7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Gray didn't recognize the language Rory had haltingly begun to speak, but clearly everyone around him did, because they were fascinated, hanging on every single word he said.

He also had no idea who these people were, or their customs, or anything about them. And the truth was, he should have because while they weren't necessarily close to Ardglass, they were in the lands bordering Ardglass. Maybe Rhys hadn't gotten to this odd sort of tribe in his education when it had abruptly ended? But then Evrard had never mentioned them either.

Rory's head was still bent as he spoke, and when he finished, a reverent hush fell over the group.

Risking a look, Gray peeked up and to his utter astonishment, found the woman staring at Rory with tears in her eyes.

She finally spoke, but she did not use the same language as Rory. Instead she spoke in the common tongue Gray knew. "You must forgive us," she said, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "It has been many, many years since any of us have heard our language spoken out loud. For some of us, we have never heard it, only had it described. How is it you are able to speak it? I thought the teaching of it was lost to us, like many of our brothers and sisters have been lost to farms and towns and villages."

Rory looked up and settled back on his heels. He looked as shocked as she did. "I am sure I did not do it justice," he said. "I've never heard it spoken, I've only read it, and the pronunciation guide was very rudimentary."

She stared at him. "Merleen tells me that you are a prostitute, fashioned to look like the Autumn Prince. How is it you have been able to study our language?"

She did not say that whores generally didn't have access to a lot of books, especially to valuable ones containing virtually lost languages. Then a half-second before he did, Gray realized what Rory intended to do. He wanted to reach out and stop him, but then he remembered Rory's whispered words. Trust me. Gray wasn't sure he trusted him at all, not yet, but so far this entire encounter had left Gray feeling like he'd taken one look at the Prince next to him, seen a different side of him, and had come to entirely the wrong conclusions.

Yes, he was a prince. Yes, he was pretty. Yes, he did not exactly understand how to defend himself in the traditional ways, with weapons and with fists. But he was defending them now, wasn't he?

Instead of stopping Rory, Gray stayed silent and let him continue.

"I am not a prostitute, maj," Rory said. "I am indeed the Autumn Prince."

Gasps resonated from the surrounding audience, but the woman in front of them did not seem even the tiniest bit surprised by Rory's revelation. She leaned forward and took his chin in her hands. Strong, capable hands, used to hard work. Gray could see the evidence of it in the swollen knuckles and the calluses up and down her fingers. She held strong to Rory, and he didn't flinch as she stared into his eyes. Gray, on the other hand, was a total mess. Yes, Rory had caused a sensation and had made the woman sentimental and sad for times long gone, but they were still tied up and they still had no weapons. They still weren't free.

Trust me. Rory's words echoed in Gray's mind, and though he had to fight against the suspicion that had maintained such a stronghold on his mind since that desperate night fifteen years ago, he did. When the attackers had come to the valley, Rory had trusted him—even if maybe he shouldn't have. Gray took one deep breath, and then another. It was his turn to put his life into Rory's hands.

"You are very far from home," she finally said, releasing his chin. "You have come to me as a Seeker, hoping I will be a Giver. What is it that you need?"

"Freedom," Rory said, re-assuming his prior position, humbling himself before the woman. A Giver, Gray thought, this must be some ancient ritual that Rory knew because he'd read about it. Just like the language.

"You speak of something that seems of low cost to us, but in reality, is worth very much," she retorted tartly. "You are valuable prisoners. You carry expensive belongings, including a priceless ancestral sword of your country."

Gray had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Why had Rory brought Lion's Breath with him to the valley? He couldn't even truly use it, at least not the way it was meant to be used.

"Maj, I am currently a prince without a throne, without a country. I could not leave it behind to lose it to those who would use it ill."

The woman settled back on her heels. "Your aunt?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A story as old as time," Rory said, and Gray was impressed at how tonelessly he could speak about the relative who had conspired to betray him.

Most of the time he attempted Rory's cool, but despite what he'd boasted about not caring, he did care. If Sabrina ever walked into his valley, he'd have killed her on the spot. Which was why, among other reasons, she'd never done it. Instead she'd sent her soft, pretty little prince, and tied them up in a nice bow for the assassins she'd sent to follow.

"If I give you this request," she said, voice thoughtful, "what would you promise me in return?"

They had nothing to give. No gold, no goods in trade, Rory had his sword—in theory only, since it was currently in the tribe's possession—but nothing much else of value. For the first time since leaving Tullamore, Gray wondered what knowledge of Prince Graham would be worth to someone like the woman in front of him.

It was his closest held secret, the one he anticipated taking to the grave, but what if he gave it up?

If you gave it up, he reminded himself, you'd lose everything. You'd lose your valley, your freedom, your independence. Probably your life.

While he wasn't against Rory taking his throne from Sabrina—as far as Gray was concerned, that bitch didn't belong anywhere near one—that seemed an especially steep price to pay. So he kept his mouth shut, and a moment later, he was very glad he did, because of course, Rory had known all about this ceremony, and had known he would be asked to give something.

And knowing this, he'd already prepared something to offer.

"Knowledge," Rory said confidently. "I would give you knowledge. Once I have deposed my aunt, and regained the throne, I would invite you to Beaulieu, and we would study your language together, and hopefully, be able to revive some of the lost parts of your culture."

"How would we know you would keep your bargain?" asked Merleen, the man who had originally captured them.

"I would give my word," Rory said. Gray almost laughed. If he was Merleen, he never would have believed Rory. But then Gray had gotten the rotten end of the whole nobility and honor thing. He could at least acknowledge that, and also acknowledge that those experiences made him never want to trust anyone of Rory's stature ever again. Others might not be nearly as suspicious.

Merleen also did not look particularly convinced, but then the woman spoke up. "Swear on your sword," she said softly.

Rory blanched, all the blood draining from his face. His reaction was so severe, Gray had a feeling that breaking a promise you'd sworn on Lion's Breath led to something extremely unpleasant.

"You know the story then," Rory said, his voice equally as soft.

"I know that your ancestor, King Francis, swore a promise to some peasants, and he swore it on Lion's Breath. And when he broke the promise, he died in an agony of fire and flame."

Rory cleared his throat. "The sword has no known magical qualities. The story of King Francis was no doubt embellished to frighten any ruler of Fontaine from lying to their subjects ever again."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Then it has worked," she said. "You will swear on Lion's Breath, or there will be no Accord."

"And no freedom," Rory said flatly.

"And no freedom," she agreed.

For the first time since he'd opened his mouth and spoken in a language Gray had never heard before, Rory turned and looked Gray straight in the eyes. "What do you think?" he asked.

Gray stared back at him steadily. "Are you intending to lie?" he asked under his breath.

"No," Rory said, shaking his head vehemently, "but I have no guarantee that our quest will be successful. And I do not believe Lion's Breath quibbles over particular circumstances. If you break your promise, it will exact retribution in fire and blood."

"You really believe that?"

Rory looked like he did, in fact, really believe it. "I wasn't always sure," he hedged, "but then I read the original version of the story, written by a steward present at King Francis' death. The only obstacle to believing that the sword was magical was magic existing in this world." Rory glanced over to where they'd come from, where presumably Evrard was somewhere, waiting for them. "And now I believe that I was wrong, and it does exist in this world. So therefore, if I am to take the logical approach, I truly believe that if I break a promise made on Lion's Breath, I will die. Badly. Painfully."

"In a storm of fire and blood, yes," Gray said.

There was a long silence. Gray re-examined the possibilities of knocking out every guard in the vicinity before he was killed, and again came up about five guards too short. And smartly, they had kept Lion's Breath on the other side of the clearing, as far away from Gray's hands as possible.

"Is the sword particular about the person who swears the promise? Do they need to be of the Fontaine royal line?" Gray did not particularly want to swear on the sword and possibly risk his own terrible death, but somehow it seemed worse that Rory, who had so bravely tackled this, who knew ancient languages, who had studied cultures that were dying, should risk his life this way. Gray's was much less valuable. Besides, nothing had been said about regaining the throne of Ardglass, only of Fontaine. Presumably, Gray would die a farmhand, never revealing to anyone who he truly was. Rory, on the other hand, was destined for a much greater fate—if he got the chance.

Maybe Gray should give him that chance.

"It does not matter," Rory said, "because I would never permit you to do it. This is my throne, and I will make the promise." He looked up at the woman, who was watching them carefully. "Bring the sword."

But of course, they were not going to permit Gray anywhere near a weapon. Gray was a little flattered by this. Instead, they yanked Rory up by the shoulder, and marched him over to where a big, burly man was currently holding the sword. Rory rested his bound hands on the pommel, right over the lions' heads, and said, "I swear on the throne of Fontaine and all my royal ancestors that I will keep my promise to assist the Mecant tribe in regaining their original language and reviving their customs."

The woman nodded her head once, and suddenly there was a knife cutting Gray's bonds, and he was jerked upwards.

Gray met Rory's eyes across the clearing and was torn between wanting to thank him for saving their lives and berate him for risking his own so foolishly.

Didn't he see that he was impossibly precious? Irreplaceable?

Gray had not always felt that way, but the last twelve hours had forcibly opened his eyes. Without Rory, without his precious knowledge and the incredible intelligence he possessed, they would have been dead or sold into slavery. The quest would have been lost. Gray's valley would have been lost. Sabrina, through happenstance and fate, would have won without having ever been challenged.

"A horse," the woman said, in a voice that brokered no argument and one was led towards Gray. He laid a firm hand on its warm neck. It looked to be an excellent animal, and well-trained. Rory came over to where Gray stood, strapping on the sword again.

Gray's dagger was returned, and brief goodbyes were said, though they were none too friendly.

No doubt everyone had been expecting a nice big payout for capturing him and Rory, and instead, they were being let go, and being given one of their horses.

"You know the way back," Rory murmured to him, and Gray mounted, followed by Rory behind him.

With a single nudge in the right direction, the horse trotted off in the direction from whence they'd come.

Riding, the journey not only seemed much quicker, but passed by in a flash. Gray realized that in the dark, the tribe had been leading them in circles, presumably to ensure that Rory and Gray could never return to their encampment. They crossed the stream he'd directed Evrard to the night before, but Evrard was nowhere to be found.

They reached the clearing, the saddlebags still lying on the ground, and Evrard was still not present.

"What should we do?" Rory asked uncertainly after they dismounted. "What if Evrard was also captured?"

"Then we would have seen him in the camp," Gray said flatly. "And as of course, Evrard has given us almost no information on how to proceed to find this magical thing, other than it rests in the Karloff Mountains, we will stay here and wait for him to return."

Rory flopped down onto the ground, into much the same position he'd occupied the night before. "I really can't believe that worked," he said, grinning. "But as soon as I saw their rings, I knew who they were, and I knew they could be reasoned with."

"Reasoned with? Asking you to swear an oath on a sword that could bring you a fiery death?" Gray muttered.

"I had to do it," Rory said.

Except that he hadn't, and they both knew it.

"I could have done it," Gray said lowly. "You don't need my help. What you know is so much more valuable. I lived over this direction when I was a young child, and I'd never heard of that tribe before today."

Rory gaped at him. "Are you really claiming to be expendable? You?"

At Gray's refusal to answer, Rory stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the log he'd slept against the night before. Had it only been the night before? It felt like an eternity had already passed since they'd escaped the valley, but it had been barely forty-eight hours.

"You built a farm from nothing. You're a fighter. You were going to fight those men off; I saw the way you held the sword. You know how to use it much better than I." Rory paused. "A pretty princeling. Useless. I believe that was your impression before today."

Gray couldn't deny it. He also couldn't deny that his mind had been forever altered by their encounter with the tribe.

"You're a prince," Gray said, because he couldn't quite wrap his thoughts around everything that had changed, so suddenly and so irrevocably. It was easy to condense down all his jumbled feelings into one single fact: Rory was a prince, and he was going to reclaim his throne.

Rory stared incredulously at him. "You don't think that matters."

It hadn't, but somehow, now it did.

Flushing, Gray turned away. "You barely slept before. You should get more sleep now."

"Stop changing the subject. Were you really going to swear my promise on my sword?" Rory demanded.

Rory's intelligence had already come in very handy, but now Gray wished he was a little less perceptive. Squaring his shoulders, Gray glanced over at Rory. "It was logical."

"No," Rory said with an unbearably attractive decisiveness, "it was all emotional." Closing the three steps between them, Rory reached out and put a hand on Gray's chest, right above where his heart beat faster than he'd ever admit. "Try to tell me it wasn't emotional. I can feel it. Right here."

Gray could feel it too; his heart, which had been numb and alone for so long, was waking up, the numbness receding. It felt like too much, too soon, but before he could stop Rory and say, that's plenty close enough, Rory rose up and pressed his lips to Gray's.

He wasn't just pretty; he was stunning, perfectly bringing his nickname to life, all smoldering heat with that cool thread of logic running through him. Gray reeled back, but he hadn't lied to Evrard back in the valley. Rory was strong; strong and determined. Instead of retreating, he followed, winding his arms around Gray's neck, and tugging him closer, his mouth opening under Gray's.

Almost immediately Gray lost his mind, and it sank into the warm lassitude of pleasure, growing warmer and then hotter as Rory's tongue slipped into his mouth. Gray could feel his slender frame pressed tightly against his own much larger body. He wanted to strip the ugly, ill-fitting clothes off, and glory in Rory's perfection. Because he would be perfect, Gray realized. He'd be the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, and somehow, also the strongest.

Nothing like he'd ever imagined when Rory had first ridden into his valley.

"I leave you alone for a few hours, and you're already pawing at each other." The voice was understated and cool, and it doused the flames burning between them.

Rory froze, and removing his mouth from Gray's, glanced to where the voice had come from. Gray had to resist the urge to drag him back against him.

"Where have you been?" Rory demanded, and Gray was proud despite himself. Evrard always believed he was in charge, and sometimes you needed to remind him that nobody gave a damn who was in charge; they were supposed to be a team.

"I was down at the stream and heard the men coming," Evrard said, casually trotting into the clearing like Gray and Rory hadn't had to avoid death or slavery by sheer nerve. "I hid, naturally."

"Naturally," Gray retorted. He wasn't sure he trusted his mouth to say anything else. He wasn't sure he trusted his mouth not to simply claim Rory's sweet one again and again, and then again. He knew, without a doubt, that now that he'd had a taste, he'd always be hungry for it.

"Yes, we're fine," Rory said testily.

"I knew you would be," Evrard said, their obvious frustration seeming not to bother him much. "How did you manage to escape so quickly?"

Rory shot the unicorn a hard look. "I invoked the ancient power of the Accord."

If Gray had to guess, he'd say that Evrard looked pleased, like Rory had just eclipsed even his high expectations.

"Interesting," Evrard said, barely acknowledging Rory's quick cleverness, and already moving past it. "We must get on the road. We have lost valuable time."

Gray couldn't contain his glare. "I haven't slept," he said. He couldn't really remember the last time he slept. Exhaustion was making his boundaries blurry. Or maybe that was the kiss.

"The road is fairly straightforward for the next few days. Your Highness, you will ride in front, and Gray can rest against you," Evrard ordered.

Rory glanced over at where the horse they'd been sent back on was munching on a patch of clover. "We should take him," Rory said.

Gray was almost certain that unicorns were incapable of rolling their eyes, but he swore Evrard did. "Another useless animal you want to save," Evrard moaned. "I expected better out of you, Your Highness."

"He's a good horse," Rory insisted stubbornly. "We can even sell him later on or trade him for supplies."

Gray wasn't going to get involved in their argument. He'd never heard the end of it when he'd insisted on bringing the horse who'd saved his life all those years before.

But of course, Rory wasn't going to let him avoid it. "Gray," he begged, "tell him."

Sighing, Gray reached down and picked up their saddlebags of supplies. "You hate carrying these," he pointed out to Evrard. "We can use it as a pack horse. And Rory is right; we can trade him further down the road for additional supplies."

"Fine," Evrard sniffed, clearly annoyed that he'd been outnumbered, but all Gray felt was overwhelming gratitude that Evrard had dropped the tiny matter of finding them kissing earlier.

He didn't need Evrard to tell him that it was the height of stupidity to become involved, physically or especially emotionally, with someone like Rory. Prince Emory, Gray reminded himself. And while he himself had once been of equal stature, those days were long gone, with no hope of ever returning to them.

Gray slept on and off as they regained the old road, and each time he opened his eyes, he was pleased with the steady progress they'd made. He'd only traveled this road once or twice as a child, and the markers were faded from the elements, but they could still be deciphered.

They stopped to rest as the sun fell behind the trees, and again Gray nudged them off the main road, and they found another, even smaller clearing of trees, and there they set up a quick camp. Gray even relented, and allowed Rory a small fire. It wasn't like a lack of fire had saved them from being tracked or abducted before.

Gray sat on a downed log that he'd pulled closer to the fire, and watched the flames dance moodily. This morning, the kiss had ripped through his veins like the fiercest quicksilver, but tonight, after too many vivid, uncomfortable dreams, all the kiss made him feel was dread. He was going to grow close to Rory, and maybe even let him in further than anyone since Rhys, and he would likely lose him in this mad quest. Even if they both survived somehow, Rory's destiny was to rule his people and sit in the high tower of Beaulieu—noble and royal and far beyond Gray's grasping fingertips.

All you want is to go back to your valley and be left alone, he reminded himself, but the thought didn't provide the same reassurance that it always had before. The kiss had changed things, as he knew it would.

Kissing Rory wasn't like kissing any of the other men and women who had passed through the valley before and whom he'd taken momentary pleasure with. Kissing Rory was willingly and eagerly sticking your hand into the fire and hoping to be consumed by it.

Gray was not quite self-destructive enough to welcome that.

To his dismay, Rory hadn't spent the last twelve hours regretting the kiss. In fact, as he picked a spot on the log right next to Gray, he shot him a very hopeful look from under those sinful lashes.

Why did he have to be so beautiful, both in and out? Gray thought with frustration.

"Did you get enough rest today?" Rory asked.

"Yes," Gray said shortly. He didn't want to have to lay out the reasons why continuing to kiss—or more—was a bad idea. But he had a feeling Rory was going to make it impossible to avoid that conversation.

"Good," Rory said, and Gray hated that his voice had slid further into uncertainty. Seeing Rory in all his brave, strong, confident glory had been life changing. He didn't want to be responsible for the disappointed look growing in Rory's eyes, but what else could he do? He was a realist. This couldn't be a passionate love affair; it was only a stepping-stone to better things for Rory.

"I'll keep the watch tonight," Gray said. "Feel free to get some sleep."

He stood and was about to go off to make sure the horse was secure for the third time, when Rory reached out and touched his leg. "Are you angry with me?" Rory asked.

At least that was easy enough to answer. "No," Gray said, "I'm angry with myself."

Of course Rory looked mystified. "I thought we both liked it . . ."

"We did. I did. Too much. You're . . . you're a prince, Rory. The Autumn Prince and the heir to Fontaine. I need to remember that, and so do you."

Rory just gaped at him as Gray shook his hand loose and walked away, ostensibly to check the horse, but really to sulk. Nothing new; he'd been spending all those years since leaving Tullamore trying to find something to do so he could avoid sulking.

But even if he'd had the farm to lose himself in, Gray knew a multitude of tasks couldn't have distracted him. Not when it was Rory.