FLIGHT AND PURSUIT

Estora would never again bemoan her lot in life. If she were allowed to continue living it, that was. As far as she was concerned, her father, the king, or anyone else for that matter, could lock her in the castle and toss the key in the moat, and she would not complain. In fact, if she returned safely to Sacor City, she would obey her father, she would marry the king without argument, and light an extra candle at chapel in gratitude to the gods.

She rode with four ruffians. One of them usually scouted the way ahead, two rode with her front and back, and the fourth lagged to detect pursuit. Her hands were bound before her, numbing her fingers, making them swell, and her captors maintained a cruel pace, slowing only to spell the horses. She had never ridden so hard or for so long before.

She had lost track of the days since that horrible moment when the Raven Mask had appeared out of the fog to whisk her away to who knew where, only to be slain right before her eyes by the leader of the ruffians, who had then grabbed Falan’s bridle and swore that if she resisted, he would cause her grave pain. When she opened her mouth to scream, he’d slapped her across the face. She’d raised her riding crop to strike him, but he had wrested it from her hand and snapped it in half.

Her eye was still half-closed with the swelling, but the blow had not hurt as much as had the sound of crossbow bolts whizzing into the fog, followed by the screams of her entourage. Were her dear sisters all right? Lord Henley? What of the stalwart Weapon, Fastion? Lord Amberhill? Had any of them survived?

Every time she thought about what must have been a massacre, tears threatened to cascade down her cheeks, but she was determined not to give in to them. No matter how much she longed to release all the emotions that had built up within her, she dared not reveal her weakness to her captors; she must not weaken herself.

So she rode on, through vast stretches of woodlands, along deer trails and dry stream beds, and beneath the boughs of giant white pines. Once she would have found the scenery beautiful and wholesome, but now she saw only the dull hues of approaching winter, the rusts and browns, the dying vegetation, and the sky crisscrossed by branches like an enclosing net.

She knew they traveled west, for they followed the fading sun, riding into the narrow shadows of tree trunks like cavalry into the waiting pikes of infantrymen.

The ruffians spoke little to her, or to one another. In their demeanor she saw military men though none wore any device. They called their leader Sarge and he rode just ahead of her. He set the pace, determined the length of their ride for the day, and spoke only to bark out orders. They were soldiers on a mission—a mission to steal her—and they knew the king would send a swift and deadly force after them. They were driven by the knowledge that their capture by king’s men would result in the ultimate punishment.

The group would ride for a while after sunset until Sarge called a halt. Some of their campsites were stocked with supplies, food hanging high in trees. They’d planned her abduction well, not carrying more than they had to so they could travel light and swift. Once they stopped, the horses were tended to first, Sarge assisting Estora off Falan then helping her to sit before her legs buckled beneath her.

She was given no other courtesy, even when it came to relieving herself. Her captors did not allow her far from the campsite, and not entirely out of view. If she was lucky, there’d be a boulder nearby, or dense growth to conceal her in this most private function, but at other times, she had little more than the skirts of her habit to hide what she was doing.

The men did not care, but she always felt the tears fighting to take hold, and she continued to dam them up inside her.

This evening was like all the others that preceded it. The men went about their assigned tasks with nary a word between them. Two cared for the horses, one sparked a small fire that was used for warmth and nothing more, for they did not cook, and the fourth man who rode rear guard had not caught up with them yet.

Estora found a log on which to sit. It smelled of rot and was slimy to the touch, but it did not crumble beneath her weight. As the men worked, she rubbed and stretched her legs, though she noticed they were not feeling so absolutely dreadful as they had, and her back end was not nearly as sore. The top pommel of her sidesaddle, however, chafed continuously at her thigh, rubbing it raw, even through the doeskin breeches she wore beneath her skirts. She resolved once again not to complain. Doing so would only, like tears, reveal weakness.

When the campfire grew to golden life, she did not draw closer to it for warmth. Always she held herself aloof from her captors. The men more or less ignored her, didn’t care if she was freezing or not, except to toss her a rough but heavy blanket for the night. Oh, how she missed her soft feather bed and comforter!

As she sat chewing on the night’s ration of leathery dried meat, she thought of Karigan and realized she now had a much clearer picture of all her friend—former friend?—must have endured during dangerous missions. What a fool Estora was. Hadn’t she once wished for the life of a Green Rider, to ride where she willed?

She almost laughed aloud. As if Green Riders had free will! They rode where and when the king commanded, no matter the peril. It’s just that she hadn’t understood it so completely until now.

The rear guard, Whittle he was called, rode into camp and dismounted. He spoke quietly with Sarge by the fire. Estora could not hear their words. When they finished, Sarge spoke individually to the other men, then came over to her and planted his foot on the log beside her. He towered above her.

“Seems you’ve got a hero following us. Either he’s a lousy tracker and keeps getting lost, or he’s so stealthy Whittle loses all trace of him. Either way, if he comes too close, he’ll be dealt with. If you should try to run off to him or scream, that will be dealt with as well.”

“You’ve done little to harm me thus far,” Estora said, “and I believe whoever you are taking me to has commanded it so.”

Sarge caressed the hilt of his sword. “There is more than one way to deal with prisoners who misbehave. A gag for starters, and our method of tying you down, as well.”

“You’d never—!”

“And I’m not past inflicting a certain amount of injury to accomplish what I must. Nor are my boys.”

Estora’s hand went to her swollen cheek.

“I suggest,” Sarge said, “you behave like the fine, cultured lady you are, and things will continue to go smoothly for you.”

“Who is it you’re taking me to?” she demanded, not for the first time. But as usual, Sarge walked away without answering. What heightened her concern was that whoever ordered her abduction possessed an ability with magic, for the fog that obscured the woods when she was ambushed was no natural phenomenon. Sarge had only smiled knowingly when she asked him about it. Someone had given him a spell, but who?

Before Estora could prevent it, a tear slipped from her swollen eye.

Oh, F’ryan, she thought, was it ever like this for you? Were you ever afraid? If he had been, he’d never revealed his fear to her, and so she’d thought nothing could stop him. Until a pair of arrows had.

Thoughts of her dead lover only made her feel more forlorn and she bent till her forehead nestled in her hands. She considered her situation. She’d not been irreparably harmed, nor had her captors done anything inappropriate to her. They must be under very strict orders to show restraint. Who commanded such discipline from them? Who was it that ordered her abduction? And why? What would they ransom her for? Where were they taking her?

Mirwell Province lay in the west, and beyond, Rhovanny. Now that she thought of it, Sarge’s accent, and that of his men, was of the west, but not of Rhovanny. If they were mercenaries, of course, it didn’t matter where they were from. They could be working for anyone, whether in or outside Sacoridia.

She tried to bolster her spirits by reminding herself that at least someone pursued them, a “hero” Sarge called him. Who could it be? Then her spirits sagged again when she realized he’d probably be killed in his efforts to rescue her.

It all seemed so hopeless. What would Karigan do? she wondered. But she did not know. She hadn’t the kind of courage to figure it out.

Remember honor, Morry had said.

Amberhill beat through the woods after Lady Estora’s captors like a man possessed, until he realized the punishing pace would only kill Goss. Though his quarry wasn’t careful about covering its tracks, his haste had led him astray more than once, wasting more time than if he’d gone at a more measured speed.

One of his accidental diversions had turned fortuitous when he ended up in the yard of a woodsman’s cot. Famished and freezing, he knocked on the door. A gruff, dirty fellow opened it, and Amberhill could only guess at the man’s thoughts as he took in a bedraggled, shivering nobleman on his step, holding the reins to a stallion of some breeding.

Amberhill pled for food and a place to rest for the night. He had been prepared for a pleasant day’s jaunt with other nobles through the countryside, not a seemingly endless journey through the wilds of Sacoridia.

Grudgingly the woodsman allowed that Amberhill could sleep in the loft above his pair of oxen, and provided him with a skin of flat ale and half a loaf of hard bread. Thankful for even this little, he pressed one of the plainshield’s gold coins into the woodsman’s calloused hand. That night Goss deigned to share shelter with the oxen pair, munched on fodder provided by the woodsman, and drank water fresh from the well. Up in the loft, Amberhill finished off the bread and ale, and buried himself under the hay to keep warm. He’d really gotten himself into it this time, haring off after Lady Estora’s captors when really he should have returned to the castle and let his cousin handle things.

But he couldn’t. He remembered Morry dying in his arms, and those words he’d spoken. Amberhill had forgotten honor, he’d been so beguiled by the currency he’d been offered. Everything was his fault. His weakness had left Morry dead and a woman who did not deserve to be terrorized in the clutches of cutthroats. Only in hindsight did he understand there was no such thing as an “honorable” abduction. There probably hadn’t even been a noble involved to begin with—none would have been in his right mind to order the abduction of Lady Estora. Greed had clouded Amberhill’s judgment. He should have listened to Morry.

Grief now drove him to avenge Morry, and to make right the wrong he committed against Lady Estora. Exhausted, he slept deeply through the night and well into morning. When he arose, he climbed down from the loft to discover the oxen and their harness gone and some gifts from the woodsman—food, another skin of ale, and a sack of grain for Goss, as well as a rough, but warm, woolen cloak.

“Thank the gods,” Amberhill said, throwing the cloak around his shoulders. The woodsman must have been pleased by the gold coin and thought to better supply Amberhill for his journey. Thankful for the kindness, the gentleman thief left a second gold coin on the woodsman’s doorstep.

Before he set off on another day of pursuit, he buckled on his swordbelt with rapier and parrying dagger. Concealed beneath his clothes, up sleeves and in his boots, were more weapons. He may not have been prepared for traveling cross country, but he was always ready to win a fight.

Amberhill retraced his steps and searched for the trail of his quarry. He was indeed a gentleman thief, not a wilderness tracker, but with patience, he found the trail. There were at least three sets of horse hooves. He believed there must be more in the party, but he could not tell for certain.

He clucked Goss into a jog, fearing his side trip allowed Lady Estora’s captors to establish a substantial lead. He knew Zachary must have sent out his own pursuers and that they were somewhere behind him, but he would not give up. This was personal.

By evening, Amberhill found the remains of a camp, the blackened fire ring cold. He could only surmise they had almost a day’s lead on him. Could be worse, he thought, and could be better. At least he found clear evidence of their passing.

The autumn days had grown short, and though Amberhill desired to go on, he reined himself in. Trying to track in the darkness, especially without the benefit of a bright moon, would plainly be stupid. He’d lose the trail, probably become lost altogether. He had no idea of where in the wilderness he was, and losing the trail would be disastrous in more ways than one.

He dismounted Goss with a sigh, giving in to common sense. He’d camp here this evening—in the cold without a fire, for he’d brought no flint with him—and continue his pursuit at dawn.

He saw to Goss’ needs, then huddled beneath the woodsman’s cloak in the deepening dark. Before the light dissipated entirely, he pulled the locket from his waistcoat pocket. He’d found it on Morry during a hasty search of his friend’s body and thought it too curious to leave behind. In his desperate dash through the woods, he’d forgotten all about it.

Engraved on the gold of the locket was a rose, and Amberhill guessed Morry had a secret love. He was stunned, for he thought he’d known everything about the older man, who seemed to revel in his bachelorhood. He’d been well-provided for by Amberhill’s grandfather and lived comfortably.

Amberhill hesitated to open the locket, thinking it invasive, then scolded himself. Morry was dead. What would he care?

Amberhill opened the locket. In one half he found a delicate braided curl of auburn hair. In the other half was a miniature portrait of his mother. His insides fluttered with pangs of grief for his mother, whom he still missed, though she died ten years past of a poor heart. He’d always thought that his father broke her heart from all his gambling and drinking, and she’d died desolate and starved for love.

As Amberhill gazed at the locket, he thought maybe it had not been so after all. He recalled those terrible days of his mother’s final suffering. He’d been seventeen, just entering his manhood. His father, as usual, had been absent, out somewhere mounting up debt. The one he remembered always being nearby, providing company and care for his mother at the end of her days, was Morry. Morry who had loved her. With this token in the palm of his hand, Amberhill realized she must have loved Morry in return.

He snapped the locket shut and returned it to his pocket. He felt a lightness within him, that his mother had found comfort despite her husband and his shortcomings. He glanced skyward at the stars shining through the canopy of the forest, thinking that now Morry and his mother were together once again, and for eternity. If there was any justice in the world, his father spent his time in the hereafter crawling from hell to hell, tormented by demonkind.

Such thoughts brought Amberhill peace, and after a spare meal of bread, cheese, and flat ale, he slept.

The next morning, it was not dawn that awakened him, or even the whinny of his agitated stallion, but a blade at his throat.