Free The Runaway King by Jennifer A. Nielsen Page B

passed a small room that looked like his office. He led me from there to a modest dining room where a servant was already waiting with a platter of fresh-baked bread and a bottle of milk.
    “We don’t eat fancy here, but you’re so thin I doubt you eat much at all,” Harlowe said.
    “Not lately.” But the bread smelled good, and for the first time since I’d been made king, I was hungry.
    “Forgive me for leaving you alone, but I must check on Nila,” Harlowe said. “I’ll be back before you’re finished.”
    True to his word, Harlowe returned to the dining room as I was downing my third cup of milk. He smiled, obviously pleased that I had enjoyed the food, and then sat across the table from me. I slouched when he looked me over. Now was not the time to be impressive.
    He studied me a moment before speaking. “Nila’s father — Mathis — was my son. Stubborn boy, always had to do things his own way, no matter how foolish. I loved him and begged him not to leave Libeth.” He pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest, bearing the marks of age and use, but no doubt invaluable to him. “When Mathis left two years ago, he gave this to me. He told me that where he was going, he’d know the time of day by the sun overhead.”
    I had stopped eating while he spoke. There was so much sadness on his face, but in it was a resolution to carry forward. He looked the way I had felt when I found out about my family’s deaths. I said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent your son’s death. I didn’t know what was happening here.”
    He tilted his head, unsure of my full meaning, then said, “Forgive me for prying, but you’re obviously a stranger to these parts. What were you doing out there so late at night?”
    “Just passing through.”
    “Are you Avenian?”
    “No.”
    “Are you a thief?” I hesitated, then he shook his head. “You’re not. Those clothes you wear suggest it, but your nails are too clean, your hair is trimmed, and if I may say, you don’t smell like a thief. You’ve bathed recently.”
    The last thing I wanted was to make the conversation about me. “Is Nila all right?”
    “She’s mourning, but with time and care I believe she’ll pull through.” His eyes moistened and he added, “You saved her life.” I started to shake my head but he said, “No, you did. She told me the whole story. You fought all those men off on your own.”
    “They weren’t much for opponents,” I said, forcing an expression calmer than I felt. How was it possible to feel so at home and so uncomfortable at the same time? I set my napkin on the table and stood. “Thank you for the meal, but I really must go.”
    “That’s fresh blood on your shirt.” Harlowe rose from his chair and called for a servant to enter. Then without even asking, he walked to me and lifted my shirt, revealing a long cut across my stomach. “You got this in that fight?”
    I backed up and pulled the shirt down, which did little good since the shirt was also cut. “It’s only a scratch.”
    “Scratches don’t bleed like that.”
    The servant entered and Harlowe directed him to get a bandage and some alcohol. I groaned. Wherever they were, the devils must be laughing. In repayment for my good deed, I was yet again to be treated to far greater pain than any wound could cause.
    “Take him to the guest bedroom and bandage him up. He may rest there as long as he wishes, and then we’ll provide him with some more appropriate clothes.”
    I objected, but it was pointless. Harlowe’s servant pulled me out of the room, and as exhausted as I was, there wasn’t enough in me to resist.
    I insisted on removing my own shirt before the servant cleaned the wound, then lay on the bed so he couldn’t see the scars on my back. My preference would have been to keep the shirt on, but it was stained with my blood and the blood of Nila’s mother, so until it could be washed it was completely unusable.
    In a vain attempt to distract myself, I