The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(45)

I moved like I was ninety years old, sore and feeble. But every time I recovered another book, my shock gave way to anger. A simmering, dangerous anger that made it feel like ash was coating my tongue. I wiped the mud from the pages and set them back inside my chest as Jourdain and Jean David tossed the bodies over the ridge, out of sight from the road.

By the time I had finished, the men had changed their doublets and shirts, and had washed the blood from their faces and hands. I latched my cedar chest and met Jourdain’s gaze. He was waiting for me, the door of the coach open.

I walked to him, scrutinized his clean-shaven face, his perfectly groomed hair that he had plaited back in a noble queue. He looked so refined, so trustworthy. And yet he had not hesitated to kill the thieves; he had moved as if he had done it before, a dagger sprouting from his fingers as if it were part of him.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“Aldéric Jourdain,” he replied, handing me his handkerchief so I could wipe the blood from my neck.

Of course. Irritated, I took the square of linen and settled back into the coach, my thumb rushing over my pendant. As Jourdain climbed in behind me, shutting the door, I thought of only one thing.

Who, indeed, had I just become the daughter to?

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. We made good time, arriving to a small town just over the Christelle River as the sun sank behind the treetops. While Jean David delivered the horses and coach to the communal stables, I followed Jourdain to his carefully selected inn. The scent of roasting fowl and watery wine met us, permeating my hair and dress as we found a table in the corner of the tavern hall. There were a few clusters of other travelers, most of whom looked windblown and sunburned, most of whom hardly spared us a second glance.

“We shall have to get you some new clothes when we reach home,” Jourdain said after the servant girl had delivered a bottle of wine and two wooden cups.

I watched him pour it, a trickle of red that made me think of blood. “You’ve killed before.”

My statement made him stiffen, like I had tossed a net over him. He purposefully plopped down the bottle of wine, then set down my cup before me and chose not to answer. I watched him drink, the light of the fire casting long shadows over his face.

“Those thieves were vile, yes, but there is a code of justice here in Valenia,” I whispered. “That crimes are to be brought before a magistrate and a court. I should think you would know such, being a lawyer.”

He gave me a warning glance. I knitted my lips together as the servant girl delivered seedy bread, a wheel of cheese, and two bowls of stew to our table.

Only when the girl had returned to the kitchens did Jourdain square up to me, set down his cup with frightening gentleness, and say, “Those men were going to kill us. They would have slain Jean David, then me, and saved you for their pleasure before giving you the blade. If I had merely injured them, they would have pursued us. So tell me again why you are upset that we lived?”

“All I am saying is you dealt a Maevan justice,” I responded. “An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Death before trial.” Only then did I lift my cup to him and drink.

“Are you likening me to him?” “Him” obviously being King Lannon. And I heard the hatred in Jourdain’s voice, the indignation that I would even string him and Lannon on the same thought.

“No,” I said. “But it makes me wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?”

I tapped my fingers on the tabletop, drawing the moment out. “Perhaps you are not as Valenian as you seem.”

He leaned forward, his tone sharp as he stated, “There is a time and place for such a conversation. This tavern is not it.”

I bristled under his reprimand—I was unaccustomed to it, this fatherly chiding. And I would have rebelliously kept talking had Jean David not entered and joined our table.

I don’t think I had heard the coachman speak one word since I had met him that morning. But he and Jourdain seemed able to communicate with mere glances, gestures. And they did such as they began to eat, holding wordless conversations since I was in their presence.

It bothered me at first, until I realized I could sit and focus on my own mulling without interruption.

Jourdain looked and sounded Valenian.

But then again, so did I.

Was he a dual citizen as well? Or perhaps he was a full-blooded Maevan who had once served beneath Lannon and fled in defiance, weary of serving a cruel, unrighteous monarch? It was only a matter of time before I found him out, I thought as I salvaged the last of my stew.

Jean David unexpectedly rose with a bump to the table, finished with dinner. I watched him leave the hall with his gentle gait, his black hair so oily it looked wet in the rosy light, and realized Jourdain must have silently dismissed him.

“Amadine.”

I turned back around to meet Jourdain’s calm stare. “Yes?”

“I am sorry you had to witness that today. I . . . I realize you have led a very sheltered life.”

Part of this was true; I had never seen a man die. I had never seen that much blood spilled. But in other ways . . . books had prepared me more than he realized. “It’s all right. Thank you for your protection.”

“One thing you should know about me,” he murmured, nudging his empty bowl aside. “If anyone so much as threatens my family, I won’t hesitate to kill them.”