Page 99 of Sword & Sacrifice

Echo gasped, placing a hand on their chest in exaggerated affront. “As if I would abandon you for such simple pleasures as palace food and hot running water.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Echo,” Silas said. “But the renovations haven’t finished on the kitchens yet. You’ll need to find somewhere to eat in the city.”

“Dammit,” Echo muttered. “Never mind, Captain, I’ll come with you—”

“Too late, you’ve already volunteered. Have fun guarding your princess.”

Silas’ brow furrowed in confusion as he looked to Em, whose cheeks flushed at the title. “They don’t think you and I are—”

She shook her head frantically. “I’ve already cleared that up, I swear.” Her nose scrunched in displeasure. “Echo calls me princess because they know I find it annoying.”

“What was that, Em?” Echo asked, holding a hand up to their ear. “Speaking my praises.”

She rolled her eyes at Silas and gestured as if to say ‘See?’

As usual, Em’s sunny presence found a way to warm even the coldest depths of Silas’ heart. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Em,” he said, pulling her into a hug.

Dampness spread across his shoulder as she sniffled. “I just want Mama and Penn and everyone else to be safe too.”

Silas’ arms tightened around her, as if he could hold together the pieces of their breaking hearts.

When they separated, Emmaline swiped at her red, watery eyes and hid her face. Silas turned his back on her to give her some privacy as he addressed the sailors. “Thank you for escorting her safely here and for your warning about Varro.”

Moira’s steely gray eyes locked with his. “That’s not the only reason I’m here, Majesty.”

“Yes, the trade routes, of course. I won’t forget. We'll meet again tomorrow morning to discuss everything.”

She stared him down for a moment longer before her lips spread in a sharp smile. “Perfect. I’ve got a present waiting for you on the ship. I’ll bring it to the meeting.” With that perplexing statement, she turned on her heel and guided her crew out of the room.

“Come on, Em,” Silas said, offering her his arm. “Let’s find you a room.”

Even with all the trouble her arrival had heralded—Alistair possessing Valerian, Varro’s new alliance, her father’s pending attack—he was still happy to have her safe under his roof. The slight buzz of magic pulsing in his veins warned him that Adelaide’s orders were still in effect, but even without them, Silas would do everything in his power to protect his friend.

Chapter Forty-One

Archer towered over the two kneeling Bellacostan traitors, jaw clenched and hand resting on his sword. One refused to look at him, eyes locked on a tree in the distance. The other glared defiantly, wrapping himself in a martyr’s mantle as if they hadn’t attacked a lone woman.

“What did you want with the Witch?” Archer demanded. He specifically used Adelaide’s title and the traitor on the left shuddered in response.

The other traitor’s lips curled in disgust before he spat on Archer’s boots. “Fuck you, tyrant.”

Archer watched him impassively for a moment, then nodded to Norwin.

Norwin grabbed the man’s bound arms and lifted him to his feet, dragging him back into the stables. The traitor struggled and writhed but couldn’t break his grasp.

Archer turned his attention back to the remaining traitor. “Will you speak willingly?”

The traitor glanced at him, then away and shook his head no. After a long stretch of silence, he said, “You can torture me, but I still wouldn’t tell you.”

“We’re at the Witch’s cottage,” Archer replied. “I don’t need to torture you.”

Adelaide walked out of the cottage’s front door carrying a tray laden with supplies. “A little blackthorn gin to loosen the tongue,” she explained, smiling sweetly at the soldier. “And a bluebell wreath to speak only truth.”

Archer picked up one of the wreaths, handling the delicate flowers carefully, and aimed it over the traitor’s head. The traitor scrambled out of reach, but with his hands tied behind his back, he was forced to hobble around on his knees. He only made it a few feet before falling facedown into the dirt.

Archer grabbed him and hauled him upright. Several blue petals fell off, raining down on the traitor’s shoulders, as Archer forced the wreath over his head.

Behind him, Adelaide murmured her spell. With the last word, the wreath closed tight around the traitor’s neck, pressed flat like the image of the small flowers had been inked into his flesh.