“Don’t you think it would go poorly for the Grey Wardens if the King of Ferelden died in our care? Is that what we really want?”
“Is that truly your objection?”
She scowled. Kell looked at her without any hint of mockery, and finally she sighed and turned to glance in the Commander’s direction. “I don’t think she would care even if it was.” Her voice carried less bitterness than she felt.
If Genevieve heard, she made no indication. She remained where she was, staring resolutely out into the dim cavern. It would be hard for her not to have heard, however. Irrationally, Fiona wished she could pierce the woman’s iron demeanor just once. The quiet rage she saw behind those eyes terrified her, but it would almost be better than the waiting. One day the Commander would break, all that anger she’d smothered behind a veneer of cold competence bubbling up to the surface like a volcano, and they would all pay the price for it.
“She’s going to get us killed, you know,” she muttered, just loudly enough that there was no way Genevieve could avoid overhearing. “The King, too. Just you wait and see.” Fiona watched her closely, but the woman didn’t even blink.
Kell’s smirk told Fiona what he thought of her brave words, but he declined to add his own comment. As Hafter trotted back in their direction, nose sniffing madly in the hope that another piece of jerky might manifest itself, Kell nodded toward the cavern. Fiona had already heard the rhythmic splashes of the boat approaching. It seemed the King had finally arrived.
“Oh, joy,” she griped under her breath.
Genevieve stirred, glancing back toward them with a steely gaze. “Kell, inform the First Enchanter that we will be coming up shortly. I do not wish to stay longer than we absolutely must.”
The hunter quietly vanished up the stairwell, the warhound padding after him. Fiona and Genevieve locked gazes only for a second, and still that was enough time for Fiona to shiver at what she saw there. Had she likened the woman to a volcano? More like a shelf of ice, chill fog wrapped around it like a blanket, advancing inevitably across the water’s surface in search of a helpless boat to crush under its immense weight.
The ferry slowly came into sight, blotting out the cave entrance for a moment as the oarsman swiftly paddled over the dark water. Poor Duncan huddled within a fur cloak, while King Maric sat next to him seemingly unaffected by the weather. Fiona kept her face deliberately neutral. Her father had always scolded her that anyone and everyone could read her every opinion on her face like an open book. Normally Fiona considered that to be a strength rather than a failing, but perhaps a touch of Kell’s inscrutability would be advisable, considering the King was a man who could make all their lives a living nightmare if he so chose.
It took only a few moments for the boat to bump up hard against the platform. A rope was tied to a post, and both occupants disembarked with Genevieve’s assistance. Duncan took off the fur coat and reluctantly handed it back to the King, who was looking around at the cavern with admiration.
“The last time I came here it was winter, too,” he remarked. “But I think they’ve made it larger since then. Can they do that? They can probably do that.”
Genevieve ignored his question. “Maric, we should proceed. I have no desire to stay the night, if we can at all avoid it.”
“You mean we’ll be rowing back right away?” Duncan cried in dismay. “Why didn’t you just leave me at the inn?”
She leveled a direct gaze at him. “To do what? Guard the chickens?”
He didn’t argue, just crumpled in his own misery in a way that almost made Fiona laugh. Duncan was only a handful of years younger than her, but there were times he seemed more like a boy than a man. She knew there was much more to him than that. The place where he grew up … that was the sort of place that forced one to mature quickly. What ever Duncan suffered from, it was not naïveté.
“It might be kinder to knock him out for the trip back,” Maric suggested with a mischievous grin.
“I think he will survive.” Genevieve turned and marched up the stairs without waiting to see if she was being followed. Duncan trotted after her, and as the two of them disappeared Fiona belatedly realized the King had not moved. She had been left alone with him.
The man made no indication of a desire to go, instead standing there by the water’s edge and watching her with a strange look she couldn’t decipher. Was it anger? Concern? She had to admit he possessed a certain charm, something unexpected in a king. No doubt it was also deceptive. She’d learned a long time ago never to take such men at face value.
Shrugging indifferently, she turned to go. The King could stand in the cavern until he froze, for all she cared. She certainly didn’t feel the need to wait on him.
“Wait,” he suddenly called out. “It’s Fiona, isn’t it?”
Fiona paused, her stomach sinking. Silently she cursed her too-expressive face. You couldn’t just blink and smile prettily like some vapid whore, could you? Would that be too difficult to master? Taking a ragged breath, she slowly turned back around. “Is there something you wished of me?” she asked, keeping her tone as cheerful as she dared.
“Something I wished?” He seemed startled by her question. “I was actually hoping we could speak. I understand you have an issue with my presence.”
“A man of your stature need not concern himself with my thoughts.”
“Nice try.” Maric wagged a finger and walked toward her. She stood her ground, refusing to retreat. She would be damned if she would retreat from anyone, even some fool of a king. “You might think I’m deaf, but I managed to overhear your objections to your commander on several occasions.”
“So? Is it so unreasonable to believe that bringing the King of Ferelden into the Deep Roads is not a good idea?”
“Not if that’s all it is.”
Fiona snorted indignantly. It was an unladylike thing to do, she knew, but her patience was rapidly running thin. The Enchanter who had trained her had been an elegant woman with perfect manners and porcelain skin, and she had sighed laboriously every time Fiona had so much as twitched an eyebrow. It had only served to compel Fiona to do it all the more often, thus increasing the woman’s suffering.
The oarsman sat forgotten in his boat nearby, trying his best to be unnoticeable. He fished a piece of sweetmeat out of his coat and furtively began nibbling on it, eyes flicking to Fiona and Maric as if he hoped they might go away and leave him to his meal. Or perhaps he enjoyed the spectacle. She couldn’t rightly say.
“I apologize then, my lord, if I have offended you,” she gritted out through a clenched smile. “It won’t happen again.”
He folded his arms stubbornly. “I’m not offended. If you have something to say, however, then say it.”
She looked longingly toward the staircase. Escape was an option, but then King Maric would assume that she was fleeing. Simply telling the man off was tempting.
Genevieve had specified with severity that the man was not to be bothered, however, and that gave her pause. Being censored was something she would normally not abide, but she had seen what defying the Commander had brought Duncan. Genevieve was one of the few people she respected.
“Look,” she began. “This is ridiculous. Why should you care what I think? Or what anyone thinks, for that matter?”
“Are you avoiding the question? Did your commander tell you to do that?”
Perceptive twit. She was not about to be outmaneuvered, however. “Is this what you do in your palace? Run around to all the servants and the groundskeepers and worry about whether or not they like you enough? That must keep you very busy.”
“I think if one of the servants glared at me the same way you do, I would at least stop and ask why.” He paused, the wry grin returning. “Or is it your opinion that I shouldn’t care? That this would be unkingly of me, perhaps?”