Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(67)

“Don’t talk to me about him,” I growl.

“Is everything all right back there?” Master Cymbre shouts.

“Fine!” Meredy and I answer at the same time, gazing steadily at one another. Our breathing is hot and rapid and almost stifling in the confines of the wagon’s hold. The dampness of her breath collects on my lips, and I impatiently lick it away.

Glaring at her, I wish she’d take a swing back at me. “Look, we might as well be honest. For some strange, twisted reason, you don’t like me because I loved your brother.”

“That’s not it.” Meredy scowls back, but her hands remain folded in her lap. “What I don’t like is that you’re so selfish you don’t notice anyone’s pain but your own.” When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more controlled. “But because it’s what my brother would’ve wanted, I’m going to stay with you and guard you until the danger has passed. Then we can go our separate ways.”

“What are you talking about, anyone’s pain but mine?”

“Valoria really likes your necromancer friend Jax, but she’s afraid you do, too. So she doesn’t say anything to him, because she’s more afraid of making you unhappy than she is of forever being unhappy herself.” Meredy shakes her head, and a sudden wave of shame pummels me. “Or Master Cymbre. I bet you have no idea she’s been drinking from a flask whenever she thinks no one’s looking. You two aren’t that different. And you certainly haven’t bothered to notice—” She pauses, biting her lip. “Forget it. Really. I’m raving.”

I take a long look at her. Unshed tears cling to the corners of her eyes like dewdrops. If I’m barely keeping a grip on my sanity, it’s a wonder she has any wits left about her after losing both Evander and Firiel. I should probably ask how she’s holding up.

Before I can get the words out, her long, cold fingers touch my shoulder. “There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Prince Hadrien. Something he said in the throne room has been bothering me.” I still don’t say anything, but she’s got my attention. “He said King Wylding went to the kitchen for a honey cake just after we passed each other. But I was in the kitchen for well over an hour, eating and making breakfast for Lysander, and the king never arrived. There was some sort of commotion in the hall, though.”

“You didn’t go see what it was?”

Meredy frowns. “I had my hands in a bowl of fish guts, and the cooks were busy preparing breakfast for the rest of the palace, but I definitely heard shouting.”

“Maybe a server burned themselves while carrying a hot dish.” I shrug.

“Or the prince was lying for some reason.” Meredy’s eyes search my face, so I drop my gaze. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what to think anymore.” I rub my temples.

I only knew Meredy for one brief year before she disappeared to Lorness and came back as someone else entirely. But I’ve known Hadrien since I started my necromancer training seven years ago. Seven years of attending parties together and raising his relatives. In all that time, he’s never given me a reason to doubt him.

“Even if you’re right,” I say slowly, “and Hadrien was lying, that doesn’t mean he would ever hurt King Wylding any more than he’d hurt me.” Remembering how close those two have always been, I add, “Maybe Hadrien was covering something up for the king. Maybe His Majesty was on some secret errand, and he was attacked on his way to . . . wherever.”

Meredy arches her brows. They’re dark brown, not red like her long hair. I wonder why I hadn’t noticed before, and why in Vaia’s name I’m noticing now.

“Seeing as you know more about the Wyldings than I do,” she murmurs, “I’ll leave the worrying to you.”

Taking a deep breath, I try to silence the new, nagging unease in the pit of my stomach. Whether or not Meredy’s right about Hadrien, she’s raised a frightening point: Given the events of the last few weeks, I can’t trust anyone anymore. I lean back against the wagon, the night falling softly around me, complete with chirping crickets and a steady autumn breeze.

Meredy sighs. “I bet we couldn’t go a full day without arguing.”

After the coffee bean trick, the idea of beating her at something sounds rather appealing. “I’ll take that bet. If we argue, you win. And if we don’t, I win. But what should we declare as the prize?”

She taps the scar on her cheek as she thinks. “If I win, you have to promise never to insult me again. And if you win . . .”

“I get enough coffee to last a lifetime. Paid for by you.”

Meredy’s eyes flash with excitement. “Deal.”

We shake on it. Her hesitant smile reminds me of Evander, but for the first time in a long while, remembering him doesn’t make me feel like crumbling.

“Evander didn’t like coffee. He said it tasted like burnt pan scrapings.”

Meredy arches her brows. Slowly, a grin appears. “He didn’t like hills either, after the time he ran down that big one at Grenwyr Pond—”

“The one with the sign at the top that said ‘Danger. Don’t run’?” I grin back.

“The very same!” Her laugh is like the rustle of bird’s wings, soft and sweet, and I realize this is the first time I’ve heard it. “He broke his arm, and Mother told him it was a good lesson in reading before running.”