Dearest Charlie,
I have so been looking forward to hearing the details of your trip. You have encountered magical elements no one has seen in decades and hopefully have reached a country no Tandoran has entered in just as long—you must have so many exiting tales to tell! How did you fare crossing through the Forbidden Forest and climbing the wall? Have you visited any of the destinations on your list? How have you found the people of Shala? Have you noticed any signs of upcoming war?
The rest of the letter was a dizzying list of questions about who Charlie had met, what places she had visited so far, and what was next on her journey. Charlie felt some of the questions were natural interest about her experiences and welfare, but others were clearly fishing for information about the magic Charlie had encountered and the political state of the country. It occurred to her that Grandmother hadn’t known how to conquer the forest and the wall or how to activate the bridge, and that she would like to benefit from Charlie’s experiences with them. Her interest in the politics of Shala was more straightforward; she had already expressed a belief that the country would declare war on Tandora soon, though her reason for concerning herself with the matter was more obscure. Was she hoping to warn someone? Would her warning be taken seriously if she did?
With great reluctance, Charlie took the time to answer the letter thoroughly. She put careful thought into choosing what information to share, trying to provide enough details to satisfy and not appear truculent, but also being careful not to give Grandmother any really vital information. She limited her departure from Tandora to a few descriptions of the forest, wall, and bridge, adding only that there were guards outside the Forbidden Forest and that there was no water inside. She wrote more about her arrival in Shala, including details of her nervousness upon entering the village to add a note of authenticity. Of her list of destination, she wrote only that she had visited the first two and had not been successful so far. She had little contact with the native people and didn’t pick up any political feelings from her limited interactions. The resulting letter was long and full of details, but provided only superficial information.
Charlie rolled the paper as tightly as she could, tied it with the string from Grandmother’s letter, and set it down in front of the bird. The sparrow clutched the scroll in its minuscule claws and gave a few hops and a few accompanying chirps. The letter disappeared, and the sparrow flew away.
Charlie watched it until it was out of sight. She wondered how often she would receive these letters and what would happen if she didn’t answer them. She didn’t particularly want to involve Grandmother in her trip; it was too much like allowing her the opportunity to influence Charlie’s decisions. But there was always a chance she might need Grandmother for something, to answer a question or to provide some information for her, and it was a little comforting to know she at least had a way of contacting someone if she needed to. She decided that for now it would be wisest to reply to any letters in a polite and noncommittal way and to keep her cards close to her chest. She wasn’t on this trip as a spy gathering information for a spymaster. If she was going to do this quest thing, she was going to do it without anyone else’s influence. If Grandmother didn’t like that, she should have selected a more tractable girl.
* * *
The third site Charlie searched for had been described as a small shrine, a little altar of sorts to leave gifts to a deity. She was unfamiliar with the entity, but the description suggested the shrine would be in the woods somewhere, made to harmonize with the landscape. Looking for an unknown object in such a large place would be quite a task, and the missing town of Havering had left her skeptical. Charlie rode across the specified area as systematically and thoroughly as she could, observing and examining every detail as she went. She spent the better part of the day stopping to probe every pile of rocks that might be a cairn and every hollowed tree that might contain a statue or place of offering. She managed to stumble across quite a few old sheds, a small cave, and a very startled herd of deer during her search until finally she found it, briefly mistaken for yet another sheep shelter not to get her hopes up over.
But closer examination proved that if it wasn’t her shrine, it was very similar. It was a three-sided wooden structure standing about four feet high and just as wide. The outside was concealed with large rocks piled around the walls until they created an artificial cave, but the inside of the box was painted with flowers and strange, swirling designs. The outside, where the rocks did not cover it, had been painted at one time too, but most of the paint had been weathered away. Cut flowers and flower petals, most long dead, sprinkled the ground inside. A statue stood against the back wall.
Charlie knelt in front of the shrine to peer inside. The worn statue was of a young girl, or the top half was. Halfway down, the girl’s full skirt swirled into a gnarled tree trunk. A wreath of flowers encircled her flowing stone hair, and in one hand she held a stone flower with one petal broken off. The roof of the wooden shrine had not prevented the wind and water from wearing down the statue’s features.
“And where have you hidden my dagger?” Charlie asked the little figure, smiling slightly. Maybe this time she would finally find what she was looking for. She was determined to be thorough. Hesitantly at first, but then more determinedly, she began to feel around the shrine, reaching back into the dark space behind the statue and running her hands through the flower debris. After she was certain she had felt every possible surface inside the shrine and found nothing, she stood up again, hands on her hips, and stared critically at the little statue. Perhaps it was hidden more securely; after all, someone else might have found the dagger if it was just lying on the floor of the shrine.
Now she turned to the outside of the little building. When walking around it yielded nothing, she began pulling on the stones that had been stacked around the walls, looking for loose rocks or crevices where something might be hidden. Maybe it was buried in the ground beneath the statue; could she tilt it over to look? She was thoroughly engrossed in her search and didn’t hear the sound of approaching horses until they were quite close.
She looked up to see two men on horseback, both dressed in leather armor and wearing badges with a red swirl pinned to their chests. A similar emblem was attached to the horses’ bridles. The men stopped their mounts in front of her, their faces stern. Caught standing on one rock about a foot off the ground and leaning against the shrine while she gripped another, Charlie waited awkwardly through the long, shocked silence that followed.
The man nearest her, a gruff figure with sandy hair, finally broke the stalemate. “And what might you be doing to that shrine?” he wanted to know.
“I was just…examining this shrine,” Charlie answered. “To see how it was constructed.” She was still standing on the side of the shrine. Even to her own ears the excuse was entirely unbelievable. “I have a great interest in shrines of this type.”
“Really,” he said, unimpressed. “Looks like you were damaging it to me.”
“Yeah,” the second soldier confirmed succinctly.
“Damaging it, and calling down the wrath of the god upon your head and the town as well,” the fair-haired one elaborated grimly.
Charlie jumped down from her perch and tried for contriteness. “I’m sorry. I was just curious about it, but I shouldn’t have climbed on the outside. But look, I haven’t harmed anything—everything is exactly as it should be.” She started toward to her horse.
“Hold it there,” the first soldier said authoritatively. “There’s a penalty for defacing a sacred site. You’ll have to come with us.”
Charlie looked at him aghast. “Come with you? Why? I haven’t damaged your stupid shrine! Examine it if you don’t believe me.” She gestured angrily toward the little statue with its showering of flower petals.
The first man held up a hand to silence her. “Even if there is no physical damage, it will have to be consecrated again after you defiled it by standing on it. You must come bac
k to the village and speak to the priest about making reparations for what you’ve done.” He gestured to Mystic. “Mount up.”
Charlie drew herself upright and assumed her most icy daughter-of-a-nobleman expression. “I shall not be accompanying you anywhere. I bid you good day.” She started toward her horse again, fully intending to simply leave.
The soldiers failed to be properly chastised by her curt dismissal. One of them had quietly moved between her and Mystic and was already holding the mare’s reins. The option of riding away gone, she was left with attempting to flee on foot, fighting, or complying. Fighting, she decided, feeling a familiar sense of fury bubbling to the surface.
“Come now,” the blond soldier reasoned. “You’ll get a fair punishment. It will be much easier on everyone if you don’t make us drag you.”
Charlie drew her sword. “Try it.”
The soldiers swung down from their horses, their own swords in their fists. Slowly they approached her, one holding his hand out. “Now give me the sword; you’ll get it back later,” he said in a voice one might use to calm an anxious horse.
Charlie darted forward, trying to knock the man’s sword from his hand. He blocked her thrust with surprising speed but didn’t strike back. The other man was slowly creeping around behind her. Nervous, Charlie darted to the side to keep them both in front of her. She had never fought two people at once; most of her fencing had been limited to practicing with William. She only wanted to work her away over to her horse now that no one was holding her and ride away. Letting them take her anywhere would not be a good idea; there would be questions about where she had come from.
Again she lunged at the man closest to her. This time he blocked and returned her thrust. He executed a few rapid moves meant to keep her attention off the man sneaking up behind her. The soldier she fenced with stumbled. Taking advantage of the pause, she swung at the man creeping behind her back. The first soldier recovered more quickly than she had expected, and before she could spin around, he had her arms pinned to her sides.
Charlie kicked at him and sliced at his legs with what little mobility she had left but struck only his leather greaves. The other soldier began prying her sword from her hand while her captor used both arms to hold her still. Charlie swore fluently at them both, using every word she had learned lurking outside the barracks. But her struggle was to no avail. Her sword was wrest from her grasp, and her hands were tied together in front of her. As a last desperate attempt at freedom, Charlie gave the soldier a hard kick in the nose when he leaned down to pull a knife from her boot.
Her captor snickered as his companion moaned, both hands over his likely-broken nose and blood streaming down his face. Charlie scowled at him, unapologetic. Radiating fury, she allowed them to drag her toward Mystic. One made a move to toss her up onto Mystic’s back.
“I can do it,” Charlie grumbled. She didn’t want to obey, but she didn’t want to be manhandled like a sack of apples either. Grabbing the saddle awkwardly with her bound hands, she put one boot in the stirrup and pulled herself up into the seat. The soldier kept a light hold on her elbow in case she felt backward.
“Good,” he said. “Behave, and we won’t tie you to the horse.” He untied her bow from its place behind her saddle, probably wisely predicting she shouldn’t be left any weapons, even if her wrists were tied.
Charlie sighed as her horse was led down the road. She might be able to slip off the rope that bound her wrists, but they were still holding her horse. There was little point in escaping on foot. She had gotten herself into a lot of deserved trouble in her life, but the new experience of being punished when she felt she had done nothing wrong left her particularly aggrieved. Trying not to dwell on whatever trials and questions awaited her upon arrival to the town, she examined her guards.
She had already noted that the more talkative soldier had sandy hair and a short beard. He had managed to stop his nose from bleeding, but his tunic was dotted with little drips of blood. The man leading Mystic had removed his helmet, and she could see that he had gingery hair cut short and standing on end. Both were tall, burly men with bland, open faces a bit weathered but untroubled. In her mind she dubbed them Sandy and Rusty in accordance with their hair color, their only truly distinguishing features. They chatted amiably with one another, glancing back occasionally to make sure she was still there. Otherwise they took very little notice of her at all. Capturing prisoners was rather ho-hum for them, apparently.
Charlie pulled against the rope around her wrists, trying to work the knot loose. They hadn’t been tied uncomfortably tight as she would have expected, but the rope was rubbing her wrists raw. They had taken her belt knife but had forgotten the one in her boot when she had broken Sandy’s nose. If she used it to cut her bonds they would remember she had it and take it from her. Cutting herself free wouldn’t do anything about helping her regain control over her own horse or return her weapons, so she decided to keep the knife hidden until a greater need arose. Instead she continued to struggle furtively with the rope until she finally loosened it enough to pull her hands free. She checked to make sure the guards hadn’t noticed, and when they didn’t even look at her, she took a long drink from her waterskin. Being a prisoner was thirsty work. She kept the rope in a coil in front of her in case she needed to pretend to be tied up, but this dozy pair weren’t clever enough to need deceiving.
Her hands were now free, but as she had assumed, it made little difference to her situation, only to her physical comfort. Her sword hung from the red-headed guard’s saddle, thumping gently against his horse’s shoulder as he walked. She eyed it wistfully. Even if she regained control over Mystic, she didn’t want to leave without her sword and her bow, which she relied on to provide some of her food. Compliance, or a very grudging version of it, was her option for now.
They had reached a village now, a little one with no shops and only a scattering of dwellings. The streets were almost empty. Shutters were closed for the night, and the entire village was silent. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves on the dirt street. The soldiers stopped before a small, low-roofed building. Rusty grabbed her arm to pull her down, and she jerked her arm away instinctively, causing the rope to slither to the ground.
“Well,” the red-headed man said. He and his companion exchanged looks. “Well, come on down then.”
Charlie looked desperately for some way of reclaiming her belongings and escaping, but short of running away on foot, there was none. Grudgingly she dismounted and stood sulkily by her horse. Sandy took a firm grip on her arm and hauled her into the building. Rusty led away her horse, removing any lingering hope that she might flee. Once through the doorway, she stopped to let her eyes adjust to the dimness.
The structure she stood in was really more of a hovel than anything else. The roof was so low that the tall man grasping her arm had to duck. He led her to the back of the hovel (a two-stride walk) where a wooden partition separated the single room into two halves. Opening the door, he pushed her inside. After handing her her waterskin, he gave her an almost apologetic nod and locked the door behind her. She heard the door to the street bang closed.
Dejectedly, Charlie began to examine her cell. She wasn’t sure what she had visualized a prison to be like, having never considered the concept before, but it was as unpleasant as she might have guessed. She couldn’t quite take two strides in either direction in the tiny room. The rough walls and uneven floor were made of packed mud. If she raised her arms she could easily touch the ceiling. There was no window, so she had no light to see now that the door was shut. The bottom half of the partition was solid, but the upper half was made of beams that formed bars with a small gap between them. Carefully she ran a hand over every inch of the walls, searching for a weakness. The door hinges were rusty; they might give way under enough force. She still had a knife; that could potentially provide several opportunities to get out. But it was the same dilemma as untying her wrists—even if she escaped her cell, she
still couldn’t leave.
She decided a little information about her stay would be helpful in strategizing her escape. She began to bang on the walls of the cell, first with her hands, then when that proved painful, with the bucket she assumed had been left as a chamberpot. Banging the walls and rattling the door produced only a dull noise, so she shouted for the guards too. She had to shout and bang until her voice was hoarse, but her efforts were rewarded when someone threw open the door, stomping in and forgetting to duck. By the light of the lantern he held, she could see that it was Rusty. Angry and rubbing his head, he marched over to her. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I think,” Charlie said gravely, “that if you’re going to lock me up in a chicken coop, you owe me some information. How long am I going to be here? Who decides that? Do I get a trial? Who do I petition for my release?”
The barrage of questions didn’t improve the soldier’s mood. “We’ll send a message to the local priest tomorrow, and he’ll decide your punishment when he’s available.”
“So, you have no idea when I’ll even be sentenced, much less how long I’ll be in here after that? How is that allowable?” she demanded.
“You brought it on yourself,” he said stubbornly. “And we’ll feed you and your horse until then.”
“Where is she?” Charlie inquired in a more moderate tone, hoping to glean some information.
“She’s fine,” the man replied irritably. “And if you start that banging up again, I’ll tie you up again. Be quiet!” He turned to leave.
“Can I have the lantern?” Charlie asked, trying not sound pleading.
“No.”
“You could just leave it in the middle of the floor.”
He didn’t bother to answer her as he left. The glow of the lantern disappeared as the door closed again.
Charlie swore at his back as he left. With a sigh, she sat down on the earthen floor to wait.
The Silver Key Page 9
