by Robert Evert
Natalie glanced about.
The house was modest; not shabby, but small and sturdy. Yet inside, the boy had acquired many nice things: a beautiful chest of meticulously painted wood, silver candlesticks, a stack of books—
Books?
Why would Nathaniel have books? Could he read?
She pictured him curled up in front of a crackling fire, reading…just like she’d often done at home.
Oh, gods, she was such an idiot! She couldn’t kill him. He was probably, what—ten, eleven years old? Maybe he’d gotten Artis drunk, and maybe he’d helped lure Artis away to an ambush, but it’d obviously been Brago’s idea. A ten-year-old couldn’t say no to Brago. Brago was the real murderer. He was the one who’d killed her family. He was the one who was going to—
Nathaniel suddenly appeared from the hallway, nearly running right into Natalie. Natalie screamed in surprise, reflexively thrusting out her knife. The blade scored deep across the boy’s wrist as he attempted to deflect the blow.
For a moment, they both stared in horror at the blood spurting into the air. Then Nathaniel shrieked.
Thunder exploded.
“Oh, gods!” Natalie dropped her knife. She stumbled back, hands to her mouth as Nathaniel ran about, screaming and clutching his wrist, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. “Oh, gods!”
Nathaniel bolted into the hallway, first heading one way, then the other, a river of blood splattering across the walls wherever he went.
Natalie chased after him screaming, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Nathaniel wrenched open the doors to a cabinet and grabbed a roll of clean bandages. He fumbled with them, frantically trying to wrap them around his slashed wrist. The bandages fell from his grasp. He wavered. Tottering, he blinked at his grayish hand and then at Natalie.
“You’ll never find your fucking boyfriend, you bitch.”
He collapsed, the spurting blood gradually slowing to a trickle.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Natalie stood in the rain outside of Nathaniel’s house, unable to move.
She’d just killed somebody…she’d just killed a child.
She didn’t know what to think. She should have been upset, and in a way she was, yet she wasn’t crying. She was simply…numb. Cold and numb. Did that make her a terrible person? Shouldn’t she have been hysterical? Shouldn’t she at least feel badly? She’d just killed somebody. She’d just watched somebody scramble around, screaming, blood spraying everywhere. He was only a kid.
Nathaniel’s voice echoed in her mind like the thunder rolling overhead: You’ll never find your fucking boyfriend, you bitch.
He’d admitted it, or came close to it: he’d been involved with Artis’s disappearance.
Poor Artis. Was he really dead? Maybe. Probably.
Deep down, Natalie knew he was. There was no reason why Brago would’ve let Artis live. It would’ve been safer to kill him outright. As Nathaniel had said, never leave an enemy alive.
Where had they hidden his body? She wanted Artis to have a nice grave, somewhere she could plant flowers and visit from time to time. Did it really matter now, though? Dead was dead, and she’d never see him again.
Natalie glanced at her knife. The rain had washed away Nathaniel’s blood, the puddle at her feet a dark red. She, too, was as clean as she’d ever been—cold and beyond wet, but clean.
She sheathed her knife and trudged through the muddy streets to the Yellow Rose Inn, rain and wind slapping at her, thunder shaking the ground.
The innkeeper greeted her with a gasp.
“Come in! Come in!” He took Natalie’s arm and guided her into the common room, where a cheery fire crackled. Shaking, she pulled her dripping cloak around herself. “I was wondering if you’d make it back! Get closer. Here, let me get you something to warm you up!”
He ran out of the room.
The diners stared at Natalie. Did they know what she’d done? Could they tell she’d murdered someone? She huddled closer to the fire.
Soon, the innkeeper returned with a bottle. “Here!” He poured a little amber liquid into a goblet, then pushed it at Natalie. “Take this.”
Blinking at the yellow flames, Natalie took a sip, then started hacking. The liquor burned her throat. Several of the men watching laughed.
“Oh, don’t mind them. Here, let me take—” The innkeeper tried to remove Natalie’s sodden cloak, but she held it fast, not wanting to reveal that she was female.
“I think I’ll just go to my room,” she said tonelessly. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. Same room as always. In fact, I still have your key in my pocket.”
She took the key and made to leave.
“That boy,” she said, turning back around, “the one who’d told you about Lord Kettering’s summer manor…did he have brownish hair and one eye that was pointed slightly outward?”
“Yes, in fact he did! Roland, I believe he calls himself, though I’ve heard him use other names. Sharp as a tack! If you ever need to know something, you go ask him. Why do you ask?”
Natalie headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of water in her wake. “Just curious.”
• • •
For the remainder of the night, Natalie sat in her room, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the rain-splattered window. She now believed her first instincts were correct. Any place called “Dark Ford” would most likely be hidden in the steep hills that crowded the Lesser Green River. In that case, she’d have to ride west, not east, as Nathaniel had told the innkeeper. The problem was the weather.
Sir Edris and Reg had left well before the storm had come, so they were probably safe and dry in whatever village was a day’s ride away. How would she catch up with them? She’d ridden before, of course; she often exercised Henry’s horses. But she wasn’t an expert, not like Sir Edris or Reg. They could probably cover twice as much ground each day as she could. Yet she needed to reach them before they arrived at the Ketterings’ estate.
Natalie stared at the maps, water still dripping from her matted hair.
Lightning flashed. Then thunder rumbled dully overhead.
Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see Nathaniel running about, screaming, face contorted, his blood—
She forced the images away.
Her thoughts slipped back to Artis and her family, but she couldn’t think about them, either. Not now. She couldn’t be distracted. She had to get to Sir Edris and Reg before Brago did.
It was a race—and she was behind.
Chapter Thirty-Five
By mid-morning the next day the worst of the storm was over. It was still gray and drizzly with a cold wind coming in from the north, but Natalie couldn’t wait any longer. On her new mare, she rode westward as fast as she could—through the waterlogged plains, past clusters of lonesome farms and ranches, past tiny towns without names. On the fourth day, she struck the Lesser Green River and began racing north along a badly overgrown road toward The Angle. Soon, the lands changed from flat prairies to rolling hills. Then the hills became less rolling and more choppy, as though the gods had cleaved the ground with great axes and thrown up forested walls of stone.
Along the river’s banks, the region was certainly dark. The cliffs were so close together, fallen trees often bridged their span. Only occasionally did faint shafts of sunlight break through the tangled autumn canopy high overhead. Natalie could easily imagine a hamlet here called “Dark Ford.” The problem was finding where it might have been. The Lesser Green wasn’t a huge river; in many places, barely a foot of clear water rippled over a bed of sand and polished pebbles. Fords were everywhere. Moreover, wherever this village of Dark Ford used to be, it likely would’ve been in the surrounding hills. But climbing up the sheer slopes to have a look around wasted time—time she didn’t have.
On her tenth day from Winros Minor, Natalie was leading her horse along the river, picking a tentative path through the rocks and boulders, when she came across a narrow trai
l winding its way into the hills to the north. In the mud were several tracks—some from boots, some from horses.
Heart pounding, Natalie quickly tethered her mare to a tree and clawed her way up the steep incline, slipping on damp stone and a thick carpet of bracken.
A broad valley opened on the other side of the ridge—lush green grass, neatly trimmed, was punctuated by sculpted evergreens and surrounded by a wide ring of forested hills. A road of crushed red brick wove through colorful gardens to stately guesthouses and outbuildings. On the valley’s far side stood a huge manor with twinkling lights streaming out into the deepening gloom.
Along the far eastern side of the valley, in a vineyard maybe a half-mile away, two horses milled about, unattended, even though there was clearly a fenced-in pasture over by the stables to the west. Squinting through the darkness, Natalie scanned the hilltops just beyond the vineyard.
There were buildings there—no, not buildings. Ruins…ruins of a fallen tower or a keep, just like Brago’s map had indicated.
She started running along the ridge circling the valley, pushing through the tangle of trees, their mostly bare branches slapping her across the face and chest. She ran and ran, terrified of what she might find.
Then, at the base of the eastern slopes, below the ruins of the fallen tower, Natalie thought she saw two people—one big, one small—though neither was moving.
She skidded to a halt and ducked behind a tree, knife in hand. She peered closer.
Halfway down the wooded slope stood two statutes covered in moss and ivy. One was a man playing a lute. Next to him, caught in mid-stride as if dancing gaily, was a girl. Beyond them, the remains of a path led to a small stone building built into the hillside—a mausoleum.
Balen loved two things above all else: his daughter and his music.
Then Natalie suddenly understood.
If Balen wanted to hide his golden harp from his greedy grandson, he wouldn’t just dump it down in any old hole; he’d put it someplace safe, someplace meaningful, like Reg had said. He’d leave it with his daughter.
A strange sense of pride washed over Natalie. For centuries, people had tried to solve the mystery of Balen’s golden harp, and now here she was, only a few hundred yards from where it was probably hidden. Sir Edris had been right. There was something to the thrill of completing a quest.
But the harp wasn’t her quarry. She had to find Sir Edris and Reg before it was too late—if it wasn’t already.
Natalie snuck along the top of the hills toward the ruined tower, her boots crunching on leaves and twigs. Far off, dogs barked. They sounded big and vicious, the kind of dogs nobility wouldn’t think twice about siccing on trespassers. Would they come this far from the manor house? She didn’t know, but dogs were the least of her worries. She scanned the woods for any sign of Brago, then scrutinized the remains of the tower.
Much of its western face had collapsed, leaving a landslide of rubble now mostly hidden by trees and low scrub bushes. However, some of the interior rooms appeared to be still intact.
What had Brago’s fake map said? Something about a dungeon. If Sir Edris and Reg were here, they’d probably be underground. Fearing the worst, Natalie climbed over the rubble surrounding the tower and called out softly into the darkening night, “Sir Edris? Reg?”
To the west, the dogs drew closer. In the vineyard below the hills, the two horses seemed skittish. One snorted loudly.
Natalie stalked through the tower’s interior amid dust, fallen stones, and broken timbers, praying she wouldn’t come across her friends’ bodies. Huge holes gaped in the masonry overhead, and deep fissures split the walls. The rest of the tower might topple over at any moment, but she had no choice; she had to go on.
“Sir Edris? Reg?”
A narrow stairway corkscrewed down into the heart of the hill. Next to its entrance lay a heap of decaying beams and debris.
“Sir Edris?”
Nobody answered.
Reluctantly, Natalie descended into the darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Natalie descended the circular stairs, left hand sliding along the cold stone wall, right hand clutching her knife.
“Sir Edris?” she whispered. “Reg?”
She stumbled deeper into the darkness, tripping over the rubble littering the cracked steps.
“Reg?” she called out louder.
She thought she heard an answer, faint and far away.
“Sir Edris?”
She bumped into something hard, as if the stairs had abruptly dead-ended. Natalie swept her free hand across the obstacle—a large square stone, like the ones scattered about the hillside, plugged the passageway. She pushed on it, but the block wouldn’t budge. She cursed.
“Nat?” The thin voice had floated out from somewhere in the darkness in front of her.
“Reg?” Natalie cried. “Reg, is that you?”
“Water…Do you have water?”
“What?” Natalie frantically felt around the stone block. It didn’t seem to fill the entire stairwell, but the gaps weren’t big enough for her to squeeze through. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Water,” another voice said from behind the block. It must have been Sir Edris. “Natalie…get water.”
A hand grabbed her shoulder. Screaming, Natalie leapt back, swatting blindly with her knife.
“It’s me,” said Reg. “Do you have…do you have any water?”
“Water? Yes. Yes, I have some! Half a moment.” Fumbling with her pack in the darkness, she found one of the waterskins. “Here.” She felt for Reg’s hand extending through a gap between the stone and the wall.
Somebody started drinking, then choked.
“I’m sorry!” Natalie blurted. “I’m so, so sorry!”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Sir Edris said, sounding slightly stronger. “Nat. Do you have any more?”
“Yes.” She felt around for the other skin. “I’m sorry, but this one’s only half full.”
She handed it through the opening. Both Reg and Sir Edris gulped and gasped.
“Brago”—Natalie teared up—“he made me give you the map! He has Artis; they killed him…at least I think they did. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should have told you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Natalie,” said Sir Edris, “you have to get out of here. Brago’s still around. He was here about an hour ago. Run to the manor house on the other side of the valley. You’ll be safe there.”
“No! I can’t leave you.”
“Nat,” Reg pleaded. “Go—run.”
“No. I got you into this mess, I’ll get you out!”
“Unless you can move a six-foot slab of solid stone,” said Sir Edris, “there isn’t much you can do, I’m afraid. Go save yourself, Nat. Brago will be back…gloating.”
Natalie pushed at the stone, then threw herself against it. She bounced off like a fly hitting a mountain. Sweeping her hands along the block’s edges, she found that it was wedged at an angle against the curved stairwell wall. She’d never be able to move it.
“Nat…” Sir Edris began.
“Hold on! I think I have an idea! Stay here!”
“Stay here, she says.” Sir Edris laughed bitterly. “What a hoot.”
Natalie sprinted up the stairs and out into the starlight. Peering through the ring of broken stone that once served as the tower’s outer wall, she spied the valley below. Far-off dark shapes prowled about the pastures, most likely the dogs she’d heard patrolling the estate. She couldn’t get to the manor house now, even if she wanted to. The dogs would rip her to shreds. She scanned the northern hills. There was no sign of Brago, but as Sir Edris had said, he probably wasn’t far away.
Cautiously, Natalie snuck down the hillside to the horses grazing in the vineyard. Several coils of rope hung from each of their saddlebags.
“Hey, sweeties!” she said soothingly. They whinnied and backed away. “I need your help, okay? Don’t be afraid.”
She pulled
an apple out of her pack. The horses eyed it.
“Good sweeties.” Natalie took hold of their reins. “Good sweeties. Come with me.”
Quietly, she led them up the hill to the ruined tower. One horse shook its mane as if to say “no.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, stroking its flank. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Taking a coil of rope, Natalie ran back down the stairwell.
“I need your help,” she said when she reached the dead end. She felt along the stone to find one of the gaps between it and the wall. “Here! Take this and pass it around through to the other side.”
Reg’s hand met hers. “Got it.” He slid the rope through another gap. Natalie drew it around the block and tied it.
“Nat,” said Sir Edris, voice cracking. “Even Reg and I couldn’t pull—”
“The horses can!” Not waiting for his reply, Natalie sprinted back up the twisting stairwell. Reaching the top, she tied the rope’s other end to the two waiting horses.
“Okay, big fellas!” She led them forward until the rope went taut. “Pull. Come on—pull!”
The horses strained against the weight of the stone. For a moment, they seemed to be making some headway, inch by inch. Then the rope snapped and the horses lurched, nearly knocking Natalie over.
“Crap!”
Grabbing another coil from the saddle bags, Natalie ran back down the darkened stairwell, sweating.
“Natalie,” called Sir Edris from behind the stone.
“I know, I know.” She felt the first rope’s frayed end. It had snapped right where it’d met the stone’s edge. “It broke.”
“Nat,” said Sir Edris, “where did you put the knot in relation to the stone?”
“What? I don’t know, the middle, I guess.”
“Put it to your right. To the very right-hand side of the block, and try it again.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Just do it. We haven’t much time.”
Using the new rope, Natalie did as she was told, then raced back up the stairs as fast as her tired legs could manage. Again, she made the two horses pull against the weight of the stone, and again, for a few moments, she thought they were making progress. Then the second rope snapped under the stress.