Into the Garden

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Grunts and screams and the whoosh of arrows filled the air and Betrice gave up searching for the blade and instead leaned over Snow’s neck and urged the horse to go faster. Snow’s hooves thundered on the packed dirt. Blood pounded in her ears.

  “She’s getting away!” a man yelled.

  Betrice looked over her shoulder. At the edge of the fighting, one of the attacking men pointed toward her. Another grabbed the reins of a riderless horse, mounted it, and wheeled in her direction.

  “Go, Snow. Go.” The horse thundered over the uneven ground, leapt over a fallen log, and Betrice slid dangerously to the left, clutching desperately to the pommel. The horse jumped again. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled herself back to the center of the saddle. In her chest, she felt every impact of Snow’s hooves as the horse ran without any guidance. Betrice had none to give. Their only hope was to keep going.

  A tree branch struck Betrice in the face. She yelped and hung on as Snow continued to run.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the horse slowed and came to a stop.

  The forest was eerily still. Breathing hard, Betrice dug back into her pack and came up with Captain Tarak’s knife. Clutching it, she turned from side to side watching for the man on the horse to emerge from the shadows.

  Snow trembled beneath her. Or maybe it was her own shaking she was feeling as tears, fear, and the vision of a sword plunging into flesh threatened to pull her under.

  She blinked back the tears, swallowed hard, and stroked Snow’s neck with her free hand. That’s when she saw the drops of red on Snow’s white mane. Blood. The tree branch had cut her face. A small price to pay for being alive.

  And free.

  The thought struck her as she slid down from Snow to the mossy earth. In her desperation to get away from the attackers, it hadn’t occurred to her that she had in one fell swoop stayed alive and fled from her uncle’s men.

  Only now Betrice wasn’t sure what to do. She had no idea where the closest town or farmstead would be, and the attackers could still be in the forest looking for her. So she did the only thing she could do. She took Snow’s bridle and led her forward. Whatever was ahead of them couldn’t be worse than what she had left behind, and it certainly would never be as bad as what was waiting for her if she returned to Charity Keep. The minute she walked through that gate, she would be trapped—surrounded by people whose lives were dependent on the High Lord’s whims and desires. With both her mother and father gone, no one would care that the High Lord’s newly-of-age niece was what he desired or that he would use force to take what he believed belonged to him.

  After all—she was his ward, and unless he married again, she was his heir.

  Betrice spotted a narrow stream and led Snow to it. Kneeling beside the horse, Betrice dipped her cupped hands in the water. Never had anything tasted so wonderful. She drank again, then noticed her shifting reflection in the water and bit back a horrified laugh. There was a jagged cut on her right cheekbone, dried blood and dirt on her face as well as twigs in her hair. All in all the epitome of a lady.

  Leaves crunched behind her. She froze and held her breath as a man with a sword appeared in the reflection of the water.

  Her throat went dry.

  Her heart hammered and she did the only thing she could think to do. She lurched forward, determined to run. Only her foot caught on her dress. Legs tangled, she landed in the stream with a splash. Flipping onto her back, she scrambled against the bank and looked up at the man on the other side, not sure whether to be relieved or to scream.

  Oben had found her.

  3

  “You’re unharmed,” Oben panted. For once his expression wasn’t stone-like. Despite the scrape on his jaw, he looked relieved. It was then that she looked at the rest of him.

  His pants were torn. There was a long gash on his leg oozing blood, and his mail shirt and hands were coated with gore.

  “You’re bleeding.” She scrambled up out of the stream and sloshed toward him even as everything inside her screamed at her to run. Now that Oben was injured, she most certainly could outrun him, but she wasn’t going to get far in a waterlogged gown and shoes and with no supplies. As much as she wanted to break free of her uncle’s control, this was not the time to announce her intent.

  Snow tossed her head as Betrice pulled herself up onto the bank. The cut on Oben’s leg looked worse up close. It was at least six inches long, and the flesh around it was jagged. “You should get off that leg so I can look at it. That cut looks bad.”

  “I’ve been hurt worse,” he said, not moving.

  “We need to stop the bleeding,” she insisted, stifling the urge to roll her eyes.

  “We need to get moving. It’s my job to get to you to safety.”

  “I doubt you’ll be able to do that very well if you pass out or bleed to death,” she shot back. “But I’m willing to let you if that’s your wish.”

  Oben looked over his shoulder. Nothing moved. The only sounds were the rustle of the trees, the soft rush of the water and their two horses’ gentle breathing.

  “Very well, Lady Betrice,” he said, stepping toward her. “As long as it can be done quickly. It’s not safe to stay here any longer than we must.”

  She looked deep into the forest and swallowed hard. “Fine.”

  She leaned down, picked up the blade she’d dropped in her scramble to get away, then walked toward the guardsman as he lowered himself to the ground. Kneeling next to him, she stared at the torn, bleeding flesh. She gagged and panic bubbled inside her. When she was little and she’d fall and scrape her elbow, her father would always tell her the blood made the injury appear worse than it really was. She hoped that was the case now.

  Quickly, she hacked at the hem of the richly decorated blue dress she had worn when she arrived at the Village of Night until she pulled a large swatch of it free. She then did as the healer did in Charity Keep, dipping the fabric in water and worked to clean the blood and dirt from the wound.

  “We don’t have time for niceties,” Oben said, gritting his teeth.

  “This will just take a minute.” She turned and rinsed the fabric into the stream them handed it to Oben. “Here, you finish cleaning the blood away from the cut. I’ll be right back.”

  Before he could object, she stood and hurried over to Snow to fetch a blanket from her bedroll. A few more stabs of her knife and a lot of ripping and she had something with which to manufacture a bandage. Oben was looking over his shoulder, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, when she lowered herself next to him again. No pain showed on his face. The guard really did seem as if he was made of stone.

  Betrice wished she felt half as sturdy as she cut away the material around the raw, bleeding tear in his flesh. Then she shifted his leg and began to wind strips of blanket around it as tight as she could to stop the bleeding. Oben grimaced once, but never took his eyes off the forest behind them. Was he expecting her uncle’s men to appear or the attackers intent on finishing what they started? Since neither was a good option as far as she was concerned, Betrice worked faster.

  “That should hold until there’s time to do a better job.” Betrice turned toward the stream and plunged her hands in, relieved to wash away the blood. When she finished, Oben was standing near the horses, his eyes continuing to watch the shadows between the trees.

  Despite his injury, Oben still held Snow’s bridle while Betrice mounted. Then he pulled himself onto his horse and headed northwest. Oben said nothing as they rode side by side, but she could tell he was on alert since one hand held his reins while the other rested on the hilt of his sword. Remembering the way the men suddenly attacked, she put the knife in her lap—just in case. But the only movement in the trees was that of rabbits and birds. No one seemed to be coming. They were alone.

  When Oben slowed their pace to a walk, Betrice wiped a damp lock of hair off her neck. She quietly asked, “What happened back there? Do you think Captain Tarak or any of my uncle’s
men . . .” She tasted fear as she remembered the arrow plunging through leather. “I know some of them are dead, but Snow ran and I didn’t see what else happened. Do you know if anyone survived?”

  Worry flickered across Oben’s face and then was gone. “I don’t know, Lady Betrice. At least three of our numbers and a half dozen of theirs were dead before I gave chase to the man who was riding after you. But Captain Tarak has come out of worse fights than that with barely a scratch. If I had to bet, I’d wager he made it through. And if he did, several of the others probably did as well.”

  “I’m sorry you lost friends today.”

  “I fought beside them. That doesn’t make them my friends.”

  She waited for a minute for Oben to continue. He didn’t. His stony silence had returned.

  “What happened to the man who was chasing me?” she asked. “Do you know who he was? One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.”

  “From the style of knife you are currently wielding, I would guess the man was from Adderton and was too busy looking at what was in front of him to notice me coming from behind.”

  Betrice blinked and started to correct him about where she had procured the knife, but stopped as Oben said, “When the man finally did see me, it was too late for him to defend himself.”

  She swallowed hard and said the only thing that came to mind. “Thank you.”

  His dark eyes met hers. “Are you thanking me for killing a man?”

  “No,” she answered as she stared back. In that moment she realized how captivating his face was. Not handsome. His features were too long and sharp to ever be considered traditionally appealing. But there was strength of purpose there that was . . . compelling. “I’m thanking you for saving my life, Oben.”

  “I pledged to return you safely to your uncle, Lady Betrice,” his deep voice echoed in the quiet of the trees. “I do not break my oaths. Ever.”

  Her gratitude faded at his reminder of their cross purposes. She turned her eyes in front of her and once again they rode in silence, watching for anything that might jump out of the shadows.

  The sun was fading when they reached the edge of the forest. Betrice urged Snow forward, glad to be free of the trees and underbrush where enemies could hide, but Oben reached out, grabbed the reins, and brought both horses to a halt.

  “Why are we stopping? I thought we were trying to get out of these trees.”

  “We should make camp in the woods and strike out fresh in the morning.”

  “But might there be men still in the forest looking for us?”

  “If there are, they’ll have an easier time finding us in the open,” Oben explained. “The stone-covered embankment will make it harder for anyone to find us after the sun sets and the Devil’s Moth I saw will keep even the hungriest rock wolves at bay.”

  He shifted on his stallion and she realized that he was sweating—a lot more than he had been when the sun was at its highest. And his face looked paler than it had before. His skin was deeply tanned compared to hers, but now it looked brushed with ash.

  “Fine,” she said. “Let’s go back and set up camp.”

  Oben wheeled his horse and headed back the way that they’d come. His shoulders were square. His back was straight, but his jaw was clenched tight as he swayed in his saddle. Something was very wrong with him.

  Worry swelled and she batted it away. Just because Oben seemed unlike the other men who served her uncle didn’t mean that was true. Her uncle chose soldiers who were ruthless and ambitious and willing to do anything he asked—especially if it made them feel more powerful. Wasting concern on someone like that was pointless. It was better to hope he’d pass out or die so she could take whatever food and supplies he had and flee without fear of pursuit. Unfortunately, as unsteady as Oben looked, he kept upright on his horse with his eyes continuously looking for danger as they settled into the spot he’d scouted.

  It only took minutes, but every one of them felt like hours to Betrice as she watched sweat drip down Oben’s face. She waited for him to pitch forward into the dirt even as she admired that he didn’t. Finally, she dismounted and hurried to him, as he slowly eased himself to the ground.

  “You’re not well. Let me help you,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  “I can make it to the rocks by myself.”

  He tried to pull his arm away, but she held fast. “You could, but why when I can help? Or would you rather end up with your face in the dirt than accept a lady’s aid?”

  “I don’t need anyone’s aid,” he said, but this time he didn’t push her away as together they walked toward the stream. He stumbled down the rocky slope, but somehow stayed standing as they reached a small, mossy area surrounded by rocks and squat bushes. Between the stones, brush, trees, and nearby water, she understood why Oben wanted to camp here. It was secluded and if they didn’t have a campfire, they would be almost impossible to spot in the dark.

  Oben swayed.

  “Sit and rest.”

  He shook his head. “First, I need to tether the horses . . .”

  “I’ll move the horses. You sit,” she ordered and spun on her heel before Oben could object.

  She led the horses to a mostly secluded spot not far from where Oben was sitting and tied each to a squat tree then removed the travel bags. It took several trips for her to get Oben’s packs and his sleeping roll to camp. She untied his blankets and spread them out, then helped Oben onto them.

  “I need to look at your leg before darkness falls.”

  He shook his head. “My leg is fine, my lady.”

  “If your leg is fine, why does it look like you’re going to pass out?” she asked, hoping that he would do just that.

  “I’ve lost blood. I haven’t eaten since first light and . . .”

  “And what?” she prompted. Was there another injury he hadn’t told her about?

  He sighed. “I haven’t slept more than an hour or two for the last few days. The lack has made me sluggish.”

  “Why haven’t you slept? You had first watch every night.”

  He shifted back on his elbows and closed his eyes. “Rocks are not the most comfortable of bedmates.”

  “And dishonesty is not a quality I find entertaining.”

  “Very well,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I promised your uncle you would be safe on your journey back to Charity Keep.”

  “You said that before.”

  His eyes opened, found hers, and held them. “What I didn’t say, Lady Betrice, is that I feared not all the men understood that alive was not the same thing as safe. They are, after all, your uncle’s men.”

  “And you’re not?” she laughed. She had to laugh. If she didn’t she’d scream. The High Lord and his men were capable of anything. One might be evil, but another, by feigning ignorance, was equally insidious. “I thought you gave my uncle your oath. Why would you do that if you don’t approve of his leadership?”

  “I sold the service of my sword to the High Lord, but I am not like him. I am my own man and I have my own reasons for the things I do. Many of them have nothing to do with the High Lord or his interests.” He grimaced as he leaned back against the rocks behind him. His face was flushed and his eyes blurred with fatigue. “Could you please bring that small pouch to me?” He pointed to where she had set his travel bags.

  That he didn’t even try to get the bag himself spoke volumes of Oben’s pain. Wordlessly, she retrieved the black leather sack from his travel bags and placed it in his clammy hands. He winced as he struggled to untie the cords. Betrice reached over, but before she could help, the bag was open and Oben had pulled a bottle from its folds. He uncorked the dark brown vessel and took a drink. Almost immediately, his shoulders relaxed. The creases in his forehead smoothed and he let out a sigh of relief. He put the cork back in the bottle and held it out for her to take.

  “Lady Betrice, would you put it back with my packs?”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I told you
I’ve been hurt worse,” he said softly. “When you are dealt pain, you have to find a way to stand up when you want nothing more than to fall.”

  “And this helps.”

  “Sleep will help more.” He tugged at his mail shirt, then sighed. “I should not ask this of a lady, but could you assist me in getting this off?”

  “Of course.” She put the bottle back where she found it, then knelt next to Oben and looked at the shirt made of metal links. “Can you lift your arms over your head?”

  He did, but it took effort. She grabbed the sleeves of the shirt and pulled up as hard as she could. Oben grunted as she tugged the heavy metal shirt up and over his head, then stumbled backward when it and the fabric shirt that had stuck to it suddenly came off him. She dropped it to the ground and wiped her hands on her dress before turning back. “Feel better?”

  One look told her Oben wouldn’t be answering any time soon. He was leaning against the rocks with his eyes closed. His breathing was even. His lips parted—asleep. Whatever was in that bottle must be really powerful if he was able to use rocks as pillows. If she wanted to make her escape this was the time.

  Oben was injured, but he wasn’t her responsibility. His sword was near his hand. If anything attacked, he would survive—or not.

  Assuring herself that she had no other choice but to leave now, she headed to Oben’s packs to look for spare food or anything else that might aid her in the days ahead. She found some nuts and dried meat, an extra waterskin and a length of hemp rope and shoved them in her own pack as she considered her poor luck that Oben was so tall or broad. Even if she had a tailor’s skill, it would take forever to make his garments into something that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, so she stuffed his clothing back in the bag and closed the flap. That’s when she spotted what looked like a large iron locket next to the bag and opened it.

  Inside was a miniature of a lady’s face. Even in the falling darkness she could see the similarity of features between the artisan’s depiction of the dark-haired lady and Oben. And on the opposite side of the locket was a flame etched in the silver. She held the miniature closer to get a better look at the woman and recalled Oben saying his family was dead.