under them and settled them over herself. “Good night.” She shut her eyes.
“Brit?”
Outside somewhere an owl asked “Who, who, who,” as she considered not responding. But in the end, she gave in and muttered, “What?”
“The blond warrior woman, the one called Rinda…”
“What about her?”
“She called you ‘cousin.”’
“Because I am.”
He was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “She looks like you.”
Brit stared through the smoke hole above. The night sky was cloudy, a deep grayness, hiding the stars. “She’s the image of my mother at twenty-five or so.”
Eric made a low noise in his throat. “I have it. Brian the Blackhearted…”
Brit felt a funny little sadness, a heaviness near her heart. “They called my uncle that?”
“They did. And he was.”
“Blackhearted…”
“Yes. And was he Rinda’s father?”
She could see no reason—beyond a petty desire to goad him—to keep what she knew to herself. “Yes. He raped Ragnild.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything. And really, it probably did. “So Ragnild wished to meet you.”
“That’s right.” She believes that I’ll somebody be queen, she thought. But she didn’t say it. Many, after all, believed that Eric would one day be king. If Brit were to be queen, then that would mean…
No. Better not even go there. And besides. Since Valbrand lived, he would most likely be the next king, once all this confusion got straightened out. No way Valbrand would be marrying his little sister. Even in Gullandria, they weren’t into stuff like that.
So much for Ragnild’s dreams.
And what, Brit wondered, was Valbrand doing right now?
Really, there was so much she wanted—needed—to know. “Eric?”
He made a noise that told her he was listening.
“How old were you when you first met my brother?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. But the silence was a musing one. Then he said, “So young, I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t know him. I was two when he was born. And it seems, in my memory, that he is always there. We played together, from the time he was old enough to crawl. And then, for a while, it was the three of us.”
“Kylan, too?”
“Yes. And then Kylan was gone. It was only us two again, your brother and me. From wooden swords to swords of steel. We shared the same teachers, in the classroom, in the training yard. We were blood-bound when I was twelve and he was ten—do you know what it means, to be bloodbound?”
She repeated what she’d read in one of the books she’d found in the palace library about life in Gullandria. “To be bloodbound is to share with another a blood oath of loyalty and commitment. It’s an oath that binds equals, makes them brothers in the truest sense—as opposed to bloodsworn, which binds one of lesser rank to a ruler or a leader.”
“You have it right.”
“I wonder…”
“Ask.”
“Well, did Valbrand ever speak of us—of his sisters and his mother, in America?”
There was complete silence, suddenly, as if the night itself held its breath.
“Eric?” she prompted at last, when she was sure he would never answer.
He said, “It was bad for Valbrand, when your mother left—you three princesses were only babies. He didn’t know you. So your loss he could bear. But the loss of a mother… It leaves a ragged hole of longing, a scar that never completely heals. And then, so shortly after that, for him to lose your brother, Kylan, as well…” Eric’s voice trailed off, as if no words could express how terrible that had been. “I was fourteen when my mother died. Valbrand got me through it. Because he knew. He understood…” Eric made a low sound. “And I haven’t answered your question, have I?”
Her question seemed unimportant by then. She was thinking how bad it must have been for Valbrand. And for Eric, too. Brit and her mother had issues—but the thought of Ingrid not being there. That would be way hard to get through. “It’s okay. I can understand why he wasn’t thinking much about his baby sisters.”
“The truth is, he did think of you. And he spoke of you. More and more often as we came into manhood. He spoke of the time he knew would come someday, when you and your sisters would venture across the sea to visit the land of your birth. He spoke now and then of going to visit you in America. But he never quite got around to it. I think, perhaps, there were traces of bitterness, still, within him—bitterness at your mother, for leaving him, for never coming back.”
“Bitterness…” Such a sad word. A word full of might have been, of if I had only, a word heavy with hurt and regret.
“Only traces.” Eric’s voice was warm with reassurance. “Nothing that couldn’t be healed, given time and tenderness. He wasn’t a man to hold grudges, not a man to let bitterness own him. He was bigger… better than that.”
Was.
How easily he spoke of her brother in the past tense. Was it shrewdness on his part, to maintain consistency with the original lie?
Or merely the sad truth?
No.
She’d never believe that. She’d seen her brother. Valbrand still lived. All Eric Greyfell’s clever lies wouldn’t steal the truth she knew in her heart.
She rolled to her right side, facing the dying fire—she would have rather faced the shadows, but her sore shoulder wouldn’t let her. She stared at the glowing embers until sleep closed her eyes and carried her off into dreams again.
The next morning the clouds had cleared away. The sky was the startling blue of a newborn baby’s eyes. They went to Ragnild’s tent for an early breakfast of porridge and jerky.
Eric was ordered to wait outside while Ragnild questioned Brit concerning his performance the night before.
“How well did he pleasure you?” Ragnild demanded. Brit had her answer ready. “He is a lover without peer. I am well satisfied.”
Yeah, okay. The well-satisfied part was an outright lie. But from the kisses they’d shared, she felt justified in making the leap to calling him a good lover.
As for the bit about him being without peer? Well, hey. That was one of the great things about Gullandria. You could call a man “without peer” and nobody would think you were being
