The Captive Heir

Chapter Eight

There was a week—a good week, a far too short week—when Nicolas was absent from camp. Marie was friendlier without her father's old friend constantly reminding her of her duty, Caleb was more lighthearted, even the tedium of daily camp life seemed easier. More songs floated through the trees and the food tasted a little better.

In contrast to most everyone else, Fitz grew tenser. As the days free of Nicolas' foreboding presence slipped by, Fitz seemed to be waiting, bracing himself. From what Elisabet could see in snatches of glimpses caught from across clearings and through trees, he spoke less, either to friends or to his trainees. He certainly laughed less than ever before, even with Caleb.

There was nothing Elisabet could do to help, but it did not stop her from wishing otherwise.

And then came a day when the camp's noise jumped to a level of excitement that could only mean the arrival of something new. Caleb, eating lunch with Elisabet, looked up and smiled.

"Nicolas must be back," he said.

Unable to control herself, Elisabet glanced across the clearing to Fitz, who was eating with Owen and a bevy of his students. His back was to her, but judging by the sudden stiffness that crept into his shoulders, he was not as pleased by Nicolas' arrival as Caleb was. He did not move, however, and so like a coward Elisabet also remained seated. If Fitz was not ready for whatever Nicolas had come back with, Elisabet certainly would not have the fortitude to face it.

Until Alvan strode into Fitz's little circle and grabbed him. They exchanged a few terse words, which were lost to the chatter of the crowd between them and the princess, no matter how hard she strained to hear. Alvan spoke, then Fitz, then both at once, until Fitz threw up his hands and stood to follow his friend.

Elisabet turned to Caleb, her eyes lingering on them. "Should we go see?" she asked him, attempting a casual tone.

Caleb paused, then nodded slowly. "We could," he said. "I don't think he's brought anything back, but it should be okay if you see."

What would he have brought back? What was she not supposed to see?

He put his empty plate down and brushed his hands clean of crumbs. "It was the final sweep, I think. That's what Alvan said yesterday."

Final sweep of what? Elisabet wanted to scream with frustration—or pry answers out of someone with thumbscrews.

She followed him closely out of the clearing, finding Fitz and Alvan just a few steps ahead. Their conversation drifted back in swatches of phrases.

"Because you're the one who trains..." Alvan was saying.

"...not the one who approves..." Fitz replied.

"...already there. She asked for you."

"...enough time..."

"Make time." Alvan's words were sharp.

She could not hear Fitz reply, but she thought she saw him sigh.

Through an opening in the trees, Nicolas came into view, accompanied by the usual collection of curious bandits. He had been given a wide berth to confer quietly with Marie. Behind him, three strangers stood apart from the crowd and from each other.

One was a man, tall and fair. He bore an easy air of confidence. To his left was another man, almost as young as Seth, who was so dark he could only be Trenorish. The third was a woman, her pale hair shorn close to the head and a webbed scar covering the exposed length of one arm.

"Who are they?" Elisabet asked Caleb, keeping her voice low.

Caleb blinked, surprised to find strangers accompanying Nicolas. "Final recruits," he said.