Rhosyn paused, her sudden stop a dull thud of her heels barely muffled by the carpet. The voice rang out clear and distinct, very much like Dowly's.
Two figures shifted and she knew they'd heard her. The duke stepped out of the darkened alcove first, the young Dowly shadowing the tall man.
"May I help you, My Lady?" Duke Karsyn asked, all gentlemanly, his northern tone disarmingly charming.
But Rhosyn knew the kind of man Karsyn was. She'd spent the entirety of last season running around Aramor cleaning up after his schemes.
Everything was a performance, a display of power or lack thereof and Rhosyn knew how to play her part.
"Oh my." She feigned being startled, her hand clutching her chest as if to still her racing heart.
Dowly looked concerned, worried about her—good. It reinforced what she believed about him, that he was just some young man who cared for a young woman. Karsyn on the other hand didn't seem fazed. His eyes studied, delved deeper, looking for the pounding of her heart and gasping of her lungs, as if unconvinced until he saw proof.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I didn't see you there—it was too dark," Rhosyn dipped into a simple curtsy.
Karsyn was quiet for a moment too long—he was thinking.
"I'll take my leave," Rhosyn rushed the words, not caring for etiquette. If the duke was thinking, he was likely scheming and she'd already gained the information she needed from following Dowly.
She turned and before she could take a step—
"Where are you going, My Lady?" Karsyn questioned, the words anchoring her to the spot. "It's dark and the lamplighters haven't made their rounds yet—you don't know who could be around the next bend."
She couldn't believe how he'd outright threatened her and then she saw it, the malice in his eyes.
"My knight won't be far behind," Rhosyn bit back.
She couldn't let him intimidate her, she would not shrink for him, even if it'll lend to the illusion of her being a weak woman. Not for him. His men tried to kill her and when that failed, they tried to capture her. But she wasn't going back there. Not to become another hostage for sale.
He deliberately lazily glanced over her shoulder, as if waiting for Sir Caerwyn to appear any moment now. But the catacombs of corridors remained quiet.
"I'm just going to the chapel before retiring."
His eyes slid back to hers. If he noticed her harsh tone he wasn't rising to it. Instead glanced the way she's facing—down the repetitive hallway that junctions off in two different directions, dusk clinging to the inner halls.
"I'll escort you then," he decided easily, as if ordering breakfast or purchasing an expensive art piece. It was as if his mind was made up and the universe would wrap itself around him.
"I don't need an escort—I can look after myself," Rhosyn dismissed his offer, already starting down the padded hallway.
"I'm sure you can, My Lady." Karsyn fell into step beside her, much to her irritation. He flashed her a look over his shoulder, he was half a step ahead of her. "I take it you're armed as usual?"
Reactively she glanced down at her right calf. Her walk wasn't hindered by it, she'd long since learned how to move as if it wasn't there—the leather strap an unusual comfort now, leaving her feeling naked when she didn't wear it. But how did he know she had a weapon, or was it another threat, another way to intimidate her.
"Is there a reason I should be, Your Grace?"
"Not from me, Lady Valewyn," he said her name carefully, his accent husky, clipping a few of the letters. It was the first time hearing it said so deliberately, as if he'd been waiting to say it—to reveal he knew who she was without introduction.
"I sent you a letter saying as such don't you remember?" his pleasant tone piquing at his question.
She did. But it didn't ease the tension that sat between them. He'd admitted the Northern Bloc's hand in the attempt on her life and yet he walked beside her as if they were on the same side.
Karsyn looked down at her as they walked, waiting for her reply. He seemed unbothered, bored by her presence let alone the subject. But then she noticed harshness in his eyes, the slight strain in his jaw. He was angry about something and he couldn't entirely keep it from showing. It showed in the slow, deep and deliberate rise and fall of his chest.
"I got your letter," Rhosyn answered, each step they took a beat drumming the tension—this was just another dance at the ball. "But why should I believe it?"
"Because murder is against the law."
"So is disobeying your sovereign king," she sniped back.
"And which is worse?" He was quick, speaking already before she'd finished.
He was like steel—unbending.
"Both—they are both crimes."
"What if your king commanded you to kill another?" Karsyn stopped and Rhosyn found herself following his lead.
She had no answer and he could see it—the two contradicted each other. Murder was evil, but refusing the divine right of the king was just as evil.
He hummed, a short punctuation to conclude the conversation. Lips curled unimpressed, judgement dripping from him.
"Well, goodnight, Lady Valewyn—I pray you find your knight." Karsyn began to turn away.
"You pray, Your Grace?"
"Yes, and to the same God—before you think any less of us northerners." He glanced at the intricately designed chapel doors, of rich wood and painted glass. "We just choose not to waste time lavishing a room for confessions and whispered words."
When he noticed her questioning eyes lingering on him he continued.
"We believe the temple is yourself and that you should maintain it to the best of your ability to honour God. And that God is omnipresent, he doesn't need a dedicated room for conversations of the soul."
"So, you pray anywhere?"
"In a battlefield, bed, ballroom—yes."
Rhosyn's gaze flicked to the chapel doors and back to him. "A room within yourself..." The notion was a curious thing. "Do you enrich it in any way, or is it an empty space?" she said, aiming for light and landing somewhere nearer unsettled.
Faith worn without marble or gold. A God who didn't need kings.
"It depends on how you serve God," he replied, as if it were obvious. He inclined his head in a gesture almost courtly. "Goodnight, Lady Valewyn."
His cloak whispered over the carpet as he turned away, the silver raven at his shoulder catching a last scrap of lamplight before the corridor and shadows swallowed him.
Silence rushed back in his wake. Rhosyn let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding and pressed her fingers into the smooth stone hidden in her pocket until its edges bit half-moons into her skin. The pebble had kept her alive in the forest; tonight, foolishly, she wanted it to steady her against thoughts of northern dukes and treacherous kings.
"In a battlefield, bed, ballroom," she murmured, testing his words under her breath. Perhaps she'd been fighting on all three without realising. They all seemed to bow and twist into one another. On parchment, in her dreams and now in the courtrooms.
She touched two fingers briefly to the cool chapel door. She was tired and derailed. Thoughts wouldn't connect and when they did, she hated how they did.
Instead, she turned her back and headed for her room. God would follow, she was sure.