Page 62 of The Half King
“In my defense,” Kian called over his shoulder, “I thought I would die soon. I didn’t want to spend the time I had left in the company of depraved bastards.”
Daerick snickered as he loosened the reins. “To give proper credit, depraved bastards make the best entertainment.”
He launched into another story, this time about a lord and his three adult sons, all of whom were unknowingly trying to bed the same woman—a redhead who was secretly having an affair with the lord’s wife. In an added twist, both women were conspiring to kill the lord for control of his fortune.
“The family that betrays together stays together,” Daerick added with a snort.
Next came a tale about a common girl who passed herself off as a lady at court for half a year and during that time received eleven proposals of marriage before she disappeared into the night with a wealth of engagement jewels. Then there was the viscount who’d had an unnatural affection for goats; the royal tailor with a fetish for dirty socks; a colonel running a brothel out of the military stockade; and a young stable boy, no older than thirteen, who had made a sizeable income from keeping all of their secrets.
“No wonder you sent them home,” Cerise called ahead to Kian. “I would take a thousand lifetimes in the temple over one year at court.”
Daerick leaned aside in his wooden seat. “It wasn’t that bad,” he admitted. “I might have embellished the story about the goats.”
As Cerise rode on, she thought about what her father had said: court politics were dangerous, and she should remain silent. But she couldn’t resist the chance to find out what her parents were hiding. “What about Cole Solon?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Kian told her. “We could spend a fortnight telling you stories about him.”
“He thought I looked familiar when we met in the kennels,” Cerise said. “He kept asking about my family. I told him I resemble my mother, but he claimed he didn’t know her. When I talked to my parents about it, they reacted…very strongly.”
Daerick arched a brow. “Interesting.”
“Were there any rumors about Cole and a common girl named Elaina Igalsi?” she asked.
“Not that I can recall,” Daerick said. “But Delora is the real keeper of scandals at the palace. She would know better than any of us if Cole bedded your mother.”
“I doubt that he did,” Kian said. “Cole isn’t one for commoners. He tends to invest his affection where it will reap the most rewards.”
Right then, the trail narrowed again and required them to ride single file, so Cerise turned her attention to Blue, whose growth spurt had strained the limits of his sling. She had just shared the last sip from her flagon with him when Nero and General Petros appeared ahead of them on the trail. She suspected from their relaxed body language that they had bonded over their mutual loathing of Father Padron.
“There’s a spring just ahead,” Nero said, pointing. “We’ll stop long enough to water the animals and refill our skins, then move on.” He squinted at the wagon. “Without the protection of your priest, it’s more important than ever that we reach the next camp before nightfall.”
The king nodded his consent, and the caravan continued to a wide section of the trail that had probably once been a watering hole. Though a spring bubbled freely from the ground, it was obvious from the lack of mud and animal tracks that the hole had only recently been filled.
Cerise set Blue down and led her horse to drink, and then she dipped her flagon until it was full. After quenching her thirst, she filled a bucket with water and added some healing herbs to make a poultice for Father Padron’s back.
To her surprise, she found Father Padron awake in the wagon, lying with one arm curled beneath his head and blinking sleepily at the canopy.
“You look better,” she told him.
He gave her a tired smile. “Then I can only imagine how ghastly I looked before.”
She lifted the bucket for show and set it on the wagon’s edge. “If you’ll give me your shirt, I’ll soak it in this. It will help you heal faster.”
Father Padron’s smile died. He probed the fabric at his chest, seeming to realize for the first time that she had removed his robe and exposed the mutilation on his back.
“It’s all right,” she told him. “No one else knows.”
He avoided her eyes. “Thank you, Cerise, but all I need is a drink.”
She climbed into the wagon and helped him into a sitting position before offering her flagon. “I understand why you don’t want to heal,” she whispered as he drank. “You mean to suffer, and it’s not my place to question you. But this is cursed land, and you’re our only defense. We need you strong and whole.” She gently blotted the water droplets from his beard and implored, “Please let me help you.”
He rewarded her with one of his rare soft gazes—the kind that made her want to forget everything she had learned about him: his lies about the hidden antechamber, his possible ambition for the throne, his willingness to let other priests facilitate murder on his behalf. She hated to believe that any of it was true, but she refused to live in denial. She would respect his power and station while keeping her head clear and her heart guarded.
“When you put it that way, how can I refuse?” he asked.
After peeling off his shirt, she let it soak while she tended to his wounds. When she wrung out the garment and helped him put it back on, his resounding sigh told her the medicinal water brought relief. Once he was settled comfortably, she crawled out of the wagon.
Father Padron caught her by the wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. “One thing before you go.” He peered around the wagon. “I sense magic here, and it’s not mine.”
