Rise Of Empire (28 page)

“Your weapons, sir knight.”

“Luret?” Hadrian asked, strapping his swords on.

Royce made a disappointed sound. “Didn’t see him. Didn’t see hardly anyone. These country folk go to bed early.”

“We’re a simple lot.”

“Mouse?” Royce muttered. “I just can’t seem to get rid of this horse, can I?”

Arista discovered riding on the back of a horse was significantly less comfortable than riding in a saddle. Etcher added to her misery by keeping the horse at a trot. The hammering to Arista’s body caused her head to ache. She asked for him to slow down but was ignored. Before long, the animal slowed to a walk on its own. It frothed and Arista could feel its sweat soaking her gown. Etcher kicked the beast until it started again. When the horse once more returned to a walk, Etcher resorted to whipping it with the ends of the reins. He missed and struck Arista hard across the thigh. She yelped, but that was also ignored. Eventually Etcher gave up and let the horse rest. She asked where they were going and why they needed to rush. Still, he said nothing—he never even turned his head. After a mile or two, he drove the animal into a trot once more. He acted as if she was not there.

With each jarring clap on the horse’s back, Arista became increasingly aware of her vulnerability. She was alone with a strange man somewhere in the backwoods of Rhenydd, where any authority of law would seize her rather than him, regardless of what he did. All she knew about him—the only thing she could be certain of—was that he was morally dubious. While it was one thing to trust herself to Royce and Hadrian, it was quite another to leap onto the back of a horse with a stranger who took her off into the wilds. If she had thought about it, if there had been time to think, she might have declined to go, but now it was too late. She rode trusting the mercy of a dangerous man in a hostile land.

His silence did nothing to alleviate her fear. When it came to silence, Etcher put Royce to shame. He said nothing at all. The profession of thievery was not likely to attract gregarious types, but Etcher seemed an extreme case. He even refused to look at her. This was perhaps better than some alternatives. A man such as Etcher was likely acquainted only with sunbaked, easy women in dirty dresses. How appealing must it be to have a young noblewoman clutching to him alone in the wilderness—and a royal princess, at that.

If he attacks me, what can I do?

A good high-pitched scream would draw a dozen armed guards in Essendon Castle, but since leaving Hintindar, she had not seen a house or a light. Even if someone heard her, she would probably spend her life in an imperial prison once her identity was discovered. He could do anything he wanted with her. When he was done, he could either kill her or hand her over to imperial authorities, who would no doubt pay richly. No one would care if he delivered her bruised and bloodied. She regretted her fast escape without taking the time to think. She had nothing to defend herself with. Her small side pouch held only
her father’s hairbrush and a bit of coin. Her dagger was somewhere in the bundle of her bedding.

How long will it take me to find it in the dark?

She sighed.

Why must I always focus on the negative? The man has done nothing at all. So he’s quiet, so what? He’s risking his own life smuggling me to this meeting. He’s nervous, watchful. Perhaps he’s frightened too. Is it so odd he’s not making small talk? I’m just scared, that’s all. Everything looks bad when you’re scared. Isn’t it possible he’s just shy around women? Cautious around noble ladies? Concerned anything he says or does could be misconstrued and lead to dangerous accusations? Obviously he has good cause to be concerned. I’ve already practically convicted him of a host of crimes he hasn’t committed! Royce and Hadrian are honorable thieves. Why not Etcher as well?

The trail disappeared entirely and they rode across unmarked fields of windswept grass. They seemed to be heading toward a vague and distant hill. She spotted some structures silhouetted against the pallid sky. They entered yet another forest, this time through a narrow opening in the dense foliage, where Etcher was content to let the horse walk. Away from the wind it was quiet. Fireflies blinked around them and Arista listened to the clacking steps of their mount.

We’re on a road?

Although it was too dark to see anything clearly, Arista recognized the sound of hooves on cobblestone.

Where are we?

When at last they cleared the trees, she could see the slope of a bald hill where the remains of buildings sat. Giant stones spilled and scattered to the embrace of grass, forming dark heaped ruins of arched doorways and pylons of rock. Like
grave markers, they thrust skyward at neglected angles, the lingering cadavers and bleached bones of forgotten memories.

“What is this place?” Arista asked.

She heard a horse whinny and spotted the glow of a fire up the slope. Without a word, Etcher kicked the horse once more into a trot. Arista took solace in knowing the end of her ordeal was at hand.

Near the top, two men sat huddled amidst the ruins. A campfire flickered, sheltered from the wind by a corner section of weathered stone and rubble. One man was hooded, the other hatless, and immediately Arista thought of Royce and Hadrian.

Did they somehow arrive ahead of us?

As they drew closer, Arista realized she was wrong. These men were younger and both as large as, if not larger than, Hadrian. They stood at the horse’s approach and Arista saw dark shirts, leather tunics, and broadswords hanging from thick belts.

“Running late,” the hooded one said. “Thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“Are you Nationalists?” she asked.

The men hesitated. “Of course,” the other replied.

They approached, and the hooded one helped her down from the horse. His hands were large and powerful. He showed no strain taking her weight. He had two days of beard and smelled of sour milk.

“Is one of you Degan Gaunt?”

“No,” the hooded one replied. “He sent us ahead to see if you were who you said you were. Are you Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar?”

She looked from one face to the next, all harsh expressions. Even Etcher glared at her.

“Well, are you or aren’t you?” he pressed, moving closer.

“Of course she is!” Etcher blurted out. “I have a long ride back, so I want my payment, and don’t try to cheat me.”

“Payment?” Arista asked.

Etcher once more ignored her.

“I don’t think we can pay you for delivery until we know it’s her, and we certainly aren’t taking
your
word for it. She could be a whore from the swill yards of Colnora that you washed and dressed up—and did a piss-poor job of it, at that.”

“She’s pretending to be a commoner and she’s dirty on account of the ride here.”

The hooded man advanced even closer to study her. She backed up instinctively but not fast enough as he grabbed her roughly at the chin and twisted her face from side to side.

Infuriated, she kicked at him and managed to strike his shin.

The man grunted and anger flashed in his eyes. “You bloody little bitch!” He struck her hard across the face with the flat of his hand.

The explosion of pain overwhelmed her. She found herself on her hands and knees, gripping a spinning world with fists full of grass. Her face ached and her eyes watered.

The men laughed.

The humiliation was too much. “How dare you strike me!” she screamed.

“See?” Etcher said, pointing at her.

The hooded man nodded. “All right, we’ll pay you. Danny, give him twenty gold.”

“Twenty? The sentinel agreed to fifty!” Etcher protested.

“Keep your mouth shut or it’ll be ten.”

Arista panted on the ground, her breath coming in short stifled gasps. She was scared and rapidly losing herself to panic. She needed to calm down—to think. Through bleary eyes, she looked at Etcher and his horse. There was no chance of grabbing the animal and riding away. Etcher’s feet were in the stirrups and her weight could never pull him off.

“Guy won’t appreciate you pocketing thirty of the gold he sent with you.”

They laughed. “Who do you really think he’ll believe? You or us?”

Arista considered the fire. She could try to run to it and grab a stick. She concluded she would never make the distance. Even if she did, a stick would be useless against swords. They would only laugh at her.

“Take the twenty and keep your damn mouth shut, or you can ride away with nothing.”

She thought about running.
It’s downhill, and in the dark I could
—
No, I’m not fast enough and the hill has no cover.

Arista would have to make it all the way to the forest before having the slightest hope of getting away, and Etcher could ride after her and drag her back. Afterward, they would beat and tie her, and then all hope would be lost.

“Don’t even think about it, you little git,” the hooded one was saying to Etcher.

Etcher spat in anger. “Give me the twenty.”

The hooded man tossed a pouch that jingled and Etcher caught it with a bitter look.

Arista started to cry. Time was running out. She was helpless and there was nothing at all she could do. For all her royal rank, she could not defend herself. Nor was her education in the art of magic any help. All she could do was make them sneeze and that was not going to save her this time.

Where are Royce and Hadrian? Where is Hilfred? How could I be so stupid, so reckless? Isn’t there anyone to save me?

Not surprisingly, Etcher left without a word to her.

“So this is what a princess looks like?” the hooded one said. “There’s nothing special about you, is there? You look just as dirty as any wench I’ve had.”

“I don’t know,” the other said. “She’s better than I’ve seen. Throw me the rope over there. I wanna enjoy myself, not get scratched up.”

She felt her blood go cold. Her body trembled. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the man set off to fetch the rope.

No man had ever touched her before. No one dared to think in such terms. Doing so would mean death in Melengar. She had no midnight rendezvous, no casual affairs or castle romances. No boy had ever chanced so much as a kiss, but now … She watched as the man with the stubble beard came at her with a length of twine.

If only I’d learned something more useful than tickling noses and boiling water, I could
—

Arista stopped crying. She did not realize it, but she had stopped breathing as well.

Can it work?

There was nothing else to try.

The man grinned expectantly as Arista closed her eyes and began to hum softly.

“Look at that. I think she likes the idea. She’s serenading us.”

“Maybe it’s a noble ritual or something?”

Arista barely heard them. Once more, using the concentration method Esrahaddon had taught her, she focused her mind. She listened to the breeze swaying the grass, the buzz of the fireflies, the whine of the mosquitoes, and the song of the crickets. She could feel the stars and sense the earth below. There was power there. She pulled it toward her, breathing it in, sucking it into her body, drawing it to her mind.

“How you want her?”

“Wrists behind the back works for me, but maybe we should ask her how
she
likes it?” They laughed again. “Never know what might tickle a royal’s fancy.”

She was muttering, forming the words, drawing in the power, giving it form. She focused elements, giving them purpose and direction. She built the incantation as she had before, but now varied it. She pushed, altering the tone to shift the focus just enough.

The crickets stopped their song and the fireflies ceased their mating flashes. Even the gentle wind no longer blew. The only sound now was Arista’s voice as it grew louder and louder.

Arista felt herself pulled to her feet as the man spun her and maneuvered her arms behind her back. She ignored him, concentrating instead on moving her fingers as if she were playing an invisible musical instrument.

Just as she felt the rough, scratchy rope touch her wrists, the men began to scream.