16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Though he'd hoped to feel differently, Gray wasn't any less furious at Rory the next day. His anger had been building from the moment on the platform when Rory had glanced back at him, shot him an apologetic look, and had proceeded to blow his life apart.

He'd hoped after a few pints of ale with the clansmen and a dreamless night of sleep, he might feel differently about Rory's betrayal, but the self-recriminating look on his face had haunted Gray and he'd not slept a single wink. Rory had known how much revealing Gray's parentage, as publicly as possible, in order to convince the clansmen, would hurt him. And yet, he'd done it anyway.

Gray wasn't stupid; he'd known that enough of Tullamore knew the truth, including the stewards—the biggest gossips in the whole keep—so it would be impossible to hide it forever. But Gray had been counting on being able to slowly reveal who he was. Certainly not blurt it out without any finesse and without any preparation, and all because Rory wanted men to march with them to Beaulieu?

He knew just how much Rory wanted his throne back, because at one point, he'd felt the exact same way. There hadn't only been seeds of uncertainty and doubt that anyone else could do as credible a job as himself but going from prince to farmhand had been a blow to his pride. For the first eleven years of his life, he'd been raised to be one thing. Being the Crown Prince had defined who Gray was. That was no longer true, but he still felt the painful echo of loss. Strangely, he'd felt it less since returning to Tullamore. Seeing his father, incalculably diminished, and the clans hampered rather than helped by his rule over them, had sweetened much of his bitterness. He'd listened to Evrard's suggestion, and then spent the last few days considering the possibilities. If they survived—a very big if—then Gray knew he would do his part to help untangle the monarchy of Ardglass, suggesting to the thirteen clans that they might rule themselves.

Gray also wanted Sabrina dead just as much as Rory. Perhaps more, if he was willing to sacrifice his already-failing father over it, but the point remained. Rory had taken precipitous action yesterday, and he hadn't apologized for it, which Gray could only assume meant he wasn't actually sorry.

Considering how many men were saddling in the courtyard, fires extinguished in the early morning dew, smoke rising from their ashes, Gray thought maybe it might have been worth it. But surely, surely there had been another way.

Evrard trotted over to him, ignoring all the awed expressions in his wake. Gray knew a little how he felt now. Everywhere he went, Gray was treated like a savior, the man who could rescue all of them from ruin.

I rescued myself, Gray thought as Evrard stopped in front of him. You should do the same.

"You aren't riding with Prince Emory," Evrard said, his tone chastising. "You cannot be angry with him for doing what needed to be done."

Evrard had yet to discover that telling Gray he could not do something ever actually prevented him from doing it.

"I can and I am," Gray retorted, swinging his leg over his saddle and placing a calming hand on the twitchy neck of his horse. Like Gray, he was used to solitude, and there were so many people in this courtyard. All willing, Gray thought, to help them kill Sabrina. It was a heady thought, and for a second, he hesitated. Rory's words had given them this chance.

Gray's eyes snapped to Evrard. "Get out of my head," he insisted coldly. "You are not welcome there, and certainly not to change my mind about Rory."

Evrard did not look the slightest bit apologetic. "I hardly had to insert any thoughts at all. There's a part of you that doesn't just want to forgive him, it needs to forgive him." He shook his mane out, his voice growing just as strident at Gray's. "You should think on that during the journey to Beaulieu."

Gray did not think Evrard had much power over his mind. Not enough power anyway to force him to do anything he did not want to do, and certainly not enough power to force him to think on something he did not wish to think on. Yet, for the whole morning of the first day of their journey, it was difficult to think of anything else. It was true, he wanted to forgive Rory, but as Evrard had said it was definitely more than that.

Was this the power of fate driving him towards Rory? Or was it his own feelings? It was so difficult to separate one from the other anymore, and though Gray believed his feelings were true, he couldn't help but wonder if they'd been impacted by his and Rory's intertwined destiny.

Ten of the clans had sent troops, and Gray thought their number was at least five hundred. Easily enough to march upon Beaulieu, especially if they were not expecting an invading force. Beaulieu did not hold a particularly large garrison, Marthe had explained, there were only a few dozen guards stationed there at any given time.

This would hopefully be an easy march, followed by a quick defeat.

Gray tightened his fingers on the reins and refused to let himself contemplate the terrible possibility that he would not be staying on at Beaulieu at all, but that he would end up returning, alone, to the valley.

Only a month ago that was all he'd wanted out of this quest, but now, coming to the end of it, it was impossible to deny how much more he wanted.

A life. A future. Companionship. Love.

Gray shook his head, wishing the physical motion could dislodge the frustrating thoughts from his uncooperative mind, but as they continued to ride down the road, they stuck persistently. And this time, he couldn't even blame Evrard.

When the sun was high in the sky, Marthe, whom he had elected to lead this combined company because of her experience and her knowledge of the Fontaine fortifications and armies, held up a hand to signal they were to stop in this clearing for a midday break.

Supplies of dried meat and bread and cheese were distributed, along with flasks of cooled, refreshing water fetched from a nearby stream.

Gray must have had a thundercloud on his face, because to his surprise, he was left alone, an empty circle around where he sat under a shady evergreen tree.

The abrupt delineation between him and the rest of the soldiers made it very obvious when Rory finally approached him.

Who are you kidding? Gray sneered at himself. You would have spotted him in a crowd of a thousand men. And not just because of that ridiculously bright blue cloak.

He refused to let himself touch the pommel of Lion's Breath as Rory approached, contrite expression on his face. His fingers had wanted to stray to it so many times during the morning, and he'd forced them to remain at his side. He did not need to touch a sword to remind himself of his obligations or his feelings.

"Gray," Rory said, the single word punctuated with a heavy sigh.

It was difficult, but Gray did not look up. Instead, he fixed his eyes on a small pile of evergreen needles to the right of Rory's boot.

"Gray," he sighed again. "At least look at me."

Rory clearly did not understand that avoiding his gaze was the only thing keeping Gray from immediately getting to his feet and wrapping his arms around him. It was self-preservation, only.

"I understand how upset you are with me," Rory continued, as Gray's fingers dug into his thigh. "I really am very sorry that I said what I did, but you have to understand how little choice I felt like I had in the matter. Something needed to be done. Evrard made it very clear that it was my responsibility to convince the clans, but truthfully, they didn't care about me. What they care about is you."

Worst of all, Rory's apology made plain and indisputable sense. Of course the clans of Ardglass wouldn't care about Rory's plight. They were struggling, after the departure of Sabrina had made Gideon so weak, and it was all they could do to keep their own borders and lands intact. Marching out to defeat an enemy currently entirely occupied with another country? It didn't make sense and it provided them with no tactical advantage whatsoever.

But bringing the lost Crown Prince of Ardglass into the situation? Using him to convince the clans that fighting was necessary? Logic was no longer a part of the discussion; they had volunteered based on emotion alone. He was their savior and even if he was marching them off to free another land, he would return and free their own.

In a manner of speaking, anyway.

Rory had known this, maybe not before his speech began, because he'd wanted to believe he could deliver a rousing enough argument that would convince them anyway. But Evrard? He surely had known Rory's oratorical skills wouldn't be enough.

"That meddling unicorn," Gray spat out under his breath. "Someday . . ."

Rory looked at him in confusion. "What does this have to do with Evrard?"

"Everything has to do with Evrard," Gray said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure you've realized that by now. You're a very smart man, Rory."

Slowly, Rory nodded. "I do see that . . . but . . . how does Evrard have anything to do with this?"

Gray sighed.

"He wanted to show me that we were much stronger together than we are apart. I knew it already, but . . . I let my bitterness overwhelm me. I'd believed it was fading, over time, that I didn't care anymore, but I guess I do."

Rory, encouraged by this confession, sat down next to Gray, unceremoniously plopping himself on the ground, regardless of his buff-colored breeches. He put a hand on Gray's shoulder, an earnest expression on his face. "Honestly, Gray, how can I blame you for being bitter? We are stronger together than we are apart, though I don't find I understand how Evrard telling me explicitly not to mention your lineage and then me being forced to do so is supposed to convince us of anything." Rory stopped, a suddenly blinding, lopsided smile freezing Gray's heart. He could sit here and watch Rory smile forever. "Unless he was trying to convince us he's a meddling, foolish creature. Because that I understand completely."

"It's a common military technique," Gray said slowly. "Pretend battle. A minor skirmish to prepare your troops for the larger, much more real fight. He wanted us to understand our strengths now, before we approach Beaulieu, where Sabrina will do everything she can to sow doubt between us."

Rory was quiet for a long moment. "I still should have asked you first," he said quietly.

But Gray knew he'd been wrong. Evrard hadn't come out and said it. Rory hadn't even done so, though he'd obliquely referred to it in his apology. But the truth of it was currently blinding him. He reached out and clasped Rory's hands in his own. "You see these men around us? Five hundred of the clans of Ardglass marching with us to a battle that isn't even theirs. We wouldn't have them if you hadn't announced to them who I was. This army wouldn't even exist, and without it, our future wouldn't exist."

Rory's eyes warmed, amber turning to gold. "You truly mean that," he whispered.

"After this is over, and we survive, and you have taken your proper place on the throne of Fontaine," Gray said, more certain of this than anything he'd ever been in his whole life, "I will take my place, which will always be by your side."

After lunch, Gray retook that place, by Rory's side, as they rode towards Beaulieu.

Rowen had shot him an amused glance. "I see that you have returned to us," she said.

"Like he could possibly hope to keep away," Anya said with an affectionate smile for Gray.

"If you're theorizing that I'm irresistible, I won't object," Rory had inserted, with a delighted laugh.

They rode in loose formation for the rest of the day, Gray refusing to leave Rory's side. He wore Lion's Breath proudly, never keeping his fingers from touching the hilt if they wanted to. He might have been born in Ardglass, and raised to be the Crown Prince of that country, but the years in the valley had changed him and now he no longer felt taking over the throne from his father was the right path for either him or for his country. He was meant to protect Rory, to shield him from harm, and help him become the fairest, kindest ruler that Fontaine had ever known. The sword, which wasn't supposed to be his ancestral bequest, had begun to feel like it anyway. As for Ardglass, Evrard's words kept echoing in his head: it had originally been thirteen clans.

Two days passed, much the same, and then on the last night, Marthe announced over the fires that on the morrow, they would be in Beaulieu. The reckoning had arrived.

Rory's tent was bright blue with dangling golden ribbons. Gray glanced at it, fondness in his gaze, and even though he'd set up his own, much plainer tent, he had no intention of letting Rory sleep alone tonight.

He'd kept to his own tent the previous two nights, because Marthe's pace, directed by Evrard, had been intense and exhausting. They needed to reach Beaulieu before Sabrina managed to call up any additional armies to her cause and before she spread any more poisonous lies about Rory's preparedness for the throne. They'd been worn out each night, but tonight, they'd stopped early in preparation for the battle tomorrow. Marthe, who many of the clansmen had initially muttered about following under their breath, had proven to be an adept leader of their forces and Gray felt justified in her appointment with every thoughtful, wise choice she made.

But tonight, he'd not keep to his own tent. Gray could not imagine spending possibly his last night on earth with anyone other than Rory.

Acadia had cornered him before the evening meal was served, and offered the tidbit of information, under her breath, that she had deliberately pitched the guards' tents further away tonight. "Privacy is important," she'd told him quietly. "We understand that."

Gray joined Rory's fire as he had the other nights, the rest of the guard sitting around it, except for Marthe, who was very busy with preparations for tomorrow's final march.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Diana asked Rory softly. "You may have to do things you would not normally choose to do. Battle is like that."

It was clear from the shadows in Rory's eyes that he had considered this possibility already, and had come to terms with it, even if he did not necessarily like it. Gray himself had been forced to do so, with his own father's confession. He did not know if his father would die the moment Sabrina perished, but he did not expect to ever see him again.

Their goodbye, brief but fraught, had been additionally on his mind the last few days.

"May your sword swing true," his father had said, offering him a handclasp. Gray had hesitated for a long moment but had finally taken it.

"May my shield guard you," Gray finished, the words an ancient Ardglassian adage for those headed to war.

And that was all they had said to one another. Somehow, it was going to have to be enough, Gray thought as he stared at Rory.

It would have to be, because Gray had no intention of returning to Ardglass without Sabrina's blood on his hands.

"We may all have to do things we would not normally choose," Rory said carefully, and he glanced over at Gray.

"Some things are bigger than us," Anya offered. "I would give my life to ensure the safety of both your kingdoms. And I do not offer it lightly, because in all honesty it's a good one and I wish to keep it, but this quest is more important than a single life."

Gray could not help but think of his father, sitting in Tullamore and waiting to die. Wanting to die, if it meant the woman who had destroyed him preceded him.

"Tomorrow will bring many changes," Rowen said, and her quiet, decisive words left a thoughtful silence.

She did not need to say that some of the people sitting around the fire in a loose semicircle might not be there the next evening.

"Enough," Rory said suddenly, and stood. His eyes glowed in the firelight, intent and purposeful, his gaze settling directly onto Gray. "Yes, we might all die tomorrow. Yes, we might all do terrible things so we can survive, but tonight we're alive still and I'm not going to waste this moment by worrying about what the morning might bring." He held out a hand to Gray.

Gray stared at him, surprised and more than a little aroused. If Rory wanted to spend this night—the last night they might possibly have—proving he was alive with Gray, he certainly was not going to turn him down. Reaching out, he took Rory's hand and rose to his feet.

"Goodnight," he said, and it was hard, following Rory, who was very clearly leading him to his tent, not to flush. There was something about Rory being so overt about his intentions that unmanned Gray. Rory never flaunted his affections, but there was a bluntness to his behavior tonight that Gray discovered he really enjoyed. Everyone who was watching—which was basically everyone in the whole camp, since Gray was their long-lost prince, and Rory was the famous Autumn Prince—knew exactly how it was between them.

The tent was much smaller inside than Gray had anticipated, even though his own was barely any bigger. He tried stooping, but the height of the bright blue fabric eventually defeated him and he sank to his knees, gazing over at Rory, who'd sat down at the edge of the low-slung cot.

"I see you're properly kitted out," Gray teased him. "I don't think I even got one of those."

Rory smiled. "If they'd tried to give you one, you'd have given it back."

That was definitely true, and it made Gray's hands feel warm and clammy to hear Rory knew that about him. Knew it and not only didn't mind but enjoyed it enough to bring that amused little half smile to his beautiful face.

"I won't deny," Gray said, rising up to move over to the cot where he gently sat down next to Rory, "that I'm pleased we won't have to make love on the ground tonight." He picked up one of Rory's hands. They were still smooth-ish, but Gray could feel the beginnings of callouses from the reins, from sword practice, and from the much harder living he'd been doing. He raised it to his mouth and dropped kisses on the tips of each of his fingers.

"Is that what it would be?" Rory asked quietly. "Making love?" His eyes met Gray's, questioning. Unsure, still, which was something Gray couldn't abide any longer.

"I'm ready to dedicate my life to your service. Not only as your guard or your sworn shield, but as the man who stands by your side every single day, through the good and the bad and the worst you can imagine and loves you through all of it." Gray had imagined it would be harder to say those words, since he'd always longed to say them, but had never actually imagined he would meet someone he'd feel comfortable saying them to. But to say them to Rory felt natural, like breathing. Like he was confessing something he'd known was true for a very long time, and his brain was only just now catching up to his heart and soul.

"You truly mean that," Rory exhaled slowly. "You love me."

Gray grinned, and maybe he should've been more nervous that Rory wouldn't return his feelings, but he knew Rory as well as Rory knew him, and it was indisputable, like the sun rising in the east, that Rory loved him too.

"I do. I do love you." He hesitated. "I know you want to celebrate being alive tonight, but I couldn't let you go into Beaulieu tomorrow without you knowing. It would be the biggest regret of my life."

Rory's eyes were luminous as they locked onto his. "Do you have any right now? Regrets?"

"Only that I'm not kissing you right now," Gray said, and Rory laughed.

"I do think I will like having you by my side," Rory said, laugh lines still creasing his face. "I would be honored if you would be with me."

"The honor would be all mine," Gray said, and leaning down, covered his mouth with his own. They kissed and kissed, Gray drawing the kisses out forever. Soft and slow and gentle giving rise to fast and hot and damp, his mouth slanting over Rory's as he memorized every single part of what it meant and what it felt to kiss him this deeply.

He couldn't think that this could be the last time, but the words lay between them anyway, unspoken but very much present in the air.

Gray undressed him slowly, carefully, dotting kisses over every bit of pale skin he exposed, until he finally sank down, bending over Rory's boots to unlace them.

Glowing, Rory reached for him once the rest of his clothes had been disposed of. "I do love you too," he said, the tender look in his eyes something that Gray knew he would take to the grave. Whether that was tomorrow, or in fifty years.

"Lie back, my darling," Gray murmured, and Rory, who usually tried to push or argue in bed, went quietly, like he understood how important this was for Gray to do this.

As he slicked his tongue up Rory's hard length, he remembered the first moment he'd ever seen this prince. He'd been dressed like a peacock, all shining satin and gold thread, and his very presence had been a confusing revelation to Gray—a bright intrusion of a world that he'd long since come to terms with losing. But it had hurt that day, not just because he'd been jealous of Rory's peaceful childhood or his title, but because he'd believed then that there would be no chance to get to know the beautiful boy with the auburn curls any better. They were meant for two different worlds, and Gray knew he shouldn't even bother hoping for better.

But now he had better, he had the very best, and he'd earned it, not because he was Prince Graham, but because he was Gray. He knew it wouldn't have mattered to Rory if he'd claimed his lineage or not. Or if he'd never had any lineage to begin with. Rory bucked and groaned, Gray's tongue wrapping around the head of his cock. It was easy because what lay between transcended the right and wrong of the world.

Fated, Evrard liked to say, and Gray, who'd never particularly believed in fate one way or another, believed in it now.

"Gray," Rory gasped, reaching down to tangle his fingers into Gray's hair as he rolled his hips, searching for the bright hot heat of Gray's mouth. He knew Rory was growing closer, the tension tightening between them, and he slipped a spit-slick finger down between Rory's thighs, teasing his entrance, circling it. That, and a single fierce suck, was all it took for Rory to give a fierce shout, his orgasm pumping into Gray's mouth as he swallowed.

"You are perfect," Rory said drowsily as he recovered, eyes golden and languorous, the most beautiful thing Gray had ever seen. "Let me," he added as Gray loosened his own breeches.

How could Rory say he was perfect, when Rory's small delicate hand moving over his own rampant erection felt like the most spectacular thing in the world? He'd never understood before why men and women killed and died for this fleeting physical pleasure, but when it was with someone you adored, who adored you back, the truth of it undeniable and undiminished? It was only enough to feel that pressure and feel the love spreading through him, and Gray was groaning too, exploding all over that small, surprisingly adept hand.

Rory dug for a handkerchief and wiped Gray's come off his hand. He was unhinged enough, the magic of this night wrapping around them so tightly Gray wasn't sure it would ever let go, that he was almost sad to see it disappear.

"Come," Rory said, and held out his hand again. He'd reclined in the cot, pulling the blankets back to make a spot for Gray. He didn't need any further encouragement, he quickly unlaced his boots and shed the rest of his clothes, lying down next to Rory.

Placing a hand over his heart, Rory cuddled close. "Tomorrow," he said softly, "I'm afraid everything will be different."

It would be. Tomorrow, if they were both very skillful and very lucky, Sabrina would be dead. "This won't be different," Gray promised. "That will have to be enough."

And it was.