Promise the Sky

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Keenan

 

 

 

My father's note remains scrunched up in my hand, captured tight beneath white knuckles, as if my own pent-up fury might somehow change the world. It has been this way since we left Harborne, and I have gone back to repeating myself, stuck  on an endless reel of the same thought.

This is the wrong way. The wrong way. The wrong way.

The wagons trundle forlornly along the road, and the sound is almost as dejected as I. The Steppes lie ahead, and then the mountains, and all I have for company are four horses, two wagon drivers, and a manservant whose name I have no desire to remember because whenever I look at him, all I can think is 'Snooty'.

No girl was more important than war, and no friendship either. I never had the opportunity to make peace with Will, though what I might have said, I have no idea.

And I am going the wrong way. The wrong way.

My stomach clenches unhappily, to think of Kiara, to think how lost she may be, how humiliated, how alone. And all at my own hand. It pains me, it worries me, and though I can do nothing about it, no force in this world could stop me thinking it.

Keenan Nottinghan is a child, I muse and catch sight of the parchment in my fist. How am I supposed to soothe the tensions of countries, in a land I have never seen, when I cannot even soothe my own tumbling heart?

Snooty's horse sidesteps towards my own and I treat the man to an expression no one of lower birth than I could pull off. Snooty is well trained, and aged, and meant to know enough about this diplomacy thing to help me through though, so my displeasure does not affect him in the slightest. It only makes me dislike him more.

"Master Nottinghan," he drawls, "there is a rider approaching, and fast."

I roll my head over my shoulder, taking in the dust on the horizon.

"What do I care?" I ask.

Snooty sighs.

"Please, young sir, I implore you towards enthusiasm. It is important that you hold yourself with dignity, and treat all matters in the most conscientious manner. You must create both an image and a reputation and we haven't the time for correcting mistakes."

Only one thing matters, and it is not this presumptuous little man with his powdered wig and scornful voice. It is not any rider either, no matter how fast he approaches. It is that we are going the wrong way, and that no matter how hard I try, I cannot remove from my treacherous mind the sensation of a delicate hand in my own.

"We are barely an hour from Harborne." I reply, as dry as my passionless companion, "He could be going anywhere, for anyone, and he is perfectly entitled to any speed he desires. What kind of enthusiasm had you hoped for?"

Snooty raises an eyebrow, looks over his shoulder one last time, and drifts away.

"My apologies, Master Keenan, I was of the impression that Hugo Laureate, Noble son, was someone with whom you participated in active friendship." He mutters, disappearing behind one of the wagons, "Apparently I was mistaken."

I scowl, hissing silent profanities. It does not escape me, the change from Master Nottinghan to Master Keenan, and I hope to the gods that this does not dictate the dynamics of my relationship with the man. Because, whatever test was hidden beneath this little discussion, I am almost certain I just failed it.