There was a slender bed and a nightstand, on which rested a candle burned low in its holder. There was a small wooden trunk that Axel employed his boot once more to open. The lid flew up and Axel crouched down, rummaging through the dull, rough clothes contained within. If they had been neatly folded before, they no longer were now.
“Sir, look at this,” Nash said. He was propping up the thin mattress that lined Reeves’s bed. In his hands was a small, linen-bound book. “I found this right here.”
Axel snatched the book out of his deputy’s hands. He could hardly believe his eyes. “A Book of Poisons,” he read. Turning the pages, he saw the insignia of the Physician. “The little miscreant must have stolen this from Elias’s library.” He slammed it shut and turned sharply to leave. As he did so, his head made contact with the roof beam. The impact was hard and painful but the shock was only fleeting. AS it receded, Axel felt renewed with energy and purpose.
“It seems we have found our man,” Axel told his deputy.
Nash nodded grimly, letting the gray, fibrous mattress roll slump back onto the wooden bed frame.
Axel addressed William Maddox, who still hovered in the dim corridor outside.
“When was Reeves last seen by you or one of your team?”
“We never served breakfast today, you see,” Maddox said in a dazed, disconnected tone. “It was all such a shock. Those hours after the news of Prince Anders was brought to us. Everything was confused. I sent the stewards back to their quarters to gather themselves and say a prayer…”
“Yes, yes,” Axel cut in. “Forget the prayers for Prince Anders’s eternal soul, my friend. You are my best chance of capturing his cold-blooded assassin.”
Maddox nodded. He was shaking now, eyes moist. “According to Jana, he complained of feeling ill when she and the others made their way back to the kitchen complex.”
“When was that?” Axel barked.
That would have been around the time of the Groom’s Bell.”
“The Groom’s Bell.” Axel turned his attention from Maddox to Nash. “That’s over three hours ago.”
“He’ll have been running all that time,” Nash said. “You can get a fair distance in three hours.”
Axel’s face was ignited with fresh purpose. “He’ll be in the forest,” he said, striding out of the tiny bedchamber. “It’s the shortest route to our nearest border, as the falcon flies.” Leaving William Maddox—who had ceased to be of use—trailing in his wake, the Captain of the Guard barked fresh orders at Nash.
“Send word to Lucas. I want our best horses saddled and ready. Find Jonas Drummond—I want the Woodsman’s assurance that the forest traps are all set—we’ll see how our little steward copes with them. And Kai Jagger, fetch him too! The Chief Huntsman could come in quite handy, I’m sure.”
THIRTEEN
The Forest
MICHAEL REEVES WAS STILL DEEP IN THE HEART of the forest when he heard the first dog bark. The sound shocked him; it signaled the endgame. He knew he should have been farther ahead, much closer to the border, by now. He paused, surrounded by a cluster of giant sequoias, waiting to hear again the hound or one of its fellows. He didn’t want to hear them—of course he didn’t—and yet doing so might enable him to pinpoint just how far they were away. He would be able to make some quick calculations.
He glanced down at the map he clutched in his left hand. The hand was now shaking. He brought his right hand across and gripped his left wrist, pretending—an old trick—that he was someone else, someone calmer; telling him that everything was going to be all right. Just look at the map, he told himself. You’re very nearly there. Even if the dogs and riders are on your trail, you can still make it.
Time had been on his side all day until now. He’d left the bounds of the court as the Groom’s Bell was sounding. Close by the campanile, he’d had felt each of the five chimes reverberate through his body. And he’d already made good headway into the forest when he heard the subsequent striking of the Poet’s Bell—pausing, he had glanced back in the direction of the palace, then turned to stride on. Later, he thought he could just make out the seven chimes of the Falconer’s Bell—soft and sweet as birdsong. He’d been too deep in the forest to hear the next bells in the sequence, but his escape had seemed to be proceeding exactly as planned.
He’d done his best to track time by checking against his map to see the distance behind and, more crucially, the distance ahead. But the further he continued on his journey, the more he understood that though the map was rich in detail and kept him moving in the right direction, it was not quite as scientific as he had anticipated when it came to distance. Nor did it make any allowance for elevation. There were several points, as now, when the forest floor steeply rose and he had no option but to intensify his physical effort and climb.
He still hadn’t heard a second bark and now he began to wonder if perhaps he had only imagined the first. Could it even have been the rumbling of his stomach? How long had it been since he’d had something to eat? He reached into his pocket, worming his fingers around until he found a sliver of dried apricot. It was the last one. He’d planned to save it for the continuation of his journey, the other side of the Gate. But something now compelled him to lift it to his lips and pop it in his mouth. Even as he felt its explosion of sweetness on his tongue, the fleeting pleasure was pushed aside by an ominous voice—an all-too-familiar voice—inside his head. You’re going to need every last bit of the energy this food will give you, Michael. Any advantage you might have had is about to run out.
He banished the disdainful voice. It should have no mastery over him here. He was in the sanctum of the forest, far from the whispering corridors of the court. His surroundings were soft and tranquil and silent. He glanced down at the map again, telling himself that he was still on track. But, in his heart, he knew he was running out of time and against all his better instincts, he felt the first stirrings of panic. Then, as if the fulfillment of a dark promise, he heard a dog bark a second time. There could be no mistaking the sound for a stomach rumble or even distant thunder. It was a dog. It wasn’t close but it was closer than before.
Now he had two options. Stay there and give way to panic. Or start running—like he had never run before.
The momentum of movement tamped down his fear. He had always known that the task ahead was a daunting one. Now the fact that he’d made it to this point—both to this day of judgment and so close to the border—fueled him with new energy. As the blue-green forest flashed by on either side, his feet flew over the mossy ground, his head pulsing with memories of moments earlier in the day. Closing the doors to his cramped quarters for the very last time. Beginning his long journey, at a regular pace—not too fast, nor too slow—through the palace grounds. Getting stopped, at the line of beehives, by the iron-faced guards and being subject to their bored litany of questions. His relief, when it had become abundantly clear that they were on alert for a stranger trespassing in their midst—rather than someone familiar with, and to, the court. His elation as he walked on, beyond the last of them, toward the dark, pine-perfumed embrace of the forest.
He smiled to himself as he ran. It truly felt as if the forest was on his side. Now that his heart was working harder and harder, his senses were heightened. None more so than his sense of smell. He felt himself inhaling deep lungfuls of clean forest air. It was as if he were drawing the very greenness and sweetness of the forest deep down inside him, becoming himself a part of its ecosystem himself.
Then he heard a third bark. Closer than before. Alarmingly close. The dangerous illusion that the forest was his sanctuary was ripped away. Just keep running, he thought. It’s all you can do now.
The forest floor continued to climb, gradually at first then more sharply. He was aware of it not only from the strain in his leg muscles but from the shortness of his breath. When he paused, only for an instant, to glance back the way he had come, he saw—with a momentary frisson of vertigo—that he had indeed clim
bed swiftly to much higher ground. And then, to his horror, he saw a blur of movement below. Hunters, horses and hounds.
Heart racing, he turned and pushed on, trying to block out the discordant music of the advancing search party: the drumming hooves; the barks—more frequent now; the urgent shouts of men and women.
The tree trunks were a coppery blur on either side. He told himself to focus on good thoughts—like the welcome he’d get on the other side of the border. How pleased they would be to see him after all this time. Even this happy thought was swiftly undermined as he anticipated the unavoidable interrogation at the gates. Without slowing his pace, he brought one hand to his chest, reassuring himself that the folded papers were still in place. He had a well-practiced story to accompany them and there was no reason to think they wouldn’t let him through. Why had he even bothered to run if he didn’t believe he could convince them? Why had he so diligently forged the letter from the head steward, on the stolen paper with the official crest and seal of the palace? Why doubt himself now, when he was so very close to the moment of his liberation?
It was then that he saw the forest was beginning to thin. He felt light, almost giddy, seeing the first sign of the gates up ahead. And he felt his feet suddenly give way.
At first he thought he’d stumbled on a sweet root and missed his footing. Then he saw that the mossy forest floor itself was moving, a hole opening up beneath him and felt the beginning of an inevitable fall into the yawning chasm beneath him. With a lithe, desperate movement born of fully fledged panic, he lunged to one side, fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase on a root, a rock…
He had known there were traps, scattered throughout the forest. The map had alerted him to which areas to steer clear of and, in addition, he’d been warned that the closer he came to the gates, the more careful he needed to be.
He realized the truth of that warning now. He had only grazed the edge of the trap but it had been enough to make him lose his balance and send him toppling onto the fir-needle-strewn ground.
Glancing across at the gaping hole, he saw just how much worse it could have been. The hole burrowed down deep beneath the forest floor. There would be no way a man could jump or claw his way back out from there. The hell hole hadn’t claimed him but still it sent fresh waves of panic through him.
Drawing himself determinedly back up onto his feet, he fixed his eyes on the path ahead. No looking back, he told himself. No more fear.
Running onward, the trees were thinning out even faster now. He realized he had lost his map. Had it been sucked down into the hole beneath the forest floor? It didn’t matter. It had served him well.
Ahead he now saw the size of the vast wooden gates, bleached almost silver by the sun. Attached to the gates was a metal plaque with a capital W for Wynyard, the ruling family of Archenfield. The plaque was a potent reminder that this marked the extent of the Wynyards’ domain. To Michael Reeves, the plaque also told him that he was almost beyond that domain. He could see three guards patrolling the high walkway above the gate, the shapes of their crossbows silhouetted against the Archenfield sun. No, he told himself, with a quick smile. Another sun altogether. For, at last, he was about to leave Archenfield far behind.
He could hear the drumming of hooves behind him. The hunting party was close but he could still make it. He had to believe that. There was still a chance that they’d take a wrong turn and, in the time it took to correct their mistake, he’d have spoken with the guards and continued on his way. He had to keep calm and remember his story. I’m visiting my dying mother. But how could you leave on the day of Prince Anders’s assassination? I set off at the rising of the sun, you see. This is the very first I have heard of the Prince’s assassination. Such terrible news. May the Princedom endure! Of course, I could turn back—though my mother might have only one more night, perhaps only a few meager hours. My overseer has given his written permission. It’s all in this letter he drafted last night…
He slowed his pace now that he knew he was in the sight of the border guards. It was important to seem nonchalant, unhurried. Should he raise his hands to greet them—or would that seem too cocksure?
The three guards were all turned toward him now, their crossbows were in their hands but not trained upon him. Good. They must have sensed, from his demeanor, that he posed no danger. He thought of the sharp dagger, strapped to his shin, just in case of trouble. He knew he could take down three in a fight. He’d done so before.
He was close enough to discern the features of the guards’ faces now, as he approached the last tree of the forest—a majestic Archenfield oak. Perhaps he should greet them after all. One of the guards raised her hand. That decided the matter. Michael Reeves raised his own hand above his head as he took another step forward.
Something closed tightly around his ankles and he found himself suddenly flying upward, his head scraping painfully against the bark and branches of a tree. When his precipitous journey had come to an end, Michael found that he was suspended upside down on a rope, from the higher branches of the oak. He must have fallen prey to the last of the Woodsman’s traps. The guard’s wave had not been one of welcome but rather one of distraction.
There were new sounds close by, then directly beneath him, as the pack of hounds broke from the undergrowth and, at last, found their prey. Michael felt sick from being the wrong way up and from raw fear, sicker still as the hounds reared up on their hind legs, bringing their hot, foul-smelling breath close to his face. Their barks reverberated in his ears just as the chiming bells had done earlier in the day.
He heard a creak and felt himself drop down a bit lower, dangling closer still to the mouths and teeth of the excitable hounds. Was the branch above about to splinter and send him down into their slavering jaws? For now, it simply spun him slowly around. He felt like some kind of attraction at the May Fair.
Now he saw the guards—the one who had waved still above the gate, the others on the ground beneath him. Where before they had been three, now suddenly there were seven. All now had their crossbows drawn and trained on him.
“Don’t shoot! I want the filthy fugitive alive!”
He knew that voice. The branch sent him turning around again, just in time to see Axel Blaxland, the Captain of the Guard, dismount from his horse and stride purposefully toward him.
FOURTEEN
The Council Chamber, the Palace
“I KNOW YOU’RE TIRED,” LOGAN WILDE TOLD prince jared. “i understand what a long and difficult day this has been for you. But we have to get this right. In little more than twelve hours, you’ll be standing on the palace balcony and giving this speech for real. Your vocal projection has improved significantly but you’re still not speaking with the necessary conviction. Let’s try again from the beginning!”
Jared frowned. He was frankly terrified about having to give the speech the following day but, even so, he was finding it harder and harder to focus on anything other than what was going on in the interrogation chamber in the Dungeons. Had Axel really caught his brother’s assassin?
Aware of Logan’s eyes upon him once more, Jared took a fresh look at the words on the paper, written in the Poet’s meticulous script. His words were as elegant as his handwriting. Maybe that was the problem. Glancing back up, Jared addressed his companion. “You have done a wonderful job, Logan.” He sighed. “I just don’t know if I can deliver this speech.”
Not for the first time, Logan smiled reassuringly. “You have doubts. I understand that. But I know you can do it.”
Jared jumped down from the dais and wandered over to where Logan was perched amid a single row of chairs—standing in for the audience of thousands who would gather to hear him the following day. Sitting down beside the Poet, Jared carefully set down his script on the empty chair between them. “It just doesn’t sound like me or the kind of thing I’d say.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Logan laughed. “Of course it doesn’t sound like you! Don’t take this th
e wrong way but when did you last craft a speech for a state occasion? Never, right? I, on the other hand…” He paused an winked at Jared.
“Thanks,” Jared said, “for the timely reminder of how much better qualified you are than me.”
“I’m qualified to write the speech,” Logan said. “No question about that.” His bright eyes met Jared’s. “But please don’t be in any doubt that you’re perfectly qualified to be Prince.”
“Am I though?” Jared felt a fresh shiver of doubt work through his insides.
Logan shook his head. “You’re forgetting,” he said, “that isn’t how it works in Archenfield. Prince Anders chose you, after much careful consideration, as his Edling. Just as you, in the coming days and after the same due thought, will elect your own Edling. It’s one of the many things I celebrate about our Princedom—that the right to rule is bestowed upon an individual, rather than it being a birthright.”
For a moment, Jared felt buoyed by his companion’s words. Then he felt the fragile house-of-cards that was his confidence begin to waver on its foundations once more. “How could my brother have known? I was fourteen when he chose me to be his Edling. How could he have possibly felt certain that when the time came, I’d be the best choice to succeed him?”
“Anders knew his mind,” Logan said. “I’m sure you are aware that there were others within the court petitioning to be Edling. There was pressure from within your own family.”
Jared smiled ruefully. “Of course. Axel wanted to be my brother’s Edling, just as now he wants to be mine. It’s his route to power.”
Ignoring this last assertion, Logan’s eyes met those of the young Prince. “Prince Anders was utterly certain from the very beginning. He had not a moment of doubt. He knew you were the one.”
“I want Edvin to be my Edling,” Jared told Logan now.
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