Adrienna sighed and took the cup of black tea a soldier offered her. What would Aster have made of the prince of Karscha? Doubtless, she would have appreciated his efficiency and strength. But Aster was a stout, practical kind. She had never learned to read or dream. She would have looked coolly upon Sergevni, taken his measure and found him to be a well-trained soldier and a capable leader, just like her. She might have even admired him.
But Sergevni was not like Aster at all. Aster’s strength stemmed from a well of burning passion deep within her. It was buried and long-hidden, but it was there, and Aster had never been able to conceal it from Adrienna. Sergevni’s strength sprung from something else, something cold and icy and metallic, like cogs in machinery, or the deep frost that cracked the earth.
Later, they resumed the march through the mountains. Adrienna rode in silence by Althius, deep in thought. Something in her soul told her that Aster was still alive — she could not explain this knowledge, only that it was real. And if she could not persuade Althius to escape with her, then she would need to escape alone. But how would she do such a thing? She was not trained in combat, nor capable of fending for herself in the brutality of the Karschan mountains. She would die from the cold before she would ever find Veritier again.
No. She was trapped by her circumstances. A hostage to her own betrothed.
Her only way out of Sevalensk would be through it. But how would she get through anything without Aster at her side?
She touched her hair, the roughly cut strands brushing her fingertips. Cutting it had been part of her plan to find and rescue Aster. Now it was only a reminder of her failure, of her helplessness, of Aster's absence.
“I miss her too,” Althius said suddenly.
Adrienna looked up. The old warrior stared ahead of him, his eyes fixed on the pale sky. Low, yellowed clouds gathered in the distance, threatening snow. Adrienna shivered to think of how much colder it would soon get.
“I refuse to believe that she’s dead,” Adrienna said. “I know the prince thinks there is little hope for her, but he does not know Aster as we do. She was born to survive and overcome.”
“Yes. I remember her as a child, you know.”
Adrienna’s eyes opened wide. She had not known this.
“The master of orphans made her work in the barracks hoping it would quell her disobedience. And it did. Not without a few cuffs round her head, mind you.”
Althius smiled fondly as he talked.
“She was a proud little thing, but she worked harder than most squires. Always running errands, fetching weapons, sharpening blades. She was desperate to prove herself… she always has been.”
Adrienna listened with a sinking heart. Aster had worked her whole life and yet had always tried to prove herself. What had Adrienna done? She had been born the daughter of a king and raised by nurses and maids. Her mother had died when she was young, but she had never lacked affection. She had been held and cuddled and kissed. She had been told stories and given gifts. Her life had been spent under the constant care and attention of others. And she had done nothing to deserve it.
“She wanted to be a knight… I often thought perhaps she wanted to die,” Althius’s smile faded, his eyes shining with a great and indelible sorrow. “I think she sought to redeem her low birth through her death. To gain respect for the first time in her life. When she trained, every injury was like a badge of honour to her. If she had not joined your guard, she would have joined a garrison and died on the shores of Arkavik in one of your father’s campaigns. Becoming your captain saved her.”
“Perhaps not,” Adrienna whispered. “She might die on the shores of Arkavik yet.”
Althius turned to her.
“No, princess, I think not. I think she will live. It is as you said — she was born to survive. The saints keep her close to them.”
Althius’s words rang true, sparking the faint light of a new hope within her. Aster was still alive, and Adrienna could still help her. She needed only to think carefully and find a way.
Looking around her, she observed the Karschan soldiers, with their intimidating armour and proud stallions, their spears and kite shields. Adrienna herself might be small and weak and incapable of wielding a blade — but she was about to marry Karscha. Karscha, the largest empire in Westmere, the greatest military force ever known.
She needed to stop resenting her marriage and start seeing it for what it would give her. Power. An army. An empire.
These things were all tools to save Aster. Adrienna needed only stoop to take them.
She kicked her horse forward and approached Prince Sergevni. He rode a little ahead of them, in the centre of his escort. His visor was pulled up, revealing his haughty, thoughtful face. Adrienna’s heart faltered to look up at him: his features were so harsh and defined that he seemed cut from bone. His eyes, with their odd colour that was almost gold, were fanned by dark eyelashes that made him seem almost pretty.
He turned when she approached him, and her courage sank when his gaze met hers. There was no frown upon his face, but his expressionless features were like that of a statue. Adrienna could not read him — how would she manipulate him?
“You wish to speak,” he remarked. “What about?”
His voice was an odd mixture of contrasts. The tenor of it was smooth and melodious and rich. But his Karschan accent was harsh and drawling, and the bluntness of his words cut the beauty from his voice.
“I wish to apologise for my outburst,” Adrienna said.
She half meant it. She did think him heartless and soulless. But she had been unkind in saying it, and she had spoken out of anger, intending to hurt him. It would not make for the best start to their relationship — be it solely political or not.
“You need not apologise,” he said with complete sincerity. “You did nothing to harm me.”
“I called you a soulless soldier.”
She instantly felt foolish for repeating it, but Sergevni shrugged.
“Words are air. Unless you raise a blade against me, then you will not hurt me.”
“I cannot wield a blade,” Adrienna pointed out.
“Then you cannot hurt me, and you need never apologise.”
It was a strange philosophy to hold; it explained why he spoke so bluntly. He did not believe that his words could be painful to their listener. Perhaps he was right, and Adrienna was weak. At any rate, it might help her in her mission to bend the icy prince to her will.
If she could bring him to like and trust her, then she might prevail upon him to aid Aster. Adrienna had never struggled before to gain the trust and affection of others, and the prince might be cold-hearted but he was still only a man.
“Are we very far from Sevalensk?” she asked as sweetly as she dared.
“Quite far. But our horses are good and if we avoid blizzards, we will be back within the next week.”
“Blizzards?”
He nodded.
“Yes. Between the autumn and the winter the weather is strange and unpredictable. If the air becomes too cold too quick, then blizzards rage.”
Adrienna thought of the storms of Veritier, how loud and terrifying they were. What would such a storm be like, here in the mountains, with clouds blackening the sky and snow falling instead of rain? She dared not imagine it.
“Are they dangerous?”
“Very. But my soldiers are well-trained. No harm will come to you.”
He spoke those words with tranquil assurance. His confidence was oddly comforting, sending odd tendrils of warmth through Adrienna’s chest.
“It is not the blizzards you ought to fear,” he added suddenly.
She looked up at him with surprise. His face was still placid, but a shadow had dulled the hazel gold of his eyes.
“When we reach Sevalensk, you will meet my father and his court. They are far more dangerous than blizzards, and it will be more difficult for me to protect you from them.”
It was strange to hear him speak of prot
ecting her. It had not occurred to Adrienna that the issue might concern him. She fought the urge to tell him she would not have needed protection if she still had Aster, but she kept the words behind her teeth. It was not Sergevni who had taken Aster away, and he had the power to help get her back.
“Thank you for warning me,” she said instead. “I will tread cautiously.”
“You will find yourself in a position of both power and vulnerability,” Sergevni explained. Now he spoke like a commander, as though she were a soldier he was preparing for battle. “You will be a stranger to the court, and a future queen. This will bring you power. You will be unfamiliar with the court, and many will seek to use you. This will make you vulnerable.”
“I see.”
She had heard rumours of the Karschan court before. It was a long-established, sprawling court residing in the royal palaces at Sevalensk. Tales of bejewelled balls and decadent wealth surrounded the courtiers, who gathered around the emperor seeking favours and boons. Adrienna had not heard stories of danger, but she remembered her own father’s court. She remembered how the petty power struggles of the low-ranking lords corrupted Hawksmoor, how sycophants and hypocrites always surrounded her father.
The taciturn prince said no more after this, and they rode in contemplative silence. They had passed colossal mountains and now crossed a vast expanse of deserted wilderness. Snow blanketed the ground, sedges piercing through like black needles. The sky was blotted with wall upon wall of clouds, darkening the horizon.
Past that nebulous horizon awaited Sevalensk, Karscha’s empirical court, and Adrienna’s future. And now that Aster was gone, she would have no choice but to face it alone.
4. Glow
Sergevni was fast asleep when a hand shook his shoulder. He was immediately alert, his eyes wide open in the gloom.
“Commander. A storm approaches.”
Sergevni bolted upright, throwing off his furs and climbing from the bed. A vicious gale had been blowing from the east when they had made camp that night. The wind must have dragged the distant clouds closer to the camp and now it shook the fabric of his tent, making the hanging lanterns sway and creak.
“How long do we have?” he asked, grabbing his greatcoat.
There would be no time or necessity for armour, it would only weigh him down.
“An hour. Perhaps less. It’s coming fast,” his camp captain’s voice was tense.
“Pack the necessities,” Sergevni ordered, pulling on his boots. “Get the men and horses moving immediately.”
“Very well.”
His captain disappeared out of the tent and Sergevni followed him, pulling up his collar. The darkness outside was thick and oppressive. Wraiths of swirling snow shifted in pale columns around the camp. The wind howled low and piercing, whipping the tents and swallowing the nervous whinnies of the horses.
Soldiers busied themselves emptying the tents and packing the horse-carts. If the storm arrived too fast, they could always leave the carts behind and send for them upon their return. But Sergevni’s soldiers were well-trained and swift. Soon, the carts were ready, the tents left behind.
The horses and carts began rolling out one by one and Sergevni mounted his steed. His escort had gone on ahead already, and he looked around the darkness and the snow. Where was the rebellious little princess? He could not see her or her towering guard. Riding up to a soldier, Sergevni gave curt orders to ensure the princess was safe and amongst soldiers.
Soon the camp was empty, leaving behind only snow, tents, and the wood posts hammered into the grounds for tethers. Sergevni was turning to leave when he noticed a lone figure running through the snow. Frowning, he pulled on the reins of his horse and trotted over to it. A small pale face looked up at him through the darkness, lit by two huge eyes.
“What are you doing?” called Sergevni, voice tight with frustration.
“I went to find Althius, but he is gone!”
“He is probably ahead, with the other soldiers.”
“What if he is looking for me? What if he is still in a tent?”
Sergevni clenched his jaw. Did the girl have no sense of urgency? No trust in her soldiers? Why was she always spending her time chasing after her own guards? Leaning down over the neck of his horse, he took her by the arm and pulled her up. She gasped in surprise and clutched the horse’s neck as he heaved her into the saddle in front of him.
“Your guard knows his duty. It’s time for us to leave.”
She made a reply which the wind devoured. Sergevni had wasted enough time. He dug his heels hard into his stallion’s flanks. It bolted forward and sped through the snow, passing the deserted tents and dashing into the roaring darkness. Writhing snow surrounded them, engulfing them in hard white spirals. The storm had arrived.
“Keep your collar up and keep close,” Sergevni commanded, low and clear against Adrienna’s ear.
She pulled up her collar, fastening it around her face, and nestled closer to him. Now that she was pressed against him, Sergevni realised how small and slight she was. He found himself reassured that she was riding with him. Slim as she was, the wind could have blown her off her horse. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close and rode hard through the snowstorm.
They left the camp far behind, but Sergevni had lost sight of his soldiers. The snow fell so thickly he could barely see the ground ahead, and if his soldiers had left a trail, then the wind had either covered it with snow, or he had taken a different direction to the rest of the garrison. Sergevni clenched his jaw once more, frustrated with himself. He had wasted time talking with the princess and now he had been separated from his garrison. It was the sort of foolish error that he would normally never have made.
It was no use being angry now. He needed to get through the blizzard and keep himself, his bride, and his steed alive. So he concentrated on that, galloping hard, eyes narrowed against the piercing snow. At this speed, it fell fast enough to hurt, lacerating his forehead and cheeks. He wondered if the princess, too, was in pain. If she was, then she did not show it.
They rode on for what seemed like hours. The storm blew and raged; the wind blustering at such high speeds that Sergevni could feel his horse swerve or shift direction, forced to adapt to the strength of the gale. By now, they had probably gone completely off track. They would need to find a road or some village soon, or else risk going in circles and tracing an endless loop through the blizzard.
More time passed, hours distending and distorting as they rode through the storm. Sergevni’s horse was slowing, exhausted by the effort of carrying two riders and wading through the thick layers of snow that now shrouded the ground. Adrienna’s body had gone limp against his, her head lolling over his shoulders.
When a blurred orange glow finally appeared in the distance, Sergevni’s chest tightened with hope. The glow meant fire — warmth. Shelter.
“Do not give up now,” he snarled, both to himself and his horse.
The powerful stallion was growing more and more tired, but Sergevni prompted it onwards, desperate to reach the light. Soon, several lights appeared along the first, vague and flickering, revealing the square shapes of windows. Sergevni drew closer and closer and finally arrived at a large, squat building. A tiny stable crouched by its side and a simple wooden fence surrounded it. A homestead or a farm.
Sergevni circled the fence until he found the gate and galloped through. The small stable by the building had a single stall, with a horse already in it, a thick woollen blanket wrapped over it, straw lining the bottom of the stall. Sergevni sighed in relief and led his horse to stand beneath the roof of the little shelter, finally allowing the panting beast to stand still.
Sliding from his mount, he patted the brave steed on its neck. Its dark hairs were clumped with snow, its eyelashes encased with frost. Sergevni scraped as much of the snow off as he could and tethered it to one of the stable posts. It was not as good as a stall, but it was still better than nothing.
Slumped over t
he saddle was the princess, and when Sergevni pulled her down from it, she slipped in his grasp, limp as a doll. Propping her on her feet, he grabbed her face, forcing her to face him. Her eyes fluttered weakly. She was not unconscious. Not yet.
Dragging her over to the door, he pounded his fist against the wooden panel. It cracked open, and a woman’s face appeared; red, round cheeks, lined grey eyes, a concerned expression. She looked from him to Adrienna and opened the door, and Sergevni stumbled through, pulling the princess with him.
“Thank you,” he said to the woman.
She wore a plain peasant’s dress, a white apron over it, an embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her husband appeared behind her: a bulky farmer with a dark beard and a pipe in his mouth. Noticing Sergevni and Adrienna’s coats, he said, “Greetings, armitza.”
He had recognised the gold ensigns and decorations on their coats. Sergevni nodded gratefully.
“Greetings. I have been separated from my garrison by the storm and need shelter for the night.”
The woman looked at her husband and both nodded.
“Of course,” the man said. He hesitated and looked at his wife again.
“Armitza,” the farmer’s wife said. “Your woman. She is not well.”
Sergevni glanced down at Adrienna; she was leaning on him for support, shivering violently. She was awake, blinking slowly, but her eyes seemed to find nothing to focus on.
Sergevni had seen this happen before. On the longest winter campaigns, he had seen men grow insensible and lethargic from the cold. They would shake and tremble and babble in confusion, and when they went to sleep, they sometimes did not wake up at all. In the army, they had called it the cold-sickness, and all in Karscha feared it.
“My wife,” he said to the farmers. There was no reason to waste time explaining their true circumstances. “She is unaccustomed to the cold. I think she has the cold-sickness.”
“Yes, I think she has,” the woman said. “Come with me.”
Rubies and Roses Page 3
