"I am but a peasant, sir. A forest dweller, truth to tell. But when I saw the lady today I bethought myself to gain the royal favor by reporting it to the prince. Think you he'll reward me?"
"You've seen her?" the smaller of the two men asked, in a voice laced heavily with skepticism.
"Indeed. She's set up a camp three miles to the south, along the river. She has followers there, too. I believe they're plotting against Sharan rule. Might I carry this word to the prince? I don't wish for another to receive my reward. Will he give me gold, do you think? Or land?"
The two exchanged glances filled with greed. "You'll get no gold nor land, wench. Any reward given by the prince will come to us, and rightly so. Aren't we his loyal guards?"
The big man turned to go. The second stopped him, with a hand on his shoulder. "Should we kill her, do you think? So she doesn't run to the prince with tales to discredit us?"
The menacing brute turned to look at her again, frowning.
Bridin bowed low, suppressing a shiver of fear. "I was only passing," she said quickly. "I'll be on my way. You won't see my face again, I vow it."
"Go then, before I think better of it."
Nodding, bowing again, Bridin turned and scurried into the woods. Then she crouched in the cover of the trees, and watched as the two bickered briefly over which of them should bring the news to the prince. Neither trusted the other to share the glory such a report would bring. And after a moment they both turned and trudged through the gates and into the city, toward the castle with their news.
Smiling to herself, Bridin waited until they'd had time to get out of earshot, before gripping Crystal's halter and tugging horse and wagon forward. She ran, cringing at the creak and groan of the old wagon's wheels, and the clatter of them over the stony road. But when she entered the city, she found all to be quiet. And not at all as she remembered it. Too few lights glowed in too few windows, and the stench of poverty was hideous. The cobbled streets were in need of repair, with gaping holes and broken stones everywhere. She continued running, turning onto a worn path that led along a row of houses in ill condition. Stone cottages with thatched roofs, yes, but the stones were crumbling, and the roofs old and tinder-dry, barely clinging to the houses. Only a few had tendrils of smoke billowing from the chimney.
Sighing in disgust, she quickly located the dark and smokeless home of Sara's sister.
She didn't knock first, simply burst into the house without warning. A tall, bearded man leapt to his feet, raising his hand as if to strike her down.
"Hold! I bring food, and firewood! Hurry and help me get it off the streets before the prince's men see my wagon there!"
The man only blinked at her, shock and disbelief warring with relief in his eyes.
"Who are you," he whispered, "and what is the meaning of this?"
A timid woman crept into the thin stream of moonlight that shone through the open door. She carried a crying baby in her arms, a pale and sickly child Bridin knew at once was Sara's niece. Bridin quickly reached into her tunic and pulled out a corked clay vessel, which she offered to the woman. "This is a potion for your baby," she said. "It will help make her strong again."
"How do you know of my baby's illness?"
"There's no time!" Bridin told them. "This is what you must do. You must unload the goods from the wagon outside, and do so quickly, before we're found out. And you must distribute them in secret to your neighbors." As she spoke she pushed the thatched door open wider, so they could see the wagon heaped with supplies sitting before their home.
"Gods have mercy!" the woman said. "We'll be arrested."
"Not if you hurry and take care," Bridin told her.
The man stepped outside, and Bridin followed. He stared at the heaps of goods in the wagon, and shook his head. "We're saved," he whispered.
"Tell your neighbors that Bridin of Rush has not forsaken her people. Tell them that she only just learned of their suffering and has returned to put an end to it. And tell them that until she can regain her throne, they are to pledge fealty to any ruler who comes in to depose the evil Vincent, who attempted to murder his own brother, and then lied to all the kingdom when Tristan escaped."
The woman sagged in the doorway. The man stared at her, wide-eyed. "Tristan... lives?"
"Yes. And he'll soon put an end to"—she looked around her, shaking her head sadly—"to all of this."
Shaking his head in wonder, the man came closer, reached up, and Bridin didn't stop him from pushing the hood away from her hair. Then he gasped and fell to his knees. "My lady!"
"Do not kneel to me, sir. I'm not your princess any longer. But know that I'm innocent of the lies Vincent has spread about me. And that I've returned to do what I must to end the suffering of a people who've been so easily turned against me."
"I'm sorry, my lady! I beg your forgiveness. If we'd known—"
"You know now." She caught his hands and drew him to his feet. "Now, be quick. Unload this wagon and hide these goods. Then take the wagon apart and hide it as well."
He nodded, turning toward the wagon, then stopping to face her again. "These supplies will help a great deal, my lady, but they will not last. What shall I tell the people to do when they run out?"
Bridin lifted her chin. "Has Vincent not promised to end your suffering when I surrender myself to him?"
"Yes, my lady, but..." He stopped there, eyes growing still wider. "You can't mean..."
"Tell the people," she whispered, "to hold him to his word." Then she swung into the saddle and pulled the strap that released the wagon from her horse. She kicked the mare's flanks and galloped into the shadows.
And there she waited.
It didn't take long. The guards must have taken word to Vincent in all haste. Within an hour, the streets thundered with the pounding of hooves as Vincent's entire army drove through the city and out its frontmost gates. They would storm into the forest in search of her. The direction she'd given them would take them away from her followers who waited on the Dark Side. And she'd deliberately led them in the opposite direction Tristan had taken. They wouldn't find them. And they wouldn't find her.
Not until they returned.
Raze waited as long as he dared. Until the others had retired to their rooms in this mausoleum, though he doubted they were sleeping. No one would sleep this night. Not while Bridin was off on this mission of hers. And yes, it was exactly what he would have expected her to do. And yes, he'd promised to keep silent about it. But all night he'd been haunted by visions of that sweet- faced little girl facing those dungeons he'd heard so much about. Or worse. Sure, Vincent might well keep her alive in order to extract information of Tristan's whereabouts from her. Information she wouldn't give. And then the bastard would resort to torture. The very thought made his stomach convulse.
The others here would keep their word. They wouldn't tell Tristan what she'd done. They'd do it because they'd promised their princess they would, and because they'd been born into a society wherein breaking one's word to one's leader was more than unethical. It was the most dire form of treason. They'd do it for the good of their people, as well, because they knew that Bridin's reasoning was right on that score.
But Raze couldn't keep silent. These people were not his people. He owed them nothing. And Bridin was not his princess. To Raze she was still that frightened little girl who'd run to him with her nightmares. Run to him for comfort, for protection, for love.
And those things were still swelling in his heart for her. He couldn't change who he was or how much he adored her. Nothing could change that.
So he borrowed a swaybacked donkey from the makeshift stables, and he set off in the direction of the doorway to the other side. From there he could head in the general direction Tristan had headed. And hope that if there really was magic in this forest, it would help him tonight.
Bridin approached the castle from the rear, avoiding the few guards who remained posted around the entrances that were normally used. The
way she planned to enter wasn't exactly common knowledge. It was a small miracle that she even remembered.
She smiled and patted the crystal sphere that hung at her waist. Or perhaps it was a bit of help from her mother's magic, jogging her memory. She hadn't thought about this place since she'd left. But, as children, she and Brigit had played here with their mother.
She parted the branches of the flowering apple tree at the edge of the orchards that backed the castle, to see it again, preparing herself for the bittersweet rush of memories the hidden garden would evoke. But instead of sweet, there came only bitter. The tiny, horseshoe-shaped garden that had been nestled within the curving walls of the castle was now a patch of brambles and weeds. Nothing blossomed there. No sweet, heady fragrances of roses or violets danced on the air. Refuse, waste, littered the ground, and hung from the tops of thistles and burdocks. A vine of poisonous nightshade straggled free of the rest to twist and writhe its way up the gray stone walls.
Her heart clenched and her eyes began to burn. But she quickly blinked away those unshed tears. This was better than a well-tended, flower-strewn garden would have been. Better to hide the castle's secret entrance, and better to hide her as she made her way to it. She glanced behind her once, just to assure herself the spot where she'd left Crystal out there in the orchard was well concealed. And it was; she couldn't see the mare from here. Good.
She stepped into the jungle of undergrowth, and briars scraped over her suede boots and scratched their way through the leggings. With ungloved hands she pushed aside tangled branches, and felt their thorns pierce her palms. And then she stopped and stood still, turning her hands to look at the twin punctures, and the tiny spiderwebs of blood spreading in her hands.
And she thought of the Christian God, and of sacrifice, and of love.
She blinked at the irony of those wounds in her hands, then shook herself. Time was of the essence. She pressed on, and finally reached the welcome sight of huge gray blocks of hand-hewn stone, one of which was only an inch in depth. A false face to a hidden doorway.
As if it were yesterday, she recalled her mother bringing her and Brigit out here. Slipping away from Grandfather's ever-present guards for once, to enjoy a clandestine picnic in Mother's secret haven. There'd been flagstone paths among the blossom-laden bushes, and a beautiful fountain with dainty stone benches surrounding it. Was it all still there? she wondered. Smothered and buried by the evil brambles that had taken up residence? Were they as beautiful as they'd been before, or cracked and decaying now like the rest of this once magnificent kingdom?
She scanned the briars in the darkness, but stopped herself from searching. Though there may never be another time for her in this sacred place, she couldn't linger here now. She had a mission. For her people. For Tristan.
Facing the castle wall once more, she lifted one bloodied hand and unerringly found the false stone. It pulled free easily. Almost as if it had been ready and waiting for her arrival here.
The opening was a black maw, where once it had been lighted by the glow of Mother's lamp. She'd traversed it standing upright as a toddler. Now she had to bend low as her mother had done then. And her footsteps echoed as she walked. Almost as if someone else were walking through the darkness with her.
The tunnel sloped upward, twisting and turning often, just as she remembered. And with her hand running along one chilled wall, she found her way, until it ended, abruptly.
Bridin swallowed hard and lifted her hands above her head, pushing against the ceiling, feeling it give, knowing she stood now beneath the floor of the chambers that had belonged to her cherished mother, wondering who slept there now, in her place. Tristan had used the royal bedchamber when he'd ruled. And now, in all likelihood, his brother had claimed them for his own. At this moment he was gone, off on a fool's errand. But would one of his servants or guards be waiting, sword drawn, when she emerged?
Lifting her chin, she shoved the trapdoor hard. From above it would seem as if the floor had come to life. As if one of the marble stones were attempting some levitation trick. Praying no one would see it, Bridin pushed harder, sliding the stone to one side and then hefting herself up through the opening.
And when she straightened and looked around, she found herself staring into the warm blue eyes of a woman. A woman in chains.
The woman shook her flaming red mane of hair and looked Bridin squarely in the eye. "You arrived even sooner than I thought you would," she said, and there was something about her voice. The woman's crystalline eyes sparkled as they slowly filled.
Bridin simply stared at her, blinking in the dimly lit room, shaking her head slowly from side to side in dawning wonder. But this couldn't be... she couldn't be...
"Welcome home, Bridin," the woman whispered. "My beautiful, beautiful daughter."
Chapter Seventeen
Raze was old, but his senses were still keen. This place had been good for him. He no longer coughed and wheezed all the time, and had long since thrown away the pills he'd once had to take daily. His body had strengthened. Oh, he was no strapping youth, but he wasn't nearly the fragile old man Bridin remembered. His eyesight was nearly twenty-twenty again.
So he could easily spot the occasional hoof-prints Tristan's mount had left in the mossy soft ground. And he followed these for some time, before they seemed to vanish entirely.
Raze found himself at the end of his trail. But there was nothing here. Nothing. He and his donkey stood in an open field, backed by a lumpy hillside. And as the donkey dipped his head to munch on the fragrant grasses here, Raze slid from his back to explore the area.
Burned-out campfires littered the place. Raze hunkered low and held his palm to the ashes. They still emitted warmth. So they'd been here. Many of them. Many more than just Tristan and that little man who seemed to be his chief adviser. The ground showed the imprints of many feet, those of horses and men alike. And yet, there seemed to be no exit route. Raze circled the edges of this meadow slowly, but nowhere did he see where horses had ridden away. It was as if they'd come here and simply... vanished.
What did it all mean? Where in the name of God was—
The point of a sword touched the center of Raze's spine, a light pressure making its presence unmistakable.
"Straighten up and turn around, old fellow. Keep your hands at your sides. Do it slowly."
Swallowing hard, wondering from where the fool behind him had appeared, Raze did as he was told. When he turned, he found himself facing a young man with carrot-colored hair that hung to his shoulders in tangles, and a face as smooth as a newborn baby's. "I mean no harm," Raze said softly. "I'm no threat to you, and I'm unarmed."
The young one looked wary, and he didn't sheathe his sword as he clumsily patted Raze's clothing in search of weapons. Satisfied at last, he nodded. "What are you doing here?"
Raze silently wondered at the wisdom of telling the lad the truth. If he was one of Vincent's men... Ah, but looking at him suggested he couldn't be. He wore no armor. His clothing was dirty and worn, and he looked as if it had been weeks since he'd seen a bathtub, much less a comb. Raze had seen Vincent's men. Garbed to the teeth in fine fabrics, protected by armor, clean and well groomed, mostly. Barbarians playing dress-up.
"I'm looking for Tristan," Raze said at last. "It's urgent that I speak to him."
The boy's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. "Tristan who? You can't mean Tristan of Shara, can you? Everyone knows he's dead."
"He isn't dead," Raze said. "I saw him only this afternoon. He's very much alive, son, but you won't be if you keep me from him. If he doesn't get this news in time because of your overprotectiveness, he'll be furious."
The boy shook his head. "I don't know what you're—"
"Look at me, boy!" Raze commanded. "I'm an old man, and unarmed. I'm no threat to him. Take me to him at the point of that sword of yours if you want, but hurry."
The youth sighed heavily, deep in thought. Finally he straightened. "Turn around," he said
.
Biting his lip, Raze obeyed, but he couldn't help wondering if he was about to feel that long blade sink through his back as he stood there.
Instead he felt his hands pulled behind him, and bound tightly. And then a scrap of cloth— torn from the lad's clothing—was fastened around his face for a blindfold.
"All right then," the boy said. "Come along."
"My donkey," Raze protested.
"He'll be cared for. Just come along and keep quiet."
Taking his arm at the elbow, the fellow led Raze in circles for a few moments, to confuse him about his direction, no doubt. Then finally they seemed to be moving in a steady line. There was a rustle as if of branches or leaves. And then Raze felt solid rock under his feet instead of grass. The air on his face was cooler, and moist. Their steps echoed as they moved onward, turning this way and that. And then finally the lad stopped, and pushed Raze's shoulders so that he sat on what felt like a large, flat-topped boulder.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll be right back." Then his steps moved him away. Raze heard voices, echoing and raised, from a distance, and finally more footsteps, these coming closer.
"Gods. Is that you, Raze?" And a hand tugged the blindfold away.
Tristan of Shara knelt in front of him, frowning in disbelief. He twisted his head to the young man who stood nervously behind him. "Untie him. Now."
Nodding hard, the carrot-top hurried behind Raze and removed the thong from his wrists. As Raze brought his hands around in front of him, rubbing them to restore the circulation, Tristan ordered the young man to leave them alone. And as soon as the lad was gone, he clutched Raze's shoulders in his hands, searching his face with worry in his eyes. "What is it? Something's happened to her, hasn't it? Tell me!"
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