Page 9 of Spar of Hearts

Purpose pumped through his veins as he jogged back to the stables and rode over to the Duke’s estate on his starlight steed, Cyan. The cobblestone road was lined with a perfect portrait of spring. Flowering dogwoods canopied the way, casting dancing shadows of petals onto the stone that passed beneath his horse’s galloping hooves. The stones were spaciously placed to allow purple clover to race between the curvatures. Wood violets were meticulously planted between the dogwoods. A flower petal fluttered into his face, and he palmed it to feed to Cyan when they arrived.

His mind rushed with currents of concern as the manor drew close. The Duke was already on edge from all the time Roderick had spent away from Petorus between the evacuation and traveling to garner support for the orphanage. But if he stayed in Petorus too long and sunk into his repetitive routine, the voices in his head got much, much worse.

He slowed Cyan to a trot in front of the manor and dismounted, letting the horse tickle his palm to find the petal. A pair of swallows chirped back and forth, weaving between the trees as he tied the horse to a pristine wooden fence post and walked to the door. The manor was of the finest construction, funded by the ogre bounties Eldenkeep was awarded during the last monster campaign. Not that the Duke issued any killing blows. The Duke had sent him in his place. And why wouldn’t he? The Duke had a family to think of. Roderick had his parents, yes, but they’d be more than set without him if he died in the line of duty.

The door knocker was the visage of a hawk, part of the Duke’s official emblem. A hollow thud echoed through the door. A moment passed with only bird calls and Cyan’s gentle grazing filling the silence.

Duke Ferrington creaked the door open and stepped outside. He was a solid-built human with short black hair, lightly colored with patches of salty gray and a beard to match. The Duke’s height rivaled his own. “Roderick? To what do I owe the pleasure? Is my son’s horse ready?”

The Duke always preferred to greet guests himself. It was a classy endeavor, but given the past assassination attempt against the Duke that Roderick foiled, the habit only added to his long list of anxieties.

“Not yet, Your Grace. And I am afraid there may be more delay.”

The Duke sighed. “What is it this time?”

It was a double-edged question, conveying the Duke’s frustration and a warning at the same time. Roderick needed to choose his words carefully. Mention the sick children right off the bat and the Duke would think him a guilt-tripper. Avoid that part altogether and risk not stoking enough emotion for the permission he needed.

“There is an illness plaguing Balcott. Their healers cannot keep up, and they are down to the last of their mana stones. They wish for me to appeal to the Crown Council for aid.”

“And why you? Their Baroness is more than capable. And last I checked, Daric has its own Duke for such matters.” The Duke lowered his eyes to a glower.

“My work on the evacuation impressed many on the Council. My position, species and reputation should sway the request to be granted. I would like to take Sir Oshfeldt with me. We will fly on the wyvern that lives in Balcott. It will be a quick journey, I swear it.”

“You test my patience, Roderick.” The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered.

“I implore you, Your Grace. The illness is affecting many of my people.” He deliberately chose to say my people instead of children. Inflaming the Duke’s emotions at this moment would surely turn him on the defensive. It seemed like every conversation with his liege was a battle of its own as of late. It was exhausting.

“Fine. I had been excused from this session since my wife is due any day now. You can be useful and act as my proxy. I will have a servant bring you the regional reports. But I want you back here immediately after the Council’s final recess. I hate to do this, but I have had you on far too long a leash this year. You are my subject, and these people need you. What if the warm weather stirs up the goblins? Or Divine forbid, another drought? I owe it to this region to utilize the forces they pay taxes for.”

“I understand, Your Grace. Thank you.” He bowed, then straightened and stepped toward Cyan.

“Roderick.”

“Yes?”

“Any delays aside from stormy skies, and I will be forced to re-evaluate your position.”

Roderick swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Chapter 5

Anya Delemond

It had been two months since they made port back in Eteross, and it went exactly as expected. Lord Bryson might as well have used her for a gang plank. He did all the port paperwork and even paid the docking fee. Her only contribution that morning had been distributing rations and funds to the Centarians to aid them in their new life. To her consolation, they were admittedly much warmer to her. The duel and archery contest accomplished her aims.

Now, the Centarians were settled into their temporary housing. Plots of land were in the process of being surveyed and purchased across Valeria to distribute to the Centarians. It was a logistical nightmare, but an endeavor she was happy to undertake.

But tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was for her to be a woman. Not a princess. Not a diplomat. Just a woman. The masquerade at Melusine Manor was going to be a much-needed escape. It was normally a highly exclusive venue for the finest banquets and balls outside of the palace. It was also known for sheer, uncontrolled revelry—which made it the one place her parents would never, ever be. As a gesture of goodwill and welcome to the Centarians, the proprietor was hosting a masquerade. There was only one requirement to enter: wear a mask, and never, ever, take it off. It was to be a night without classes, titles, or even species.

Anya and Blackbird entered her room to prepare for the evening. Anya’s bedroom was her celestial escape. Everything in the room was meant to bring her the comfort of the night sky. Their footsteps were silent across the navy rug embroidered with a silver moon and golden stars. A starlight settee was centered atop it, facing the rolling hearth. Constellations were stitched onto the canopy over her bed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Anya asked, taking a seat on the plush, navy chair in front of the vanity. Blackbird pulled a cherry wood brush out of the drawer.

“I’m sure,” she answered. “I heard Sir Oshfeldt accompanied Lord Bryson here for the spring Council meeting. They’re staying at The Three Hares. I would like to see them again.” She softly brushed Anya’s blonde hair, giving her waves a silky sheen.

Anya exhaled, relaxing her shoulders. Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about running into him tonight. Too bad she couldn’t avoid him at the Council meeting tomorrow.

The fire crackled behind them, a calming chorus in tune with the swish of the brush.