Songbird's Cage

Chapter 16

Rory got two cups from a cupboard beside the fireplace, and took a bottle down from the mantle.

"After I crossed the border, it took me two days to find the first settlement," he said. "The roads out here aren't made to be easy to follow. I wasn't exactly welcomed when I got to Saelin – they don't take kindly to strangers, especially Esarian exiles, looking for work. That was where I first met one of the Weald."

He set the cups down on the table, pulling the cork from the bottle. The liquid he poured out was dark, with a reddish tint, but didn't look like wine.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Elderberry mead."

She raised it to her lips. It wasn't as sweet as she'd remembered mead being the few times she'd had it, and possessed a biting, almost sour taste of the fruit it was flavored with.

"Who are the Weald?" she asked. "And why were they trying to assassinate me? How did they get across the border?"

Rory sat back down. "I don't think that the Weald acted alone in their attempts on your life."

"I don't understand."

"The Weald align themselves with the Ancients, who inhabited the land when the first King of Esaria invaded. The Weald believe that they have an absolute right to the land that was theirs before King Robard took it. They want to take back what's they once owned. But the mark is a claim to the Ancients, not a sign of allegiance to the Weald. Some who are not with the Weald have the tattoo. The Weald are simply a group who takes action against Esaria, and against those who support the kingdom."

"But you don't think that the Weald are who tried to kill me at the castle?"

"I don't think it was only the Weald. They're not organized, don't plan attacks as complex as those on your life would have needed to be. They're rabble, really, mostly youths who want a cause. Someone else is behind them, they have to be."

Lark watched his fingers drum against his glass, his gaze following people on the road outside the window.

"How did you learn that you could use your mark with the Weald?" she asked. He looked embarrassed, sheepishly glancing at his mead.

"I got drunk two weeks after I made it here, to Ruid. I was in the tavern, and got into a fight. Outnumbered, intoxicated beyond my senses, I was very close to being lashed. But after they saw the mark, they were kind enough to leave me shirtless and bound to the whipping post for the local children to find me in the morning. I don't go there often anymore. Today was an exception, and I'm glad it was."

Rory tipped back his head, draining the last of his mead. She studied his hands as he poured himself another drink. His knuckles were bruising from beating the man who'd attacked her, his fingers scarred from a lifetime of sparring and ring fights. She couldn't imagine the man before her growing up with Aspen, learning to handle a sword with the Crown Prince.

"How did you get the smithy?" she asked. "It must have been hard to find living quarters as an exile."

He shrugged. "I came to Ruid because I heard that the man who was the blacksmith left, went north for something. I struck a deal with the man's brother, traded a week of labor for the house and the forge. He was more than generous, but I know that my Weald tattoo made him nervous, so he was kinder to me than he might have been to an exile."

She meant to ask him more questions, but a jaw-splitting yawn caught her up, stealing her words. Rory smiled and stood.

"Forgive me," he said. "You must be exhausted after riding for so long. Take the bed, get some rest."

She shook her head. "I won't deprive you of your bed."

"Lark, please," he sighed. "Don't argue with me. I'll sleep in the workshop."

She wanted to protest, but the warmth of the room and the potent mead were making her sleepy. Nodding, she rose from her chair and walked to the bed, curling onto the mattress. The blankets smelled of Rory, and she buried her face in them, blocking out what light was left of the early evening, happy to finally be with him again.

***

Rory stared up at the rafters, adjusting himself so he sank deeper into the pile of straw. The tiny loft of the workshop his forge was in was always full of it, as he kept Lonestride in the thick-walled structure on cold or stormy nights.

He turned onto his side. It was insane to think that Princess Lark was in his home, in his bed.

It was insane to realize that he was still in love with her.

He'd thought that the feelings would fade after a month of exile, after being betrayed by the royal family, but when he had seen her again in the inn, seen her life in danger, he would have killed every man in the room to protect her. And her face – every line more beautiful than he'd remembered.

He bit his knuckle. She couldn't be here, not in the Wilds, not with him. It felt like a knife in his chest, but he knew what he had to do.

Rory didn't sleep well that night.

***

Lark woke late in the morning. For a few rapid heartbeats, she couldn't remember where she was. Then she saw the elderberry mead still on the table, and she remembered. The house was empty. Throwing back the blankets, she pulled her boots on and walked out the door. A light breeze shook the tops of the trees, the sound of horses on the road through the town ringing out.

She took the path to Rory's workshop, opening the door to the stone building tentatively. The room inside was hot, the floor covered in straw and ash. Rory sat on a bench beside the forge, a sword across his knees, a whetstone in his hand. He looked up when she walked in, his hazel eyes deep brown in the dim light.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, a smile touching his lips.

"Better than I have in a week."

He stood, setting the blade down. Sweat shone on his brow, grime streaked on his face from where he'd wiped it away. His hands were dirty from working, and he cleaned them on the leather apron he wore.

"Are you hungry?" he said. She nodded. He rubbed his forehead, only smearing the remnants of his work across his skin. A stray piece of straw was caught in his light hair.

"The market is just down the street," he said. "It's usually busy this time of morning."

Lark stepped forward, pulling the straw from his hair. He blushed slightly.

"You look different with a beard," she told him. He shrugged, going to a water barrel in the corner.

"It wasn't intentional," he offered, wetting a rag and washing his face and hands. "I got caught up in other things. Sharpening a blade to shave with hasn't been forefront in my mind."

He untied his apron, tossing it onto the bench he'd been on. Going to where the forge abutted the wall, he crouched, working a loose stone from the far corner. A leather pouch was inside, and he drew it out, replacing the stone.

"Come on," he said, heading towards the door. "You'll like Ruid. It's everything that the castle is not."

Lark followed him out into the sun, into the bustle of the town.