5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Gray should've known it was inevitable that this whole time, Evrard had just wanted something from him—and not even to help him return to his own kingdom, but to assist some pretty little prince to pull off the impossible and defeat his shrewd, clever aunt. When it came to Evrard, there'd been a lot of things Gray had been pissed off about over the years. The unicorn's unbearable smugness was definitely one, and his high-handedness in believing he knew better than anyone or anything else was another. This was the worst of those two poor character traits combined into one singularly offensive assumption that of course Gray would be thrilled to leave the safety and peace of the valley to help another prince take back a throne that Gray wasn't sure he deserved anyway.

Initially, he'd headed towards the very edge of the valley, to the rim of trees that hid it from the world, which also happened to be the direction of the village. He could get a weapon there and come back to his farm. If the soldiers were still there, he'd kill them all and take his land back by force, if need be.

The last thing he intended to do was fall in line with Evrard's machinations and help Rory out. And there was absolutely no doubt in Gray's mind that Evrard was right in this scenario: Rory needed all the help he could get.

The closer he got to the ring of trees, the cooler Gray's temper grew. He still had no intention of leaving the safety of this valley, and he had no intention of going anywhere to help anyone, but despite Evrard's boasts to the contrary, Gray thought it was very possible their tracks could be followed. And for all Evrard's confidence, he was hardly a fighter, and Rory was even less capable. That little dagger might do a little superficial damage, and that was if—a very big if, Gray believed—Rory actually knew how to properly use it.

It was such an acute contrast to his own upbringing in Ardglass, when he'd been taught to throw a dagger with force and accuracy practically from the cradle. He could've used that dagger to stop someone in their tracks; Rory might leave a minor scratch.

"Silly princeling," Gray muttered under his breath, and turned around, doubling back on his own tracks, looping back around behind where Evrard and Rory were still speaking, making no attempts to quiet their voices or hide their location.

Typical, Gray thought as he leaned back against a conveniently placed tree. He could hear them talking as clearly as if he were still standing with them.

"What should I do?" Rory asked plaintively, and he sounded so like Gray had felt when he'd asked Evrard the same question. But Gray had been a child then, a mere eleven years old, and Rory was supposedly past the age when he normally would have taken the throne of Fontaine. He was supposed to be an adult, but he was so soft and sheltered, it was difficult to see him as a particularly competent one.

"You will need to convince him," Evrard insisted.

From his hiding place, Gray scoffed. Sure, the Prince was attractive. Sure, he'd been tempted at least twice to kiss him, but that was just a momentary pleasure. That didn't mean anything. It wasn't like Gray had ever intended to pledge his life to the other man. Evrard was a remnant of a different time, when things like nobility and honor might have meant something. And to someone like Rory, they probably still did, but then Rory was still grappling with the fact he'd been betrayed.

Gray had spent the last fifteen years living in the aftermath of betrayal, and that life had shaped his belief that honor and nobility meant very little indeed. They were just pretty words people used to control others, and Gray had no intention of ever falling into that trap ever again.

"How will I do that?" Rory asked.

"You must appeal to his greater nature," Evrard explained, and Gray made a face. He wasn't sure he had one, and surely Evrard would suspect that. "He wants to pretend it doesn't exist, but it's a part of who he is."

"Are you sure?" Rory didn't sound very sure, but then Evrard always contained enough certainty for himself and everyone else.

"Of course I am sure." Evrard's haughty voice made Gray smile, even though he wasn't looking forward to Rory's clumsy attempts to appeal to a part of him that no longer existed.

"I guess I should go find him," Rory said.

"He'll be headed towards the village, with the misguided notion that he will find weapons to help drive the soldiers out of his valley. I brought him there to save his life, and while I am pleased he's found peace there, he's grown complacent."

Gray gnashed his teeth, certain that Evrard must know he was listening in, and that was why his words were so cruelly pointed. Hadn't Evrard insisted for so many years that Gray needed to be cautious and always on alert for those who might betray him? Wanting to return to his valley wasn't complacency; it was necessity, because Evrard himself had emphasized its importance in their lives dozens of times, hundreds of times.

"There is no need to bother," Gray said, emerging from his position from behind the tree. "And," he added tightly, "I have done always as you asked. Stayed in the safety of that place, because that was the only safe place, or so you always said."

Rory looked astonished to see him; Evrard, not surprisingly, did not.

"Our circumstances have changed," Evrard pointed out, "and there is no safe place for you or for the Prince, not anymore. The valley is overrun. The Prince's guards are likely dead. We need to go to the Karloff Mountains. There is an important magical heirloom there that will be instrumental in assisting Prince Emory in gaining his throne."

"A fool's errand," Gray muttered. To reach the Karloff Mountains, they'd have to skirt Ardglass to one side, and make an arduous week-long journey. Gray believed Rory would never make it, and Evrard himself, while still in possession of his magical skill, had grown soft during their sojourn in the valley. If anyone was complacent, it was him.

"Perhaps, but it must be done," Evrard said.

"And you will do it without me, though I doubt, even if I assisted, that you would be successful."

Silence fell over the group. Gray could tell Rory was working on a plea, turning over various methods and words in his head, trying to find a serendipitous solution to Gray's adamant refusal.

Finally, he spoke, quietly and with a surprising authority. "I know you wish to return to your former life," Rory pointed out. "Before tonight, I wanted the same thing. I wanted to go back to my comfortable life that I understood, that understood me in return. I have no battle training, almost no weapons training, my guard is likely . . ." Rory paused, trying to collect himself. "They are likely dead. I am at the mercy of my aunt, who has been carefully and systematically ensuring that I am not capable of taking my own throne. I could take the easy path, and leave, and never return. I could hide. But even though victory seems uncertain, I can no longer pretend that avoiding a fight would be the right thing to do."

"You can forget about appealing to my honor," Gray said dryly. "Because I don't have any."

"I'm not trying to appeal to your honor," Rory promised. "I'm telling you that your comfortable life is gone until I can guarantee it again. And that will only happen when I have regained control of Fontaine. I can guarantee this place is erased from every map it is mentioned in. You will be left alone, entirely, if that is your wish. But I cannot achieve anything if I don't have your help."

Gray was silent for a long moment. "Logic," he finally said. "I'm surprised that's the angle you took."

"I know what you want," Rory said, "and it occurred to me that I should remind you that we actually want the same things."

"No, you want to go on some ridiculous quest to find a magical bauble in the Karloff Mountains, and I want to go back to my farm and be left alone," Gray insisted.

"Except," Rory reminded him, "that you can't go back to your farm and be left alone, not until I achieve my purpose. So you either must make do outside of the valley and leave your farm to the soldiers who are no doubt currently forming an encampment there, or you will come with Evrard and me and assist us in ejecting my aunt from Fontaine."

Evrard gave Rory an admiring, appraising glance. It annoyed Gray even more. Probably because he had never been the recipient of one of those looks, and also because no matter how much Gray wanted to deny it, Rory was actually right.

"Fine," Gray said, "but my assistance ends the moment we actually get this thing that Evrard thinks we need. And you'd better hold to your promise about the valley."

"You have my word. Shall we shake on it?" Rory asked.

"Well," Gray said sarcastically, "it's not like we have a scroll and a quill here so we can sign a proper contract." He extended his hand, and even though Rory wore a pair of those ridiculously buttery soft, pale yellow gloves, Gray felt the heat of his skin through the leather as they shook hands briefly.

"Excellent," Evrard said. "I knew you would see reason, Gray."

Gray glared at him. "Did you now?"

"And you, Prince Emory," Evrard said, simpering, "I wasn't sure whether to believe your vow, but you kept to it admirably."

"What vow?" Rory said, brows creased with confusion.

"You swore that if you got out of the valley alive, you would make different choices. Better choices. I believe that is what you truly meant, though I suppose you can be excused for being nonspecific as you were currently being hunted by several assassins sent by your aunt." Evrard paused, eyeing Rory sternly. "Or did I get it wrong after all?"

"No, no, no, that was it." Gray wasn't sure Rory was going to be able to speak at all, his eyes were so huge in his pale face, and his jaw seemed to have permanently dislodged as he gaped at the unicorn in front of him.

"Make a note," Gray murmured to him under his breath, "don't make a vow to anything unless you want Evrard to know all about it."

Rory looked like he was only a few moments from running away into the forest, despite all the inherent danger.

"How did you know that?" Rory asked Evrard. "I didn't even say it out loud."

As Gray expected, Evrard didn't answer. "Don't bother asking," Gray finally told Rory. "The best explanation I ever got out of him was, magic was intended to be mysterious, whatever that's supposed to mean."

"It was a perfectly reasonable answer," Evrard said with a sniff.

Leaning closer, Rory looked up at Gray. The only outward evidence of their sudden and rash departure and gallop across the valley was a few slightly mussed curls. This partnership would have been easier, Gray thought, if the Prince was a little less attractive. "You lived with him for years?" Rory questioned in a murmur, the edges of his lips quirking into a smile. "How?"

"Carefully," Gray retorted.

"He was a most attentive pupil, when he wasn't digging around in the dirt or fixing the stables," Evrard granted him somewhat graciously.

But Rory was still stuck on the particularly annoying vein that ran through Evrard's personality. One, that he was a king, and therefore believed himself to be infallible and two, he was a unicorn, and therefore knew himself to be unique. "I think you're right but you're also wrong. Gray didn't just dig around in some dirt or fix the stables, he created the farm out of practically nothing, and it's an accomplishment to be celebrated, not a punchline to your ego," Rory said hotly.

Gray stared at him. He knew Evrard appreciated the work he'd done over the years; perhaps he'd not always understood the drive that had kept Gray working as hard as he had, but of course it was better for Gray to be a diligent worker than a lazy ass. What he had never expected was for Rory to defend him.

"Ah," Evrard said knowingly, "you admire Gray. As well you should. You must be partners, and admiration is a good stepping-stone to trust."

Rory blushed. "He's easy to admire."

Evrard's gaze swung towards Gray but he didn't say a word. Didn't really trust himself to speak. What could he possibly say? Other than his stunning looks, Gray had yet to find something in Rory that he truly admired. Maybe in time that would change, but for right now, he liked him even though he didn't particularly want to, and he definitely did not trust him yet.

"What is this object we are seeking in the Karloffs?" Gray said, because it was better to change the subject. Better to stick to the quest that Evrard had set for Rory and get it over with as quickly as possible. Gray was already itching to go back to his valley and be left alone again.

"It is a magical heirloom of significant importance to Prince Emory, if he is to take back his throne," Evrard said and Gray rolled his eyes.

"You've already said all that. Where is it? What is it? How do we get it? All things that you clearly don't want to disclose, but all-important facts we will need to actually obtain it," Gray pointed out.

"All in due time," Evrard said smoothly, clearly much less concerned than Gray himself. Which, Gray supposed, was par for the course with Evrard. Perhaps all magical creatures contained such confident aplomb. He couldn't be sure, since Evrard was the very first he'd ever met. He wasn't counting Sabrina, because she'd been a sorceress, in thrall to dark magics, who had merely transformed temporarily into a magical creature.

The hair at the back of his neck slowly rose. "Are we going to be encountering any opposition to our quest?" Gray asked quietly. He did not want to specify Sabrina by name, but he knew from the solemn look in Evrard's eyes that he knew exactly who Gray was referring to, and to Gray's great dismay, he nodded his head.

"Many dangers on the road, and perhaps even more once we reach our destination, deep in the Karloff Mountains," Evrard confirmed.

Such a pronouncement wasn't a surprise, but Gray could grimly acknowledge it was definitely not what he'd wanted to hear.

They spent the rest of the night tucked away in the shelter of several thick trees. Gray had insisted they wait for daylight before continuing. They would need supplies to make the trek to the Karloff Mountains, and Rory was too recognizable to take into the nearby village. They'd wait for daylight, Gray pronounced, and then he would get additional supplies, while Rory and Evrard waited in the forest at the edge of the village.

Rory curled up in an empty, rotted tree trunk that had long since fallen, pulling that ridiculously bright blue cloak around his shoulders. First thing, Gray thought, we find the Prince some new clothes. He was far too recognizable with all his beautiful fabrics and arresting looks, and the last thing they needed was for Rory's aunt to discover their whereabouts.

It was too close to dawn to light a fire, so Gray hunched down into his own gray cloak, leaning against Evrard's warm body. "It feels like old times," Gray said quietly as he watched Rory doze fitfully.

Gray could feel Evrard sigh mightily. "He is not as adaptable as you," Evrard murmured, "but he will need to learn, nonetheless."

"Not an easy thing, discovering your closest relative in the world wants you dead," Gray pointed out.

"Your father never wished you dead. Sabrina had discovered a particularly powerful immortality spell that required innocent, royal blood. Not a lot of it, but enough, and the potion would need to be re-consumed occasionally, to continue its efficacy. All Sabrina told your father was she needed a little of your blood, every once in a while. Of course, she had led him to believe that he would share in the spell with her. But he was too power-hungry, and his mind too influenced by her, to understand that she could never risk you running away or growing up. She would have drained you completely," Evrard said. "You would've been dead that night."

Gray took all this information in, wishing, despite what he'd already told Rory earlier, that some of this had been given to him long ago. But then would it have made any real difference? He knew, if he hadn't escaped Tullamore, she would have killed him, one way or another. And whether his father had expressly given permission for his death or not, the end result was still the same.

"It doesn't change anything," Gray said roughly.

Evrard shifted again, and he could feel the impatience of the motion. "Semantics always matters," he insisted. "I promise you; it matters. Someday, you will see that."

"And if she wanted royal, innocent blood," Gray asked, "why is it she still apparently hunts me?"

But Evrard, who had already shared more in the last five minutes than he had shared in the previous fifteen years, went quiet, much to Gray's frustration and complete lack of surprise.

It is enough, he told himself, but he wasn't entirely sure he was telling the truth.

As dawn crept across the ground, he stood slowly, shaking off the sluggishness of his muscles, and left Rory sleeping with Evrard.

The trip to the nearby village was quick, and he made good time. The men in the village knew him well, though they also understood he often kept to himself when visiting. They did not question his purchasing of several saddlebags' worth of dried meats and crackers baked specifically not to spoil, and several good waterskins. There were some curious looks when Gray stopped by a used clothes stall in the main village market and purchased plain brown breeches and doublet, and an even darker brown cloak—none of which would fit his much taller, much bulkier build—but he stopped all questions with a single, hard glare. It was nobody's business but his own what he was buying.

The sun had barely crested over the trees when Gray returned to the grove where he'd left Evrard and Rory. The latter was now awake, sitting on another log, speaking quietly to Evrard. Their conversation largely faded as Gray approached, and he wondered, idly curious, if they had been speaking of him, and what the topic had been. Likely Rory had been asking more questions, and Evrard had been largely ignoring them.

"Here," Gray said, tossing Rory a shapeless bundle. "Put those on. You can't go fluttering around like a butterfly in a spring garden when we get on the road."

Rory opened the leather thongs to find the clothes Gray had bought. Fingering the rough cloth, he glanced up. "These are for me?"

"Like I said," Gray ground out, "you can't be prancing down the roads like a beautiful butterfly. We'll be robbed blind a thousand times over."

Gray watched as Rory retreated to a denser part of the forest to change, and just before he averted his eyes, saw Rory finger the clasp on his fancy cloak one last time before discarding it.

"I have supplies for the journey. Should be enough to last us," Gray said, directing his words to Evrard. "The saddlebags will be heavy, though."

Evrard sniffed. "I am sure I am capable of carrying a few bags," he said. "I'm only surprised you were able to circumvent your need to bring a horse on every journey we take together."

"Fifteen years in, and you still resent poor old horse," Gray said with a smile. He hoped the soldiers had left him well enough alone. Before they'd escaped out of the stable, Gray had released him and urged him to head to the opposite end of the valley, where there were streams and large fields full of clover for him to snack on. At the very least, he would not be subject to the enemy soldiers' whims. While Evrard thought the horse was quite stupid, Gray had firsthand evidence of how smart and brave he was. He'd never let himself be captured.

"Everything . . . sort of fits, I suppose."

Gray glanced up from where he was strapping the saddlebags to Evrard's back to where Rory was standing, having returned to the clearing after changing his clothes.

It was true; unlike his brilliant yellow satin doublet, the brown hung on his smaller frame, but at least he looked like so many other young men who lived in the village and outside of it.

"The idea is not to attract any attention," Gray said. "And only rich men have their clothes tailored to fit."

What he didn't say was that even though Rory was swimming in extra fabric and was lacking the brightly colored wardrobe to set off his astonishing looks, he still looked . . . incredibly beautiful. Too beautiful, if Gray was being honest.

"Perhaps, Prince Emory," Evrard suggested, "you could dirty yourself up a bit. Slump your shoulders. You still look . . ."

"Princely," Gray finished for him, afraid of what Evrard would have said, and that it would've echoed Gray's own thoughts too closely. "You look like a rich boy, slumming it in his servant's clothes."

Rory frowned. "You want me to roll around in the mud?"

"I'm sure the hard travel to the Karloff Mountains will put some necessary travel dirt on him," Gray inserted hastily. "Just keep your head down and your cloak hood up, your hair is so distinctive."

"Your reputation as the Autumn Prince precedes you, I'm afraid," Evrard agreed.

"I could cut it off . . ." Rory suggested.

Gray hated the way his heart stopped at his words. He still remembered the way he'd felt when Evrard had changed his name all those years ago. Unlike a name, hair could grow back, but without it, Rory wouldn't be . . . Rory, and that seemed like too great a crime to bear.

"We're keeping off the main roads anyway," Gray said hastily. "There's no need for such a drastic action."

Gray finished strapping the saddlebags onto Evrard, and after a quick, hushed confrontation, beckoned Rory over to where the unicorn stood. "I know the way, so I'm going to ride in front," Gray said. "You'll have to hold on to me. It won't be as easy as before." He didn't add that, without any saddle, it would take a great deal more thigh strength to stay mounted when Gray was so much larger than Rory was. Truthfully, Gray didn't want to contemplate Rory's thighs, though they looked . . . fine.

Incredibly fine, his uncooperative mind supplied, taking in the breeches he'd changed into, which were thankfully quite a bit more fitted than his new doublet.

"It won't be an issue," Rory promised. "I'm a good rider."

Gray had gotten that impression already, which was one of the reasons he was suggesting this at all. The problem was that, since the Karloffs bordered Ardglass on one side, it turned out that Gray was much more familiar with their route than even Evrard. And unlike the valley, with its magical pull, the Karloffs—other than the magical item they were after—didn't particularly exude any special feeling that Evrard could track. They would have to rely on Gray's fifteen-year-old knowledge of the maps he'd studied as a boy.

Not an ideal situation, but they had no other choice.

Without ceremony, Gray mounted the unicorn, and gracefully, Rory followed suit, tucking his cloak around him and pulling up the hood, even though the sun was bright overhead. Gray nodded in approval, and then Evrard started to pick his way through the trees, searching for the road that would take them around the village rather than through it.

After a few minutes, Evrard came upon it, and thus began their journey.