock. "You cannot be saying what I think you're saying."