She’d last seen Gillen at Southbridge Guardhouse, when she’d rescued members of the Raggers street gang from the dungeons where he’d been torturing them. She was the one who’d smashed a burning torch into his face. The other gang members had beaten him badly, payback for the treatment they’d received at his hands.
His belly cascaded over his sword belt, but Raisa had no illusions. He’d be all muscle underneath. He smelled of horse and sweat and general poor hygiene. He grinned wolfishly, revealing intermittent teeth stained with kafta nut in a jaw swollen and discolored where her boot had connected the night before.
Raisa looked about. They stood in front of a kind of rude cave, created where two slabs of rock leaned together. His horse was an upland breed, shaggy and wiry enough to negotiate mountain trails. Standard issue for the Queen’s Guard.
A dozen wolves sat on their haunches in a semicircle around them, whining uneasily.
Gillen stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. Raisa said nothing, knowing that nothing she said could possibly do her any good.
Finally, Gillen couldn’t stand it any longer. “You wondering why you an’t dead yet, girlie?” he said, scratching his privates.
None of the possibilities that came to mind were appealing. Raisa stood, feet spread slightly apart, and said nothing.
“I’m curious, y’see,” Gillen said. “That’s why I carried you off. I wanted to ask a few questions—just you and me.” He took a step toward her, and she took one back. “We was told the Princess Raisa would be riding through here. But the only girlie that’s come through here is you.” He lifted his hands, palms up, in mock confusion. “The thing is, I know you, but you wasn’t no princess when we met before.”
Raisa shook her head. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “We’ve never met.”
“You sure?” he said, crowding her back toward the entrance to the cave. “Maybe I looked different when you saw me before.”
The gray wolves swarmed in around them, growling and snapping their jaws.
Right. I’m in danger, Raisa thought. Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.
“You sure your name an’t Rebecca? Rebecca, sister to Sarie, the Ragmarket streetrat?” He pressed his palm against his ruined cheek. “The Rebecca what did this to me?”
Raisa continued to back away, shaking her head.
“You know, the girlies don’t like me so well as they did,” Gillen said, “with my face all scarred up like this.”
You couldn’t have been all that charming before, Raisa thought, but didn’t say it aloud.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said. “Surely you can see that.” She’d decided it was best not to be Rebecca just now. The only thing she could do was deny it, and keep denying it.
“You do talk different than before,” Gillen said. He gave her a push, and she stumbled backward, barely keeping her feet. “You’re like a whole different person, know what I mean?”
The wolves set up a chorus of yips.
Raisa glared at them. Either shut up or attack, she thought. Make yourselves useful.
“So what were you doing in Southbridge, Your Highness?” Gillen breathed, his hand closing around her throat. He pushed her back against the rock slab, pinning her. “You go down there to see how the other half lives? You got a soft spot for streetrats, is that it? You one of those blueblood ladies likes to walk on the wild side?”
Raisa pulled at Gillen’s hand, trying to release the pressure. “If I’m like a different person, maybe it’s because I’m not who you think I am.” It wasn’t easy to force her voice past Gillen’s grip on her throat.
Desperately, she sorted through the street moves that Amon had taught her. Gillen’s clothing was heavy enough to deflect some of the body blows she knew. And anything she did, it would have to take him down for good. She’d find no escape or rescue in the middle of the woods. She couldn’t risk making him angrier than he was.
All this thinking took no more than a fraction of a second. Time seemed to have slowed to a creep, as if to stretch out what little remained of her life.
“Our orders are to kill you, Your Highness, but there’s no reason I have to do it right off,” Gillen said, his foul breath washing over her face. “So long as you end up dead, it don’t matter. I think you owe me for what you done, and I’m going to make you pay.”
“Sir. Whoever you are. I am not without resources. If you free me unharmed, my family will make it worth your while,” Raisa said.
Gillen released a loud bray of laughter. “Your family? How do you know they an’t the ones that hired us?” He slammed her head against the rock to emphasize his point.
Stars circled in front of her eyes. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and a bitter, metallic taste swelled in the back of her throat.
“Listen to me. I don’t have much money with me, but if you take me safely home, there’s a reward in it for you. If you kill me, you won’t have a moment’s peace for the rest of your life.”
He laughed. “I know better than to cross the one that hired me,” he said. “I learned my lesson on that. I’ll take my reward here and now.”
“Who hired you?” Raisa asked, thinking maybe he’d actually tell her.
Gillen just shook his head, grinning.
“Well, whoever it was, he won’t be happy when he finds out you killed the wrong person,” Raisa said.
Gillen gazed at her, brows drawn together, and she could see the wheels turning behind the piggy eyes. “I’m gonna take my time on this, know what I mean? I don’t want them others to come and interrupt.” He turned to his horse, dug into his saddlebag, and pulled out a coil of cording.
“Come on.” He shoved her roughly, sending her stumbling toward the cave. Another shove and she was inside, on her hands and knees, the rock and ice on the floor of the cave slicing into her palms. She quickly turned and gathered herself into a crouch. He loomed in the doorway, blotting out what little light there was.
“I’m going to tie you up and come back later,” he said, walking toward her, slapping the coil of cord against his hip. “I want to give you time to think about what’s gonna happen.”
Raisa debated, her thoughts seeming to reverberate inside her skull. There was the unlikely chance she could get free before Gillen returned. There was also a chance she’d freeze to death before he came back.
Freezing to death wasn’t a bad way to die. It seemed preferable to what Gillen had in mind.
But if she allowed herself to be bound up, she’d have given up any chance of fighting free. She was the descendant of Hanalea, the warrior queen. She would not die bound hand and foot in a cave. Or ravished and tortured to death by this traitorous lowlife.
She lifted both hands in appeal. “All…all right. Just don’t hurt me.”
Gillen focused on her left hand, on the heavy gold wolf ring on her forefinger. “Gimme that ring,” he said. “I need something to take back, to prove you’re dead.”
Raisa pulled on the ring, struggling with it. “It’s too tight,” she said. “It won’t come off.”
“We’ll see about that,” Gillen said. “I’ll cut it off if I have to.” His hand snaked out, and he seized her left wrist, yanking at the ring with his right hand.
Raisa straightened her arm, allowing Byrne’s dagger to fall free of her right sleeve. She had to catch it, and she did, gripping the Lady hilt. Gillen was focused on the ring, wrenching at it, swearing.
Raisa rammed the blade through soiled wool and the soft flesh of his belly, up under the rib cage, as far as it would go, until the crosspiece rested against his shirt.
He screeched and let go of her hand. He tried to shove back from her, but she followed, keeping pressure on the blade with both hands now, twisting it with all her strength, knowing she’d have one chance, and one chance only, to deliver a killing stroke. If he survived the first one, she’d live to regret it, but not for very long.
Mac Gillen’s fist slammed into the side of her
face and she flew backward, colliding with the stone wall of the cave. She lay there stunned for a few moments, swallowing blood from her bitten tongue, half expecting Gillen to come and finish her. But he didn’t. Finally, she lifted herself upright, propping herself against the wall to keep from falling over.
Gillen still lived, though he probably wouldn’t for long. The sergeant lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the cave, breathing wetly, an expression of sick bewilderment on his face, blood bubbling on his lips. He’d managed to yank out Raisa’s dagger, and it lay next to him, caked with blood and dirt.
She recalled what Cuffs Alister had said a lifetime ago: Next time you go to stab someone, do it quick. Don’t study on it so long.
He’d be proud, she thought. She hadn’t hesitated with the blade, and she’d struck true. Was this progress—that a street killer would be proud of her?
And then she knelt on the floor of the cave and heaved out her midday meal. After, she cleaned out her mouth with a fistful of snow.
That’s all right, she thought. Killing should never come easy, not even for a warrior princess.
Gillen finally lay quiet, his eyes wide and fixed.
Retrieving her dagger, Raisa wiped it clean in the snow at the cave’s entrance. She restored it to its sheath and tucked it into her breeches. She forced herself to search Gillen, hoping for clues or proofs of who’d hired him, but found nothing of consequence. A purse with a few coppers and crowns, and a hip flask—that was it.
It was unlikely he’d be carrying that kind of evidence anyway. What did she expect, a death warrant from the queen her mother? A scribbled note from Gavan Bayar? These were the kinds of orders that were whispered in the dark corners of the world.
Her head pounded and her right eye would no longer open properly. She pressed a fistful of snow against the side of her face, hoping it would reduce the swelling. All the while she tried to ignore the small voice that whispered, What’s the use? You may as well surrender. You are totally alone now, and these hills are filled with your enemies. What was it Byrne had said? Well fed, well mounted, and well armed. And you have a dagger against them.
Recalling Gillen’s concern about being interrupted, she knew she had to go, and quickly. Their trail would be easy enough to follow. Gillen’s comrades might arrive at any moment.
Gillen’s horse waited outside, apparently a well-trained military mount. The gelding rolled his eyes at her approach, but did not protest when she searched through the saddlebags. He was even more cooperative when she fished out an apple and fed it to him, stroking his nose.
Gillen’s gear included a large heavy sword in a scabbard, a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. A bedroll and a canvas tent. One entire saddlebag was packed with trail food, which would prove useful, assuming she lived long enough to get hungry.
She fingered the crossbow. Unlike Byrne’s longbow, it required no great strength to draw it. A memory came back to her: her eight-year-old self trailing Amon to the archery field. She’d refused to leave the butts until he gave her a chance at the crossbow. At first, the quarrels had gone wide of the straw target, but her aim improved quickly. Amon had loaded the first few bolts for her, then shown her how to cock it herself, his patient hands over hers.
On her next name day, her father, Averill, had gifted her with a longbow, made to fit her size and strength. That was her preferred weapon, but her bow had been left in the pass.
Fitting her foot into the weapon’s stirrup, she spanned it, grateful for the muscles her year at Oden’s Ford had built. She clipped the bolt into its channel. She’d have one shot, at least.
Methodically, she adjusted the stirrups to her small frame, wanting to hurry, but making sure she did it right. Leading the gelding alongside a fallen tree, she used the trunk to vault aboard.
A glance at the sky told her that dawn was not far away. By then she needed to get a better fix on her location and find a hiding place. If she weren’t already dead or in the enemy’s hands.
C H A P T E R S I X
SIMON SAYS
The day after his meeting with Crow, Han rode in a kind of worried stupor. His head ached and his stomach churned, like he’d been drinking stingo and chasing it with blue ruin.
He would have made an easy target, had any of his enemies happened by. Fortunately, most of his fellow travelers were refugees simply intent on making it to a place of shelter for the night. If he nearly rode over a few, well, they managed to get out of the way.
Could it possibly be true, what Crow claimed—that the infamous Demon King of the Fells had lain fallow in the serpent jinxpiece that Han now carried? That the powerful evil he represented had never gone out of the world?
Han had been overconfident—even smug about his ability to manage risk when it came to Crow. His theories had been true—as far as they went—but nothing had prepared him for this. How could it possibly be safe to partner up with the Demon King?
The mean streets of Ragmarket seemed friendly and welcoming, their dangers completely manageable, next to this.
All of Han’s life, the specter of the Demon King had been used as a cautionary tale to frighten misbehaving children and would-be sinners. He had been the club held over everyone’s head, the justification for a peculiar system of rules and boundaries restricting the queen, the Wizard Council, and the clans.
Alger Waterlow was the reason the clans kept wizards on such a tight leash; the reason their amulets and talismans were no longer permanent. He’d done more than anyone else to birth the Church of Malthus, with its interdiction of magic. He’d been the reason the Seven Realms had fractured into seven warring pieces.
He’d broken the world.
And there was that connection of blood. How diluted could that bloodline be if Han carried such a virulent strain of magic? What else had he inherited?
Demon-cursed, Han’s mother had called him. And it turned out she was right.
Would it be better or worse if Crow knew they were related? If he knew that Han Alister, a streetlord and thief, was his descendent? If he knew how far the family fortunes had fallen?
How could it be a good thing to forge a link to Waterlow that could never be broken? It was one thing to be related to a Demon King who had died a thousand years ago, and whose tainted blood had been diluted by centuries of intermarriage. It was quite another for him to be resurrected and entwined in Han’s life.
Then again, Han was beginning to question everything he’d always believed. Who was he to preach sermons, after all? If Alger Waterlow and the Bayars were enemies, who would he choose between them? And Lucius—Lucius Frowsley had been Waterlow’s best friend—a thousand years ago. He’d believed in him. Defended him to Han.
It had been difficult enough to go back to Aediion. Now Han was more confused than ever.
He arrived in Fetters Ford in early afternoon, on an unusually warm early spring day. He made his usual rounds of inns and taverns, asking after Rebecca. In one called the Purple Heron, the taproom was deserted, save a sturdy-looking boy wiping down tables.
The boy looked up at Han’s approach, his round face wary. “If you’re hungry, we got a ham we can slice down, and the bread’s fresh made,” he said, swiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. “If you’re looking for a hot supper, you’ll have to wait.”
“I’m looking for a girlie,” Han said.
“We don’t host that kind of trade,” the boy said. “You might try Dogbottom’s, down the high street.”
Han shook his head. “I’m looking for a particular girlie,” he said, wishing he had an image of Rebecca to show. “She’s small, with green eyes and black hair, maybe chin-length.” He stuck out his hand, indicating her height. “A mixed-blood. Pretty.”
The server’s head came up, and he glared at Han, his cheeks smudged pink. Then he turned away and resumed scrubbing like he meant to take the finish right off. “Don’t remember nobody like that,” he said.
Han stared at his broad back, made temporarily sp
eechless by the server’s reaction. “Ah. Are you sure? She might have been with two charmcasters, tall ones, a girlie and a boy, about our age.”
“Nope.” The boy flung down his rag and moved to the hearth. Snatching up the iron poker, he thrust it into the flames. “If you’re not here for food and drink, you’d best move on.”
Han threaded his way between the tables, moving in closer. “Could have been a few weeks ago,” he persisted. “Are you sure you haven’t—?”
With a roar, the boy wheeled around and charged at Han, wielding the heated poker.
Han danced aside, hooking his foot around the boy’s ankle so he sprawled forward onto the stone floor, the poker pinwheeling across the room and clattering against the wall.
Han guessed this tavern boy hadn’t been in many street fights.
In a heartbeat, Han had planted his knee above the server’s tailbone and twisted his arm behind him until the boy cried out in pain.
“Twitch, and I’ll break your arm,” Han said through gritted teeth.
The boy said nothing, but he didn’t move, either.
“Now, then,” Han said softly. “Let’s have the truth. Start with your name.”
The server turned his head so Han could see one round eye. “S-Simon,” he said. “It’s Simon.”
“All right, Simon,” Han said. “Don’t waste my time. What do you know? When was she here, and who with?”
Simon shook his head carefully. “Do what you want, but I’m not telling you nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m not talking to any cutthroat, thieving highwayman.”
Han took a deep breath, his pulse accelerating. Keeping pressure on the arm, he put his free hand on Simon’s shoulder, allowing unchanneled flash to trickle into the tavern boy.
Simon twitched. “Hey! What do you think you—?”
“Simon,” Han said, lacing his speech with persuasion. “I don’t want to hurt her. I only want to find her and keep her safe.”
“You’re—you’re—you’re…” And then he seemed to forget what he was about to say. Simon’s visible eye was going droopy-lidded. “I don’t know anything about any girlie. I don’t trust you.”
The Gray Wolf Throne Page 7
