Blood and Majesty

Chapter Eight

- ARIK

"I just froze my ass off in the dark looking for nothing," Hemon tied his horse to the hitching post, "and now you're asking me to sweat my ass off in Birch to wait for your betrothed? That is like asking a whore to take two ends of a dick."

"I'm telling you to go to Birch. And there are no two ends of a dick," Arik handed the reigns of his own mount to the hair lipped stable boy whose name he didn't know, "and where did you learn that word? Betrothed."

"Olfric. And what kind of question is that?"

Arik offered a calm smile and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Hemon, who if not you would I depend on to escort my..."

"Betrothed."

"Betrothed," Arik repeated.

"Fucks sake."

"And," Arik added, "apart from ME giving you leave to squander your hoard in Birch, Elana will be accompanying you on your return. Here. With my betrothed."

"You lie."

"I would never."

"You lie all the time."

"I am not lying now."

Hemon flattened his brow, challenged the dirt at his feet to an aggressive stare down.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. You're sending me to pick up your wife-"

"Betrothed."

"-and with Elana, ELANA, I'm to safely escort her here where she will be greeted by you and your other busty Duchess at the gate? All smiles and tits? That's...that's just not Kingly, friend."

"It sounds so terrible when you word it like that."

"You think so?"

There was pause. A horse in one of the stalls whinnied and both men were certain the other had just farted.

Arik glared at his friend: "I'll pay your tab with Elena."

"Done. When should I leave, your Grace?"

- Syra

Syra knelt in front of the trunk at the foot of her bed, carefully placed the folded robe or dress Mula had just handed her in its place.

"I am taking the third regiment as retainers to escort me north. That's three hundred spearmen, Mula. How does my brother feel about this?"

Mula took another folded garment from the pile in front of Nym, who was doing more humming than folding, and handed it to Syra.

"He does not speak to me of these things, your highness."

Syra, Mula and Nym over a short course of time found themselves allied in a triumvirate of contempt for Bal.

"Do you like the dresses, love?" Syra asked over her shoulder.

"I do."

"Good. Has my brother told you how pretty you are?"

"No."

"Worm." Syra took another garment, turned back to the trunk.

"Belly crawler," Nym added while handing Mula something soft and more wadded than folded.

"It is three thousand miles," Syra looked at the wadded thing Mula reluctantly offered, shook her head, "At a steady pace, one body per horse, with breaks, meals and sleep, we should cover 45 miles a day without question."