Brenna could go nowhere without the passel of guards assigned to her by General Rydon. They followed in her wake, swords and guns at the ready, eyes darting left and right with such speed that she wondered how they didn't get too dizzy to walk. Outside they grew especially agitated, never stopping their constant scans of the surroundings. Their high strung intensity served to make Brenna feel nervous herself, and it drove her insane that she couldn't escape their careful watch.

She'd chosen Hannara to be her companion on the short walk around the grounds that morning, but she was beginning to think it a mistake. Hannara was nice enough, but her conversation left a lot to be desired. She tried so hard to avoid any mention of the rebels or Robbin's absence that it only accentuated the guards roaming behind them.

"My mother was thinking of maybe holding a dance to lighten everyone's moods. You know, so that we aren't all thinking about... things that aren't-" She sputtered to a stop and frantically searched out something safer. "Oh, isn't that bunch of wildflowers so lovely!"

Brenna fought not to rub the ache between her eyes, and forced a weary smile to her lips. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the castle, wondering if she'd hate herself for trying to get rid of Hannara by cutting short her one reprieve. Unfortunately, inside held its own difficulties, with General Rydon and General Cooke bickering about how to handle the most recent occurrence of rebel vandalism, and the ladies of the court going into near hysterics of worry over every tiny thing they could imagine. Brenna suspected their shows of fainting and weeping were clever ploys to catch the attention of the new influx of soldiers that were posted at the castle, but she couldn't prove it.

At any rate, she was desperate for some good news. Robbin had been gone two weeks, and not a word from him. She knew any letters he sent probably wouldn't reach the castle before he came home, but she still hoped he'd send her one. Or, even better, that he'd return triumphant and take one worry off their already overflowing plate.

Hannara stopped suddenly, and since their arms were linked Brenna came to a stop as well. Brenna didn't think anything of it, assuming her companion had spotted more wildflowers.

"Is that a horse?" Hannara asked, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. "It looks a bit like a horse."

Brenna's eyebrows drew together and she tried to follow Hannara's pointing finger. "What would a horse be doing out here?"

"Oh! I think it's dragging something!" Hannara yelped.

Indeed, the horse did look as if it were hauling something behind it. Not a cart or a plow, but something smaller and thin. The horse looked nervous and frightened, wandering the field in the distance with no real direction. Brenna glanced to Hannara and gently pulled her arm free.

"I'm going to go see," she said.

"Your highness, I cannot let you," one of the guards said, stepping forward. "It could be something from the rebels. Let one of us go before-"

He didn't even finish before Brenna dashed off. The yells of her dozen guards followed her, but she ignored them. This was the first exciting thing to happen in forever, and Brenna didn't even care if it was a rebel trap. At least getting blown up or shot would be more exciting than talking to Hannara and lugging around stern soldiers.

As she drew near the horse, it whickered and sidestepped away. Immediately, she could see its burden was a body with one leg tangled in the reins. It was twisted to one side so that all she could see was light hair covered in dirt. She took a step closer, squinting her eyes to make out the thin embossment on the body's chestplate.

When she realized it was the crest of Anjeluund, and that parts of the metal peeled back to reveal a hole through the man's back, her heart stopped. Suddenly she knew. She just knew this was Robbin.

Dropping to her knees by his side, she flipped him over. His face, bruised and filthy, was pale. Blood drenched the front of his breastplate where another hole pierced the metal.

Choking on her own breath, Brenna fumbled with her fingers on the underside of Robbin's jaw, frantically searching for signs of life.

"Come on, Robbin. Please don't be dead," she muttered.

The path of what ifs that presented itself to her when she even touched on the idea that he could be dead and gone was too terrible and vast for her to settle on for long. So instead she searched only harder for a pulse, her own heart quickening with every silent second that passed by.

Leaning in close, she pressed her forehead against his, not feeling any breath from his lips but hoping against hope she could find a small flicker of a pulse. Anything that would save her from the world that Morna had fallen into as a widow of the king.

There, a flutter of a beat against her fingertips. Relief burst in her stomach, her muscles relaxing as she breathed shakily once again. "Oh, thank God." Scooping his head up, she rested it on her lap and turned to face the guards and Hannara as they finally caught up to her.

"Send for help!" she shouted. Two guards peeled off and ran toward the castle, while the others surrounded her. Hannara hung back, her skin turning green at the sight of the king sprawled on the grass. Brenna didn't care if Hannara ran off and never returned. She was too busy fumbling at the straps that held Robbin's breastplate in place, pulling them loose and slipping the metal from his chest.

A puddle of blood, previously trapped between metal and skin, flowed freely down his side and into Brenna's skirt. She grimaced at the warmth of it, wanting to scrub it from her skin but knowing she didn't have the luxury of cleanliness at the moment. One of the guards was calming Robbin's horse, but the others were staring in dumbfound muteness, totally useless.

"Does anyone have something I can use to staunch the bleeding?" she asked, pressing her hand over the wound on his front. Blood seeped beneath her fingers, but it was beneath his ribs and mostly clotted by then. Hopefully its position was not grievous.

One of the guards offered her the fabric cap they sometimes wore under their helmets, and she wadded it up to press against the hole under his ribs. Robbin stirred at the pressure, and his eyes slowly blinked open.

"Brenna?" he muttered, his voice weak and raspy.

"Yes, darling, it's me," she answered, unable to fight back the smile that spread across her face. Though she felt horrible thinking it, she was relieved that this was not like Afton. Robbin was talking, Robbin was awake. She was not a widow yet.

His mouth moved again but no sound came out. Instead, his face crumpled and he drew in a breath between his teeth.

"Lay still," Brenna ordered, brushing back the damp hair from his temple. "We're going to have someone come carry you into the castle, and then a doctor will patch you up as right as a Sunday evening."

For once in their time together he did not argue against her, and followed her advice to not move. Except for his hot breath on her hand, she would have thought he once more slipped toward death. While she knew he was alive for now, she still could not still the rapid beat of her heart in her chest. The sooner he was safely in his room, the sooner she would breathe easy.