She gave her future husband a sidelong glance as he sat astride his stallion. Presently he was far off in his own thoughts and where they might lead she could not guess. The wind rippled through his hair and there was the hint of a smile all too quickly gone.
He must have sensed her gaze for he turned to look at her. “What is it, my lady?”
“I was wondering where your thoughts were traveling.”
“Far beyond the horizon,” he said. “Too many places to recount.” He fell silent again, back to brooding.
They entered a poorer section of the lower city. Wellwishers still stopped along the street to wave, but they were fewer, shabbier. Others skulked in doorways or shadowed closes glowering at the king’s party as it passed. The Weapons were always alert, but Estora sensed just the slightest change in their posture.
“Hey, where’s my falcon, King?” some man in stained clothes called out. Zachary shook his head when the guards started to move toward the man. Another king would have had him jailed and beaten for insolence. An old woman spat in the path of the king’s party. She was merely escorted out of the street by the guards.
“The lower city should be swept clean of this filth,” Richmont muttered.
“What would you have done with them?” Zachary asked. His tone was deceptively mild.
“Force them out of the city. Force them to work.”
“Most of them did not ask for poverty,” Zachary said, as though to himself. Estora, who rode right next to him heard, but she did not think anyone else had, certainly not Richmont who was muttering and complaining to her father. Richmont, whom she’d never been fond of, had gotten only more boorish since the betrothal. He had already declared his intent to stay in her service after the wedding. She would have to talk to her father about finding him something else to do.
The Winding Way curved past an inn with a disreputable air about it. The stench of old ale flowed to her all the way out into the street. Her father was pushing his horse up next to hers and appeared intent to speak to her, but something whined through the air and cut him off, and suddenly he was not there. His horse was, but he was not.
“Father?”
Cries shattered the air and everyone around her whirled into motion.
“Father?” she cried, turning in her saddle, but she could not see him. The Weapons were reigning their mounts around to surround her and Zachary.
Zachary slammed his horse into hers and the force almost knocked her from the saddle.
“What is—”
Even as the Weapons surged toward Zachary, he stood in his stirrups, blocking her. She couldn’t see what was happening. But she heard that whine again, and this time, the thud of impact.
Galen’s body shuddered when he loosed the first arrow, and he swore when it flew off course into some old courtier who had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had only moments before the Weapons threw themselves in front of his intended target, but as if he were still the great archer in his prime under the pressure of battle, he’d already nocked the second arrow. He must hold steady this time. He must not miss.
Faster than the Weapons could move, he drew the bowstring with an inhalation and marked his prey. Unbelievably the king rose in his stirrups to shield the lady beside him, rising above those who would protect him, as if to present a target Galen could not miss. He exhaled, loosed the arrow.
He watched it soar on its deadly path, his hopes, his vengeance, all riding on the air currents that stroked the shaft and fletching, the fletching he’d plucked from a goose himself and painstakingly glued to the shaft. He watched the arrow singing its way to the very end, its impact home. His tremors had not betrayed him, his aim proved true.
It had all come full circle, all his planning and waiting. He could rest now. Joyful and exhausted, with success and vengeance his, he could now join his wife and son in the heavens. He sank to the attic floor and whispered a short prayer, then drew the vial of poison to his lips.
CONSEQUENCES
Laren watched the scene with some amusement. The rest of the Riders had finished their lesson and were now cooling their mounts at a walk around the outdoor arena. Ben, meanwhile, hadn’t even gotten in the saddle, as usual. He faced Robin, and Robin was doing his scary horse act by staring right back and flicking his tail, more like a cat than a horse.
Elgin leaned against the fence beside her. “Don’t know what we’re going to do with that one.”
“Ben or Robin?” she asked.
Elgin grunted a laugh. “Either one of them. Ben’s got himself worked up before he ever gets out here for training, and that Robin, he’s too smart for his own good.”
“He is that,” Laren agreed, “but no one else has had this degree of trouble with him.”
“I’ll warrant none of your other Riders were ever afraid of horses.” Elgin stroked his chin. “Have you tried a pony with Ben?”
“A pony? They can be pretty mean-tempered.”
“I know,” Elgin replied. “They’re clever little beasts, but Ben probably doesn’t know that, and if it’s the size of horses that might be bothering him, then a pony might be the answer. An old, sleepy pony might be less cantankerous.”
“Hmm.” If size were the issue, it was worth considering. Off in the center of the arena, Horsemaster Riggs followed their gazes and shrugged.
“Riggs has tried everything else,” Elgin said. “She’s at her wit’s end.”
“Then we’ll find a pony. A nice, shaggy little mountain pony, sturdy enough to carry a man, and elderly enough not to care.” Laren turned her gaze to the other Riders sitting with relaxed postures upon their horses as they cooled. “Everyone else looks as though they’re coming along fine.”
“That they are. Riggs says she’s going to raise the jumps next lesson.”
“Excellent.” Laren was pleased, for it meant this batch of Riders was nearly ready for training runs. Several had gone on short-range errands with senior Riders already, but now longer runs were possible. The sooner this group was fully trained up, the sooner she’d have more people out and about the realm. It had been difficult to give up several of them to go to the wall, not to mention the three entering Blackveil. It had required some contortions in scheduling.
Among the group was a girl of the lower aristocracy, Sophina. Laren picked her out from her classmates. She was less relaxed than the others and wore a perpetual pout on her face. Mara said the girl had airs and actively sought ways to make everyone else miserable. She was not the first aristocrat called to the messenger service, nor would she be the last. Alton, as the heir to D’Yer Province, was of far higher standing than Sophina, but he’d never ever shown any resentment at being called. Sophina would adapt in time, learning that her status would have little bearing on her life as a Rider.
Laren smiled. It was the various temperaments of her Riders that made them such an interesting group. One’s strengths filled in for another’s weaknesses. They became stronger as a whole. She was, as ever, proud of them. Even her greenest of Greenies who had yet to prove themselves.
“So you have the afternoon off,” Elgin said. “What will you do with it?”
“Off? I would say that my day of meetings with the king were canceled, but I’ve reports awaiting me back at my quarters, not to mention a pony to acquire.”
“I think I could handle the pony for you,” Elgin said. “I know a—”
A scream cut through the afternoon peace like a scythe. Laren’s heart thudded as she looked for its source.
Elgin pointed. “Sophina!”
The girl rocked in her saddle and wailed, clutching her chest. Her horse spooked, and she toppled off its back to the ground.
“Five hells!” Laren ducked between the fence rails into the arena with Elgin right behind her. They charged across the dirt to where Sophina lay. Horsemaster Riggs and Ben closed with them. Laren knelt beside the girl who writhed on the ground, still clutching at her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Sophina?” Laren asked gently. “What’s wrong?”
“The king!” the girl cried. “The king!” And she fell unconscious.
Ben placed his hand on her forehead. “I can take care of her.”
“No.” Laren stood, blood surging through her like a swarm of bees. “Chief! You deal with Sophina. She’s come into her ability.” Elgin nodded, gathered the girl into his arms, and carried her away.
“But I can—” Ben started to protest.
Laren pointed at Merla, who was still seated atop her lesson horse. “You go to Connly or Mara, whomever you find first, and tell them there’s been an incident with the king. They’ll know what to do.”
There was a collective gasp among the Riders who had grouped around them.
“Move!” Laren bellowed.
Merla did not hesitate. She did not stop to open the arena gate. Instead she dug her heels into the flanks of her horse, galloped straight for the gate, and sailed over it. It was probably three times as high as anything Riggs had taught them to jump, but Merla and her horse landed smoothly on the other side and galloped off.
Laren pointed at Carson, older than many of the other new Riders. “Go to Master Destarion. Tell him to grab his kit and hurry down the Winding Way.” Without another word, Carson reined his horse around and headed for the gate. This time others had opened it so he didn’t have to jump it.
Next she picked out Kayd, a boy whose father was a laborer on the castle grounds and knew the castle layout well and how things worked within. “You will seek out Colin Dovekey and tell him there is an emergency. He is acting castellan and should be meeting with the kitchen staff about now.”
Kayd nodded and he and his horse pounded from the arena just as the others had.
Laren turned to Riggs. “You’ll take care of the rest of them?”
Riggs clapped her hands to gain the attention of her students and started shouting orders at them.
That left Ben, who did not seem to know which way to turn. “You are with me,” Laren said. “Robin! Come!”
The horse obeyed immediately and trotted right up to her.
Ben shrank away, but Laren caught his sleeve. “Something bad has happened to the king,” she said. “Sophina, it appears, is a seer. She saw something happen to the king. There is no time to lose.” She placed her toe into the stirrup and mounted. “Now get up behind me.”
When Ben dithered, she leaned down and stared hard at him. “Sophina passed out before she could tell us exactly what she saw, but if she had such a strong reaction to the vision, it can’t be good. Do you understand? The king has come to great harm and if he’s not dead yet, he may be soon unless you help him. Understand?”
Ben’s face paled. He nodded.
“Then mount.”
This time he did not hesitate and she pulled him up behind her. He circled his arms around her waist, clutching her for dear life.
“Loosen up,” she gasped. He complied and she clicked Robin into a gallop out of the arena and across castle grounds.
She rode bent for all five hells down the Winding Way using cut-throughs all the Riders knew, and she stampeded through front gardens pushing Robin mercilessly with two adults on his back, but he was game, fearless, even, his strides unflagging. A true messenger horse. She was sure her Bluebird would forgive her the necessity of grabbing the nearest mount available.
As they careened around a cartload of bleating sheep, she imagined all kinds of scenarios—that Zachary was dead, or maybe he’d just fallen off that high-strung stallion of his and bumped his head. Maybe Sophina had actually seen something that had yet to happen and Laren would arrive in time to stop it. But somehow she knew better.
She could not give in to worry. She must keep her wits about her, for if the worst had happened to Zachary, there would be consequences for the entire realm. She loved Zachary, the little boy he had been and the man he had become, but the consequences for the country were bigger than even his life.
The ride took forever, pedestrians screaming and running to get out of her way, dropping sacks of onions beneath Robin’s hooves and snatching children from danger. Zachary’s party could not have had time to leave the city yet, could it? She tried to calculate the time in her head, but there were too many thoughts ramming into each other.
Robin skidded and almost lost his footing around a curve slick with melting ice. Laren was so numb with worry that she could no longer feel Ben clamped to her, but she could hear his whimpers and prayers.
Pray for Zachary, she thought. Pray for Zachary.
Near the second city gates, more people on foot and on horseback dashed to the sides of the street—not to get out of Laren’s way, but to escape something else coming toward her.
A wagon burst free of the crowd with two cart horses running full out and a Weapon gripping reins and lashing a whip. Four other mounted Weapons thundered alongside.
“Fastion!” Laren cried, but it was clear he was not going to stop for her. The wagon surged past her and she had to wheel Robin on his haunches to catch up with it. Ben emitted a muted scream and started asking every god in the pantheon for deliverance. Laren did not think Goltera, goddess of fertile swine, would be of much help, but it couldn’t hurt.
The mounted Weapons permitted her into their formation. She pushed poor Robin alongside the wagon and glanced in the back. There, stretched out on his side with an arrow in his gut was Lord Coutre, gasping for breath and his eyes wide open.
Beside him was Zachary, an identical arrow in his chest. His eyes were closed, his body moved limply with every bump of the wagon. Donal sat between the men, paying no attention to Lord Coutre, but pressing a blood-soaked cloth around Zachary’s arrow wound. It was impossible to know if Zachary lived.
“Arrows are still in,” Ben murmured in her ear. “Good.”
Laren had almost forgotten about Ben, so focused on Zachary was she, but she didn’t now. She jammed her heels into Robin’s sides to press even more speed out of him.
“Fastion!” she cried. “Mender! I’ve got Ben. Mender!”
Fastion did not appear to hear over the clatter of cart wheels and hooves, but one of the mounted Weapons understood and reached from her mount for the reins of the cart horses. Fastion whipped his gaze around, ready to draw his sword.
“Mender!” Laren screamed. “I’ve got Ben!”
This time he heard and pulled the horses up. Laren hauled Robin into a sliding halt beside the wagon. The escorting Weapons arranged themselves around it looking menacing.
“Hurry,” Fastion said.
Shaking, Ben dismounted, his face white as bone, and clambered into the wagon.
“The king,” Donal told him. “Never mind Lord Coutre. The king needs your full attention.”
Before Ben could settle entirely, Fastion flicked the reins and snapped the whip. Ben fell back, but Donal helped him up.
“Destarion should be up ahead,” Laren shouted at Fastion.
She dropped back into place beside the wagon, asking Robin to keep up the grueling pace, to please keep up. Though Ben glanced a couple times over his shoulder at Lord Coutre, he worked on Zachary as Donal had ordered. The truth was, though Coutre was a lord-governor and the future queen’s father, his life was not as important as Zachary’s. Zachary, she knew, would not view it in the same way, but in the scheme of the realm, the truth was the truth.
Laren could not see all that Ben did, with Donal assisting him, but one moment the arrow was there, then it was out, tossed into the bed of the wagon and Ben had his hands around the wound as blood bubbled up around his fingers. He closed his eyes and a bluish glow spread out from his hands. It was peaceful, like a clear summer sky and Laren felt herself calm a notch. The bleeding slowly ebbed, but Laren saw no change in Zachary.
The blue glow sputtered out and Ben gazed at his bloody hands, blinking stupidly.
“Ben!” Laren cried. “Ben!”
He slumped and was caught by Donal who shook and t
ried to revive him to no avail.
Damnation. Ben must have expended too much of his energies healing Sperren, giving an old, old man the hip of a twenty year old.
Oh, Ben, she thought. How could they have known this would happen to the king? Had he been able to heal Zachary before passing out, or was their king already gone from them?
The ride back to the castle grounds was a nightmare. Donal made no indication whether or not Zachary lived, and Ben did not regain consciousness. All she could do was consider the next step for the realm and her Green Riders if Zachary was dead. If he’d named an heir to the throne, such a document would be locked away in a box of secrets guarded by the Weapons, and called the Royal Trust. If Zachary had a child, the heir would be obvious, but he hadn’t even gotten as far as marrying Estora.
Even if an heir was named within the Trust, they’d have to wait until there was an assembly of all the lord-governors to open the box and reveal the name. As soon as word got out about Zachary, the lord-governors would be upon them like vultures, for they were princes of the realm, next in line for the throne if there was no direct descendent. Even if one of them was legitimately named, the others would contest it, fight over it. She prayed it would not come to civil war. They could not afford it with Second Empire building up its forces and the D’Yer Wall breached.
She could well imagine the enemy taking advantage of Sacoridia in its sudden weakness and turmoil. It wasn’t as if they could keep Zachary’s wounding a secret, for the Winding Way was the busiest street in all of Sacoridia, and the story of great harm befalling the king would travel the length and breadth of the lands in no time at all.
Who had loosed those arrows in the first place? How had this assassination attempt proved so successful?
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