by Sharon Shinn
Karryn made an instant, rash decision. “He’s not my husband,” she panted. “He’s—”
Before she could complete the second sentence, Tover loosed a murderous oath and crashed to his feet, jerking her up beside him. Darvis vaulted across the table at the strange woman. Karryn screamed and tried to fling herself backward, away from Tover, away from Darvis, away from the sudden thicket of blades. But Tover held her fast and the table prevented any escape. She screamed again and cowered down, shielding her face with her free hand.
Darvis had engaged the woman in a swift and brutal knife fight. Tover was trying to haul Karryn away from the flashing blades but twice she was slammed by Darvis’s weaving body, once with such force that the table screeched away from both of them when she landed heavily against it. Karryn had expected the unknown woman to be dead on the floor within thirty seconds, but no, the smaller combatant was obviously holding her own. She lunged in when Darvis expected her to feint, for he grunted in surprise and then in pain, clapping a hand to his stomach and howling in agony or rage.
Unexpectedly, Tover dropped Karryn’s wrist and shook free his own sword. He fell into a stalking crouch and then flew at the woman, barely giving her time to draw her own long blade. Karryn shrieked and looked around for something heavy to fling at Tover’s head, to give the woman some advantage, however slight. But it was not necessary. With three quick slices of her sword, the stranger had parried Tover’s assault, knocked the blade from his hand, and run him through high on his right shoulder. Tover screamed and stumbled against the table, his hand clapped to his wound.
“I think these two are down for the moment,” the woman said coolly, turning to Karryn. “Grab your things and let’s run.”
Karryn was already racing for the door. No one in the tavern made a move to stop her, though literally every soul in the place, even the barmaid, was staring. “All my things are in the coach, but I don’t need them!” she cried. “Let’s just go!”
The soldier woman was hard on her heels as they scrambled through the door. “Which coach is yours?” she inquired. “Maybe we can find a way to disable it.”
Karryn came to a halt just outside the door and looked wildly around at the equipages lined up in the yard. She hadn’t been on the outside of Tover’s carriage often enough to know what it looked like, and he had not been stupid enough to attempt kidnapping in a carriage blazoned with his family arms. “I don’t know! One of the horses needs a shoe, that’s all I know.”
“Good enough,” the stranger said, tugging Karryn in the direction of a sturdy white gelding loosely tied to a hitching post. “That’ll slow them down. We’ll ride pillion till we’ve covered some distance and figured out what to do.”
Just then the tavern door swung open and Darvis charged through, bellowing. His shirt was covered with blood, but he hefted a sword high in his left hand. But the soldier woman surprised him again, darting forward to smash her head right in the middle of his chest. He cried out and went crashing down in the doorway, just in time to trip Tover as he rushed out.
“Go, go, go!” the stranger cried, shoving Karryn toward the gelding. She had her knife out again but Karryn didn’t see how she used it on either of the abductors; she was too occupied with climbing into the saddle and guiding the white horse over to the stranger’s side. The woman sheathed her blade, swung into the saddle behind Karryn, and kicked the horse forward all in one seemingly effortless motion. There was a scramble and curse behind them, but they were across the muddy yard, through the gate, and racing down the road before Karryn heard any real sounds of pursuit.
She was free!
Chapter 2
WEN DIDN’T FIGURE THE TWO OF THEM COULD RIDE THE gelding for long. He was powerful and he loved a good run, but two riders were a considerable burden, and the new passenger was taller and heavier than Wen. Also not much of a rider. She twisted and turned in the saddle, looking over her shoulder and trying to tug down the hem of her dress. Wen imagined her horse wasn’t any more pleased with the fidgeting than she was.
“Sit still, if you can,” she said, as civilly as possible. “We won’t go far.”
That, of course, made the girl crane her head around, trying to see Wen’s face. “But they’ll come right after us! We’ll never be able to stop running!”
Wen nodded. “I know they’ll pursue. We’ll pull off somewhere along the road and watch them go by. Then we can proceed at a slower pace.”
“What if they don’t go by? What if they see us? Oh, they’ll kill us both, I know they will.”
Wen couldn’t help grinning at that. “I don’t think so. Neither of them is much of a fighter.” She had to amend that after a moment’s thought. “Well, the big one has strength and some training. He’s probably a useful man in a brawl. But the other one, the noble—he’s completely inept. I can handle both of them.”
Again the girl tried to slew around in the saddle. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Thank you so much for coming to my rescue, but why did you? And how did you get to be good enough to fight off two grown men and win? A little thing like you?”
For a moment, Wen was tempted to push her out of the saddle. Even across the width of the posting house, it had been clear to her that this girl was the kind of person she utterly despised—wealthy, indulged, spoiled, and temperamental. Purely decorative, if she had any value at all.
But—at least back at the tavern—she was also abused and helpless, which Wen had been able to tell in an instant. Those were the traits that had sent Wen striding over to offer assistance. Wen had so much to atone for. Saving one frightened young woman might do little to assuage her guilt and grief, but abandoning the girl to certain ravishment would only have added to Wen’s grim burdens.
So, making even more of an effort this time, Wen gave another civil answer. “I’ve been training with weapons most of my life. I might be small, but I’m very good. And I came to your aid because it was unthinkable not to.”
“Tover abducted me a day and a half ago,” the girl said bitterly. “I hate him! I told him I wouldn’t marry him, and he said, ‘We’ll see about that,’ and he forced me into the coach. My mother and my uncle will be so worried.”
Wen hardly knew what to ask first. “Is he so in love with you, then? A fine way to show it.”
The girl gave a sharp laugh. “In love with my inheritance. Not with me.”
So the girl was noble-born, as Wen had guessed, and probably rich into the bargain. It wouldn’t be the first time an ambitious suitor had attempted a rough wooing, but Wen had always thought the dowry would have to be awfully substantial to make up for founding your marriage on a bedrock of hatred. “I would have guessed him noble-born as well, with property of his own,” Wen said.
“Indeed, he is! A devvaser—a serlord’s son,” the girl replied. “But that’s not good enough for him. He wants to marry a serramarra and be a marlord himself one day.”
That made Wen open her eyes wide and pull back a little to study what she could see of the dark-haired woman before her in the saddle. She’d saved a serramarra? From which of the Twelve Houses? They were in Fortunalt country, but not all that far from Rappengrass or Storian, and even Gisseltess was only a few days’ hard riding away. Oh, gods, what irony if she had rescued Rayson Fortunalt’s daughter.
“Who are you?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Her passenger spoke defiantly, as if braced for scorn. “Karryn Fortunalt.”
For a moment Wen couldn’t speak.
It had been almost two years ago that Rayson Fortunalt and Halchon Gisseltess had led half the Houses of Gillengaria in an uprising against the king. The resulting battle had been brief but bloody, and both of the renegade marlords had lost their lives. That was little comfort, though, for so many others had died opposing them. Coeval and Tir and Moxer. Dearest friends, truest companions. Irreplaceable and lost forever.
But no loss could be compared to the death of King Baryn, who had died in the earliest days of
combat, leaving his young princess to rule after him. Wen’s heart still hurt when she remembered that Baryn was gone.
When she remembered how he had died.
Wen’s silence had done the trick. Karryn sat quietly before her in the saddle, huddled over the pommel. Wen no longer wanted to push her off the horse. She wanted to murder the girl with her ungloved hands.
Of course that was not an option. Neither could Wen pull up the gelding and leave the girl on the side of the road to be discovered and reclaimed by her erstwhile abductors. Karryn’s story had been incomplete, but Wen felt fairly certain she’d pieced together the essential details. Serramarra Karryn would be named marlady of Fortunalt when she was old enough to hold the title. Her husband would become marlord and both of them would move in the highest circles of Gillengaria society.
This Tover fellow must be part of the new and still controversial second echelon of lords and landholders. Some of the rebels who had joined the war had been the so-called lesser lords who owed fealty to the Twelve Houses—nobles who had always collectively, and somewhat derisively, been known as the Thirteenth House. Those who rose up in rebellion claimed to be tired of serving as vassals for the marlords. They wanted to own property outright and earn titles for themselves and their heirs.
Baryn had been cautiously in favor of prying a few minor estates from the death grip of the marlords and bestowing it, unencumbered, on a handful of Thirteenth House nobles. It had fallen to his daughter, Amalie, and her various advisors to craft a scheme to divide and apportion properties, but over the past two years, the plan had been worked out. Now there were Twelve Houses and Twenty-Four Manors, and any number of confusing but jealously guarded titles. Marlords and marladies bred heirs called serramar and serramarra; the heirs to the new serlords had been dubbed devvaser and devvaserra. Any more subdivisions, Wen thought, and she would just stop giving anyone an honorific. She would bow, if required to acknowledge a noble, and maintain her silence. The gods knew she would prefer never to speak to a single one of them again.
Karryn whispered something in a shaky voice. Wen suspected she might be crying. Her voice chilly, Wen said, “Pardon me? I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, it’s not my fault.”
“What’s not your fault?”
“My father. My father’s war.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” Wen said, her voice still icy.
Karryn lifted her head a little. “He was a horrible man,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “You think I didn’t hate him? And yet now everyone blames me for the war. Everyone blames me because the king is dead.”
The words made Wen flinch so hard that the gelding lost stride. Wen clucked him back in motion and responded in an even voice. “There are many people to blame for Baryn’s death, but it’s hard to imagine you are on that list.”
The words were true, but that didn’t make it any easier to forgive the girl for merely existing. But, Wen reminded herself, she didn’t have to forgive Karryn. She didn’t have to like the girl. She merely had to get her to a safe place and then leave her behind forever.
In fact . . . Wen glanced around at the countryside they were moving through. The road was narrow and not particularly well-traveled; the devvaser obviously had not wanted to take his captive along main routes. This region of northern Fortunalt offered fairly sparse vegetation, but they were passing through a stretch of land that provided a certain amount of cover. Some trees, some undergrowth, a little undulation in the land. They could move fifty yards off the main road and conceal themselves with relative ease.
Accordingly, Wen reined in the horse and slipped to the ground. Karryn looked down in alarm. “What are you doing? We can’t stop here! There’s nowhere to hide!”
Wen nodded. “They won’t look for us here, I think. Come on. Off the horse. We’ll hunker down.” She glanced at the route behind them as if she could discern any signs of pursuit. “Quickly. I don’t suppose they’re more than fifteen minutes behind us.”
Karryn dismounted and followed her off the road, still worried. “But if they find us—if they see us—”
“I told you. I can protect you.”
Karryn took a step that was practically a flounce. “You don’t even like me.”
Wen held on to her temper. “I don’t even know you.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me. Why would you help me when you hate me and everyone in my House?”
Despite the urgency, despite the fact she was listening with half an ear for sounds of oncoming horses, Wen came to a dead halt only ten yards from the road. She glared at Karryn, but the young, frightened, wild-haired, big-eyed girl glared right back.
“Well, you do,” Karryn added.
Wen spoke in a tight voice. “I owe a debt. To a man I didn’t save. And since I lived, and he didn’t, I vowed that I would spend the rest of my life protecting others when I could. Giving them the service that I could not—did not—give to him.” She twitched the reins and stalked forward, Karryn mercifully silent as she followed.
Still in silence, they found their cover in a small stand of trees blocked by a few scraggly bushes. The horse was the problem, his white coat bright enough to be seen from the road, but Wen was prepared for this contingency. She coaxed him to the ground and covered him with a saddle blanket. It was a rusty green that blended well with the vegetation, still brown on this extreme edge of spring. She and Karryn wrapped themselves in another blanket and settled to the ground right by his head.
Safe as far as it went. Wen pulled her sword and laid it across her lap. She checked the knife strapped to her wrist, and drew another one from the belt at her waist, holding it loosely in her left hand.
“What man?” Karryn asked.
Wen looked at her blankly. “What?”
“What man didn’t you save?”
“Be quiet, serra. We have to listen for the sound of the devvaser’s horse.”
So Karryn whispered, “What man?”
Wen looked at her, prepared to snap a harsh reply, but the set of Karryn’s face was stubborn. Wen partially revised her earlier assessment. Karryn might be rich and spoiled to some extent, but her life surely hadn’t been easy. Rayson Fortunalt’s daughter had probably received very little affection or attention from that driven, ambitious man. She no doubt had had to kick and scream and throw tantrums to get anything she wanted. She wasn’t about to be put off by a cold answer.
“A man I worked for. I was in his guard. There were—bandits. They attacked and killed him while I was supposed to be protecting him.”
Karryn’s dark eyes widened. “Did you run away?”
“No, of course I didn’t run away! I fought.”
“Were you injured?”
Almost mortally. Better, in fact, if she had died. “Yes.”
“Well, then it’s hardly your fault. If you fought as hard as you could—”
Wen couldn’t keep the utter bleakness from her voice. “I should have been dead before he was,” she said. “If he had to fall, it should have been at the feet of my lifeless body.”
“And you’re never going to forgive yourself for being alive?”
Wen drew a sharp breath. Succinctly put. “Never.”
Karryn hunched herself a little closer together. “Well, that seems pretty stupid to me.”
“But then, you were stupid enough to be kidnapped by a man who wants your House, so I don’t suppose your opinion has any value.”
Karryn scowled at her but blessedly shut up for the moment. Wen closed her eyes and listened for pursuers. She could have killed both the devvaser and his accomplice—oh, easily—but she had chosen to wound them instead. She had seen plenty of death in that heartbreaking war. She was prepared to mete it out again if she had to, but only in direst necessity. To save the life of someone she had sworn to protect.
