Chapter 8: WHAT VALENCE SENT WITH HER

RAIGORO’S POV

The first fortified station inside Blackharrow had a healer waiting at the gate before Raigoro finished dismounting.

Word of the wounded convoy had traveled faster than they had.

Two orderlies brought a stretcher for Eren. Another healer went directly to the soldiers injured during the ash hound attack, while stable hands began replacing exhausted horses without waiting for instructions.

Raigoro let them work.

The station commander met him at the gatehouse.

"We prepared quarters for the wounded, Your Grace. The southern road remains clear behind you. Two patrols are checking the ridge routes."

"Double them until morning."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The dead ash hounds had been covered with canvas and strapped to the rear wagons before the convoy left the attack site.

"Keep the remains under guard. No one burns them until the barbs and resin have been examined."

The commander nodded and moved away.

Daric came up beside Raigoro carrying the iron barb wrapped in cloth.

"We found the same resin on three of them."

"Chains?"

"Two had broken links still attached. The others had wounds where collars may have been removed."

Someone had handled the creatures and known the convoy’s route. Raigoro would not assume more.

"Send measurements to the ward keepers and every garrison between here and the Ashen Gate," Raigoro said. "I want reports of similar metalwork, resin, or feeding trails."

Daric handed the wrapped barb to a waiting officer.

"You think this was meant to kill the bride?"

"I think someone wanted the hounds near her carriage."

"That is almost the same thing."

"Almost wastes soldiers."

Daric accepted the correction.

Across the yard, Alma followed Eren’s stretcher toward the infirmary.

Raigoro’s wife remained near the carriage.

Her dark traveling dress carried mud along the hem from the attack. Blood had dried on one sleeve. The plain wool cloak around her shoulders was torn where she had removed Selena’s crest at the Third Watchtower.

The crest remained behind on the empty medicine shelf.

Embassy reports placed Selena Valence at banquets, hunts, and diplomatic receptions wearing that crest.

His wife had torn the crest from her cloak and left it on an empty Valence medicine shelf. Hours later, she had run into an ash hound attack for a Northern page she had never met.

Neither belonged easily with the Selena described in his reports.

A healer emerged from the infirmary.

"The boy’s bleeding is controlled. The wound is deep, but his leg is warm below the injury and he can still move his toes."

"Will he keep it?"

"If infection does not take hold."

"How soon can he travel?"

"Give me tomorrow. If the wound stays clean, I can move him the following morning."

"Then we remain tomorrow."

Daric glanced toward the mountain road. "We lose a day."

"Better than losing the boy halfway through the pass."

The station commander unrolled a route map across a table beneath the gatehouse.

"Weather on the high road has worsened since yesterday. Under ordinary winter conditions, the citadel is seven days from here by the western road with wagons."

Daric leaned over the map.

"And under current conditions?"

"Nine, perhaps ten if White Pass remains open."

Raigoro studied the marked garrisons.

The road through the lower valleys remained open. At the third mountain station, the route divided around White Pass before joining the interior road.

"If the western pass closes?"

"The eastern road makes it roughly eleven days from here."

"Keep scouts ahead of us."

"They already left at noon."

A wheelwright intercepted Raigoro before he reached the command room.

"Your Grace. There is something beneath the Duchess’s carriage."

Daric followed him across the yard.

The ash-hound attack had cracked one side panel and damaged the rear step. Those breaks were obvious.

The wheelwright crouched beside the rear axle and pointed to an iron retaining brace.

A narrow cut ran almost through the metal.

Grease and road dirt had been rubbed across it until the damage disappeared beneath the grime.

Daric knelt beside him.

"The hounds did that?"

"No." The wheelwright touched the edge of the cut. "Tool marks."

"How long would it have held?"

"On level ground, perhaps days."

"And on the mountain descents?"

The wheelwright shook his head.

"One hard descent could have finished it."

Daric straightened.

"The carriage came from Valence."

"Yes."

Raigoro studied the cut again.

The feeding trail had brought ash hounds toward his wife’s carriage. Now the carriage itself had been prepared to fail.

Two attempts. No proof yet that the same hand had arranged them.

"Remove the damaged brace and seal it with the resin and iron barbs."

The wheelwright nodded.

Raigoro looked at Daric.

"Record everyone who handled this carriage before departure and every stop since."

"You think the same person arranged both?"

"I think we have two attempts."

Daric waited.

Raigoro turned toward the command room.

"That is all we know."

The station quartermaster found Raigoro before he reached the command room.

The man was holding a travel inventory with the expression of someone who suspected the paper had insulted him personally.

"Your Grace."

"What?"

"We are transferring the Duchess’s baggage while her carriage is inspected and the damage from the attack is repaired."

"And?"

The quartermaster looked down at the page.

"Where are the Duchess’s trunks?"

Raigoro stopped.

"What trunks arrived from Valence?"

"That is what I am trying to determine."

Daric had followed close enough to hear.

The quartermaster read from the inventory.

"One dark traveling dress, currently being worn. One plain wool cloak, also being worn. One gold cloak left beneath the carriage seat. A slate, chalk, personal washing things, and a small bundle belonging to the lady’s attendant."

He turned the page over.

"That is all."

"No baggage wagon? No personal chests?"

"None, Your Grace."

Her muddy Southern shoes were answer enough.

"Winter clothing?"

"Nothing beyond what she is wearing."

Daric rubbed ash from the edge of his glove.

"Apparently Valence disagrees with the usual meaning of permanent marriage."

Raigoro took the inventory.

If Odran had truly expected Selena to leave Valence forever, there should have been trunks.

There should have been winter clothing, personal papers, familiar possessions, and servants from Selena’s own household. Probably more dresses than Raigoro considered reasonable for any one person to own.

Instead Odran had sent his supposed heir north with one traveling dress, one cloak, Southern shoes, and almost nothing that suggested she was expected to remain there.

He had even tried to keep Alma.

Raigoro looked across the yard at his wife.

A hurried wedding explained poor preparation. It did not explain packing a permanent bride as though she were leaving for a short visit.

"Who sells clothing nearby?"

The quartermaster blinked.

"There are cloth merchants in the lower settlement. The station stores keep winter coats and boots, but nothing suitable for court."

"I did not ask for court clothing."

"No, Your Grace."

"Bring the best winter clothing that can be altered to fit her before we leave."

"How many pieces?"

The quartermaster reconsidered.

"The merchants will have different qualities."

"Bring the best available."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The man hurried away.

Daric waited until he was out of hearing.

"You have read the embassy reports about Selena’s wardrobe."

"Unfortunately."

One report had devoted half a page to imported silk she wore to a summer reception. Raigoro still did not understand why anyone at the embassy had considered the information worth preserving.

"You may discover the Southern definition of best exceeds what a border settlement keeps on hand," Daric said.

"Then she will survive disappointment."

Daric said nothing.

They spent the next hour with the station officers.

The wounded would travel in the protected center once the convoy moved again. Two additional scouts would remain with the bride’s carriage. The station would send fresh riders behind them to watch for anyone following from the border.

When Raigoro left the command room, lamps had been lit across the yard.

The lower settlement had answered the quartermaster’s summons generously.

Too generously.

A station steward supervised two merchants, a seamstress, and three servants carrying folded wool, lined coats, boots, gloves, stockings, and several dresses toward the guest quarters.

Raigoro looked at the procession.

"I asked for clothing."

The steward bowed.

"This is clothing, Your Grace."

"Why are there six pairs of boots?"

"The merchants disagreed on the Duchess’s size."

Daric turned his face away.

Raigoro suspected the station had discovered a new form of entertainment.

"Keep what fits. Return the rest."

The steward hesitated.

"And the fur-lined riding cloak?"

"Will it keep her warm?"

"Yes."

"Then keep it."

They entered the station’s private guest room.

His wife sat near the hearth with Alma beside her. Someone had cleaned the blood from her hands, and her injured palm had been wrapped again.

A healer had left Eren’s treatment instructions on the table.

The bride was reading them carefully enough to stop at the healer’s notes on fever and wound cleaning.

The servants began placing the purchases across the bed and chairs.

His wife looked from one bundle to the next.

Another servant entered carrying boots.

Her attention moved to Raigoro.

The seamstress opened a deep blue winter coat lined with dark fur.

The bride touched the sleeve carefully, then looked toward the remaining clothes.

The station steward cleared his throat.

"There are finer fabrics farther north, Your Grace. These are only what the settlement could provide tonight."

Her hand left the coat.

Raigoro remembered the embassy report about imported silk.

"Is there anything better in the merchants’ reserve stock?"

The steward glanced toward the doorway.

"I can send again."

His wife turned sharply toward Raigoro.

"Bring whatever they held back because they assumed the price was too high."

The steward bowed.

The bride stared at him.

She took up her slate with considerably more urgency than she had shown during dinner.

Raigoro waited while she wrote.

Then she turned it toward him.

THIS IS TOO MUCH.