“Come here and untie me,” he said.
I started to get up and thought better of it. The swimming sensations and dizziness in my head made my stomach queasy. If I stood up, I was sure I would retch. “Why don’t you—” I finished the sentence by waggling my fingers. The only gesture I could make that did not cause either pain or the gut-wrenching sickness.
“I can’t.” Rygel’s head sank to the ground. “I have no strength, nothing to call on.”
What use was magic if one were too tired to use it? I wanted to lie back and sleep for the next day or ten, ignoring the impossible task he set for me. My conscience rose and hit me a stout blow in the teeth. I could not leave him lying there, tied like that. Summoning some distant reserves of energy, I gritted my teeth and crawled out from under the tree. My rebellious stomach threatened to heave, my ears ringing with a high-pitched piercing sound. Swamped by pain, I got halfway up. Putting weight on my injured knee would prove interesting, as I found it to be swollen nearly three times its size. My breeches made it look like a huge bloated sausage in its casing.
It held my weight. Barely. I had hidden my dagger not far away in the bole of a tree that fortunately survived the past night. Limping to it, I found the knife, then staggered back to Rygel. Bending over proved impossible. I let myself collapse next to him, cushioning my impact with the ground with my good leg. It worked. The jarring I felt throughout my body did not make me pass out.
I cut first the ropes that bound his wrists, then his ankles, without slicing him open. A wondrous feat and a fine example of my skills with a blade, I thought proudly.
Grunting with relief, Rygel rolled onto his back, rubbing his wrists where the rope bruised his flesh. My broken ribs would not allow that, but I could return to my fetal position and did so. I shut my eyes, thinking a nap sounded nice.
“I’ll heal you,” Rygel murmured. “In a bit. After I sleep awhile.”
“Mmm,” I replied. “What of you?”
“I can’t heal myself. No matter. I’m not hurt much. Just tired.”
I grunted assent, feeling more tired than I ever had in my entire life. The warm sun felt good. I felt sleep nibbling on the corners of my consciousness. I began to drift. Rygel’s voice intruded, waking me, and I bit my tongue in annoyance.
“What is that rock doing in that tree?”
I squinted upward, noticing for the first time a granite boulder approximately my size caught about a rod or so high in the thick twisting branches. Much like a young child held by its mother, it rested peaceably in a leafy embrace.
I began to laugh.
Rygel scowled. “What’s so bloody funny?”
I could not answer. My ribs cried out in agony, but I could not stop the bray of insane laughter bursting from my hurt chest.
“Bloody nitwit,” he grumbled. “Lost your bloody mind, have you?”
I merely shook my head, still laughing, and shut my eyes.
“Raine?”
“Eh?”
“Free, Raine.”
“Huh?”
“We’re both free. Free to leave the Khalidians. Free to go where we please, do as we please. Free!”
I opened my eyes to find his face split into a happy grin. The old Rygel, the Rygel that loved to laugh and live, surfaced within the amber eyes, glowing with renewed hope. His excitement was contagious.
I grinned back.
“Free.”
Chapter 8
The Royal Crown Inn
“Your Highness, I found something.”
Kel’Ratan and I stood near the burned-out hulk of a building, trying not to openly watch the soldiers in gold and purple patrolling the streets. Instead, we eyed them sidelong, our hands hovering close to weapons. Alun’s eyes narrowed in hate as he fingered his bow. While I may sympathize with his craving for vengeance, now was not the time or the place. I hissed at him, garnering his attention, and offered a come-hither gesture. With a last lingering look at the troopers, he assisted me with my pack.
Brutal’s troops had finally quelled the riots in the city streets and put his rebellious brothers to rout. Yet, the effort taxed the common people an enormous cost. Hundreds of dead still lay on the cobbles, work crews working hard to clear away the reeking corpses. Thousands wandered the streets, homeless, hungry and casting dull angry stares at the passing patrols.
“You found us a place to hide?” I asked Rannon.
He nodded. “A small inn in the east quarter. That area has been untouched by the fighting.”
I looked a question at Kel’Ratan, who nodded. “With as many homeless as there are, we can be more easily overlooked in an inn,” he said.
I ran my fingers through my darkened hair, hating the color and the now rough texture. Kel’Ratan insisted that we dye our hair darker, and change our clothing to resemble that of the southern province of Zhou. Ancestors of the Zhou were blood kin to ours, and thus our slanted eyes and angular features would not stand out among the paler, blue-eyed people of the north. Kel’Ratan dressed me as a priestess of their Goddess, Osimi. I wore a simple white gown of fine linen, one cut low and accenting my rather small bosom. I liked the dress, for it clung to my feminine curves rather nicely.
The Zhou were fond of gold and silver jewelry; thus, several necklaces adorned my neck, adding to my costume, though my gold torque vanished into the baggage. A fine headband, once belonging to Sele, held back my long hair, its small ruby dangled over my brow. Soft kidskin boots decorated with tiny bells that tinkled prettily when I moved embraced my feet.
The Zhou often laced feathers into their horses’ manes and tails, as well as their own hair. Their Osimi, often considered by scholars to be a sister to our own warrior goddess Nephrotiti, was the goddess of wind and fire. Her sacred bird, a snowy owl, led to the Zhous’ devotional need to decorate themselves with white feathers.
A white feather from an owl shot by Alun’s quick bow graced Mikk’s black mane, dancing in the slight wind and the tossing of his head. My own kept tickling my ear. The snowy owl might have been sacred to the Zhous, but it was just another winged predator to the Kel’Hallans. I still liked the look, however. Perhaps the Zhou tradition of wearing feathers might become Kel’Hallan. I promised myself to keep feathers on hand for both of us. Perhaps some of Bar’s mane feathers would supply my needs.
Kel’Ratan also promised the black dye would wash out within a few days. I vowed to hold him to that and have my red-gold locks back the moment we had Bar in our hands.
“Very well then,” I said. “Find the others and tell them to meet us there when Bar is located.”
While Rannon gave Kel’Ratan directions to this inn, I turned to adjust a strap on Mikk’s pack, glancing around surreptitiously. The soldiers paid us scant notice. We appeared to be just more refugees fleeing the carnage. I was merely the Osimi priestess fleeing the rioting and battles, returning to her homeland with her honor guard. I prayed the Lady would bless us with the luck none of Brutal’s troops would ask me for a blessing. I had no idea what Osimi’s priestess would say; there were many Zhous within the royal garrison.
A pair of soldiers walked by, eyed us with disillusion and passed on. Perhaps our disguise would hold.
“Remember, treat me as though I were holy,” I cautioned my small band.
Witraz bowed low. “Your Highness, to us you are as holy as the Lady Nephrotiti herself,” he said grandly.
Kel’Ratan snorted and rolled his eyes. Witraz’s one eye gleamed with mischief. Alun smiled slightly, his grief not allowing him much more than that. I glared at them all.
“Behave, or I’ll curse you with a rash of boils on your bloody asses.”
Rannon vaulted into his saddle. With a salute to me, he trotted down the street to locate the other four members of my war band. Earlier, I sent the young brothers, Yuri and Yuras, to search the south, and sent the twins, Left and Right, to search the north. Not knowing where Brutal might hold Bar, I was forced, however reluctantly, to split my small forc
e. Maybe, with all of us searching, we could find Bar within a day or so and rescue him.
Damn and blast, I thought. The white priestess dress, while attractive, didn’t allow me to grab mane and vault into my saddle, my usual method of mounting. Embarrassed, my cheeks flushing, I beckoned Alun, the only one not yet on horseback. “Give me a leg up, will you?”
“No self-respecting Kel’Hallan warrior needs a leg up,” Kel’Ratan snorted.
While his voice sounded harsh, and his expression looked as hard as granite, his eyes glinted with amusement. Yet, despite his teasing, my cheeks heated to boiling point. Alun brushed aside my raised leg and lifted me bodily into Mikk’s saddle.
“No self-respecting Kel’Hallan warrior would be caught dead in a dress like this,” I muttered, finding my stirrups. “Let’s go.”
Now I led Kel’Ratan, Witraz and Alun up the dusty street, nodding stiffly to the people who stopped to bow their respect, thinking hard and fast.
Brutal could not keep secret the location of a huge griffin, even if he wanted to. People will gossip. In addition, he’d be forced to feed and heal Bar, which would bring even more notice. Besides, I knew Brutal would allow word to spread. Undiscovered bait was useless. As was dead bait.
Unfortunately, making any further plans made no sense until we knew Bar’s location. Yet I could not help but create and reject ideas within my mind. Too much depended upon the building or area where he was being held and the state of his injuries. If he could not fly then perhaps he could walk. Carrying a griffin that stood nearly twice the size of a draft horse and weighed more than fifteen men was out of the question.
Although engrossed in my thoughts, I remained alert and prepared for danger. Feeling naked without my sword and bow, I nevertheless had throwing knives concealed about my cloak, gown and slender boots. Yet, I hoped that for secrecy’s sake we would not have to use them.
In less time than I had anticipated, we crossed Soudan unmolested by either soldiers or angry citizens. The inn was larger than I dared hope; four stories tall, it looked cared for and welcoming after the tension of the past few days.
“The Royal Crown,” Kel’Ratan read aloud. “Let’s hope that doesn’t mean the High King’s men frequent here.”
I took in the surrounding neighborhood with its merchants, apprentices, guildhalls, shops and stables. Yet no children played nearby. Those few adults on the street walked quickly past with hasty bows, fear naked on their faces. Many shops sat closed, no one to tend them or sell their wares. A few beggars lurked on street corners, but none came forward to beg of my warriors. Occasionally, Federal troops rode by in groups of five or more. Never singly or in pairs, I noticed with interest. They paid us no mind, merely trotting their beasts past. I shook my head.
“I don’t think so. Let’s go in. And for the Lady’s sake, don’t look like Kel’Hallans.”
“What should we look like, Your Highness?” Witraz’s eye gleamed again. Alun’s eyes rolled, and made my heart lighter to know he hadn’t surrendered all his humor to grief.
“Please tell me,” Witraz begged. “I so wouldn’t want to look like something I’m not.”
I tossed my head, the feather tickling my ear. “You’re the Zhou priestess’s bodyguards. So guard my body.”
Witraz’s mouth opened. His snapped it shut immediately after catching Kel’Ratan’s warning scowl. He fell in behind me with Kel’Ratan and Alun, as I opened the heavy oak door of the inn and crossed the threshold.
If the outside of the inn seemed quiet and peaceful, the interior was not. Hot, dark and stuffy, the place teemed with people. Designed to hold about seventy-five people, in my estimation, it held nearly three times that many. Citizens from many regions of the Federation, some with costumes and dialects I recognized and many more I did not, chatted in low voices, ate, drank and hid from the violence a mere few streets over. Those not seated at the overcrowded tables stood or sat against the walls, their food in their hands. The crowd held primarily families with children, and men dressed like merchants with their mercenary guards. I saw peasants, farmers, fishermen stinking of salt water and fish, beggars seeking a roof, protection and perhaps a few scraps. With relief, I saw no royal uniforms.
I suspected this section of Soudan had become a refugee camp for the dispossessed victims of the riots and fighting. I immediately recognized an inn full of fear. No one raised a voice in laughter, none shouted for food or drink, none sang or yelled for music. No tavern I ever entered held as many people in such near silence. Several people craned heads to look at us, taking in my priestess costume. Fathers stared, fingering weapons as they determined our level of danger to their families. Mercenaries also stared, gauging our danger to their masters. In their eyes, we looked to be yet more victims of the street fighting, a wayward priestess and her honor guard finding shelter indoors. As priestesses seldom attacked people, they judged me harmless. After a moment, they turned back to their food, drink and the tense, waiting silence.
A servant girl dashed past, brushing swiftly between Kel’Ratan and me. Kel’Ratan and I exchanged a quick, concerned glance.
“Getting rooms here might prove more difficult than I thought,” Kel’Ratan muttered.
When the serving girl ran past again, he reached out and seized her arm.
“Child, we require food and rooms,” he said. “Not necessarily in that order.”
She bobbed in a quick curtsey to my holiness and dashed away again. Retreating out of the mob, I leaned against a wall near the door to wait. Kel’Ratan hovered protectively over me, also leaning a shoulder against the wall, while Witraz and Alun stood at parade rest, flanking us.
The wait turned out to be a long, hot, hungry one. By the time the inn’s owner came, more than an hour had passed and I was impatient, famished and angry. A grossly fat woman, sweating in the heat and disheveled from work marched up to Kel’Ratan.
“I’m full to the rafters,” she announced, after a hasty but respectful curtsey to me. “The only place I have left is the barn and even that is crowded.”
“We’ll take it,” he replied, not looking at me for permission first.
She named a sum that brought me off the wall in a fury, but Kel’Ratan stopped me with a warning flick of his hand. Scowling, I retreated while he counted coins into her greedy palm.
Satisfied, the innkeeper pointed to a slightly less crowded corner of the hall. A serving girl hastily scrubbed a table after evicting the previous, protesting occupants. “I’ll have food sent to you over there. Take your animals, if you have any, to the stable and your bags to the barn.”
I followed Kel’Ratan outside into the cooler, clearer sunshine. I opened my mouth to berate him for his foolishness in giving that woman so much of our limited funds.
“Behave yourself,” he muttered, flashing me a warning look. “A priestess is unworldly and should not care what gold or silver is spent on, or how much. Osimi’s worshippers are generous.”
Self-restraint intact, I didn’t kick his backside.
We found an unclaimed corner in the hayloft, plenty of room and some privacy if we stacked bales around our new territory. The horses went into comfortable clean stalls, brushed and fed before we returned to the inn for our own meal. This time our wait for the food was brief. The serving girl deposited roast beef and chicken, breads, hot fried onions and peppers, and a small wheel of hard white cheese in front of us and departed at top speed. Dodging patrons with an agility that surprised me, she disappeared into the kitchens. Within moments, she returned with foaming mugs of ale.
Kel’Ratan served up the hot food, doling generous portions. As I ate the delicious food, I surveyed the room, scouting potential enemies, possible allies, anticipating trouble. I doubted we would find any of either sort in that inn. The priestess disguise kept trouble well away from us, for few would risk a potential curse. Osimi’s priestesses had a certain reputation for doling out curses at any provocation, no matter how small or insignificant.
I
began to relax and enjoy the hot food and cool ale, commenting to Kel’Ratan on the benefits of staying here for a short time. The cook certainly knew his or her stuff, spicing the meat in a way that added a flavor I had not ever tasted before. Among the refugees, we became four among thousands. Here, we would be safe from the eyes of those hunting for us while we found Bar and hatched our plans. It could be a safe, and delicious, base of operations.
I caught a glimpse of two mercenaries wending their way through the crowds of quietly milling and seated people. I swallowed the chunk of bread in my mouth with a suddenly dry throat, nearly choking myself. I took a gulp of ale to clear the obstruction, still staring. I felt first Kel’Ratan’s, then Witraz’s, sharply focused attention on me. I ignored them. Could it be?
The larger of the pair stood a head and a half taller than anyone else, his shoulders impossibly broad. His thick mane of blond—not black—hair surrounded his head and neck like a lion’s mane. He looked like a wolf with the mane of a lion. I still was not sure. I dropped the bread from my hand and bit my knuckle.
He wore a simple white sleeveless tunic, brown breeches, with a plain fighter’s broadsword belted at his hips. Heavy riding boots tied with leather thongs girt his lower legs. A copper armband around his hugely thick left bicep hid the evidence, if it was there. Many mercenaries wore armbands. Was his neck slightly less tan than the rest of him? From the dimness of the room and the distance, I could not be sure. Simple cuffs of steel protected his wrists. Two days’ growth of blond beard covered his jaws. He kept his gaze down, his face expressionless while his companion spoke to the tiny serving girl.
I held my breath, needing to see his eyes. His eyes would be all I needed to know. Turn, damn you. Turn.
Blessed Lady, he turned. Ordinary blue eyes passed over the room, touched briefly upon me without recognition and returned to his companion. Not the eyes I knew to look for. I could not be wrong, I thought, aghast. I had watched him move, had studied his fluid graceful action of a hunting panther. Few men of that size could also move with the lithe athletic symmetry of a born predator. He had all the markings of a trained killer.
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