“Twelve years ago.” I pocketed the crystals. “Also, you get fidgety when you’re holding something back.”
“Do not.” Both of us glanced down to his hands, which he rubbed over each other. He straightened. “I’ve been given intel.”
“By whom?”
“All you need to know is that Gawain might be at Highmark.”
My heart kicked. My blood surged. My fingers went cold. “When? Where?”
He pointed a thick finger at me. “I should’ve insisted you learn tocontrol that years ago. I can’t have an unmanned cannon firing shots in the middle of the festival.”
“I haven’t done a damned thing, Haskel.”
“It’s in your eyes. Once you’ve seen it, bloodlust is unmistakable.”
He was right, and I didn’t care. “You want me to shake his hand? Give him a hug?”
“I want you to fucking focus, Dor. You’re there to protectthe queenat all costs, not chase old vendettas.”
“Old vendettas?” How quickly bone-deep rage could shift its attention. And Haskel’s chin was looking wonderfully punchable.
“If you can’t control yourself?—”
I squared my body to his. “What, you’ll make me stay home? I’m herveyre.”
His gaze flicked down my body, back up. “You’ll lose sight of what matters. And you’ll regret it.”
“She’s my first priority.” But the words had an edge of uncertainty. “But you can’t expect me to see him and do nothing.”
“That’s exactly what I expect.” He leaned over the desk, fists once again touching its surface. “Hunt him down on your own time. Nurse your anger in the privacy of your chambers.But don’t compromise your queen over your grief.”
My breathing came fast, hard. He was right, and nothing I longed to say would change that. That was the thing about grief, though: it didn’t obey rightness, didn’t bend into sense.
So I nodded. You didn’t deny Haskel, even if your heart was compromised and tangled.
Five days before Highmark. I came into the stables for my morning ride and found Finch struggling to saddle the prized Andalusian in the aisle. The saddle and girth were too heavy, and he couldn’t lift it onto the horse’s high back.
He glanced my way and worked harder at it. “Almost done, ser.”
A desperate, gangly boy. The worst squire, but perhaps the one I would have been had I lived a different life.
I helped with the saddle. Together, we buckled the girth. I came around the horse’s head and took hold of the bridle strap. He’d stepped back, sweating through his leathers and across his forehead.
“You want to ride?” I asked.
His eyes went round. “This horse?”
“This horse.”
“Oh, well, I?—”
“If you want to come to Highmark”—I patted the horse’s shoulder—“you’ll need to be able to ride without complaint.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. I recognized the adolescent jolt of excitement and fear as it straightened his spine. “Me, to Highmark?”
“It’s a long ride on the Queen’s Road, and we won’t have the luxury of the carriage.”
He nodded fast. His brow lowered with something like determination—or maybe confusion. “What should I bring?”