Arabelle couldn’t approach the campfire with black eyes, torn clothing, and covered in blood. She would have to clean herself off. But there was no clean water nearby, and after one encounter with enforcers, she was afraid to leave the campfire unguarded. So for now she stayed where she was, standing watch from a distance, ensuring no harm came to these people.
At dawn, the family rose, snuffed out the fire, and began walking south. Arabelle followed. She would find a chance to clean herself up. And then she would approach them.
But someone else approached them first. A man on a horse galloped forth from the north, and for a moment she feared it was another assassin. But with relief, she saw it was not. It was a man she recognized, the Protector from Aubgherle, which lay not far off.
For the first time since she’d encountered the enforcers, Arabelle relaxed. This Protector was a good man, a giant of a man, and skilled in combat. As he dismounted before the family, she knew he would keep them safe, and would take them with him to Aubgherle.
Which meant Arabelle had missed her opportunity to meet the boy. For now.
But she would meet him. She was sure of it.
As for right now… she desperately needed a bath.
Suspicions
The day had started simply enough. Kirag walked the length of the caravan as he always did, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. Normally these walks resulted in nothing, but on this occasion his eye had been drawn to the dark-clothed person slinking from shadow to shadow with a practiced stride. This was a person of interest.
The figure led him to the corrals, then took a pair of horses toward the residential quarter. But before Kirag could follow, the horses in the corral went mad, smashed the gate open, and went racing away in all directions. Somehow a swamp cat had gotten into the corral. Where had that creature been a moment before, and how on earth had it gotten in there?
The cat’s eyes were riveted on him. Kirag pulled his sword from its sheath, ready for the challenge, and advanced on it slowly. The cat gathered itself for a leap, and he braced himself. But instead of attacking, the damned cat raced away.
Still itching for a fight, Kirag ran in the direction of the mysterious shadow. He caught a glimpse of the person, minus the horses, and followed. The shadow entered a tent and departed seconds later.
Again Kirag followed. The fluid movements of the shadow reminded him of an elf—which made him burn with anger.
And then the next thing he knew the shadow was mounted again, heading out a side gate, and riding off toward the north. Kirag snarled in frustration, knowing he’d never catch the elf without a mount of his own.
Why north? he wondered. If this was an elf, why not east toward their forest? The only thing north of their current location was the swamp.
Why was an elf even here?
He turned on his heel and strode back toward the tent he’d seen the elf enter. A guard was assigned to watch the tent, but he was slovenly and incompetent. He was so preoccupied with his pastry that even the giant Kirag had no trouble slipping past him and into the tent.
It was opulently appointed. A large bed with a rich mattress. A wooden storage box inlaid with colored stones. An ornate tub for bathing. An actual writing desk. And sitting at that desk was a girl, her mouth agape. She seemed unable to utter a word, and the color drained from her face.
Kirag showed her his empty hands, palms up, and closed the distance. “I simply want to ask you one question. Give me that answer, and I’ll leave as quickly as I entered.”
The girl nodded shakily.
“Who was the dark-clothed person who recently visited this tent?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and he could see that he’d struck a nerve. She knew something.
The girl shrugged and whispered hoarsely, “I don’t know. She entered the wrong tent… sir.”
“She? That was a she?”
The girl gasped, and a look of panic crossed her face. “No, I meant he. He was lost and entered the wrong tent.”
Anger boiled in Kirag’s gut. The girl was obviously lying.
“Your choice is simple, young wench. Tell me the truth, or you won’t live to regret your error.”
Her reaction wasn’t unexpected. She took a deep breath, readying herself to scream.
Kirag lunged and placed his huge hand over her mouth, muffling her. She flailed about, then stuck a hand into a partially open desk drawer and yanked out a dagger. She slashed at him with ferocity, but a complete lack of skill.
Kirag laughed as he caught her wrist. He pulled her over the desk by the arm while his other hand still covered her face.
And then he got a good look at the glittering, rune-covered dagger. He’d seen its kind before.
Elven make.
His vision went red with fury. He lost control, and he squeezed. The girl’s bones snapped like branches, a most satisfying sound, and he dropped her lifeless body at his feet.
She wouldn’t lie to anyone again.
The next morning, word raced throughout the caravan about a murder. Kirag couldn’t hide his smile as he listened to the anguish of the women and the outrage of the men. They had hidden an elf in their midst; there was a price to be paid for such treachery against Azazel’s enforcers.
And yet there was one element of the rumor that took Kirag by surprise. It was being said that the victim of this murder was the princess herself.
That was interesting.
Kirag made his way back to the tent where he’d crushed the foolish girl. Of course it was a buzz of activity. Dozens of soldiers had gathered, and at their periphery at least a hundred citizens were looking on with despair, sharing ever more wild rumors of the fate of their beloved princess.
Kirag pushed through the crowd. An area around the tent had been cordoned off, and in that cleared area stood Tabor and the Sheikh. At their feet was the slovenly guard who’d been watching over the tent so incompetently. The guard was kneeling with his neck stretched across a log. His arms were tied to the bottom of the log, and a large bruise was forming on the side of his head.
Kirag shoved his way to the nearest Talon. “What’s going on?”
The Talon was watching the scene with obvious pleasure, but when he heard Kirag’s voice he straightened obediently. “S-sir! I—I’m told the guard on the log was tasked with watching the princess’s tent, and she was murdered.”
A nosy bystander overheard this and cut in. “Not what I heard. I heard it was the princess’s handmaiden who was killed, and the princess is missing.”
“What is planned for the guard?” Kirag asked the bystander.
The man spat on the ground. “That buffoon failed at the most important job he could ever have the honor of being assigned—guarding the princess, the light of our people. The Sheikh will surely sentence him to death.”
Kirag nodded. Death for incompetence. Maybe I misjudged this mustachioed fool.
As it turned out, the Sheikh did not bother with sentencing or pronouncements. He simply nodded to Tabor, who drew his saber and, with one swift stroke, separated the guard from his head. The onlookers fell silent as the head tumbled onto the ground.
With a smile, Kirag pushed his way back toward his tent, putting the puzzle together.
That was the princess’s tent. But it was not the princess I killed.
How did an elven-made dagger end up in the princess’s tent? Was it possible the princess herself was the dark-clothed “elf”?
For that matter, what were the powders and straws he’d found hidden in the princess’s tent after murdering the girl? Kirag now wished desperately that he’d been able to open the second chest he’d found, the locked one beneath the bed. Given different circumstances, he would have taken it, or simply demanded it be handed over to him. But given the murder, he had felt it best to slip away. Now he wondered what answers it contained.
There are too many unanswered questions. I need to look into this princess. Something about her isn’t right.
&n
bsp; Consequences
Arabelle knew she was going to have to do a lot of sweet talking with her father and Tabor when she got back to camp. But at least she was no longer a bloody, muddy mess. After dunking herself repeatedly in that cool river, the flakes of brown and clouds of red washing away downstream, she felt like herself again. She had definitely made the right decision not to approach the boy and his family in that state. They would probably have fled screaming into the darkness.
But now the time had come for another form of coming clean. It was midday, and she and the horses had made it back to the village that the caravan had stationed itself next to. She decided to dismount here and tie up the horses to a hitching post—she would retrieve them once she’d dealt with her father. But she immediately realized she had ridden right into a serious commotion. It seemed everyone was out and about, clustered in small groups, talking and crying.
A boy ran past her, and Arabelle grabbed his arm. “Excuse me. What’s going on?”
The boy yanked his arm back and kept running. Over his shoulder he shouted, “The princess is dead!”
Arabelle repeated the words. “The princess… is… dead.” She screeched. “What?”
She feared sweet-talking would not be enough. Not nearly enough. If her father thought she was dead… and Tabor… the entire camp…
She couldn’t imagine what she’d put them through.
No, there was no talking her way out of this one. She’d have to clear things up. Honestly.
She spotted some soldiers not far off, and strode directly toward them. But before she could take more than a few steps, a teenage boy stepped directly in her path, blocking her. “You don’t want to go there,” he said. “They’re hurting people. I’ll take care of you.”
He grabbed her by the arm and started to pull her away.
She looked down at the dirty hand on her arm. Judging by the smell of manure, it wasn’t dirt. And the boy was covered with it. But he was muscular, and she couldn’t pull free of his grip; his hand was like an iron manacle.
He sneered at her resistance and pulled out a small rusty dagger. “This can be done the easy way, or it can be done the hard way.”
Arabelle screamed at the top of her lungs.
The boy cursed and thrust the dagger at her face.
She’d managed to draw one of her daggers, and she just barely deflected the attack in time. Panicking, she then slashed at the arm holding him, and though she had only intended it to be a shallow wound, the skin parted and bled profusely.
The boy released her so suddenly that she lost her footing in the mud and fell to her knees. That was lucky, as it helped her dodge his next dagger thrust. But he followed up that thrust with a knee to her cheek, and that strike connected. Arabelle’s head snapped back and her vision dimmed.
She heard the sound of metal against metal, followed by a cry of pain.
Was that me?
She felt herself being lifted into the air.
“Princess? Wake up. Please wake up.”
The voice was familiar, but Arabelle was still stunned and disoriented, and couldn’t respond.
“She’s hurt,” said the voice. “Run ahead and get another tent ready for her. I’ll take her to her father. And you! Drag the pieces of that scum outside the village. Let it be eaten by the blink dogs and vultures. If he has family, promise them that I will personally see them get the same treatment if they think to bury him.”
The light began to return to Arabelle’s eyes. She managed to mutter, “I want to be in my own tent, please.”
She heard Tabor near her ear. “Princess, thank goodness you are waking. Everything will be fine now.” She heard a catch in his throat as he added, “I thought you were dead.”
She opened her eyes. The light caused spears of pain in her head, so she settled for a squint. Tabor was carrying her like a baby, and as he walked, he hummed a lullaby that she remembered from childhood.
Her heart nearly broke when she managed to focus on his face. This strong, honorable man, a man who always disguised his emotions, was now an emotional wreck. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard soaked with tears.
“I’m sorry, Tabor. You were right. I should never have left my tent last night. I would never have intended to worry you like this.”
Tabor shook his head. “No, my dearest princess. Thank Seder that you weren’t in your tent last night.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t care. She just couldn’t bear to see Tabor like this.
She raised her head to look around, and was shocked to see at least twenty soldiers escorting them. But her neck hurt, so she once more rested her head against Tabor’s chest. She was so sleepy and confused. But there something. Something…
The poison.
In a moment of crystal clarity, she understood precisely the trouble she was in. If she were to fall asleep in her current state…
“Tabor, promise me something.”
“Anything, Princess.”
“A vision has told me what I must do now. I have some of my mother’s abilities. You understand?”
He paused only a moment before whispering, “Yes. Perfectly.”
“Don’t let me sleep. I absolutely must be awake. Get me a mortar, pestle, and the bark of the willow and the leaves of the khat bush. I must make a tea from that to get better. If I don’t, I may die. Please tell me you understand.”
“Princess, rest assured, it will be as you ask.”
Tabor raised his voice. “Khalid.”
“Yes, Tabor.”
“I have a request I need you to take care of personally. Find Janius Mizmer and get a supply of willow bark and khat leaves. We need it immediately. If she doesn’t have any, find it. I don’t care what you have to do.”
“Of course.” Khalid’s footsteps raced away.
Arabelle tried to concentrate on staying awake, but her mind wandered. Did I lose my mother’s daggers? What happened to that boy who attacked me? Poor Maggie must be frantic. A thousand thoughts ran through her head, and her consciousness slowly drifted…
Arabelle cupped another steaming mug of tea and sipped at it. The pain in her neck had diminished, thanks to the willow bark, and she was wide awake, thanks to the khat leaves. Thankfully Tabor had insisted that Madam Mizner mix the tea herself, and they woke Arabelle long enough to force it down her throat. In the days since then, she’d been drinking it constantly.
But no tea, no medicine, no painkiller could treat the grief and horror and guilt she now felt.
Her father had told her about Maggie.
Arabelle wanted to crawl inside her own wretched shell and die. She deserved to. Maggie didn’t. Maggie was a good person, a trusted friend.
Arabelle was neither. She hadn’t even told her father the truth.
When she was feeling better, her father and Tabor had met with her to understand what had happened that night. And she lied. She told them that she’d had a vision telling her to secretly travel north, though she knew not why, and that the journey had taken longer than expected.
Of course, her father assumed that this vision had been sent to her to keep her from danger. “It’s a miracle, my precious daughter. I will forever be thankful for the guiding spirits that saved you that night.”
But Arabelle knew there were no guiding spirits behind her actions. There was only her. She had chosen to depart that night. And Maggie, a girl she’d loved like a sister, had paid the price.
She barely ate. She moved only enough to keep the poison at bay. She hadn’t even given thought to a bath. No bath could wash away her guilt.
The caravan’s healers had told her that she would be fine. The swelling on her cheek had already diminished greatly. But those around her still treated her like a piece of glass, extremely fragile—and emotionally, she was. When the caravan moved on to a new location, rather than riding, she was placed in a covered supply wagon. Normally that wagon carried supplies; now it carried only a bed, Arabelle, and Tabor stan
ding guard.
She didn’t object.
Her guilt had only grown when she asked Tabor if Grisham could visit her. The young dwarf was the only person in this world to whom Arabelle could have told the full truth. And Grisham would have listened, would have cared.
Would have, but didn’t. Because Tabor informed her that Grisham had disappeared on the same day she had. Somehow the horses had escaped that day, Tabor explained, frightened by a swamp cat that had gotten into the corrals when Grisham was supposed to be watching them. No one was blaming Grisham for the event—not exactly—but for him to disappear immediately afterward was considered highly suspicious.
Arabelle wondered what exactly had happened. The dwarf had caused a distraction, just as she’d asked, and then… somehow… had not been seen since. She feared he, too, was dead, for when she sought him out with her inner sight, she could find no sign of him. No response.
She might never know what had happened. All she knew for certain was that it was somehow her fault.
“Where is our next stop?” she asked Tabor one morning as they bounced along in the covered wagon.
Tabor paused in honing the edge of his sword. “Aubgherle.”
“Already? But we have several villages between here and there.”
“Yes, and your father insisted we bypass them. He sent patrols to let the residents know we’ll be staying at Aubgherle for two months and to seek us out there.”
“But why?”
“After that boy attacked you in the village, your father fears for your safety. In these smaller villages, there are only more of those pigs like the one who assaulted you. In the larger cities, there are Protectors, and people must follow the laws. Throll, Aubgherle’s Protector, is a dutiful keeper of order.”
“What about Kirag?” Arabelle asked in a low voice. “Aren’t we required to follow the same path we always take?”
Agent of Prophecy Page 20