by Hilari Bell
Could he stop at a farm and ask for a room for the night? They would doubtless want him to pay, and he had no idea how much. He could face the necessity of working at some simple chore to pay for his meals and lodging tomorrow, but he was too tired to do it tonight. Yet what other choice…
The shed was some distance off the road, and it looked almost as dilapidated as the Black Pig. But Weasel had said that he and Arisa once waited out a storm in a hay shed, and that the roof had been sound. It hadn’t sounded too uncomfortable, and surely no one would expect him to pay to sleep in a shed.
Edoran made up his mind and left the path, climbing through the split rails of the fence that stood between him and rest, and shelter. Surely his cloak would keep him warm, especially with a bit of hay piled atop it.
The empty field had looked fairly level from the road, but it wasn’t. Crossing it splashed mud onto any patch of Edoran’s boots that hadn’t been muddy before, but he was now too tired to care. The door creaked as it opened, but the faint, familiar scent of horses reached out to him, and he was suddenly glad that the road had emptied of traffic as the sun set, glad that he hadn’t reached an inn. He’d had enough of people for—
A hard hand between his shoulder blades shoved him forward, to fall to his hands and knees on the dusty floor.
He heard boot steps on the hollow wood, and the creak of the door closing behind them. Trying to fight down panic, he rose to his feet and turned to face them. If these were farmhands, indignant at his trespass…
They weren’t. One look at their hard faces would have told Edoran that, even without the knives in their hands.
There were four of them, more than he could possibly fight. A moment ago he would have sworn he couldn’t have run, but now he knew that terror would have sent him flying down the road… had he been on the road. Trapped in this dusty shed, with the last of the daylight leaking through the cracks in its walls, he could neither fight nor flee.
He liked to think he had too much pride to beg, so he tried to keep his voice from quivering. “If it’s my purse you’re after, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I’ve hardly any money, but what there is…” He pulled his thin purse from his pocket and cast it to the floor at their feet. “I won’t say you’re welcome to it, but I can’t prevent you from taking it, so you might as well.”
And then go.
The shortest of the four men laughed. “Well played, lad. But we don’t want that purse. We want your real one.”
Edoran blinked. “That is my real purse.”
“The other purse, then. The one with your money in it.”
Were they mad? “That is the purse. With my money in it.”
The short bandit sighed. “It may save some time if I tell you that I was… that we heard what happened in the Hunting Hound.”
He’d been in the Hunting Hound, which might help the town guard find him if Edoran survived to report this conversation. But…
“What does that have to do with anything? I didn’t even eat there.”
“Exactly. I mean, why would you go and order a big meal, all special, if you couldn’t pay for it? We’re not fools, boy. Anyone whose purse is so rich that he’d rather walk out hungry than show it in public, well, he’s worth following. And you ought t’ learn to look behind you once in a while. Never followed anyone so easy. And since you made it so easy on us, if you’ll just hand over that purse you didn’t care to show off in the Hound, why, we’ll take it and be on our way and no harm done to you. You know you can’t fight us, so you might as well hand it over.”
Edoran did know it. If he’d had such a purse, he would have been cowardly enough to do just that. Could you be a coward for something you wanted to do, but couldn’t?
Heart sinking, his stomach in knots, Edoran threw his satchel aside, and when their eyes followed it he leaped for the door.
He wasn’t surprised when hard hands caught his collar and one arm. This time they slammed him facedown onto the floor, hard enough that several moments passed before his mind cleared.
“That wasn’t smart, boy,” the short bandit, who seemed to be the leader, told him. He’d already scooped up Edoran’s satchel and was pulling out shirts and underclothes.
“I haven’t got another purse,” Edoran protested.
The short bandit sighed again. None of the others said a word. Afraid something about their voices would allow him to identify them? But Edoran had already seen their faces.
The leader inspected Edoran’s satchel and then pulled out his knife. The prince flinched, and the hands that held him down tightened. But the bandit only sliced open the lining and seams of his satchel—in moments it lay in shreds on the floor.
The leader picked up the cloak he’d cast aside. It was too dark to make out his expression now, but Edoran saw him hesitate; then he sheathed his knife.
He spent several minutes running his hands over the hems and collar, then the whole length of the finely woven wool, then through the soft fur of the lining.
“Just cut it up!” one of the men holding Edoran snapped, proving that they could speak. And also that they didn’t care if some accent gave Edoran a clue where he might find them, which was probably a bad sign.
“It’s valuable, dolt,” the leader replied. “If there were coins sewn in we could feel ’em. But there aren’t.”
“I told you, the small purse is all the money I have.” Edoran heard the plea creeping into his voice and hated it—though he would have begged for mercy if he thought it would work.
“Ah, but I saw your little purse dumped out in the Hound,” the bandit said. “There’s nothing in there worth stealing. And we’ve followed you a long way this afternoon.”
He drew his knife.
Edoran scrabbled frantically on the dirty floor, trying to rise, to flee, to break the grip that held him down. It earned him a kick in the ribs that made him gasp. When the pain had lessened enough for him to breathe again, the short bandit was ripping up his coat with the knife.
They cut it off his body and sliced it to shreds. They cut the collar off his shirt and slit the waist and knee bands of his britches, cuffing and punching him if he tried to fight.
Then they shoved him face-first onto the floor once more and shredded the clothes that had been pulled from his pack.
“What about the heels of his boots?” one of them demanded.
“No room there to hide enough coin to bother with,” the leader said. “Nor under the soles, neither.” Though he took his knife and pried the inner soles out of Edoran’s boots anyway.
It was dark in the shed now, but Edoran could see when the man turned toward him, slapping the knife blade thoughtfully into his palm.
“I told you I hadn’t any money.” This time he couldn’t keep his voice from shaking.
“Maybe he hid it somewhere in the shed,” one of them suggested.
The leader snorted. “He didn’t have time for that. We followed him right through the door, remember? But maybe… maybe he swallowed it.”
Edoran’s blood ran cold. He tried to protest, to deny it, but even his voice was paralyzed with horror.
“But if it was in his belly, he wouldn’t have ordered that luncheon before thinking twice about showing his coin,” the bandit went on. “And as for doing it later, he didn’t know we were following him, so he’d no need. Besides, it’s harder to swallow a coin than you might think. I tried it once and cursed near choked to death.”
He paused again and Edoran waited, his heart hammering against the rough wood of the floor.
“So I’m inclined to believe he’s telling the truth,” the bandit finished. “And he really has no more coin than this.”
He went over to the corner, picked up Edoran’s purse, and put it in his pocket.
“You mean we wasted this whole afternoon for nothing?” another of the bandits snarled.
“Not for nothing,” the short man said. “This cloak’ll be worth a fair bit of silver, in a town big en
ough to fence it. Worth gold if we could sell it honest, but that’s neither here nor there.”
The hard hands holding Edoran to the floor relaxed a bit, and he stifled a sob of relief. They were going to go. They were going to go, and not rip open his stomach with that big knife before they departed.
The short man came over to where Edoran lay and stared down at him. “Let this be a lesson to you, lad,” he said. “Don’t go ordering up things you can’t pay for.”
Edoran saw the boot swing toward his face, but he was held down too securely to do anything about it.
He didn’t lose consciousness, exactly. He could feel the hands releasing their pressure on his back. He heard the small sounds as the four men left the shed and closed the door behind them. But he couldn’t move, or even open his eyes, for several minutes after they’d gone. Maybe more than minutes, for by the time he opened his eyes again the moon had risen.
His dark-adapted eyes made out more than he’d expected, and when he crawled to the door and opened it he could see even more. There was nothing left of his satchel but scraps, and the clothing he’d packed was no better. He’d had to grab his britches and hold them up, or they’d have fallen off before he reached the door.
The bread and cheese had been trampled into crumbs, and at some point, without his noticing, someone had emptied his water flask. That discovery almost made him weep, for he was horribly thirsty. And dirty, and the whole left side of his face throbbed, along with his aching ribs and assorted lesser bruises.
He was afraid to leave, because they might be waiting for him. He was afraid to stay for fear they might change their minds and come back. He could freeze to death without his cloak; this shed held only harness and farm tools, no friendly hay to warm and hide him.
More than anything, Edoran wanted to be back in his own bed, in his own suite, with servants who would bring him hot drinks and salve for his bruises, whether they liked him or not.
He could go back. Assuming he didn’t freeze, he had only to reach the road tomorrow morning. Once the traffic started up, the first carriage that came past would return him to the palace. Edoran himself could reward them for it, if Holis didn’t.
But if he did that, when the negotiations for the Falcon’s surrender began, Weasel might die.
He might be dead already.
Edoran lowered his aching body to the floor and curled up, trying to keep warm.
Weasel might be dead, but he probably wasn’t, and Edoran continuing to follow him was the best chance of survival Weasel had. He couldn’t quit. He wouldn’t quit!
But how could he go on, with no food, no money, no clothes…?
It was then that he felt it, a faint… warmth at the edge of his consciousness. But he knew that warmth meant safety, help, and ease for his painful bruises. It wasn’t far off, whatever it was. He only had to get there, and then he could rest.
It hurt his ribs to pull on his boots, but at least his boots were more or less intact. His head throbbed when he struggled to his feet and went back to the door.
The waxing moon cast shadows into the nearby scrub, but he didn’t see any lurking bandits. And if he stayed there, if he didn’t get help, he’d probably run out of will and be ready to give up his quest by morning.
Edoran drew a steadying breath of the cold air and set off in search of the shelter he sensed, somewhere in the darkness.
CHAPTER 3
The Two of Fires: jealousy. Coveting something you haven’t earned.
The first thing Edoran saw, through the bare branches, was the flickering light of a fire. His sensing had led him down the farmer’s path and over another rough field, or possibly two, to a shallow ravine filled with trees.
Edoran stopped, suddenly wary. His strange instincts, which he’d learned to trust, told him this fire spelled safety and aid, but the events of the day made him cautious. Even if his peculiar gift was right, if anyone around that fire recognized him they might well offer him shelter and aid… and send him straight back to the palace in the morning. He needed to see who they were before he revealed himself.
Moving as quietly as he could, keeping the thickest underbrush between him and the light, Edoran crept forward. The clearing was so tiny that no one could have found it if they hadn’t known it was there, and the trickle of water that cut a trough on its far side was too small to call a stream. It reminded Edoran of his thirst—he’d drink even dirty water, if he had no other choice.
But not if it meant falling into the hands of General Diccon’s soldiers. Though this clearing was too small to hold a guard troop. In fact… He crept nearer, until he could see the whole of the open space—there was no one there. But someone had built that fire, and thrown a blanket over a pile of gear that lay off to one side. If they weren’t there, then where—
He was already starting to turn when the shove sent him toppling onto the dry grass. He scrambled to his feet—this time he would fight, by the One God! But before he even located his opponent, a familiar voice exclaimed, “You! What are you doing here?”
A familiar female voice. Arisa emerged from the shadows as if the forest itself had spawned her. How had she sneaked up through all that dry brush without him hearing her? He really had to learn to look behind him. But what in the world…
“What are you doing here?” Edoran demanded. “I thought you—” Then he caught sight of the curve under the blanket she’d cast over her gear, and poking out from under its folds, the tip of a pommel. Most people wouldn’t have recognized them, but Edoran had spent the better portion of the disaster last night trying to hide them from her mother’s men.
“You didn’t!”
Arisa went to the blanket and picked it up, revealing the sword and shield. “Clearly, I did. Wrap yourself up.” She pitched the blanket to Edoran. “You’re shivering.”
“Are you stark staring mad?” Edoran wrapped the blanket around himself and sat beside the fire. Its warmth dispelled the terrors of the night. “Do you have any water?” he added.
She pulled a flask from her pack and handed it to him. “Do you believe the sword and shield are more important than Weasel’s life?”
“No,” he admitted. “But… You stole them? You just… stole them?” The cool water tasted faintly of the metal of her flask, and trickling down his parched throat, it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.
“Yes,” she said simply. “What happened to your face?”
“I can’t believe you did that,” Edoran muttered. It had taken some nerve to run away from the palace himself. To steal the most precious artifacts in the kingdom, the symbols that, to most of the country folk of Deorthas, mattered almost as much as the king himself… He wouldn’t have dared. And he was, technically, their owner. Arisa was the daughter of a rebel and traitor, who had just fled after trying to kidnap the prince.
Edoran had to take another swallow of water before he could summon his voice. “They’ll hang you. They’ll decide that you were working with the Falcon all along and hang you right beside her. You really are out of your mind.”
Arisa shrugged. “It looks to me like you’ve got no room to criticize.” Her gaze traveled over him, taking in the bruises, the tattered clothing. “Got yourself robbed, did you?”
If there’d been any sympathy in her voice, Edoran probably would have burst into tears. As it was, he managed to keep his voice almost calm as he told the tale of his adventures. She soaked a kerchief in the stream to make a cold compress for his face and gave him a bit of food from her pack—bread and cheese, very like the stuff he’d lost, though she’d purchased some raisins to go with it. She shook her head in astonishment when he was done.
“And you call me crazy.”
“I suppose we’re both a little crazy,” Edoran admitted. “But we also have… how to put this… a common cause? We both want to get Weasel back alive. You were going to trade your mother the sword and shield for him, weren’t you?”
The girl nodded slowly. “They’d
make a much more valuable hostage than Weasel would. Maybe valuable enough that she could trade them for safe passage out of Deorthas. It’s not only Weasel I’m trying to save, you know.”
“I have no problem with that,” said Edoran promptly. “All she’s done is plot to seize the throne, and sooner or later everyone does that. It’s not like she’s killed anyone.”
Yet. That they knew of. He pulled the blanket closer. He refused to believe that. Weasel was alive. He had to be.
“She probably killed Master Darian,” said Arisa. Her voice was cool, but Edoran could hear the effort that kept it so. “Or she ordered it done. Hanging himself in his cell was far too convenient.”
Edoran hadn’t thought about that. “Because he’d have identified her, to save himself? I don’t care much about that, either. He was a traitor to Deorthas, twice over. He’d have been hanged by the courts anyway.”
Master Darian had worked for Regent Pettibone, a sin for which Edoran wasn’t inclined to forgive anyone. Though he supposed he couldn’t hang them all.
“She’s not a traitor!” Arisa burst out. “Well, I suppose she is, technically, but she’s not evil. She’s doing it because she thinks her rule will be better for the people! She believed it was her duty to overthrow Pettibone, and when he was killed… Destroying Pettibone, avenging my father and all the other naval officers he hanged—it had consumed her whole life. Then it happened so fast…. I don’t think she realized she could quit. But I can convince her to stop now. When I talk to her.”
“I have no problem with that,” Edoran repeated. In truth, he understood the Falcon. The coup in which Pettibone had seized Deorthas’ throne had been much bloodier than the coup that overthrew him. And Pettibone’s coup had started with Edoran’s father’s death, whatever the official investigation had said.
“It’s not just vengeance,” Arisa persisted. “She really intends to rule well. For the sake of the people.”
This wasn’t much comfort to Edoran; some of the greatest villains in Deorthas’ history had loved their dog, or their horse, or their mother. Pettibone himself had worked with the church to help feed and educate the city poor, and forced factory owners to improve conditions for their workers.
