The Lost Swallow
Page 17
Curse you, Asher. Curse you to all the shadows and the dark things that crawl this earth.
He’d known what she was up to, and she’d just made a fool of herself. He’d stripped her character bare, and then—just to make sure she had no illusions about getting away—he’d kissed her. That had been her undoing. She’d melted in his arms like tallow under a bright flame. The fire of his kisses still burned in her veins.
How can I even look him in the eye again?
Mira clenched her jaw and continued to stare up into the darkness. What now? She could still leave—could just get up now and run. Only, she couldn’t. Asher had effectively pulled her up by the scruff of her neck. Now her plan just felt empty, pointless.
Mira huffed out a breath, her gaze shifting to where Asher had taken up position as sentry on the edge of the glade. She could barely make him out; only the pale glow of his hair gave his position away. She remembered tangling her fingers in it, recalled the texture of his skin and the taste of his mouth.
Stop it. She rolled over with her back to him and drew her knees up against the cold.
She wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.
They spotted Horncastle from many furlongs distant. The town perched high upon a chalky hill—the tallest of any in this area of The West Wolds. A series of green hills still lay between them and their destination. A dark stone keep crowned by turrets shaped like curving goat horns thrust into a pale sky above a jumble of slate roofs.
Gazing upon the town, Asher could see how Horncastle had earned its name.
He drank from the skin of water he carried before handing it to Mira. She took it, avoiding his eye as she did so. She’d barely looked at him since dawn—only once, as they’d packed up in the glade, had she met his gaze.
The look that had passed between them reignited the fire still simmering in his veins from the night before. Asher’s breathing had caught as he watched her. Even tired and pale in the watery light of dawn, she was beautiful. Perhaps even more so, for her hair had been mussed from sleep, her expression unguarded.
He cursed Ninia for interrupting them the night before. The girl’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Shadows, Mira had just started unlacing his breeches.
He hadn’t planned on kissing her; he’d been trying to stop her from running away. He’d thought he was in control of his attraction to Mira, but his confrontation with her had brought his defenses down.
And once he’d started kissing her, he hadn’t been able to stop.
Asher watched Mira now as she drank from the skin, exposing the long curve of her neck. His throat closed up, and the ache for her that crushed his chest was almost unbearable. Only the fact that Ninia was standing a few feet away, studying the outline of the town rising against the western horizon, prevented him from reaching from Mira.
He wanted to get her alone again. The thought of what he planned to do to Mira when he did sent a shiver through him.
“Horncastle won’t be safe,” Ninia announced, turning to them.
“Aye, they’ll have picked up our trail by now,” Mira agreed. “They’ll know we’re heading west.”
Asher frowned. The thought had also occurred to him. “Only one of us should go in for supplies. The other two will keep watch outside the town gates.”
“Who’s going in then?” Mira asked. “You?”
Their gazes met. “Aye,” he replied quietly. “Unless you’ve got any objection.” They both knew he wasn’t going to let her go off on her own again. Their encounter hadn’t resolved the reason he’d gone after Mira in the first place. She was still skittish and wouldn’t need much of a reason to bolt.
Mira shrugged, as if it she couldn’t care less. Yet they both knew the truth of it.
“We’ll keep watch then,” Ninia said. The girl was observing him. Her gaze was slightly narrowed, assessing. “Don’t be too long.”
They arrived at Horncastle just before noon. A breeze fluttered down the green valley where the town stood, bringing with it an edge of warmth and the promise of spring.
Bringing up the rear of the group this morning, Mira noticed more snow drops pushing up: delicate green shoots with white bonnets under copses of trees. The first of the bluebells now accompanied them, bursts of color in a drab winter landscape.
Cottars’ dwellings dotted the valley: stone and wood cottages with thatch roofs, interspersed amongst a patchwork of tilled fields. It was good to see a decent-sized settlement again, their first after Thornmere.
A road led through the valley into town, but they didn’t take it. Instead, the trio walked along the western bank of a river. The Horn Flow cut a lazy path through the vale, traveling south before it would eventually empty out into the Gulf of the Veldoras. Skirting around a water mill, they rejoined the road and climbed the hill to the town gates.
A dilapidated village of wooden huts, where the town’s poor resided, surrounded Horncastle. The homes here bore signs of the recent period of darkness: claw marks in the timber cladding; and patched shutters, roofs, and doors, where shadow creatures had tried to break inside.
It had been months since those sunless days, and when the shadow creatures had terrorized the folk of The Four Kingdoms of Serran. Yet in Horncastle, it seemed as if it had only been yesterday.
There were a number of people on the dirt road leading up to the great stone arch into Horncastle, giving the three newcomers plenty of cover. There was a flea-market going on, where folk bartered clothing, shoes, and household items. An elderly woman sat amongst other vendors, a mountain of baskets woven from the reeds that grew alongside the Horn Flow before her.
“A basket for collecting spring flowers, dear!” the woman called out to Ninia. “The daffodils will soon be in bloom.”
Ninia shook her head, although not without a smile.
A man was selling hot pies by the roadside. The aroma of meat, gravy, and buttery pastry made Mira’s belly growl, reminding her how little she’d eaten over the past two days. She was tempted to stop and buy something to eat. However, the pies looked steaming-hot—and the idea of burning the roof of her mouth as she wolfed the pie down didn’t appeal.
As they neared the gate, Asher turned to them. “Browse for a bit, but keep out of sight,” he murmured. “I’ll be back soon.”
Then without another word he joined the throng of people flowing under the iron portcullis and into the town beyond.
Mira watched him go. The hood of his cloak was pulled up to obscure his distinctive white-blond hair, but her gaze lingered upon the breadth of his shoulders, the fluid and confident way he moved.
Ninia tugged at her sleeve. “Stop staring … he’ll be back soon.”
Mira tore her attention from the arch, where Asher had just disappeared, and frowned. “What?”
Ninia merely favored her with a knowing smile. Mira tensed as she realized Ninia knew exactly what she’d interrupted the night before.
“Don’t start,” Mira warned her.
Ninia raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “You’re lucky, Mira … he’s gorgeous.”
“Stop it,” Mira growled. She took Ninia by the arm and steered her toward where a merchant was selling bolts of cloth. Here, she pretended to browse, her hands trailing over a bolt of costly damask. After a few moments she glanced over at where Ninia was still smiling at her. “Good looking men shouldn’t be trusted,” Mira said.
Ninia snorted. “Who told you that?”
“No one … it’s a lesson I learned through experience.”
Ninia’s smile faded, her gaze widening. “I thought Swallows weren’t allowed to—”
“Most of the Swallows took lovers in secret.” It was Mira’s turn to smile now. “And your father’s keep had plenty of men willing to service them.”
Her words were crude, but they had the desired effect. Ninia blushed and looked away.
“Can I help you, miss?” The cloth merchant greeted them. He’d just finished serving a customer and now turned eagerl
y to the two cloaked women who appeared to be admiring his more expensive cloth.
“Do you have any velvet?” Mira asked.
The man’s eyes lit up. “Aye … what color?”
“Jade green,” Ninia replied, recovering from her embarrassment.
The merchant nodded, before he started digging through the mountain of stacked bolts to his left. “I think I’ve got just that shade in here somewhere.”
As they waited for him to locate the velvet, Mira casually glanced over her shoulder. Even amongst the crowd, they were exposed here. Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any guards milling around among the rabble. A few feet away, the old woman selling baskets was bartering loudly with a middle-aged man.
“It’s fine soap this,” he boomed. “Lye, goat’s milk, and rose petal. It’s worth six of your large baskets.”
“It’s as rough as bark,” the basket-weaver countered, shaking her head vigorously. “Only good for washing clothes, not bathing. I’ll give you one basket for it.”
Mira’s gaze shifted past them then, traveling down the hill to where women toiled up toward the town, baskets of wet washing on their hips. They had been doing their laundry in the river. She was about to look away when she caught sight of black specks in the distance.
Riders.
They were traveling fast, cloaks billowing behind them, the sound of their horses’ hooves a faint tattoo.
Mira froze when she caught the flash of red. She turned around, heart hammering, to see the merchant carrying a bolt of green fabric toward them.
“Is this what you were after?” he asked.
Ninia pretended to consider it, running her hands over the plush cloth. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, “but I’m not sure this green is right. Do you have a darker shade?”
The merchant’s face fell. “This is jade, miss. It’s what you asked for.”
Ninia gave him a pretty smile. “I know, but I think pine green is what I’d prefer. I don’t suppose you stock it?”
The man huffed. “I’ll have a look.”
As soon as he turned to hunt through his supplies, Mira bent close to Ninia. “We’ve got company.”
Asher moved through Horncastle’s market square, collecting provisions as swiftly as he could manage: bread, unpeeled boiled eggs, cheese, and some winter-store apples which were slightly wizened but would do well enough. The locals moved at a frustratingly slow pace this morning; the vendors were content to chat at length over each transaction. Resupplying was taking longer than he’d hoped, but Asher was almost done. He was just about to see if he could get some butter for the bread when a hawk’s screech split the air.
He stopped, craning his neck upward. The crowd jostled around him, the stone buildings rearing up like the sides of a great valley.
Above him wheeled Grim.
The hawk screeched once more; the sound loud enough to cause others to glance up now.
Asher watched Grim for a moment, his gaze narrowing. He couldn’t interpret the bird’s call, but he knew a warning when he heard one. The butter forgotten, he turned on his heel and started to weave his way back through the market toward the gate.
24
The Forest of the Fallen
ASHER WAS NO more than ten yards away from the town gate when the horsemen thundered into Horncastle. The rumble of shod hooves on cobbles echoed off the stone walls, alerting him to their arrival. A heartbeat later, a group of dark-clad, red-cloaked men upon massive destriers charged into the wide street leading up to the market square.
A big man with short dark hair, and a black and red cloak hanging from his broad shoulders, led them. The soldier’s penetrating gaze swept over the town as he entered, missing nothing.
Asher skidded to a halt. The war horses were heading straight for him. He stood next to Horncastle’s looming Altar of Umbra, where a collection of beggars had gathered. Their thin grimy hands grasped at passersby.
“A bronze talent,” a beggar wheezed, plucking at Asher’s cloak. “Please … I’m starving.”
Asher moved off the street and crouched down next to the man. The stench of him was eye-watering.
It wasn’t much of a hiding place but groveling down here on the steps of the altar with those most townsfolk chose to ignore was the only idea that came to mind.
Crouched there, Asher pretended to hunt for his purse, head bowed as the men of Anthor clattered by. He didn’t dare glance up, didn’t dare breathe for a few moments.
The ground shook while the heavy destriers passed, the clink of armor and creak of leather far too close. When he was sure the last of them had gone, Asher straightened up, grasping his purse.
He withdrew a bronze talent and pressed it into the man’s hand. “Here.”
“Thank you,” the beggar croaked, his fingers clasping over the coin. However, Asher was already moving on, heading toward the gate.
He’d just passed under the portcullis and was striding toward the crowd gathered around the flea-market when a horn rang out over the town.
“Close the gates,” cried a guard behind him. “By order of the Captain of Anthor.”
The iron creak of the portcullis lowering followed Asher as he headed into the crowd. He found Mira and Ninia huddled over bolts of green velvet. Ninia was speaking to a surly-faced merchant.
Asher stepped up next to Mira, linking an arm through hers. “There you are, love. What … still shopping?”
Mira glanced up at him, her gaze questioning. “Nelly took a liking for some green cloth,” she replied sweetly. “Only she can’t make up her mind.”
Asher furrowed his brow, feigning annoyance. “Nelly, you know we can’t afford velvet.” He glanced over at where the merchant was silently fuming now. “Apologies for wasting your time, sir. Our daughter’s tastes are too expensive for my purse. We’ll be on our way.”
The merchant’s gaze narrowed as he took the three strangers in properly for the first time. He’d been so intent on selling his cloth, he’d not paid proper attention to his customers. Asher saw the shrewd glint in the man’s eye, the tensing of his jaw. He could almost hear the man’s mind churning.
We’re not fooling him.
The merchant inhaled deeply, his lips parting as he looked toward the gate. There were guards just a few yards away. He was going to call out to them.
Asher was about to grab the nearest bolt of fabric and slam it forward, driving the edge into the merchant’s gut—in an attempt to silence him—but Ninia acted first.
The girl scrambled up over the mountain of cloth bolts and threw herself on the man. A small, balled fist slammed into his nose.
Caught off-guard, the merchant staggered back and tripped. Both he and Ninia went down behind the stall. An instant later Mira leaped over the bolts, and disappeared after them.
Asher glanced around, noting that folk were turning to look in their direction. A few yards away, the basket-weaver was watching him, gaze narrowed. He gave a helpless shrug. The woman’s frown deepened further.
Mira emerged hauling Ninia by the scruff after her. The girl’s face was flushed. However, the merchant didn’t get up.
A shout went up behind them. One of the other merchants, a soap-seller, had alerted a guard.
Asher muttered a curse. “We need to leave.”
“Are they still behind us?”
Ninia’s voice came out in a choked gasp. Mira glanced over at the girl, noting the glazed look in her eyes and the distress on her face as fatigue dug its claws deep. Ninia wouldn’t be able to run for much longer. They ran, a few paces ahead of Asher, over an endless expanse of green rolling hills.
“I don’t know,” Mira puffed, the words coming out in short bursts. She too was reaching the limits of her endurance.
Mira cast a glance over her shoulder, her gaze meeting Asher’s. He was breathing heavily, sweat gleaming on his face. Yet his gaze was steady when it met hers.
“I can’t hear them anymore,” he said. “I think you managed to
disguise our tracks.”
Relief flooded through Mira. She had done her best to lead their hunters on a good chase. They had splashed along a water course for a while, before cutting over hard, bare landscape where their footprints would be harder to follow.
The three of them crested the top of yet another hill, weaving in and out of coppicing lime trees—and slowed to a halt. From here they had an unobstructed view west. The trees fell back, and the hill sloped down to a great meadow. And beyond that was a great wall of green.
The Forest of the Fallen stretched west in a dark blanket.
Mira halted and bent double, sucking in deep breaths of air, before raising her face to view the way ahead. She’d heard this forest was huge—the largest in all the four kingdoms—but she’d been unprepared for such vastness.
It stretched in all directions for as far as they eye could see, merging with a hazy blue horizon to the west. Beyond that horizon was the western coast of Thûn.
Mira straightened up and glanced over at Asher. “Any idea how far we are from the path through the forest?”
He squinted as he scanned the horizon. “It lies to the south of here … if that map of yours is right.”
“It will be,” Ninia piped up. “My uncle’s maps are all accurate.”
They moved on then, jogging down the hill and onto the open grassland below. In the summer, Mira imagined this meadow would be awash with poppies and wildflowers, but this time of year it was a tawny expanse of tall grass. The ground was soggy, squelching underfoot as they ran, cutting south-west now.
As they traveled, Mira spied rows of grass-covered lumps forming a spine to the east. There were so many of them, rounded with age so that they appeared a natural part of the landscape. After a few moments it dawned on her that they were ancient tombs. She realized then that despite knowing a great battle had taken place here during the Fifty Year War between Rithmar and Thûn, she knew little else about the event.
“Ninia,” she called out to the girl who walked a few yards in front of her. “Who won the battle here?”