Chapter 36 Part I-2

The guard pulled his eyes back into their sockets and moved aside. He must have been given her name. Sam nodded her thanks and stepped past him into the tower—then immediately wished she hadn’t. Four men sat around an oak refectory table. Sander sat at the head of the table, Tristan sat on his left; the back of a silver head could only be Braeden, and… “Father,” she said. The Duke of Haywood rose from his seat. “Samantha.” His gaze roamed over her, taking in her boyish attire. “You look well.” Sam’s eyes moved from her father to Tristan, to Braeden, and finally to Sander. Had they conspired to send her packing? Why else would the Duke of Haywood sit so casually at their table? It did not surprise her to see her father with Tristan, but Braeden? A month ago, she would not have believed Braeden capable of such a thing, but perhaps he’d had enough of her. Addressing the three of them, she said, “There are less cruel ways to get rid of me. I did not know any of you to be cruel men.” She turned and headed for the doorway. She would not cry, not in front of them. She would gather what coin she could scrounge up, pack up her belongings, and go…go…go where? Her shoulders slumped. The world had no want of a woman warrior. “Sam, wait.” The voice was her father’s, but he never called her Sam. “I did not come here to force you to return to Haywood." Sam turned back toward him. “No? Then why did you come?” “I came to meet with Sander Branimir.” An ugly laugh broke from her lips. “I am a fool. Of course you did not come to Luca for my sake. What a monumental waste of time and effort that would have been, Your Grace.” “Sam,” her father said tightly. “Compose yourself. We will talk of this later.” She dropped into a mocking curtsy, the movement made awkward by her lack of skirts. “Forgive me, Your Grace. How dare I air our family drama so publicly? Sander, I do hope you weren’t planning to use me as leverage in your business negotiations with the Duke. His Grace doesn’t give a fig about me, you see.” “Quiet!” the Duke of Haywood shouted. “How self-righteous you are, you who let me believe my own flesh and blood was dead!” Sam jeered at him. “Flesh and blood means nothing more to you than insurance for the family line. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you by leaving.” The Duke’s face paled to white. “Is that really what you believe of me?” he asked quietly. Sam said nothing. He closed his eyes. “Then I have failed you as a father.” He straightened, as if remembering himself, and returned to his seat by Sander’s side. Sander pushed back from the table. “Sam, would you take a seat? I did not ask you here for underhanded reasons. Had I realized the enmity between you and your father—” he smiled apologetically at the Duke—“I would have forewarned you he would be here.” And now, it was Sam who remembered herself. “I was out of line.” She should have been stoic in front of Sander and let the cards fall where they may before rushing to judgment. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. “I would hear what you have to say.” Sam took the seat next to Tristan, positioned directly across from Braeden. His head was bowed, so she saw only the silver top of his hair. Look at me, she willed. He did not. It was worse than not seeing him at all. Playing the good host, Sander filled five pewter goblets with red wine and set them in front of each of his guests before reclaiming his spot at the head of the table. He took a long sip, cupping his drink with both hands. “I need the liquid courage,” he said with a self-deprecating grimace, “for it is not easy tidings I bear.” He ran his finger along the rim of his goblet. “War is coming. It is an inevitability, and one I can forestall no longer. I must find allies where I can.” “You want Haywood’s aid,” stated the Duke. “What war would you have us fight?” “A war you will have to fight, one way or the other,” Sander said. “When the time comes to choose a side, I ask that you choose mine.” The Duke of Haywood sighed. “Must you always speak in riddles, Branimir? Speak plainly, man.” Sam’s brows drew to a point. The Duke spoke to Sander with far too much familiarity for a first acquaintance. “Do you two know each other?” she asked. Her father cut her a glance. “I am a politician, Samantha. I make a business of knowing men of import. Of course I would know the Earl of Luca.” “The Earl of Luca? You told me you were no aristocrat,” Tristan interjected. Sander waved his hand. “The title is purely incidental. When the old Earl died, he left no heirs, so the title defaulted to me by marriage. It’s a formality I seldom use.” “Then Luca is yours to rule by right,” Tristan said wonderingly. “I had thought you an interloper. The High Commander is mad to have ordered your capture. It’s akin to declaring civil war.” Realization dawned across his features. “Oh.” Sander raised his drink. “Precisely,” he said. “The High Commander of the Paladins has declared open war against Luca, the Uriel, and any who sympathize with our cause.” He gestured with his goblet at Sam, Braeden and Tristan. “You three have officially been named traitors, by the by.”