by E. D. Walker
Water gurgled ahead, the sound like music, and her heart clenched. Please, oh please.
More shouting behind. A skitter of pebbles banged into her ankles, and she dared to turn around. A half dozen Tiochene had chased them this far. They too were jumping and sliding their way down the treacherous hillside. Philippe shoved her ahead of him as the silver glimmer of the river came in sight.
Aliénor rushed into the stream, the water sloshing over her ankles, then her knees. It was still so cold, like a slap that shocked her to breathlessness. Dizzy, off-balance, she teetered on her feet and reached back for Philippe’s arm. He wasn’t there. “Philippe, come on—” When she looked back, Philippe had not followed her. He stood a few feet behind, guarding her back, and drew his sword as the Tiochene came on toward them. Aliénor’s heart throbbed inside her like someone had squeezed it in their fist.
Philippe squared his shoulders. “I surrender and demand ransom. I am the Prince of—”
One of the Tiochene lifted his short bow before Philippe could finish and put an arrow neatly through her husband’s neck.
Aliénor screamed. Philippe’s hands pawed futilely at his neck, trying to stop the bleeding or wrench out the arrow. He folded up facedown on the ground, his blood soaking into the damp earth of the riverside.
The archer drew his bow again, aiming for Aliénor. She flung herself backward into the river, letting the water rush over her face and body. The arrow sliced into the waves, nicking her arm. Too befuddled to swim well, Aliénor stayed under but clung to the roots of one of the trees snuggled up to the water and worked her careful way downstream. This area of the river was heavy with bushes and trees that had been swamped by the river’s rising levels the night before. Carefully, hidden by the screen of a half-submerged bush, she lifted her head to survey the shore.
Several Tiochene stood by the riverside, arguing amongst themselves. The archer pointed angrily down the river in Aliénor’s direction, though they couldn’t seem to tell that she was still close. A female Tiochene wearing ornate robes stepped forward and held her cupped hands in front of her. Spell-light gathered in her palms. The woman rolled her hands as if she were making a dough ball, then flung the accumulated magic toward the river. Aliénor flinched as the spell drifted in her direction. But as the magic sailed over the water, the spell seemed to unravel. The light dissipated, and the spell-caster turned to her fellow Tiochene with a shrug. The archer stamped his feet angrily, then motioned for everyone to follow him back up the hillside toward the battle. They left Philippe where he lay, facedown in the dirt.
Aliénor waited, heart hammering, for them to walk out of sight up the hill. She worked her way back down the riverside, pulling herself from one submerged tree to another. At last, she dragged her sodden, shaking body out of the water toward her husband. “Philippe.”
He was still alive when she turned him over. His skin was clammy. He fastened his gaze on her, eyes wide with fear, his face ghastly pale. His mouth moved, but only blood leaked out.
She caught his hands and clasped them tight, her vision blurring with shocked tears. “I’m here, Philippe. I’m here.” Her voice sounded thick, cracking. She shook her head, pushing the wild tangle of emotions back. She smoothed her husband’s dark hair and held his gaze as his limbs stopped flailing, as the light in his eyes died away. She wrapped her arms around him. Philippe closed his eyes and rattled his last breath out against her heart.
She held him for another moment, feeling dizzy, storm-tossed, as if the whole world were spinning around her, whooshing, roaring. Faintly she heard a trumpet sound somewhere in the distance, but she couldn’t think what it meant.
As the heavy metallic smell of blood dug its way into her senses, her gut roiled. She eased back, laying Philippe against the ground. Her armor was almost entirely stained now with his blood. Her skirts clung wetly to her skin, the blood and river water mingling to turn the fabric pink. Her hands were bright red, sticky with his drying blood.
Her mouth burned, and she crawled sideways a few feet to vomit away from his…body. Oh Fate spare me. Oh please. The ground was sharp with rocks and over-hot, but she wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and lie there until the world slowed down. Until her life made sense again.
Cloth rustled beside her, and she startled away from something glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. As she tumbled backward onto her rump, Violette loomed above her. Only Violette. “My lady?” Tear tracks shimmered on the young girl’s face, and she cradled her wrist against her belly. “Are you all right?”
No. Aliénor’s stomach clenched as savage emotions whipped through her, shaking her head to toe. Her gut hurt holding it all back, and she gasped for breath as more hot tears burned her eyes. The walls of her mind might have been caving in. She felt wild and numb and utterly lost.
“My lady?” Violette sounded terribly young and frightened.
Aliénor shook herself. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” All right. Enough. The Tiochene might be back at any time. Her hands shook as she used her own damp skirts to mop what blood she could off her hands. She swallowed and set one hand on the ground, using the other to dash the last of the wetness from her eyes. Scuttling across the ground on all fours, wet, dirty, what a picture she must make. Philippe would be scandalized—
The thought slashed at her chest like a sword wound. Philippe would never be anything. Never again. She closed her eyes, but the image of his body flashed through her mind at once. His eyes emptying, the fear on his face as his life bled away. Oh Philippe.
“My lady?” Violette knelt beside Aliénor, and the younger girl’s chin trembled, though she tried so bravely not to cry.
A loud blast of trumpet sounded again, startling Aliénor into standing. “What was that?” Her heart felt twisted and raw, like a garment wrung out after a hard wash in the river.
Violette shook her head—she’d seen Philippe’s body and was now sobbing too hard to speak well. She pointed up the hill.
“Is it safe?”
Violette nodded and rubbed her cheek against the shoulder of her gown to wipe the tears away in a heartbreakingly childlike gesture.
Right. Aliénor composed her own face, and if it felt like she was holding herself together with only her bare hands—and that not very well—it didn’t matter. Her legs were still uncertain as she moved. Still, she worked her way up the hillside with Violette. The sun beat hot against Aliénor’s back, drying her clothes and warming her armor until sweat beaded against her chest to trickle between her breasts.
As they crested the hill, she forced herself to look back at the mountain pass, then had to swallow sickness down as she did. The Tiochene had fled, yes, but they had left seemingly all of her husband’s army dead behind them. The men who hadn’t been killed with arrows and swords had been burned with the horrible spell-fire. Bodies of soldiers and horses littered the ground. Now that the fighting had stopped, vultures were already landing. Aliénor looked away when the carrion birds began to feed.
Violette’s good hand crept into Aliénor’s. “My lady, what are we to do?”
That brave, bright trumpet sounded again, and Aliénor turned in the direction of the faraway call. Once she did, she found it very hard to look away again from such a sweet sight. Shimmering in the distance like a heat mirage, the proud line of an army approached. No Tiochene army either. These were men of the colonies, men of Anutitum perhaps. It might even be her cousin leading them. She hugged her arms around her belly and drank in the faraway vision. “Was this why the Tiochene left?”
“Yes.”
Then this could be no fevered heat dream, for the Tiochene had seen the army as well and fled. Aliénor glanced sidelong at Violette and softened her voice. “How—how did you survive?”
Violette sucked in a long, ragged breath. “We were in the wagon, and we heard the fighting outside. Noémi hurt her head in the wagon, or opened the wound on her head again from the storm.”
“Yes?”
�
�Anyway, her head was bleeding very badly, and she reached over and smeared some on my face too. Then she whispered for me to lie still and quiet. Play dead. The Tiochene were…well, it took them a long time to…to deal with Philippe’s guards. After that, they only glanced inside the wagon. Everything was all tossed about, you see. We had a terrible time getting out without help. They would probably have had a difficult time crawling in. I think they were all too tired after the battle to try.”
Aliénor reached over and squeezed Violette’s good hand. “I’m so glad you’re all right. And Noémi?”
“Yes, yes. She didn’t feel up to the hill to check on you and Prince—to find you.”
Aliénor swallowed. “I understand.” She gave Violette’s hand a small tug, toward the wreck of the wagon.
The colonial army still shone like a beacon on the horizon, though they seemed no closer yet. “We must ride out to meet the army. Is Noémi strong enough to ride?”
“Yes. Like me. My lady, we want to get out of here.”
“All right.” The weight of responsibility settled on Aliénor like an over-heavy cloak. “All right.”
***
“The Tiochene have almost all cleared out now,” Godric reported as he peered over the edge of the rock they sheltered behind.
“Any sign of survivors?” Thomas asked, although he had little hope of it. Too late. Too late again to be any use to anyone. The Tiochene were swift and thorough.
Godric peered anxiously around the vast mountain road then swallowed. “None…none yet, my lord.”
“Can I drop this bloody glamour then?” Mistress Helen snapped, her fingers twitching as if she meant to do that very thing.
“You will hold that glamour until we are certain the Tiochene have gone.”
Mistress Helen’s lip curled at Thomas with dislike, but she continued plucking and strumming at the air above her as if playing an invisible lute. Beside her, Llewellyn sat with his eyes closed. Thomas could almost imagine his friend was sleeping except for the tense lines etched on Llewellyn’s face and the sweat beading on his brow.
“How are you holding up, Llewellyn?” Thomas whispered.
His magician only grunted in reply, clearing not wanting to risk his concentration by speaking.
Thomas gave Llewellyn’s shoulder a small, encouraging pat.
“Riders,” Godric murmured, practically humming with excitement as he wheeled to face Thomas.
“Tiochene, or…?”
“Definitely not, my lord. I—I think it is the Jerdic princess and her women.”
Thomas’s pulse jumped at the words. “You three, with me. Godric, stay behind to guard Llewellyn and Mistress Helen.”
Thomas did not even wait to see his order acknowledged. There was a chance Princess Aliénor was alive. His whole body prickled and chilled in cresting waves as fear dueled with the stirring hope in his chest. Alive. Aliénor is alive.
***
Aliénor did not understand how they could be riding so fast toward the approaching army and yet the line of men never seemed to be any closer. The sound of the army too seemed to cut in and out like an ill-played instrument. With a sense of sinking dread, she realized what she must be seeing. Magic.
Though it pained her to do it, she reined in her horse at once and motioned for her ladies to stop as well. They’d grabbed a packhorse and taken what supplies they could from the broken wagon, need warring with their desire for haste. Fortunately, the pack animal was well-trained and stopped when her horse stopped without her having to tug on the leading string.
“What’s wrong, Princess?” Noémi asked. She was pale and cradling her head. Poor Violette had to ride in front of the much larger woman because she could not control a horse with her own broken wrist. They were all three a proper mess.
Aliénor pointed toward the horizon. “I do not believe that is a real army.”
“An illusion?”
“Yes.”
“But why?” Violette’s voice threaded upward with strain and fear.
“Either this is a trap meant for us or it is a trick to drive the Tiochene away. But we dare not ride further until we know which.”
Violette voiced a low moan, and her shoulders rolled down with defeat. “Riders approaching.”
Aliénor wheeled around in her saddle, and her nerves jolted to see three men riding hard toward them from a small outcrop of rock on the road ahead. Aliénor had finally thought to grab herself a sword off one of Philippe’s dead guards, but she didn’t really know how to use the thing. She’d looked for a bow, but all the ones she’d found had a draw too heavy for her to manage. Besides, it had hurt too much to linger on that field of death for long.
She drew her borrowed sword and braced her feet in the stirrups. Violette kicked her horse forward, Noémi grimly clinging to the back. Violette drew her own sword. “We’re with you, Princess.”
“No, no, look.” Noémi pointed, a smile blossoming on her face. “Those riders are not the Tiochene.”
Aliénor squinted, and it suddenly felt as if her heart had sprouted wings. “Thomas!”
Chapter Eleven
Princess Aliénor might have been a vision from myth or legend as she rode toward him, her long hair streaming like a banner behind. He smiled to himself and admired the way her summer-red hair glinted in the sun.
She reined her horse in beside his, the packhorse tied behind sliding to a stop a moment later with a puffing grumble. Aliénor flung out a hand to greet him. He caught her fingers and dropped a quick kiss against her palm.
“You found us—”
“Thank Kind Fate you’re alive. We feared—”
They talked over each other but stopped after a moment and laughed. Thomas looked down and realized her slim white fingers were still tangled with his own. Embarrassed, he gently released her hand. Blushing, she settled it in her lap and covered the hand with her other.
It was foolishness on his part—still Thomas let his eyes drink their fill of her. That hair. A bright, coppery red that flashed in the light like a live flame. It looked almost warm to the touch and temptingly soft. Yet his stomach quailed as he took in the rest of her and realized she did not wear a red gown as he originally thought. The poor woman was soaked all over in blood. “You’re hurt.”
She frowned in confusion then looked down at herself. Her face tightened, her lips going white. She shook her head. “It’s Philippe’s. He…” She broke off, a puff of air escaping her lips, a dark laugh entirely without mirth. “Everyone. Everyone back there is dead. All our men.”
A band of grief tightened around his chest. So much loss, so much waste. “Come. Let us collect the rest of my people, and we will be on our way.”
Aliénor’s hands fluttered in confusion toward the illusion of the army. “Is that you then?”
Thomas quirked his mouth, already turning his own horse toward the rocks. “Yes, come and—”
His men erupted out from behind the sheltering rocks, Godric in the lead with Llewellyn riding half-conscious in front of him. Thomas surveyed his men in confusion. One knight’s clothing was actually smoking as if it were recently on fire. “What happened?”
Godric swallowed, his jaw tight and angry beneath his dark beard. “That blood witch, sir. As soon as you were gone, she let off some kind of spell.”
“Tried to set me on fire,” one of the knights muttered.
“And then, while we were running around all distracted, she took off with two of the horses.” Ned’s gray eyes were wide in his ruddy face.
“Two? Why would she take two?”
Godric shrugged. “Maybe she plans to eat the other one.”
Aliénor, whose mount was still close to Thomas’s, shook her head. “I think she did it just to be spiteful. She saw you were short of mounts, and she doesn’t like you, so she took two.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “How do you know she doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t like anybody. She didn’t even like Philippe,
I think. Just what he could do for her position.”
“I hope the Tiochene murder her in the wilderness,” Godric muttered.
Llewellyn stirred in the knight’s arms, and the illusory army began to fade, like bits of fabric tearing at the seams. The music and other sounds had already stopped when Mistress Helen fled. The magician’s gaze fastened on Thomas, his face grave and pinched with worry. “It does one other thing besides inconvenience us—it slows us down.” Llewellyn looked to Princess Aliénor. “Can you think why she wants us slowed down, Your Highness?”
Aliénor shook her head. “I’m scared to think why she would. King Thomas, one of your men is welcome to my packhorse.”
“Thank you, Princess Aliénor.” He gestured behind, and his page, Ned, hustled forward to wrestle the women’s meager belongings off the horse. Thomas noticed it had a saddle, which meant it wasn’t originally a pack animal. Llewellyn slid off the other horse out of the supporting knight’s arms and, with a loud groan, heaved himself atop the packhorse. Ned darted a look at Thomas, his lips twisted with uncertainty. Thomas gave a short nod, and the lad scrambled atop the horse behind Llewellyn, taking the reins away from the exhausted magician. It was an alarming testament to Llewellyn’s exhaustion that he didn’t protest any of this.
But there was no time to worry about Llewellyn just now. Thomas drew in a deep breath and hissed it out through his teeth. He pitched his voice to carry toward all his assembled knights and the ladies as well. “We must ride hard today. We need to get as far away from here as we can.” He was turning to apologize to Aliénor. “This will be difficult for you and your women—”
“Never mind that. Let us be off at once.” Suiting words to action, she spurred her horse forward.
Grinning, Thomas urged his own mount forward to catch up to her. Oh, I like this princess very much.
