The Immortal Chronicles | | b o o k 2

29. insanity

There wasn't even a sliver of annoyance at the act now that Cirian understood Renée perfectly. She even turned to him expectantly, as if waiting for him to give her "that look" and she'd get to scoff and say, "Don't give me that look, Cirian. You know I always have to say goodbye to the guards."

She settled back into her seat with a sigh before rousing to fetch a book from her travel bag. "So your father convinced you to go back to Anjour?" she said, a bit accusingly. When she looked up from her book to assess his silence, he was staring at her in shock. "What is it?"

"No, he did not. That would be the smart idea, certainly, but I can't exactly call myself exceedingly brilliant at the moment," he said. "Besides, your friends are already expecting you. We can't keep them waiting. Now hand me my book—I might as well finish King Baldwin II's biography before we get there."

She let out a startled laugh that turned into jubilant giggling. She playfully pushed his arm as she handed him the novel, saying he best finish it soon so she could have a look at it afterward. A smile spread across his lips, mirroring the giddy joy she felt then. After a moment of silence, she pulled her sword closer to her side so it wouldn't fall when she leaned over and met him halfway in a chaste kiss. "To finding your father," she said.

"To finding my father."

. . .

Damunt's capital, Regnum, was a long haul from Everfall. It sat on the western coast of the continent, a short ship-ride away from Procella. Cirian estimated a journey to amount to nothing shorter than a week, nonstop except for the periods when Cirian insisted with their coachmen to switch places once in a while. Renée joined Cirian at the wheel, proclaiming that she wanted to "feel the sunlight" on her skin. For the most part, she read and fiddled with the pommel of her sword.

Her eyes flitted here and there and often landed on him throughout their journey. He'd catch her looking at him from over the pages of her novel, and she'd grown bold enough to lean against him even when she wasn't exhausted. When the sun dipped below the horizon, they would stop at the nearest town or city and stay the night in hostels that had vacancies. More often than not Renée slept in her traveling gear, whether it be a loose floor-length dress or riding pants and a uniform shirt. Many times she never said a word after eating, because she plummeted into the bed and slept, snoring softly through the night. Cirian found it to be both endearing and irritating. Half the time she looked at him in the carriage, he mistook it as that mischievous minx who flirted with the guards or flounced her way around the palace.

On the fourth night, they paused a little more than halfway through their journey to lay a picnic out on the countryside. The air was cool and sweet, with the remaining sprinkles of honeysuckle in the air. Their coachmen, Markus, laid out a padded blanket from the back of the carriage as Renée stood alongside him, her shawl tugged around the vest covering her pinched torso.

"Markus," she started, catching his attention as he rose from straightening the blanket out. "Do you ever wonder why it's so warm up here this late in the year?"

He squinted at her before turning his eyes upward. Cirian watched from afar, his hand reaching for the picnic supplies in the carriage. The man ran a hand through his long blonde hair and at last said, "Seems to be the sun, m'lady."

"Seems so," she commented. "I always wondered if it was location. The south is so cold in the fall."

"That too, m'lady."

"Oh, don't call me that, Markus. You know me well enough," she chastised, playfully flicking him with the tassels of her shawl. He grinned, nearing laughter as Cirian strode up with the basket in hand. The coachmen cleared his throat and smothered his smile, which only seemed to make Renée laugh.