by Lee Ramsay
BRENNA WAS GENEROUS with what little she possessed, taking the prisoners’ bloodied clothes in return for mended shirts and pants, and she shared out what blankets she had. Some of the Anahari huddled together as they laid down to exhausted sleep, while others drank shaddash or chewed the food she gave them. She had a kind word for each and spent a few moments talking with those who were willing.
Tristan sipped a flask of shaddash as his eyes followed the Anahari woman. Groush’s pointed remarks about his suspiciousness stung. Honesty forced him to admit resentment rooted his distrust.
Shoving his mood aside, he turned back to the room in which the Hillffolk worked.
The more he examined it, the more Rathus’s revelation that it had once been a guard room – and Brenna’s home – took on credibility. A series of hollows lined the walls, long enough for an Anahari to lay down; one was stuffed with old blankets, tattered sheets, and threadbare quilts to create a makeshift mattress. Other indentations held battered tin cups filled with fat, a few tapers, and shredded cloth fiber for kindling. Curves of wire lay beside the candles, flint secured to one end and roughened metal on the other, and struck sparks when he squeezed them. There were a few books with missing or damaged covers; water damage smeared the ink on tattered yellow pages. Ragged clothing had been folded and placed in cubbies meant for other supplies. Brenna had also stashed some food – stale bread and moldering cheese, dried meat, and withered fruits – as well as several flasks of shaddash.
Ashamed, the young man settled himself against the wall to rest and set the empty shaddash flask aside. He recognized that his mood’s sourness was rooted in a ridiculous belief that he ought to be the one caring for them all; a woman he did not know or fully trust was upstaging his moment of heroism. It was ridiculous, and he knew it – but try as he might, he could not dismiss his suspicion that something was not quite right about Brenna.
A HAND ON HIS SHOULDER startled him awake with a violent thrash. Rathus backed away, his hands held wide, and waited until sense returned to the young man’s eyes. “I apologize for startling you, but Groush wanted me to wake you and the others. The door is open enough for us to slip through. He doesn’t want to remain longer than we must, and to be frank, neither do I.”
Unaware that he had fallen asleep and with lead clinging to both his wits and body, Tristan yawned and scrubbed his hands across his face. Eyes gritty, he peered around and found the area outside the guardroom deserted. “Where are the others?”
“Brenna already has them moving, and gave them what they can carry from the things she has collected. Groush is helping them into the tunnels on the other side of the door. She said to wake you last.”
“Lovely. More tunnels.”
Rathus chuckled, the sound as melodious as his speech. “These are natural. The air is fresher, and I think I heard a waterfall. We can’t be too far from a way out.”
Following the bard through the abandoned guardroom, Tristan spied two broken swords lying on the ground beside the half-open door; with a third of their length broken from prying the door open, they were unusable.
Fresh air flowed through the narrow gap between the door and the wall, cool and damp as it stirred strands of hair falling across his face. The sensation was more invigorating than being released from his chains to crawl through Brenna’s tunnels or the satisfaction of burying an axe in Ankara’s chest. It was not dissimilar to the sensation he experienced seeing the sun for the first time in a year from Sathra’s chambers. For the first time since awakening in a rishka-induced daze in Sathra’s interrogation chair, he dared think he might not only survive but return to Dorishad. So long had he buried the name deep in his thoughts that the word was both sweet and alien. He could almost taste Karilen’s cooking as his tongue shaped the word.
Freedom. Tristan closed his eyes and breathed deep, then wrenched his mind away from those thoughts. He might be free, but he and the others were anything but safe.
“You alright?” Rathus asked with a concerned look, wrenching the young man from his thoughts. The bard slung a pack through the open doorway when he nodded, then thrust a battered sack with mismatched leather straps into his arms.
“What is this?”
“Food and clothes. She said you wanted it, so you should carry it.”
Chapter 46
Autumn sunlight stung Tristan’s eyes as he neared the top of a slick, rough staircase hidden behind the cascading waterfall that fed the castle and the city of Feinthresh. Softened as it shafted through the trees growing on the mountainside, it was painful to eyes accustomed to perpetual gloom. Mist swirled around him, ebbing and flowing as the rushing water stirred the air in the cave’s mouth. Chill moisture beaded his skin and seeped through his thin clothing, making his teeth chatter.
Hiding a postern exit behind the waterfall was unexpected and ingenious. While an attacking army laid siege to the gates below, supplies could be smuggled into the castle – or people could escape with minimal risk of being spotted. A natural cave system in a granite mountain was not unheard of, but if the books Anthoun had forced him to read were to be believed, they were rare; they occurred where the rock faulted, eroding as water flowed through gaps and fissures in the stone. No one would search for an escape route built into the mountain unless they knew Anahar’s ranges were formations from two landmasses smashing against each other over millennia.
The caves were a labyrinth created by nature rather than by design; the escapees took more than one wrong turn, misled by the waterfall’s echoes. The opening in which they found themselves was high on the mountain’s face. A narrow set of stairs climbed upward at a steep angle to a path no wider than Groush’s broad shoulders. It, and anyone on it, would invisible from below unless someone knew where to look.
Feinthresh’s waterfall-fed lake lay several hundred feet below him; the River Ossifor’s headwaters began here, flowing from the lake’s southern end before dogging westward. The top of the castle’s curtain wall rested below his line of vision and gleamed white-gold in the afternoon sunshine to his left. The suspended garden in which he and Gwistain had dined with Ankara and Sathra was visible, as were the windows of Sathra’s apartments.
His heart raced at the possibility of the young sorceress looking back at him, but he pushed that concern aside. Ankara’s body had been found in the dungeons with his stolen hatchet buried in her chest by now. His absence from his cell had doubtless been discovered as well. Dushken would round up loose prisoners and interrogate them about the Grand Duchess of Anahar’s death while searching the dungeons. It would take Sathra time to think to look beyond the castle’s wall for escapees.
He ignored the profound muscle fatigue and nausea plaguing him and began the long climb.
Eventually, the Dushken would discover Brenna’s hidden passages and track them to the postern gate she had used as a home. He estimated at least three days – perhaps no more than five – before it was clear there had been an escape. Sathra would spend perhaps a day or two searching the city a handful more on the immediate surroundings before expanding the search.
Belatedly, he remembered the noblewoman was being kept under the influence of rishka. He doubted she would remain so; with Ankara dead, she was the throne’s legitimate successor. Based on his own experience with the drug, he figured it would take her a few days to regain her wits. His estimate on how long it would take for the band of escapees to be pursued expanded to a fortnight at most.
He was not foolish enough to believe she would let them escape. He rolled his shoulders against the rucksack’s weight and placed his hand against the mountain face to follow the others. As he saw no point in frightening them with his suspicions, he remained silent. No doubt they already knew, or would soon reach the same conclusion he had.
Crossing the mountain face took time. The path, which appeared deep at first glance, proved much narrower once on it; whenever the wind gusted, it added to the nausea twisting his belly. He dared not close his eyes despite wa
nting to do so, convinced one blind misstep would send him tumbling.
Footstep by footstep, they shuffled down the path undulating along the rugged cliff face. Groush alone was unaffected by the trail’s narrowness or the risk of a long fall; the Hillffolk strode down the narrow path, surefooted and with no need to rest his hand on the mountain wall for stability. Frustrated impatience with the escapees’ slow progress was evident beneath the bull’s tangled beard.
Purple had replaced the sky’s azure as the sun sank behind the mountains by the time everyone reached the shelter of the pines at the trail’s end. Clad in threadbare clothing soaked by the mists flowing from the waterfall, the escapees shivered and huddled behind whatever shelter the trees could provide as the wind sank through their clothing.
No less cold and exhausted than the others, Tristan hugged his torso and cast a glance back toward the castle. “We can’t stay here. We’re too close and too exposed.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Brenna said as she dug through her battered leather satchel, prompting Groush to snort with amusement. A thin wool coat fell to the middle of her thighs, and she had rolled its overlong sleeves rolled to her elbows to keep her hands free. “Give us a moment to rest and make ourselves as warm as possible before trying to run us.”
Tristan caught Groush’s slight headshake and followed the glance cast toward the other escapees. Weak and sickly, they huddled into the blankets and quilts Brenna had given them. The young woman helped them secure the threadbare bedclothes around themselves like makeshift cloaks, using a handful of steel fishing hooks as crude clasps.
Wry amusement struck him that she thought to bring those hooks. In his surety of purpose, he had neglected to do the same before fleeing Dorishad.
Rathus stood beneath a nearby pine, adjusting the broadsword Groush had given him so the hilt swung more comfortably at his hip. Despite his claim to be familiar with the weapon, the bard appeared uncomfortable with the blade’s dragging weight. After a few more tugs, he gave up and slid his hands back into the sleeves of his doublet. “So...now that we are free, where do we go?”
“Far from here.” His own blade swinging at his hip, Groush rose and handed Tristan the last of the swords. Bare-chested, he appeared unaffected by the chill breeze. “We go as far as we can before we rest. There will be no fire tonight; we keep moving to stay warm.”
“But where are we going?” Rathus pressed. “I have never been to Anahar before. Is there a port where we can catch a ship?”
Tristan belted the sword around his waist, though he knew nothing more than the basic principles of its use. He tried to settle the leather on hips which had grown bony, and winced as the worn leather dug into them. “Unless you have a bag of coins hidden on you, we can forget about a ship.”
“You know what I meant. I don’t wish to linger if they decide to track down escaped prisoners.”
“Sathra will.”
Rathus fixed his gaze on Brenna, his brow knitting in confusion at her assertion. “Why would that lovely young lady be concerned with our escape? Wouldn’t Anasha be the one to send guards after us? Or her chamberlain, once he was made aware of the situation?”
Tristan’s lips pursed at the nobleman’s reference to Sathra being lovely. “Anasha, as you call her, is dead.”
“What do you mean, as I call her? How did she end up dead? She was healthy enough when I last saw her.”
“It’s a long story and one we shouldn’t get into here. You are right, though; we need to figure out where we’re going.”
Brenna broke into the conversation by clearing her throat. “We go north. The high country is sparsely populated, and that would be the best place for us to go.”
“How can you be certain?”
Annoyance colored her face and voice. “I’m Anahari. Prisoner though I was for most of the last decade, I was born here.”
Groush cut Tristan’s reply short with a resonating growl. “Argue later. Move now.”
Chapter 47
Imposing in size and elegant in design, the throne sat empty on its dais beneath the emerald and black banner of the Duchy of Anahar. Though black oak constituted the seat’s bones, quilted maple cladding sheathed the royal seat to lend it light and life; gold and silver inlay in the intricately carved arms and back added to the design’s regalness. Plush velvet cushions adorned the seat and padded the back, the deep emerald nap and black embroidery a stark contrast to the pale wood. Artfully arranged in cascades and pleats, a single bolt of charcoal gray velvet – the Anahari color of mourning – draped the throne, as did chains of black and purple orchids.
Though few of the assembled peers from the Greater and Lesser Houses allowed their gazes to linger on the throne, few could resist the temptation to glance at it. The Grand Duchess of Anahar was dead, and the Heiress Presumptive was late to her coronation.
The nobles clustered into knots of political alliance and marital affiliation to discuss the day’s uncertainty. Anasha Sheran had only held the throne for a decade. Like her foremothers, the grand duchess’s firm grip had kept the nation stable within its borders despite the usual political infighting and intrigue. Peace had been maintained with the fractious and often violent Reesenat, whose warring thanedoms rode Anahar’s northern borders. Alliances with the desert realms had been strengthened, bringing in wealth and goods the Anahari could not produce themselves. Isolationism limited involvement in Western Celerus’s contentious politics, which helped Anahar avoid its neighbors’ petty wars.
Wealthy, powerful, and stable, the peers were content with the political and social one-upmanship and minor military conflicts that had been the norm for more than nine centuries. Instability was undesirable and dangerous.
Anasha Sheran’s death without a daughter to name to the throne was cause for concern. Though scions of House Sheran lived, ancient law prevented any but Anasha’s line from ascending the throne. When Sathra of House Sheranath had been named Heiress Presumptive, the peers thought little of it. Appointing a daughter of a derivative family until a legitimate heiress was born was a formality among the Greater and Lesser Houses; such arrangements were uncommon and intended to be proxy leadership while a daughter was conceived. Now, however, the ascension of House Sheranth to the throne introduced uncertainty; there would be a reordering of the social and political strata as Houses vied to advance their standing in the new order.
More worrisome to the peers were the goals and ambitions of the Heiress Apparent. Daughter of Anahar’s second most powerful House, Sathra had been a fixture at court since the age of fourteen. Haughty and politically aggressive, the daughter of Marchioness Alyse Sheranath often voiced her disagreement with the grand duchess’s social and political perspectives. Few had ever considered her as anything more than a powerful future political adversary; Anasha Sheran had only been in her middle twenties, with time to birth a more suitable heiress.
Yet, here they stood.
The delay in the coronation ceremony was an obvious play by an unsubtle woman, reinforced by the presence of the Royal Guard. Each soldier wore a suit of articulated plate beneath surcoats and gold-trimmed black cloaks emblazoned with the royal crest; their gauntleted hands rested on the pommels of two-handed blades, the points of the bared steel resting between the sabatons covering their boots. More ominously, the guardsmen had donned their black-plumed visored helmets and stood at strategic points throughout the throne room. The peers, dressed in velvets and with the men carrying no more than ceremonial rapiers and daggers, would be a poor match against one of the guards – much less the thirty in attendance or the scores more throughout Feinthresh Castle.
The message was clear: disruption of the coronation through protest or dissension would be dealt with severely. At the same time, the long-term threat was blatant. Failure to comply with the Heiress Presumptive would result in punitive measures. Further enhancing the Heiress Apparent’s message was the array of her kin at the base of the steps leading to the throne.
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br /> Juniormost of the family branches in rank was Lena, Baroness Sherantar, and her husband, Emest. The elderly couple stood farthest from the runner climbing the dais to the throne. Stooped by a dowager’s hump and leaning on a gnarled cane to support her bad hip, the baroness’s mulberry and black gown was outdated in cut; a glance at her eyes, however, revealed that though her body was failing, her wits remained sharp. Her husband also wore an unfashionable doublet in the House colors, along with the dove gray and black velvet overcoat indicating his position on the Council of Peers; his position gave him significant influence over the Royal Army of Anahar.
Next in order of precedence was Galiana, Countess Sheranti. Of middle years, copious amounts of silver threaded the countess’s jet black hair. Although deep lines framed her lips and the corners of her eyes, her body remained that of a woman half her years. Low cut over an ample bosom contained by a black leather corset, the shade of her cobalt gown matched the pendant gracing her throat. Mother to three daughters by different husbands, unfounded rumors claimed she had had her spouses murdered rather than divorcing them. Most of the peers dismissed such stories, though they acknowledged her as a formidable politician; through her daughters’ fathers, she had significant ties to Officers of the Exchequer.
The last pair caused the assembled peers the most concern. The similarities between Marchioness Alyse and Anasha Sheran were undeniable; she possessed the same regal bearing and slight build as her kinswoman, though age had softened the sharpness of her features and the coal of her elegant coif. So striking was the resemblance that, had it not been for the blood-red and black of her House colors, she could have been mistaken as the grand duchess’s elder sister. With her husband, Rioritan, she commanded the Sheranath Marches – the source of much of Anahar’s mineral wealth. Rioritan himself had retired as Lord Marshal of the Royal Army of Anahar, and enjoyed significant influence with his successor.
