by Hilari Bell
But in the time he’d been looking she’d built a crackling fire, fetched water from the stream, laid out a thick pallet of cut pine boughs, and made hot tea in her tin water flask. Edoran thought that was quite ingenious, though she had to wrap her coat sleeve around her hand to pick it up and pour.
“Why did you pack two mugs?” he asked, accepting his gratefully.
“I didn’t. I bought it when I bought your coat,” she told him. “Along with another bowl and spoon, though we’ve nothing to go in the bowls but bread and cheese again.”
The mug she was using had a broken handle, and Edoran deduced that it was the one she’d purchased—she’d given the good one to him. “Bread and cheese will be fine. How much farther to this next drop of yours? Will we make it—”
“Your Highness!”
A loud rustling in the brush accompanied the half shout, and Edoran jumped, spilling his tea. A knife appeared in Arisa’s hand.
“Thank the One God I’ve found you!”
The man who led his horse out of the bushes was only medium height, but he was as lean as one of his own blades and moved like an acrobat. The horse was sweat-stained and weary. But it didn’t surprise Edoran that Master Giles would override a horse.
“How did you find us?” he stammered. Cold dismay ran through his nerves, paralyzing his wits.
“With great difficulty, Your Highness,” Edoran’s fencing master replied. “It was sheer luck that I encountered a farmer who’d seen you in the company of a red-haired boy—or at least, two boys traveling together, one with red hair. But I remembered Mistress Benison’s penchant for britches, and since I knew she was missing, I thought you might be together. They remembered her in the town markets,” he went on smugly. “Though you did a remarkable job of eluding their attention. But that doesn’t matter now—you’ll soon be back in the palace, safe and sound.”
Arisa was watching him with narrowed eyes. “All that searching must have taken you at least a few days, even on horseback, and we’ve only been gone for four. How did you find out that the prince was missing so quickly?”
Edoran blinked. In his astonishment he’d forgotten that Giles was his ex-fencing-master. He’d been fired by Justice Holis, along with the rest of Edoran’s tutors, when Holis learned that Pettibone had paid them not to teach the prince, but to make it as difficult as they could for him to learn anything. And Giles had enjoyed humiliating him even more than the others.
Edoran tried to steady his quaking will. His stomach churned and ached in a way it hadn’t since he’d left the palace—not even when he’d been in terror for his life from the robbers. That was odd, but he had no time to think about it now.
“I’m not going back,” Edoran told the man who’d intimidated him from the day he was old enough to hold a blade. “You’re no longer my tutor. You have no authority over me. Not anymore.”
Master Giles’ expression of happy greeting faded into the familiar arrogance.
“It might be argued that the reward Holis has offered for your safe return gives any man in the kingdom the right to bring you back. But authority isn’t really the issue, is it?”
He meant that he could outfight Edoran with one hand behind his back and one eye closed—he’d proved it over and over on the salle floor. There was a rapier in a scabbard on his belt, the hilts of two more protruded from the pack on his horse’s rump, and he was one of the best swordsmen in all Deorthas. He could compel Edoran to do anything he wanted.
But Arisa had risen to her feet—and she still held the knife. Which was ridiculous, for even Arisa was no match for Giles in a straight-up fight. He’d proved that, too.
“I don’t believe Holis issued a reward,” she said. “He wouldn’t dare admit the prince was missing.”
“He didn’t have much choice.” Giles pulled a length of cord from his saddlebag, just right for binding someone’s wrists. The sight filled Edoran with dread.
“You don’t have to use that,” he protested. “I know I can’t fight you.”
Which didn’t mean he couldn’t run… unless Giles actually tied him up. Would he dare? Why not? Edoran would never forgive him anyway, so he had nothing to lose.
“What do you mean, Holis had no choice?” Arisa asked.
“Rumors that the prince has vanished have spread throughout the court,” Giles told them. “Since Holis couldn’t produce the prince to refute them, he gave up, admitted it, and offered a reward for his return. He’s still trying to keep the news from the populace, though I doubt that will be possible much longer. But no one’s offering any money for you, girl, so if you trouble me…”
It was only then that his gaze fell on the sword and shield. His mouth opened and closed several times before he found his voice. “You stole them?”
If he hadn’t felt so wretched, Edoran would have grinned.
Then Giles’ eyes narrowed. “You really were working with your mother. I commend you, girl. I didn’t believe it.”
“She was not!” Edoran exclaimed.
“Believe what you like,” Arisa snapped. “You have no authority over me or Edoran, and you’re not taking either of us anywhere.”
“But I am,” said Giles. “His Highness, and the sword and shield, are all going right back to the palace, where they belong.”
Edoran couldn’t have said what subtle shift in the man’s expression gave him away, but suddenly he knew. “He’s lying! He has no intention of taking me back.”
Giles smiled. “Well, it occurs to me that there might be people who’d pay more for you than Holis would, especially with the sword and shield as part of the package. The three of you together… I’d be offering the whole throne of Deorthas, for sale to the highest bidder.”
Arisa leaped at him, but he’d clearly been expecting it—his rapier sprang from the scabbard, swiping her blade aside. That wouldn’t have mattered so much, but the hard kick to the wrist that followed it broke her grip and sent the knife spinning into the darkness.
“Bad move, girl.” Giles’ smile now was the one Edoran used to see when he’d angered his tutor in some small way. That smile meant a beating that would leave him sore for days, but that left no bruise he could complain about. “I have no quarrel with you,” the fencing master continued, “but I have no need to keep you alive, either.”
“You do if you want to sell Edoran to my mother. You need me to act as a go-between.” Arisa was clutching her wrist, but her back was straight. Her plain face, in the flickering light, seemed cast in steel. “You won’t even be able to contact her without me.”
If she could fight on, with no weapon but her wits…
The idea that came to Edoran then made his blood run cold—but what choice did he have? Giles would never let him escape, but he couldn’t kill him either. The sword and shield were far less important than capturing the prince. And Arisa was of no importance at all.
If he thought about it, he might lose his nerve. And it was time Edoran rescued something!
Two swift steps took him to the horse. The sound of a rapier rasping free of its sheath made Giles turn. His eyes flickered, but he didn’t look too surprised. And not at all frightened, curse him.
Though Edoran had to admit, Giles didn’t have much to be frightened of.
“Take the sword and shield and run,” Edoran told Arisa. “I can delay him for a few moments, at least.”
Master Giles laughed.
Arisa didn’t.
“What about you? I promised—”
“I release you from it,” said Edoran. “Get the sword and shield away—”
Giles suddenly saw that he meant it. He turned his back on Edoran and took a step toward the gear pile, where the sword and shield lay.
Edoran ran forward, ready—absolutely ready, he promised himself—to run the sword in his hand right through Giles’ back and out the other side. He was so frightened and furious that he might even have done it. He would never know, because as the sharp point neared him the fencing maste
r spun, knocking Edoran’s blade wide.
The blow was so hard, it almost jarred the hilt from his hand. Edoran leaped back, his palm and wrist stinging. Giles followed, and he jumped back again, keeping himself just out of reach of the flashing point.
The fencing master was smiling again. That smile, and the confident step forward after Edoran’s retreat, were so familiar that Edoran could feel the old pattern falling into place around them. The pattern that ended with his elbows and ribs stinging from the lash of Giles’ blade, and defeat bitter in his heart. Could he break that pattern?
Arisa had said that a left-handed fighter had an advantage against a right-handed man, who wouldn’t be accustomed to seeing the familiar moves from the opposite side. But a lefty would be accustomed to fighting men who were right-handed. She’d also said that trying to force someone to learn to fight with their weaker hand was iniquitous—though she hadn’t phrased it that way. She’d tried to teach Edoran to fence with his left hand, and the lessons had ended in scandal and disaster… but it hadn’t been a fencing disaster.
Edoran moved the sword to his left hand and had the satisfaction of seeing Master Giles’ eyes narrow.
When the next blow shot toward him, he parried it. And the next. The next got through, and pain arced from his elbow. But it was his right arm, not the one that held his sword, and Edoran was accustomed to pain when he fenced with Master Giles.
To dance back, parrying and ducking, was what he’d done for years. He did it now, struggling not to trip in the tangling grass, to keep from being backed into the clutching bushes.
Soon he’d parried several score of blows. His left arm and wrist were aching from the exertion alone when Giles’ rapier seemed to wrap itself around his blade like a serpent, instead of the rigid steel it was.
The fencing master yanked the sword out of Edoran’s grasp and seized his collar. Shaking and sweaty, Edoran was almost glad to quit. Pain was shooting through his right arm. When he looked down, he saw that his coat sleeve bore a red splotch just above his elbow. Blood. Giles had been fighting with an edged sword, and while he hadn’t exactly won…
Edoran looked over to the other side of the fire. The sword, the shield, and Arisa were gone.
CHAPTER 5
The Moonless Night: a person of ill intent, without conscience or pity.
He’d succeeded! For the first time since Weasel had been kidnapped, Edoran had done something right.
So why was he worse off now than he’d been before?
Giles had tied Edoran up and crashed around in the woods for almost half an hour before he’d been convinced that Arisa, and the sword and shield, were really gone. When he returned to the fire where he’d left the prince, he’d freed his feet, put Edoran up on his horse, retied his feet to the stirrups and his hands to the pommel of the saddle—and gagged him for good measure.
Edoran was a good enough rider that he considered trying to kick the horse to a gallop. If he chose a moment when Giles was distracted, the beast might be able to tear the reins from his grip. Then what? In daylight Edoran might have been able to guide the horse with his legs, and by shifting his weight in the saddle—many horses were sensitive to such cues. But they also disliked running when they couldn’t see well. In the dark woods, with no hand on the reins to give clear commands, the horse probably wouldn’t run far enough to make a difference. When they came out onto the moonlit main road…
But they never reached the road. After cutting through woods and rough fields, with much cursing, Giles finally struck the narrow track he’d been looking for—and it was both too rough and too dark for Edoran to convince the horse to bolt.
He turned his attention to the rope that bound his wrists, but there was no give in the cord, and the knots were solid. His bonds seemed to grow tighter as he struggled, and he realized his wrists were swelling and abandoned the attempt.
He had no idea where Giles was taking him, but judging by the position of the moon, which glowed in fitful patches through the bare branches, they were moving back toward the city. That made no sense to Edoran, though by now he was so tired that not much made sense to him. He finally fell into a half-waking doze, sufficiently aware to keep himself upright in the saddle, but unconscious of the passage of time. The rising sun roused him, and it was several hours after that when they finally reached the… place that was their destination.
Giles cut Edoran’s feet free of the stirrups, then took the time to untie the cord that held his hands to the pommel, leaving Edoran’s wrists still bound as he dragged him off the horse and up the steps to the front door.
The building baffled Edoran at first, for it was bigger than even a large farmhouse, but it was built too roughly, of stone and unplaned logs, to be a nobleman’s manor. Only after they entered, and he saw the animal skins that served as rugs and decorated the walls, did Edoran realize that this must be some wealthy shareholder’s hunting lodge. Possibly a royal lodge, for the furniture was swathed in sheets, and the air had the stuffiness of long disuse. This place certainly had a caretaker, but Giles must have gotten rid of him somehow, for the tension in his shoulders eased as soon as he pulled Edoran inside.
He left Edoran and went back out, and the prince had just roused his sleepy brain enough to wonder if he should try to run when Giles returned, carrying a length of chain and a couple of padlocks.
He dragged Edoran over to the cold hearth and fastened one end of the chain to the thick post that held up one corner of the mantel. Then he pulled off Edoran’s left boot and locked the other end around Edoran’s ankle, so tightly that the links dug into his flesh. Only then did he cut the cord that bound the prince’s wrists, stepping back while Edoran ungagged himself.
His fingers were swollen and numb, and it took him several tries to pull down the kerchief that had been tied over his mouth and spit out the sodden rag. Edoran had thought he was afraid. He’d thought he was terrified. But the words that surged from his lips in a rasping croak were, “How dare you!”
Then he started to cough.
Giles tossed him a water flask.
If Edoran’s hands hadn’t been so stiff he might have caught it, and Giles sneered as he picked it up and clumsily freed the stopper. Edoran’s voice sounded more normal when he continued, “You must be mad. You’ll hang for this!”
“That depends on who I sell you to. Some of the Isolian dukes might pay even more than the Falcon would. Especially if I can convince them to go in on it together. But before I do that, I need more information. A lot more. You’d better make yourself comfortable, Your Highness. You’re going to be here a while. In fact…”
He went through a door at one side of the big front room—a combination of sitting room and dining room, Edoran thought, for there were couches and chairs in front of the hearth, and a long table with chairs stacked atop it on the far side.
Edoran had to pull off his other boot to walk smoothly, and even then the chain around his ankle was too short to allow him to reach any of the furniture. There was a pile of wood beside the fireplace, but no tongs or poker. The wood itself, cut for kindling, was both too short and too light for a weapon—particularly against a swordsman of Giles’ caliber.
The fencing master returned a few minutes later, carrying an armload of blankets and a covered chamber pot. He tossed the blankets to Edoran and set the pot on the other side of the hearth, within reach of the chain. “There you go, my prince. I’ll be back… eventually.”
Edoran’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to leave me here? Chained? You must be joking. I can’t possibly—”
“You don’t have a choice.” The fencing master turned to go.
“Wait!” Edoran cried. “What about food?”
Giles, who had reached the door, turned to look back. “Perhaps by the time I return you’ll be ready to ask for it nicely.”
He went out, closing the door behind him—and the piece of wood Edoran hurled at it struck the stone wall instead, making only a dull thud the fencin
g master probably didn’t even hear.
Edoran listened and thought he heard hoof beats, but the walls were so thick he couldn’t be sure, and no one passed in front of the windows.
So had Giles just gone to stable his tired horse? Or had he really gone somewhere else? The chamber pot seemed to support the latter theory, but Edoran waited for almost half an hour before he concluded that the fencing master had abandoned him.
Giles wouldn’t have left him ungagged if there was anyone near enough to hear a call for help, but Edoran shouted anyway, until his voice began to crack.
Then he pulled a blanket around himself and sat on the thick hearth rug—bearskin, by the look of it—to think. For whatever reason, Giles had no fear that the lodge’s caretaker would come along and find Edoran, so there was no use hoping for that. And hunting lodges were deliberately placed as far from farms and villages as possible, so the odds of anyone passing by were very poor.
Would Arisa come for him? Probably not. Edoran had released her from her promise, and she knew that Giles would never kill him. Edoran was worth far more alive than dead, but she had no assurance that her mother’s men wouldn’t kill Weasel… so she’d rescue him first. She’d probably assume that the reason the cards had told her to take Edoran along was to help her keep the sword and shield out of Giles’ hands. He’d now done that, so there was no pressing reason for her to rescue him.
Edoran felt a flash of satisfaction at the memory of Giles’ fury. He could never outfight his old tutor, but he’d managed to hold him off for longer than he’d believed possible. Because he’d been fencing with his left hand? Or had Giles, too, unconsciously fallen into the old pattern, pressing attack after attack without really trying to defeat his opponent?
