The Heir and the Spare by Kate Stradling

Author:Kate Stradling [Stradling, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eulalia Skye Press
Published: 2021-02-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Woodsmoke and savory cooking hung upon the air. She breathed deep the scents, registering blissful warmth and an uncomfortable burning in her throat. Voices murmured, but their words were unintelligible.

Iona coughed and fluttered open her eyes.

A dim point of light to her left illuminated a space barely large enough for the bed on which she lay. The voices carried from beyond an open door, where she could glimpse a broader room as dimly lit as this one.

She struggled to sit up, tucked tight beneath a homespun quilt. A warm brick beneath the covers with her invited her to give up the fight, but her mind had sparked awake and alert. There would be no rest until she knew where she was and to whom she owed this hospitality.

Her wrestle against the quilt brought a figure into the doorway. An unfamiliar woman, too far in shadows for her to discern much more than an angular silhouette, said, “Are you awake? Poor duck, your brother’s been worried sick about you.”

For the barest instant she thought of Aedan, but that was nonsensical. He was snug in the capital, wooing his pretty Besseta.

A second figure joined the woman. Iona blinked and focused bleary eyes on Prince Jaoven. The scruff on his face was fuller, almost a beard, and it made him seem so much older. In two steps he crossed to her bedside and perched on the edge, gently pressing her shoulders to relax back into the mattress.

“You need to rest, Yanna,” he said.

The old name in the unfamiliar surroundings disoriented her all the more. Was this a dream, fusing past and present with the unknown? Jaoven of Deraval had never treated her with such care.

A creek of the floorboards signaled the woman’s retreat from the door. Nevertheless, surreptitiously he leaned close to Iona’s ear and whispered, “I told them we were brother and sister. There’s been no word here of our disappearance, and I thought it better to play safe, for the sake of your reputation and mine.”

She blinked, and the world shifted into focus. They had survived the river and the forest both.

“Where?” she croaked, managing only the single word.

“The village is called Straithmill. We’re in the foothills of the Morreinn, about twelve miles from Sorrow’s Linn.”

Behind him their hostess filled the doorway again, this time bearing food. Jaoven scooted out of the way, deferring to her ministrations. The woman set the plate and bowl on the tiny side table. The light of a low-burning oil lamp cast the lines on her face into deep relief. She was old but not ancient, her limbs still strong and supple. She helped Iona sit up and then fluffed the pillow behind her. Jaoven brought a chair from the other room, and the woman sat to help her eat.

Iona, conscious of her own weakness, allowed the nurturing.

It was simple fare, hot broth and coarse bread, but her starving tastebuds had never encountered flavors so delicious. She drained the contents of the bowl.

“We have some willow tea brewing for you too,” the woman said.

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