Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  Afterward, there was little to say but the farewells.

  “Here. You’ll need some funds to purchase horses.” Aubrey pressed a heavy pouch into my hand. I had some remaining coin from our trip to Elas, but with a bit of extra, we could be well-outfitted for the road ahead.

  “Thank you.” I kissed his cheek. “I know you don’t like it, but I hope you understand why I have to go.”

  He tilted his head at me, those amber eyes glinting. “You think I’m any less eager to get home?” He smiled and squeezed my hands. “Leon will wait. I’m not sure your sailor can.”

  Quintin and I stepped out into the early morning light and trekked to the dockside market. Several horse traders serviced the wharf, enabling travelers to buy and sell mounts as they came and went from across the sea. We passed over a few with poor stock before finding one with better potential. I hung on the fence and watched as they ambled around their paddock, evaluating their gaits and temperaments.

  “What about that one? Looks hale enough to me.” Quintin pointed at a chestnut gelding with white socks.

  “See how he favors that foreleg? Every time he stops, he shifts his weight from it. He’d be lame in a day.”

  Crestfallen, he abandoned making suggestions and left me to my work. I’d just finished identifying two suitable mounts when the trader began sauntering over to us with a greasy smile. I elbowed Quintin.

  “You’re up.”

  “What?” he startled.

  “Just look menacing.”

  Then the man was upon us, the stink of cheap cologne wafting over me. “I see you have good taste, coming to see the finest livestock on the wharf!”

  I fixed him with a stern gaze. “We’re interested in two horses and tack. For riders, not cargo. What can you offer us?”

  He swept a grand gesture over his paltry herd. “Any of my prized beasts will serve you well, I can assure you. What color do you prefer, my dear?”

  I’d not done a good enough job passing as a man, this time.

  I managed to suppress the urge to spit on his boots, and instead smiled sweetly through gritted teeth. “I can pick any two I like? Even that beautiful golden one?”

  I pointed at a knob-kneed tawny mare that had seen a few too many seasons. His grin widened. He had plenty of swayback nags, and I was obviously unable to tell the difference.

  “For you, little raven, any two you like!”

  “How much?”

  “Straight to business. I like your spirit!” he exclaimed, and proceeded to name an exorbitant price: two silvers each, and another for the tack.

  A choked bark of a laugh slipped from me before I could stifle it. “You’re joking, I assume,” I drawled.

  The repulsive man twisted his face into a caricature of contrition. “The price is the price, I’m afraid. Perhaps Benedict over there has something more in your range,” he said, gesturing to one of the less-reputable merchants nearby, a hunch-backed old man currently haggling over a pair of pack mules.

  “I could buy a matched pair of yearlings in Litheria for that,” I countered stiffly.

  “Ah,” he said, beady eyes glinting. “But you’re not in the White City, little raven.” The trader threw his filthy hands wide, an equally unsavory grin splitting his face. “You are in Petrion. Berths may come cheap, here, but horseflesh is a valuable commodity. Plenty of traders willing to pay as much, even if they lack your lovely smile.”

  I wondered, briefly, how many of his half-rotted teeth I could loosen with a single punch. Then I made a show of digging in my coin pouch, letting my features pinch into a portrait of worry and uncertainty.

  “Would you take three silvers for both? And I’ve only a few coppers for the tack….”

  It was still a ridiculous cost for such low-quality livestock, but we needed mounts and I was eager to be on our way. The corner of the trader’s mouth twitched in triumph. He heaved a dramatic sigh, scratching his head.

  “Ah, you remind me of my daughter Marisa! Okay, okay. Three for the horses and six coppers for the tack. I’ll take a loss for you, sweet girl, but don’t tell anyone!” he crowed, waggling his finger at me. I held out my hand to him, which he clasped and shook enthusiastically.

  The deal made, I’d no more need for the façade. I leapt over the rail and tagged his two best horses.

  His face fell. “Now wait a moment, my dear, those are not-”

  Quintin took a few menacing steps toward him, hand resting on the hilt of his belt knife.

  I dug his coin out of my pouch and dropped it into his hand. “I assume you are a man who honors a deal shaken upon.” His face reddened. “The tack, if you please.”

  CHAPTER 29

  We passed out of the city gates in the early afternoon, fully equipped for three days on the road. I could feel Quintin glancing my way now and again as our mounts plodded down the dirt path.

  “What?” I finally pressed, tired of his looks.

  He shook his head, a smirk twisting his mouth. “I thought you were going to hit him,” he muttered.

  My own lips twitched as I struggled to draw my face into a mock of his serious scowl, throwing my voice deeper. “Well, it’s a matter of self-discipline.”

  It was a terrible impression of the Tuvrian’s stoic mannerisms, but I did manage to achieve the same dry, condescending tone he’d thrown my way the night we met. Overall, though, it sounded utterly ridiculous and my composure shattered as I dissolved into a full-fledged laughing fit. Quintin merely favored me with a mildly offended glare until an involuntary and exceptionally unflattering sound escaped my lips in the midst of my cackling. Something between a snort and a hiccup, it only sent me into further hysterics, and even my dour Tuvrian couldn’t maintain his scowl. A wide grin split his face, a rare roll of laughter unfurling in the warm afternoon air. At length, I managed to catch my breath, wiping tears from my eyes as I straightened in the saddle.

  “He was a self-righteous cock who deserved what he got and more,” I justified forcefully.

  “You don’t need to convince me,” he said, shaking his head.

  I eyed him askance. “It wouldn’t have worked without you. You can be quite intimidating when you try.”

  He looked away, but I could tell he was still smiling. “Yes, I hear my scowl is second to none.”

  “Mm.”

  It was nice to be on good terms with him again, if only for a moment. I realized I’d missed the easy banter we’d developed during our year in Elas, and wondered why he’d withdrawn so completely in recent weeks. Maybe with my father’s presence looming so close, he worried he’d been lax in his duties. Tuvrians are a rigid lot, and I expected even the slightest familiarity with one’s charge constituted a breach of conduct in their eyes. Whatever the reason, he kept his own counsel, and I knew better than to ask.

  We pressed the horses as hard as we dared, finally stopping at dusk to make camp out of sight of the road. I tended our mounts while Quintin gathered wood and built a fire. After a meal of dried meat and a few mouthfuls of bread, we laid out our bedrolls. I’d huddled down into mine before I noticed him sitting at the fire, making no move to follow suit.

  He glanced at me and settled another log onto the flames. “I’ll stay up a while, build up the coals. Get some sleep.” Huddled in my blankets, I did.

  A hand shook me awake at dawn. I rolled over to see Quintin, bleary-eyed and offering me the waterskin, the bedroll nearby clearly untouched. Before I could protest, he stood and retreated to water the horses.

  We broke camp with only a bit of stumbling on my part. He pointed out patiently when I missed things like burying the coals from the night’s fire. I’d never traveled without servants before, but I took the opportunity to learn, soaking up his instruction eagerly before we set back out on the road.

  We pressed our mounts hard, that second day. As a precaution, I called periodic stops to check their joints and give them a reprieve from our weight. Their long legs a
te up the miles, and by nightfall I gauged we were halfway to Litheria as we made camp in a copse of trees. When we set out our bedrolls, I settled down with my back against a sturdy oak.

  “What are you doing?” Quintin grumbled half-heartedly.

  “I’m not letting you stay up all night again. I’ll take the first watch.” When he didn’t move, I nodded at his bedroll. “Sleep,” I insisted stubbornly. “I can sit here glaring at the shadows just as well as you can. I’ll wake you if I hear anything.”

  After only a bit more arguing, he finally did.

  It was lonely and utterly boring, sitting there for hours. I poked at the fire, tossing nearby twigs and acorns into it, and when I ran out of things to feed to the flames, I listened to the sounds of the forest around us. Once that became too unnerving, I focused on the stars wheeling overhead and thought of Adrian.

  When the moon began its slow descent in the night sky, I considered waking Quintin, but when I rose to shake him, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. His wheat hair, brought to life in the flickering firelight, scattered across the arm that pillowed his head, freed from its usual tidy knot at the nape of his neck. The tension in the strong lines of his jaw was gone. I’d never seen him off his guard, without his dour mask and austere composure. He was handsome when he wasn’t scowling at me or whacking me with practice swords. I’d almost forgotten.

  My blue-eyed shadow, my stubborn guardian; he’d followed me across the sea and back. I’d grown almost fond of him, somewhere along the way. So I quietly settled another log onto the fire and sat back down at the base of the tree to let him sleep.

  I didn’t have to wake him when dawn broke. He started the moment the light began to filter through the branches above. Pale eyes whipped around, taking in my untouched bedroll and me, seated stiffly before the smoldering remnants of the fire. He sat up, rubbing his face, a curtain of dawn-gilded hair falling about his shoulders.

  “Elivya,” he grated in his reprimanding tone.

  “You needed the rest.”

  He stood and crossed to me, offering me a hand. I took it gladly, stiff and sore from my night’s vigil. When he’d pulled me to my feet, he caught my eye.

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “Now we’re even,” I pointed out.

  He smirked and left well enough alone. My mount’s foreleg was a bit swollen, necessitating a less strenuous pace for our third day, and I had plenty of time to observe the other travelers on the road as we ambled along. Several merchants in their heavily-laden carts rattled by with their hired guards in tow. Stout cart horses strained in their traces, pulling wagons of grain, wool, wine, and other commodities on their way to the port behind us.

  We were well inside the King’s province of Aduline when we came to the crossroads. A trio of covered wagons lingered there, weathered horses resting in their harnesses as children milled about. Men eyed passers-by nervously while the women drew water from the public well, refilling barrels and skins. We stopped for a rest and to replenish our own supplies. Quintin stayed with the horses while I stood in the queue for the well.

  As I waited, I watched the foreign travelers at their colorful wagons. Their garb caught my eye first. Not the men’s, for it was similar enough to our own, but the women adorned themselves in layers of colorful fabrics, the patterns faded by time and hard travel. Scarves of similar quality shrouded their dark hair, wrapped loosely once about the neck to keep them in place. Their skin glowed a dusky almond hue, their eyes of striking blues and greens.

  Across the clearing, a merchant caravan paused for respite under some shade. Hired swords lazed about, leaning on the carts and chatting. A few of them stared at the colorful wagons and their dark-skinned occupants. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of their conversation was clear, and a sense of unease gripped me. I glanced back over my shoulder at Quintin, who was busy checking the horses’ legs the way I’d shown him. One of the guards spat on the ground and said something else, then pushed off the cart and sauntered over to the well where the women were working to refill their last small barrel.

  He stooped over, peering under the nearest woman’s scarf. “I think you’ve had enough. Why don’t you piss off and let someone else take a turn?”

  She kept her eyes averted and didn’t respond. The woman beside her quickened her pace, sloshing water as she tried to fill the barrel in a hurry.

  “What, not even an apology?” he sneered, straightening. “You lot come here uninvited, hunting our forests, crowding the wells.” One boot toppled the small barrel, spilling its contents onto the ground as the second woman scrambled to right it again. “The least you could do is wait until your generous hosts have had their fill.”

  He waved his hand at the crowd of Alesian travelers, many of whom were now watching nervously. When she still didn’t respond, he raised his voice so others could hear.

  “Not that you’d want to drink it now. They’ve had their grubby paws all over the bucket. Whole well’s probably contaminated.”

  She did look at him then, face peering up from her colorful scarf, young and pretty and angry. “We bring no sickness.” She pronounced each word carefully in her heavy accent.

  Reinvigorated by her response, he grinned and snatched her upturned chin. “Then you won’t mind if I steal a kiss?”

  The tiny world around us shifted. The woman at her side shouted something in a language I didn’t recognize. In response, the men of her caravan sprang into action, rushing to her defense with whatever weapons they had. For many, that was a simple belt knife, though I spotted one man brandishing a hammer.

  “You mustn’t touch me!” the young woman cried, trying to pull her face away from the guard’s grip. Seeing the group of men closing on their companion, the rest of the hired swordsmen hurried to the scene with hands on their hilts.

  This wasn’t going to end well. I spared another glance toward Quintin, who caught my eye and shook his head in clear warning. Don’t get involved. Angry voices pulled my attention back to the well. Adrian’s face swam in my mind as I watched the storm gathering before me, two terrified women at its center.

  Like hell.

  Breathing deep and steeling myself, I dropped the waterskins quietly to the ground and slipped my dagger from its sheath. Three quick, long strides set me behind the sneering guard’s right shoulder, the point of my blade pressed into the gap in the side of his shabby leather armor.

  “Let her go,” I demanded loudly. In my heated state, I hadn’t schooled my voice to a lower pitch and it slipped from my lips, sharp and unmistakably feminine.

  He smirked at me over his shoulder, releasing his grip on the woman’s chin just long enough to press his palm over her face and shove her rudely away.

  “Careful, little miss,” he taunted. “You might hurt someone with that.”

  His right elbow snapped back in a flash, slamming squarely into my nose. I stumbled back with a cry, landing hard on my backside. Women shrieked. Boot steps scuffled in my vicinity. Holding my bloodied face, I sat up in a blind fury. Quintin stood between me and the guards, one sword at the offender’s throat, the other extended toward his companions as a warning. A few had drawn their weapons.

  “Touch her again, and my face will be the last thing you see in this life.” His voice was deadly calm, threaded with a palpable menace that chilled my hot rage. I found my feet, still clutching my knife in one white-knuckled hand.

  A harsh laugh escaped the man’s lips. “You have some interesting friends, little wagon rat.”

  The young woman, held tightly by her female companion, watched the proceedings with wide, fearful eyes. Taking a careful step back off Quintin’s blade, he spat on the ground where they huddled.

  “Next time, maybe.”

  He eyed us both with a predatory smirk and sauntered away. When it was clear he and his friends would cause no more trouble, Quintin sheathed his swords and closed on me. Callused hands grabbed my face, pushing my
hand away and tilting my head back to examine my nose. I could feel the blood seeping down my lips and chin. Now, without the rush of anger to dull the pain, it hurt like hell.

  “Fucking bastard,” I seethed, my pride aching.

  “We need to work on your positioning,” he murmured. I gasped a laugh, spraying blood. Satisfied, he released me. “It’s not broken. You’ll live.”

  Timid footsteps halted behind him. With a glance over one shoulder, Quintin stepped aside and the young woman approached me, holding out a brightly colored kerchief. Taking it, I bobbed my head in thanks and pressed it to my nostrils after wiping the worst of the carnage from my lips.

  “Thank you,” she enunciated carefully. “You do not have to do this.”

  “Are you alright?” I asked her, my voice muffled by blood and cloth.

  She raised her brows in surprise and smiled at me. “Yes.”

  “You’re gezgin? From Dacia?” I inquired, nodding at their colorful wagon. She nodded, though the word didn’t seem to be one she liked. I fidgeted, unsure what to say. “He was a right cock.” I jerked my head in the direction of the merchant caravan. “I hope you don’t think we’re all such poorly-mannered asses.”

  She shook her head in apology, eyes uncomprehending. “Too many words. I don’t know.”

  “Oh,” I said foolishly. I tried thinking of a way to rephrase using simpler terms but came up empty. In the end, I resorted to a helpless, resigned shrug.

  She grinned in understanding, a small laugh escaping her. Bobbing and pulling her scarf tighter about her hair, she left us to return to her family. A few others nodded to us from across the clearing, but no one else approached. Quintin refilled the skins while I calmed the horses and kept an eye on the surroundings. By the time he returned with the water, the merchant caravan was pulling away southward down the road. A few turned to give us one last taunting look before they disappeared down the path.

  “Can we make it to the city before nightfall?” I asked.