He stroked the sleek neck of Dainus, his hand gliding along the lines of muscle and over the horse’s shoulder. He would find food enough for several days ride in the forest, and then he’d turn south. Garesh knew Trevisian had been in the Northern Moors for the past few months and once the search parties came, they’d have to be long gone. He could live unknown in the Chieftain Lands above the Tao desert. It had good hunting, and plenty of wild spaces between the tribes where Trevisian could live undetected.
“How would that be, boy? Southern climes, warm sunshine and verdant hills?” Trevisian leant forward and rested his forehead against the horse’s. The stallion’s neck arched, his crest standing out proud and beautiful as Trevisian swung up into the saddle. They headed away from the lake and back into the forest.
They had been riding along slowly for less than an hour, hoof beats deadened by the mulch on the forest floor, before Trevisian heard any prey. The bow Johan had packed was clasped in his hands, and the shaft of the loaded arrow rested against his thigh as he silently scanned the woodland. Dainus pricked up his ears as a branch fell back into place, followed by the movement of shadows between the trees.
Dainus halted, tensing his muscles. Trevisian raised the bow, training it on the area of movement. He narrowed his eyes and took aim. A sudden glimpse of pale skin - not fur – surprised him. It was too late: he had already let the arrow fly.
A cry sounded far off in the woodland. Not an animal cry.
Trevisian reached for another arrow. He wouldn’t get caught by Garesh, not yet.
A man staggered forward into plain sight, regaining his balance quickly. Trevisian could see the arrow sticking out of his left arm, immobilising it.
“You’re lucky,” said Trevisian roughly, “I was aiming for your neck.” He sat up straighter, readying himself to trample this unwelcome intruder.
“Then you should better your aim,” came the blunt reply. The man was dressed in what looked like the whole forest, with leaves covering his clothes and mud smeared across his face. Still, Trevisian could see from the way he didn’t flinch at the arrow, and his great size, that he was not to be underestimated. Running him down was clearly the best course of action.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the man, seeing him gather his reins. He reached up and snapped off the end of the arrow in his arm, wincing only slightly. “I never travel alone.”
With that, five other men appeared from the undergrowth, from branches of trees and holes in the forest floor, all in similar camouflage. They moved in on Trevisian. He let loose a stream of Reluwyn curses that would have made any man cringe.
Dainus started prancing. At a nod from the man, Trevisian threw the bow down. It was useless at such close range anyway. He was quick to pull a curved, vicious-looking dagger from a sheath on his right arm. The men responded in kind, each pulling a mean-looking weapon out and training it on their prisoner.
Trevisian exhaled roughly in agitation. What did these men want? He dropped the dagger, and then stroked Dainus once, whispering into his ear. Finally, he dismounted in obedience to the leader’s command.
He noticed their uniform, beneath the dirt: swathes of coloured camouflage cloth. With a small gold emblem. He recognised it as the sign of the Laowyn.
Ordinarily, Trevisian would have used his true identity to escape, but this time he thought better of it. The feuding between the Reluwyn and Laowyn was reaching a head, and these men didn’t seem the peaceable type. There would be no easy escape this time.
Chapter 7
Kiara lay on a makeshift straw bed in the corner of the room. There was no natural light, only oil lamps that burned in the corners. The room was made of earth: earth floor, earth walls, earth ceiling. She had already guessed that she was underground when they had first brought her in blindfolded. The smell of damp soil had pinched at her nose not long after they had cut her down, placed material over her eyes and commanded her to walk, or rather limp.
That meant that the entrance could only be a short walk from where she had been captured. It also explained why there was a trap in which she could get caught. They were protecting their base, and as Laowyn Resistance, why wouldn’t they?
Even now it seemed ridiculous to Kiara. The Laowyn Resistance. She was in the base of the Laowyn Resistance. Of course, it would be far more exciting if she wasn’t a prisoner, but why pick at small details like that?
“Why are you smiling?”
She shifted her gaze from the ceiling, wincing as her turning set off fresh throbbing in her leg.
“You know we have offered to have a look at whatever it is you keep clutching beneath your trouser leg.”
Kiara’s eyes flashed at the elf who was half crouched, half sat, in what looked like an immeasurably uncomfortable and quite honestly, weird, position. He always sat like that.
“I’m fine.”
“Alright.” Her cell-mate crossed his arms in a way that suggested he didn’t believe her.
“And my thoughts are my own.”
Kiara instantly regretted her words. She had gotten quite friendly with Zeb, the elf she had shared her cell with for several days.
“I’m hungry.”
“Finally!” said the elf, who was always hungry. “You know it really isn’t good for you to wait for so long between meals.”
Kiara smiled, getting to her feet awkwardly and limping over to a few overturned buckets where some bread, cheese and apples had been left by the guard this morning.
She broke off a crust and handed it to Zeb, who had come to stand beside her. Although shorter than most men, he was just as tall as her and average height for his race.
“Thank you.” He took the offered food.
“What’s the difference between Southern and Northern Elves?” Kiara had never met his kind before. Zeb looked different to Djeck who was from the north, but the contrast was so subtle it was hard to notice at first. Zeb had fair hair and looked darker in his skin. Apart from that, it had taken two days of staring for Kiara to realise that Zeb was a stockier, more muscular elf than any of the slender Meir Elves, although still wiry compared to other races. He also had larger more rounded ears with less defined points, that were still unmistakably elvish. His accent was more lilting and broad than that of the Meir Elves. He said he had spoken a different language back home in the Wild Southern Forest, but that’s all he had said about that place.
“We eat what we kill or find without leaving any to waste. We believe in looking after the land and the people in it. That’s about it.” He took a huge bite of bread, sending cheese down after it a few seconds later.
“And,” Kiara paused, not sure she should ask. “And what lives in the Wild Southern Forest for you to kill?”
Zeb didn’t answer. It was as if he hadn’t heard, but Kiara knew that he had. He hadn’t answered her yet on why he was in the northern part of the Great Forest, and why he was so far from his home.
“Tell me, why was a boy like you roaming alone in the Great Forest?” Zeb asked after a time. He was crouched in his funny position again. Kiara joined him, preferring to sit on a bucket. She kept her wounded leg straight out before her, bumping lightly on the bucket as she sat.
“I’ve told you, I lost my father on our way to the farms in the Chieftain Lands.”
“Ah, yes,” Zeb nodded, folding the arm that wasn’t holding food across his taut stomach. He didn’t believe her again. Kiara didn’t much mind, as long as they didn’t find out that she was a woman.
“And what does a Southern Elf have to do with the Laowyn Resistance?”
Zeb looked at her sharply.
“Oh, come on! I’m no fool. I’ve seen the emblems on the guards’ tunics – you must have done too. An underground lair, secretive and in the centre of the old forest. I think I know exactly whose prison in which I sit.”
The corner of Zeb’s sharp mouth twitched up quickly before dropping again. “Clever.”
Kiara couldn’t help the smug look t
hat came over her face.
“But you realise that if they find out that you are not who you say you are, and you know as much as you say, they’ll have to kill you.”
Kiara swallowed her mouthful of bread, the food suddenly feeling like hard stone.
“I have led no men here, nor have I sent out any communications, and besides, what about you? Is that why you say nothing of your homeland, or why you’re here, even to me, a fellow prisoner?”
“Maybe. If you continue not to cause any trouble for them, they may release you.” Zeb’s voice had turned gentle.
“And you?”
“Don’t worry yourself over me.”
They sat in silence for a time, as Kiara handed out pieces of food and Zeb nodded his thanks. He appeared not much older than Kiara, but Elves lived longer than Laowyn by about fifty years, so he could well be her senior by a decade. Yet Kiara could see young lines of laughter on his face, and every now and then his eyes twinkled. Still, there was something in those pale eyes she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
She didn’t get a chance to muse much longer: the door was suddenly opened and a dark bundle was thrown roughly onto the cell floor.
The two inmates looked at each other, and then back at the groaning pile. There was a grunt, then a curse. An arm from underneath the pile pushed the body up a fraction.
Zeb went to the door to take a new tray of food from a guard who leant in and spoke. “Watch this one Zeb. Vicious! Got Captain Fidel in the arm with an arrow and then beat three of our men who tried to restrain him. Even his horse was a beast, refusing to be caught. Got him back here by clobbering him with sword butts. Been unconscious for the past hour.” He gestured with a careless hand at the captive. “Looks like he’s waking up.” A sardonic smile was thrown at Zeb.
“Thanks,” replied the elf with equal sarcasm.
The door shut and Zeb assessed the new prisoner. Kiara stood, hands on her cocked hips, a brow raised in warning.
“Watch this one?” she queried, “Haven’t you already got one to watch?” She was an idiot to think that she had been making some kind of ally. He had been placed in the cell to find out if she was an enemy.
“It’s not what you think,” Zeb, for all his stalwartness, suddenly looked like a child who had done wrong. Without his usual solemnity he looked much younger. “I…” he hesitated. “I assess prisoners for...”
“The Laowyn Resistance?!” Kiara finished the sentence for him. “You lied to me!”
“Think of it more as an embellishment.” Zeb’s angular face attempted a smile. “I am technically a prisoner. It’s just I can leave whenever I wish.”
Kiara felt the corner of her mouth twitch. It begged to pull upwards but she wouldn’t let it.
“I have certain abilities when it comes to assessing people. If it helps, I do not think you’re a threat.” He threw out the verdict without much care, turning back to the new prisoner who was still protesting on the floor.
Did that mean they would release her? Did she even want to be released? She was fed here, believed in their cause, wanted to join them. Scuffling drew her attention to where Zeb was already staring.
Kiara saw them then, those eyes flashing around the room and stopping on her and the elf for a moment. They moved on, but hers did not. She froze. All thoughts of Zeb and the Resistance disappeared. On the floor, locked in a cell with her, was the thief! Maybe he wouldn’t recognise her.
The thought, or rather her fervent wish, wasn’t granted by the Great Spirit. The dark eyes had left hers only for a moment, assessing the cell, the walls, the door, before they paused and darted back to her.
There was a trickle of dried blood at his temple and he looked different from the last time, but those eyes remained the same. The same intensity lay within them, the same ferociousness that had scared her before.
“You!” cried the thief, rising with disbelief and anger. When he reached his full height, he towered over both Kiara and the elf.
“You know him?” Zeb asked incredulously. He looked between the two of them but Kiara wouldn’t speak. Couldn’t speak.
“Still upset over that silver box I wouldn’t let you have?” The thief’s words were thrown out like knives trying to find their mark, his top lip pulling up into a sneer.
When the words did come, Kiara was surprised by them. Without wavering she matched the man malice for malice. “I thought you’d be hanged by now, feeding the gulls on Grûl’s dockside.”
The thief’s smile increased. “And I you. Tell me, how does a boy escape an Imperial Watchtower?”
“What lies did you tell to get you out of that pit?” Kiara spat back, his reply only incensing her more. She couldn’t give ground. He had not guessed she was a woman before, but now she stood in the bright light of the oil lamps, maybe he’d guess. His cross-examination might raise Zeb’s suspicions too.
The thief brought his hand down, but Kiara caught it before it could hit her. Stepping back she realised that there was no force behind it.
“I see that shoulder’s been healing nicely.” He spoke smugly.
Kiara tried to move away from him but only managed a pathetic hobble.
“Not that leg though.”
“That’s enough!” Zeb shouted. “Although this little reunion is touching, you two need to separate before I call in the guard.”
Trevisian growled in response to the elf’s reprimand, stepping back towards the straw bed and laying himself down on it. He touched the bruise on his jaw. Damn those Laowyn! And damn that boy! Was he part of the Resistance? Was that why he’d been hell-bent on keeping those Edicts from circulating? He couldn’t be; why would he be sleeping in this prison if he was one of them? Trevisian didn’t know the answers to any of his questions. What he did know was that no one must find out who he really was. There was no telling the danger he would be in if they did.
He glanced over at the boy who was sitting beside the elf on an upturned bucket. He would have to assess the situation, his fellow captives, and the room he was in if he wanted to escape. His combat training rose to the surface. The Laowyn must be short of space if this cell had to house three prisoners. He had heard the elf talking to the guard, maybe he was one of the Resistance.
He studied the face of the boy carefully for the first time. He had last seen him covered in mud and blood, and now he was clean. He was odd-looking, with small features and that huge mop of golden hair. There was something not quite right about his appearance. He wasn’t elfin though, he was too…feminine. The dark lashes surrounding Trevisian’s eyes closed in, narrowing on the boy.
The boy looked back at him then, his blue eyes locking with Trevisian’s boldly, a gaze the Prince was not used to. Courtiers glanced at him before looking away in supposed reverence; Garesh occasionally gave him hard looks between lectures, but even these were short-lived. This creature stared at him openly. The size of them, that blue, the boy’s eyes were… striking… Trevisian felt the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. How else could someone have escaped the jail at Grûl? Seducing the guards would have worked very well. The small stature, those features, the outrage at the Edict of Maidens. Perhaps she had been chosen herself, although most maidens would have been thrilled to spend a night with the Prince.
No! This couldn’t be true. How could a woman have fought him so well with her sword? How could a woman even possess such a sword? Trevisian’s thoughts drifted back to the palace and the silver-blue blade that must still sit in his quarters. His unbroken stare had perhaps given too much away, because the object of his fascination suddenly looked away, a blush stealing up their cheeks.
It couldn’t be.
“You’re bleeding.” The elf leant forward, looking at the fresh blood wetting the already stained trousers the prisoner wore. “You should have let us treat it.”
The pain made the boy’s body shudder, and the elf caught him just as he crumpled. The elf glanced over without friendliness to the Prince. “Give me a hand ove
r to that pallet.”
Thoughts of the boy’s true identity were gone for a brief moment. Trevisian did as he was told, helping carry the unconscious youth, laying him carefully down on the bed.
“Get the guard,” the elf commanded, not looking up from his patient. He unbuckled the trouser leg, peeling it back and revealing the infected wound that looked ready to burst its remaining stitches.
“You need to cut the rotten flesh out and burn the skin together to sterilize and seal it.” Trevisian said, not moving. “Shall I ask for a knife?”
The elf gave him a condescending glare. “Not all of us are as barbaric as you Reluwyn when it comes to healing.” He turned back to the fair-haired boy, raising his hands over the leg, hovering them in slow concentric circles.
Trevisian had no intention of moving until he had confirmed his suspicions. He leant in to get a closer look.
“Get the guard,” snapped the elf.
The curtly repeated command set Trevisian’s blood boiling. No one ordered him around. The boy suddenly moved and groaned but didn’t quite regain consciousness. Trevisian exhaled in frustration before turning to the door. He hammered on the wood until a guard answered.
“The elf wants…” Trevisian paused.
“I want my healing satchel, they’ll know where it is.”
He relayed the commands through the door and then leaned against it, watching the drama being enacted across the room.
The guards weren’t long in procuring the requested satchel, and Trevisian was left with no more time to think. He brought the bag over to the elf whose hands were still moving in strange patterns over the boy’s leg.
“I’ve never seen an elf heal before,” he mused, dropping the pack carelessly beside him. “I thought your giftings were in the taming of forest animals. Although if that creature dies, I won’t be complaining.”
The elf huffed, trying to concentrate. “I’m Southern.”
Trevisian’s brows rose at this. “A Southern Elf? I had it on good authority that your kind had exiled themselves across the Western Sea.”
The Edict Page 8
