A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(69)

He salutes, then sprints across the muddy grounds until he disappears between barracks.

I glance back up at the palace. Lia Mara has disappeared from her window. I know Jake or Nolla Verin will be stationed outside her room along with her guards, so I’m not worried, simply longing for her presence. That, and dinner and a warm fire. A chance to lose this sodden armor.

Those will have to wait.

I turn away from the palace and head back along the path through the barracks.

Instead of heading toward Lia Mara, I change course to go find Captain Solt.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

GREY

The sleet has changed over to snow, collecting quickly in the grass and on the buildings, silencing the rattle on the tin roofs. In Emberfall, on the other side of the mountains, I doubt that snow has found Ironrose Castle yet. We only have a matter of days until we’re due to advance across the border, to make good on my vow to Rhen, and I hope the weather doesn’t get ahead of us.

My boots crunch through the frozen grass, and I draw to a stop in front of Solt’s door. His curtains are drawn against the night, but smoke curls from his chimney and there’s a glow at the edge of his window.

Ah, Tycho. I sigh and lift a hand to knock.

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does, he looks surprised to see me. He’s already removed his armor, and now he’s in a simple linen shirt and calfskin trousers. His dark hair is damp and mussed up, his skin still ruddy from the cold.

His eyes turn immediately wary. Considering Karis Luran’s punishments or our last interaction on the training fields, he’s probably ready for me to light him on fire.

“Tycho told me why you stopped him,” I say.

“The other recruits have noticed his absence,” Solt says. His accent is thick, thicker than many of the others’, and I wonder if my language is as much of an effort for him as his is for me. “They need to be able to trust him to be ready.”

“I agree.” I hesitate. “I’m glad you had words. I shouldn’t have stopped you.”

Now it’s his turn to hesitate. That wariness hasn’t left his eyes. “His unit leader should have handled it.”

“Yes.” I pause. “And I should have handled it.”

He studies me. Wind sweeps across the path, sending snow swirling.

“You have soldiers stationed by the woods,” I add. “They should change shift every four hours in this weather.”

His eyes turn flinty. “I have ordered them to change every two, but if you insist on four—”

“No.” I feel as though my evening has been full of missteps on my side. “Two is fine.” I take a step back and give him a nod. “Forgive me for the interruption.” I pause. “Then … and now.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” This is said with a bit of bitterness, but a bit of genuine surprise, too. He steps back to hold the door open. “Would you like to come in?” he says. “I have meleata on the fire.”

Meleata is seasoned rice that’s been boiled with milk and dried beef, and it’s a common dish among the soldiers here because it’s easy to make and store. At first I thought it was awful, but I’ve learned that everyone makes it differently, affecting the taste with their own favored seasonings. Solt’s quarters are filled with the aromas of oranges and cinnamon, which is inviting, especially considering my empty stomach.

But … it’s Solt.

His gaze turns challenging, and I realize he expects me to refuse. That might be the only reason he offered at all.

I step forward through the snow. “I will. Thank you.”

The door closes behind me, and despite the company, I’m grateful for the warmth. Solt keeps his quarters orderly, which is somewhat unexpected. He’s always struck me as someone who skirts the line of what’s acceptable in a soldier—but his talk with Tycho and now the state of his quarters make me wonder if I judged too quickly. His bedding is tucked in neatly, his armor hung near the fire. “You are welcome to disarm,” he says.

“Am I?” I say darkly.

He startles, then laughs. “Or not, Your Highness.”

He’s not armed, and I’m not afraid of him, so I slip the sword belt free and lose my bracers and the breastplate. My shirt is soaked from the sleet and snow, and he tosses me a dry one. I’m surprised at the hospitality, but maybe he’s surprised I didn’t throw him out of the army. I peel my icy shirt free and don his.

He watches me change as he stirs the meleata, then frowns and flexes his hand. I wonder if he hurt it when he hit me. Any dark humor has left his expression. “I heard that you were …” His voice trails off. “Rahstan.” He gestures to his back. “Whipped?”

His voice is matter-of-fact, so I make mine match. “I was.”

“Some thought it was a story,” he says. “A … a myth? To lure the queen’s trust.”

“She saw it happen.”

“Some thought that was a story, too.”

“Hmm.” I’m not sure what else to say to that. This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Solt, and I’m a bit thrown. He’s a seasoned soldier, well into his thirties, with the first hints of gray threading the hair at his temples. For months now, I’ve assumed he was speaking Syssalah in my presence as a way of mocking me, and maybe a bit of it was, but listening to him stumble over his words now makes me wonder if he was ashamed at his lack of fluency.