Read Online The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) by Victoria Grefer - Free Book Online Page A

heartfelt.
Now go, before I decide I can’t permit you.”

 
 
    Some minutes
later, bag in hand, Vane walked the high street of Partsvale. The area had
always been one of his favorites in Herezoth. It lay a fortnight’s journey from
the capital, but his magic allowed him to frequent the village as often as he
chose, and he regularly went there for quiet, to put aside the obligations that
tied him to Podrar and to the court.
    That was not
the motive for this visit, and Vane worried, among other things, that the day’s
tasks would forever taint his memories of and fondness for Partsvale. At least
the scene was as picturesque as ever; to the north, the peaks of one of the
highest sections of the Pearl Mountains reared. Behind him, at the foot of the
winding cobblestone road, stood the famous Shrine of the Giver with its
steeples and towers, its windows as wide as ten men.
    The path’s
incline was steep, and Vane found breathing difficult by the time he recognized
the bakery amidst the similar-looking shops clustered near it. They were housed
in what could have been wooden cabins, most two stories tall. The smell of
fresh bread drew Vane’s attention to the building he sought as much as the sign
out front, and the pleasant, saliva-inducing scent made him unexpectedly, but
gladly, hungry. He had hardly slept and had not eaten in twelve hours.
    Vane knew
the high street, but had never patronized the bakery. He had never met his
fellow spy, Ryne Howar, and he found himself wishing the man were a previous
acquaintance as he quickened his pace and entered Howar’s shop.
    The stoves
were in the back, out of sight behind a pair of swinging doors, but loaves of
various shapes and sizes were on display in a glass-fronted case against the
wall. Two men in flour-stained aprons were attending a small crowd of
customers, mostly women in work frocks. Wooden chairs lined a wall, but none
was occupied. As Vane watched the bakers move from person to person, he guessed
which must be Ryne Howar: the other was no older than twenty, with acne on his
nose and chin.
    Howar was a
well-built man of forty, perhaps. He was bald, as Gratton had described, with a
baritone voice and an impish gleam in his eye to negate the characteristics
that would otherwise have made him quite the imposing figure. As he maneuvered
through his clientele in Vane’s direction, Howar asked, “What’ll you have
today? Got some larger loaves to make a mouth water.”
    Vane feigned
annoyance, an annoyance deliberately exaggerated. “Well, that’s just grand. You
don’t know me? You send all the way to Podrar for me, and don’t recognize your
cousin?” He raised his bag to face level. “This didn’t clue you in?”
    Howar’s mind
was sharp. He looked confused for a fraction of a second, and then
understanding lit his face. Vane said, “I’m Rickard, you oaf.” Common name.
Wouldn’t draw attention or be remembered. “You forget you wrote for me, or
what?”
    Howar hugged
the stranger before him as though the man were family. As he did so, he
transferred flour from his apron to Vane’s shirt and whispered, “Ingleton?”
    “Yes,” Vane
whispered back. “Play along.”
    Howar let
out a natural-sounding chuckle as he slapped Vane on the spine. “What do you
expect? It’s been twelve years.”
    “Thirteen,”
Vane pretended to correct him. “If you want to be precise. I met up with a man on
the road who lives near here, and he put me up for the night. Didn’t want to
trouble him for longer.”
    “As you can
see, this isn’t the time of day to catch up. I don’t imagine you’ve eaten this
morning?” Vane said he hadn’t, and Howar fetched one of the smaller loaves from
the case for him. Handing it to the duke, he said, “Busy at the moment….
Business is booming, as they say.”
    Vane glanced
at the crowd surrounding him. “Glad to see it. Very glad.”
    Howar slapped
him on the back again. “Come back around two. Things slow down then.