Across the room, music began to play, and Lark looked up to see people joining their hands in an impromptu dance. She spotted Avard smiling at a girl as she stepped up beside him, and she said something with a laugh as they began to move their feet in rhythm to the music. The dance was unlike the court dances to which Lark was accustomed, with their complicated steps, but she could not help noticing how happy the dancers seemed. It did not matter if they got some of the steps wrong, and laughter filled the hall.
She watched until slowly the hall began to empty. Finally all that remained were a small group of old women, playing a game of dice, and a couple of younger men, around the same age as Pip, who had clearly drunk too deeply as the night progressed. They kept throwing glances Lark’s way, and she watched them anxiously when they rose from the table and began to lumber towards the post.
“Well, what ’ave we ’ere?” one of the men said. He pulled her to her feet and kicked away the stool as he grabbed her chin between his fingers. She pulled herself from his grasp and turned her face away, but he grabbed her again as his beery breath washed over her. “I said, what do we ’ave ’ere?” He turned to his friend. “’Ave you ever seen an’thing so pale? ’Haps she’s a ghost.”
“Looks like a block of ice! Mebbe she’s the Ice Queen!” He laughed uproariously, as though he had made some hilarious joke. “She’d prob’ly freeze yer balls off!”
“I know, she’s the prince’s claimed!” They both laughed. The man holding her chin released her and made an exaggerated bow, stumbling as he did so. “Yer ’ighness,” he said.
“Naw,” the other man said, “I still think’s a ghost.”
“Leave me alone,” Lark hissed.
“Do ghosts talk?” he asked.
“Dunno. But we can’t shag a ghost,” the other man complained. He frowned for a moment, then grinned. “If we shag ’er, we’ll know if she’s a ghost!”
“What if she freezes yer balls off?”
“If ’er tits are warm, she’s prob’ly not a Ice Queen.” He grabbed her bodice and was about to rip when a voice from behind made him freeze.
“Release her,” the Drameara said.
The man turned to look at him, his expression incredulous. “But look at ’er. She’s the Ice Queen!”
“Or a ghost!” the other man chimed in.
“She is neither of those. Now release her.”
“What do you care what we do to ’er?”
“My mistress will care.”
The man paled. “The Ancient?”
“That’s right. Now leave her be.”
The man released the blouse and slowly backed up, then turned and pushed his friend away, stumbling across the hall as he went.
The Drameara turned to look at Lark, his cold, hard gaze meeting hers. “Don’t bother thanking me,” he said. “A broken woman is not worth an execution.”
“I wasn’t going to thank you,” Lark said coldly. “And I didn’t need your help!”
“As I said, I didn’t do it for you. And it occurs to me I probably did them a favor. You probably would have frozen their balls off!”
Lark gave him an angry glare as he started to untie the rope that bound her to the post.
“Done with Addie already?” she asked sarcastically.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Did she give you all the attention you wanted? Pamper your ego a bit?”
He shot her an irritated look. “My ego doesn’t need pampering. I know exactly who I am and what I am capable of.”
“Ah, yes, a Drameara. So I heard.”
He frowned as he released the rope from the post, then nodded at the boots. “Put those on and let’s go. And make sure you bring the blouse.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she protested.
“And you would like to sleep here, tied to a post?”
She bit her lip and remained silent as she slid her feet into the boots and followed him to the door, carrying the blouse. The night air was cool and she shivered, but the Drameara was already striding away and she hurried to keep up. She was more concerned with avoiding the pair of men who had been intent on abusing her than she was of the Drameara – who threatened her with death but had, at least so far, kept her alive.
Chapter 10
The place to which the Drameara led Lark was a small hut on the outskirts of the village, a short distance away from the river. With a single bed pushed against a wall, and a rickety chair beside a small table, it was sparse but functional. There was a candle in a stand on the table, which the Drameara lit. Beside it stood an empty jug; Lark looked at in disappointment.
“Change your blouse, then go get some water,” the Drameara said.
“How will I do that?” she asked, lifting her hands to show the bindings.
With a flick of his fingers, he released the knot and the cloth rope fell to the floor. His hand brushed the cuffs and they hummed against her skin. Taking the blouse from where she had dropped it to the floor, he shoved it into her hands, then turned around. She stared at the blouse in distaste as she removed her cloak and jacket, which was frayed and torn. One of the buttons had come loose, making it gape even wider across her chest. She removed the garment with relief and pulled on the blouse. It was too big for her, but it was more comfortable than the tight bodice she had been wearing. The yellow, she knew, did not suit her pale coloring, and with her raw, reddened skin, she had no doubt that she looked hideous, which was probably exactly what Addie intended when she chose the blouse, she thought sourly.
The Drameara turned and looked at her with a frown, then shoved the jug into her hands and pushed her towards the door.
The night was dark, with only a few pinpricks of light in the sky above. Holding the jug against her chest, Lark carefully made her way around the hut, where she saw the moon glinting unevenly on the water. She made her way tentatively over the stony ground toward it, the stars giving just enough light for Lark to pick her way to the bank where she knelt down and dipped the jug into the water. Bringing it to her lips she drank deeply, then filled it to the brim once more before standing and turning back in the direction of the hut. A light flickered in a distant cottage and Lark stared at it for a moment, then turned back to look again over the river. In the distance she could just make out the faint outline of low hills. How long would it take for the Drameara to catch her if she tried to run? Not long, but maybe she would receive a quick, merciful death, instead of a public execution.
Or perhaps the next time he would not stop a couple of drunkards from raping her, whatever the reason may be, a little voice teased.
“There are far worse things out there than me,” a voice said from behind, making her jump and spill water on herself.
“Really? At least a wild animal will kill me quickly.”
“Perhaps. Or she will drag you back to her lair and let her kittens practice their hunting skills on you as you die slowly.”
“Then my death will serve a purpose.”
“It will serve a purpose, I promise you that.”
Gritting her teeth, she brushed past him, shivering as her skin made contact with his taut muscles. She could hear him behind her as she picked her way back to the hut and pushed open the door with her shoulder. On the table where the jug had stood before, an array of weapons now covered the space, the bright blades gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Moving aside a sword, she placed the jug on the surface, swiftly counting the weapons as she did so. At least eight, which was more than she had seen him wearing. The Drameara had followed her inside, but a quick glance over her shoulder showed him reaching for his backpack. Without giving it a moment’s thought, she grabbed one of the knives, spun around and thrust it at him, aiming for his chest. In a move so quick she missed it, he dropped the pack and stepped aside, clamping his hand around her wrist, just below the cuff. She cried out as pain lanced through her hand and up her arm, and the blade clattered to t
he floor.
“That was a stupid move,” he snarled into her ear, and she could feel the reverberation in his chest. Shoving her into the chair, he grabbed the rope and tied her wrist to the arm of the chair. When she tried to fight her way free, he grabbed the other hand and shoved her back down, then promptly tied that wrist as well as she glared at him with hatred.
“How dare you abuse me like this?” she hissed.
He gave a dry laugh. “You just tried to kill me, princess.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over her. “All you accomplished is additional misery for yourself!”
“You’re a monster!”
He pulled back. “Yes, you could say that.”
“I hope the Crimson Guard kill you as you suffer the most agonizing death.”
“Even the most valiant and skilled fighter in your king’s guard would struggle to kill me.”
He turned away and began to remove items from his soft leather pack. It was not very large, and it didn’t take long before the items were neatly placed on the table: a clean tunic, a small pot and eating utensils, a leather purse, a leather cloth, the jar of salve, another small container, a rectangular piece of dark red stone, and the small clay jar she had seen that morning. Removing the stopper from the jar, he drank a mouthful before replacing the cork. He grabbed his sword, sat on the bed, and began to polish the blade with the leather cloth and the contents of the small container. She stared at the stone; within its depths it seemed as though it twisted and moved, like dark red smoke. Three of the sides were smooth, but the fourth was jagged, as though it had been broken, while the edges on either end were sharp and dangerous looking.
“What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the stone when he glanced at her.
“Nothing that concerns you,” he said, running his finger down the length of the blade.
She frowned but remained silent. Perhaps he carried the stone for sentimental reasons, but he did not strike her as a sentimental man.
It took a while before he was satisfied with the results of his polishing and moved on to the next blade, and by the time Lark succumbed to sleep, he was still busy cleaning his weapons.
She dreamed of Pip, wandering through the woods as he called her name, and woke with a start to the sound of someone moving around the tiny cabin. She opened her eyes to the sight of the Drameara pulling on his leather breeches. Sitting down on the bed, he reached for his boots and pushed his feet into them, then reached down to do up the laces. His chest was bare, and her eyes moved to the dragon tattooed across his torso. It was rendered with intricate beauty, but the ferociousness of the creature was unmistakable. Sharp horns rose from its skull, while flames spewed from its open mouth, curling around the Drameara’s chest and abdomen. It was so realistic that even as she studied it, she could have sworn that it moved. Silver dragons wound around each breast, each finely etched in intricate detail, with sharp tongues that pierced each nipple. A tiny piece of red stone made up the eye of each.
“Like what you see?” he asked, lifting his gaze to look at her.
“No.” She turned to look out the window.
“Good. The sight of me should make you shudder with fear.”
“Really?” She returned her gaze to him and studied him closely. “All I feel is disdain. There’s nothing special about you, and your arrogance will get you killed sooner or later. You keep a defenseless woman against her will and drag her across the countryside with the sole purpose of eventually killing her in some humiliating spectacle. Sounds like the actions of a coward to me.”
He shrugged. “Call it what you will. And the fact that you’re defenseless is of no importance. You could be the most skilled fighter in the Guard – I’d still drag you across the countryside until you’ve served my purpose.”
Lark turned away as the Drameara began packing his kit. He was still busy when the sound of pounding feet outside the hut reached them. He spun and yanked open the door. “Where?” he demanded harshly.
“Meadowlands,” Lark heard someone reply.
“How far?”
“Ten miles. The Guard were seen heading west.”
“The girl stays here.”
“No.” Lark recognized the voice of the Wise Woman. “Take her with you.”
“She’ll hinder me and slow us all down.”
“Antas has a spare horse. One of our men will bring it back when you’re done.”
Lark didn’t hear a reply, but a moment later the Drameara was releasing her bonds and yanking her to her feet. “You’re coming with me. Do not make me regret it. I am a patient man and will ensure your suffering endures for a very long time if you do.”
She gave a nod, her mind barely registering what he was saying as she considered the conversation she had heard. She could only surmise the full meaning, but what seemed clear was that the Drameara was going after a unit of the Crimson Guard. Ten miles was a fair distance and if the Guard were moving quickly, there was a chance that they might be gone by the time the Drameara and the other men reached the place called Meadowlands.
“What about something to eat first?” she demanded.
“There’s no time.”
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday midday, and now you want me to ride across the countryside with an empty stomach?”
He threw her a look of frustration and pulled her outside. “I need some food,” he announced to the small group waiting just a few feet beyond the door.
One of the women stepped forward, taking a thick slice of bread from a bag draped over her shoulder and giving it to the Drameara. He nodded his thanks and handed the bread to Lark, who eyed it in distaste as the women frowned at her. She was still contemplating the food when she heard the sound of hooves and looked up to see Beauty being led towards her.
“That’s my horse!” she exclaimed.
“Your horse!” the man scoffed. “I’ve had this horse for years.”
“Nonsense,” Lark began, but she was cut off by the Drameara.
“There’s no time for this. Climb on and let’s be off.” She turned to him with a scowl, but he had already turned away and was striding towards a small group of men who glared fiercely at her with varying expressions of menace. Turning back to Beauty, she checked the saddle, then hauled herself up when she realized that no-one was going to give her a lift. The group of men had turned and were following the Drameara as he walked away from the village, his long strides covering the distance at an alarming pace. The men were a ragtag bunch, ranging in age from young to old. Like most Rhymers, they were short and stocky, their features coarse from days spent under the sky. Driving stolen cattle, Lark thought vengefully. She did not see the scribe from the previous evening, nor the young drunkards who had harassed her.
The Drameara was fast outpacing the group of men, and they began to jog to keep up with him. One of the men ran with a limp, although it did not seem to slow him down. Lark remained at the back, keeping Beauty at a slow walk as the distance between her and the group of men began to increase. They were traveling through grassland, but every now and then clusters of tall bushes rose in clumps. She glanced ahead to see that the Drameara was well in front, and slowed down even more, patting Beauty’s neck as she did so. The path the men had taken took her right past a large thicket, and without waiting to give her plan more thought, she tugged Beauty’s reins and quickly led her behind the screen of greenery, where she wheeled the horse around and began to gallop in the opposite direction. She had not gone more than a few hundred yards when something landed on the horse behind her. She yelped, but a hand was clamped over her mouth.
“Did you really think you could get away?” a voice demanded in her ear, and she froze. That it was the Drameara holding her from behind, she had no doubt; how he had gotten to her so quickly, she had no idea. She clamped her teeth together, biting his skin, then smiled in satisfaction when his hand was abruptly removed. The smile slid away when he dropped his hand to h
ers and yanked the reins from her grip, turning Beauty in a wide circle and back in the direction they had first been heading. The horse tossed her head but obeyed the command to go faster, and soon Lark could see the group of men still jogging up ahead. The Drameara wheeled Beauty to a stop and jumped down, then pulled Lark from the saddle.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, turning to glare at him.
“You cannot be trusted with a horse,” he retorted. His eyes were dark, his expression furious, and Lark was relieved when he looked away and pointed to the man with the limp. “You,” he said, “get on. You’re coming with me.”
“What about the rest of us?” asked a man with a long scar down his cheek. He glanced at Lark then quickly looked away.
“Keep following on foot. I’ll send your friend here to lead you once we’ve found the Guard.”
“What about the girl?” asked another man.
“She’s your responsibility.”
“You want me to babysit a Cambrian bitch?” he spluttered.
“Yes. And I want her alive.”
The man began to protest, but a narrowed look from the Drameara cut the protests short, and he quickly shut his mouth as Lark took in his appearance. He was shorter than Lark by a few inches, with long gray hair tied roughly at his neck; a twig had gotten tangled up in the strands, making it even more knotted. He glared at her but was silent as the Drameara took off on foot, not waiting for the other man who was still climbing into Beauty’s saddle.
“Jes’ me luck that I’ve got ta watch ya, bitch,” Twig snarled as the man finally took his seat and grabbed the reins. “If ’twas up ta me, I’d jes’ kill ya and leave ya body ta rot.” He yanked her forward angrily, then reaching into his pocket, pulled out a dirty rag.
“Open ya mouth, bitch,” he said.
She looked at the rag in disgust. “No.”
With a snarl, he raised his hand and slapped her cheek, pulling the rag across her mouth when she opened it in shock. Stepping around her, he twisted it tight at the back of her head, painfully catching strands of her hair, and jerked the ends into a knot. Taking the length of rope that dangled from her wrists, he dragged her forward as the group began to move.
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