Page 143 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan shook his head, though a faint smile touched his mouth. “If my absence wouldn’t trigger a season of political tantrums, I’d gladly miss it.”

“You’d best leave now or you will miss it,” Garric said. “There’s little we can do while the rains hold. We’ll plan Alewyn’s fall while you’re gone.”

“And send our regards to the young duchess,” Cairon added with a knowing smile.

Duncan finally allowed his thoughts to follow the pull that had tugged at him all day.

Kora. Every hour away from her had been tenfold worse than any wound he had taken in battle.

Her letters assured him she was well, that she had parted from Yaoaya and reached Vaelstrom safely. Isander guarded her constantly, she wrote. But ink and parchment were not the same as seeing her alive and well with his own eyes. He would not breathe fully until then.

Duncan gave a grateful nod, swept up his pack, and nearly vaulted the stairs to open air. Then he rode like a thought with nothing between it and its destination but distance, stopping only to change mounts at wayhouses. Soldiers jolted at the sight of his signet, stumbling out to tighten girths, press water into his hand. He drank and rode on before the cup touched the table again.

On the third afternoon he reached Vaelstrom to Basilica bells already ringing.

He had missed the vows.

Cursing under his breath, Duncan went straight to Valestra, to the derWhitte townhouse. He washed quickly, shaved his unruly beard, traded travel leathers for formal dress, jumped into the waiting carriage, and made for the reception at Vaelstrom Palace.

Only when he crossed the palace courtyard and paused at the threshold did something simple strike him: he had climbed into that carriage without a flicker of hesitation.

He had been thinking of Kora instead.

The thought made him smile. There was nothing on Oraith, or beyond it, that could keep him from her now. He pushed through the ballroom doors without waiting to be announced.

The contrast between war and merriment jarred him at first. Music drifted from the gallery where lutes and flutes played a courtly reel. Nobles swirled in silk and damask, laughter rising with the familiar din of spectacle meant to remind all present who held power and who wished they did.

Then all he did was search. Splendor turned on its heedless axis, entirely unaware that Duncan derWhitte, Duke of Lemierre, cared for none of it. He endured every interaction with the patience of a man who had weathered sieges more pleasant, looking only for a pair of green eyes more precious than any throne or gem in the room.

“Lemierre!”

Sabine derKyral burst from the crowd like a cork from a bottle: wine-red silks, too many rings, the confidence of someone who believed himself an event. He bowed so deeply Duncan had to step back to avoid collision. “How splendid you could join us, Your Grace,” he trilled. “We had word you were at the border. Kryovarre troubles you still, I hear?”

“Less than before, Lord Sabine,” Duncan replied. He skimmed the room and caught Valdir’s dark eyes for a heartbeat. The interruption pushed impatience toward irritation.

“And Norrelia?” Sabine lowered his voice eagerly. “Rumor says you have seen the northern fae kingdom with your own eyes. I should very much like to hear your impressions.”

“Colder than the maps suggest,” Duncan said dryly. “Less interesting than rumor paints.”

“Your Grace.”

The Moonfather approached with the gravitas reserved for clergy and ancient trees, ceremonial robes trailing behind him like swept moonlight.

Duncan bowed low and spoke through clenched teeth. “Moonfather Gregyor.”

“You have my gratitude,” Gregyor said, palm over his heart. “For the marble you sent from Lemierre’s grounds. A rare alignment for a sacred relic.”

“I am pleased it will serve your order,” Duncan answered, attention already drifting.

“Our order,” the moonpriest murmured. “May the moons shine light on your path.”

Duncan thanked him before another blessing could catch him in the wider Sanctum net and slipped away with a final bow. Only for Deanna derHuin to materialize in his path from a ripple of velvet.

“Your Grace,” she said, fluttering her pretty lashes. She dipped into a curated curtsy that sent a lock of blonde hair over her bare shoulder. “What a radiant day to bind Vaelclair and Duskmere. Though, how tragic you missed the vows.”

“I regret the delay,” he said, bowing over her extended hand to place a chaste kiss.

“Oh, but duty calls us all.” Her fan brushed his wrist in a gesture too practiced to be accidental. “I have always admired a man who divides his time so well. War on one front. Diplomacy on another. And still, leisure for training. Quite the balance.”