Rinnet of King's Helm (COMPLETED)

Chapter Twenty-nine

The fighting up north was minimal. Yurovin waited long days in the rain, barely focused on keeping watch or commanding his unit. Irya left him in charge, spending most of her time in the tent strategizing, but he still felt her presence prickling on the back of his neck. Half the time, it was all he could think about. The other half he spent worrying about Distya.

He still didn't see the point in her plan. Her need for vengeance, he understood, but at such a high cost?

It was not like her. Yurovin knew her dedication, her level-headedness. She'd stood in the face of death often as a rider, and it never once fazed her. Something had changed.

And it wasn't just her. He observed the other riders during the foggy days near the border, and they seemed different too. Less certain, maybe. When he gave orders, they looked at him, then furtively at the tent, as if expecting Irya to come out and counter him. In the end they'd do what he said, though he often saw the riders whispering among themselves.

He heard Distya's name in these whispers.

***

Having nowhere to stay and despising the thought of the closed-in streets, Rinnet retreated to the southern edge of Villotta that evening. She went on foot, leaving the stolen horse to wander away or, most likely, get stolen by someone else. For a few days, Rinnet wanted to attract as little attention as possible.

Her eagerness to return to the city crept over her. She couldn't stop grinding her teeth, and her hands twitched uncontrollably, sometimes so much it hindered her activities. It might have irritated her, but she steeped her mind deep in planning and hardly noticed.

In the evening, she laid her knives out in front of her on the ground, her warm northern cloak between them and the ground. She counted them over and over, saying the numbers under her breath. One, two, three. Three. Three. Like a missing limb, the absence of the fourth blade still ached. But three was enough. She'd worry about the fourth after the queen was dead.

Still muttering to herself, Rinnet unrolled the belt she'd taken from the chemist's shop. It had loops for the knives and, unlike her old one, a metal buckle. She opened the clasp, ran her fingers over the metal pin that held it all together. It clacked as she tapped it against the buckle's frame.

Her hands jerked. She balled them into fists, then drummed her fingertips on the belt's hardened leather. Waiting—patience—was the hardest part.

She took her favorite knife and started scraping it against the buckle's metal pin. Distracted, she looked out over the city as its sea of domed buildings glowed red and gold with the sunset.

***

Walking in the busier parts of Villotta, Distya jumped at every shout, every crash of hooves that could be a Guardsman coming to arrest her. She cringed when Tregan pointed out her obvious tension.

"I can't help it," she said quietly. "I'm not used to being this helpless. Usually when I'm surrounded by enemies, I have armor and a sword. Now?" She tugged at the ends of the scarf. "I have a square of cloth and the hope that people don't look too close."

"They won't," Tregan said, running a hand through his curls. "If you're not high nobility or the queen herself, no one will spare you half a glance."

"I hope you're right," Distya muttered, still keeping her head low and her eyes keen. She watched a young girl, her hair so dirty it looked gray instead of red, swipe a gold pin from a passerby's pocket and run off. The man didn't blink. The streets were so busy—not crowded this early, but in constant motion—how could he notice one droplet of water in a river of happenings?