Into the Shadows

by Linda K Hopkins

  “And her?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The man gave the Drameara a penetrating gaze before raking his glance over Lark one more time, then turned and headed out of the tavern.

  “Who’s that?” Lark asked as the Drameara headed past her to a table beside the window.

  “No-one that you need concern yourself with.”

  “Is he Drameara?”

  The Drameara sat down without answering.

  Muted conversations had resumed, although from the number of glances cast their way, Lark had no doubt that she and the Drameara were the topic of conversation. The boy who had been wiping the counter carried over a tray with brimming glasses of ale and plates of food. The Drameara pushed a glass over to her. She raised her bound hands with a meaningful look.

  He flicked the knot, untying it, and the rope fell to the table. Lifting the glass, Lark took a sniff. Although her brothers frequently imbibed ale, Lark had never tasted the drink. The smell was sharp and she glanced at the Drameara to see he was watching her. Bringing the glass to her lips, she took a sip then screwed her face in distaste. She put it down and quickly took a bite of the pie on the dish before her. Murmured conversations reached her ear, and she dropped her gaze as she strained to listen.

  “Lenorian, by the looks of ’er.” From the corner of her eye, Lark could see a pair of men, clad in workmen’s tunics, scowling at her angrily.

  “Aye. Got that proud, haughty look.”

  “My bet is that it’ll be gone after a few more days with ’im.” There was some coarse laughter, and Lark took another sip of ale. The second mouthful was better than the first. She took another bite of pie, watching as the Drameara did the same.

  “Did you ’ear that the Guard torched the remaining store of grain up at Bluewater?”

  “They did that at Sweetgrass as well, burning half the houses along with it. What was the reason this time?”

  “Since when do the Guard care about bloody reasons? I’m surprised they don’t just line us up and kill us all.”

  “True. They’d have a ten percent chance of executing some Red Lions.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” the first man said bitterly. “They’d be ’iding in the ’ills while we all suffer for their actions.”

  “Things are changing now, Callum. Guardsmen are starting to fall like flies.”

  “That doesn’t ’elp me when they come to town looking for Red Lions and slaughter my goats when they can’t find ’em.”

  They fell silent and Lark sneaked a look beneath her lashes at the speakers. A pair of men around her father’s age sat a few tables away. One of them wore a red necktie, reminding her of Avard. He was staring at her, but when her gaze met his, he rose and came over to their table.

  “What do you plan to do with the girl?” he asked the Drameara.

  The Drameara leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. Through the thin tunic, Lark could see the bulge of his muscular arms. “Why?”

  “Seems to me she should die for what ’er people have done to us.”

  The Drameara looked at her contemplatively, and Lark felt her pulse begin to race, wondering if this was the moment when the Drameara would kill her. Clearly there were some bad apples amongst the Guard, but that did not mean that they were all that bad, or that she should suffer for their actions. “Maybe,” he said. “But I have other plans for her.” Lark looked at her empty plate as a wave of dizziness washed over her. The food in her stomach turned to stone.

  “Plans for her death, I ’ope.”

  “My plans do not concern you,” he said, turning away. He drained the last of his ale and rose. “Come,” he said to Lark, and as much as it irked her to do so, she obeyed his command and followed him as he wove between the tables and out of the inn. It was dark outside and she paused to glance up at the sky. She could see the Night Light, the brightest star in the sky. She had often stared at it from her window back home, and it made her wonder what was happening at the palace. Were her family mourning her death? Was Val? She doubted that. He would mourn her as much as she mourned him.

  The Drameara was already striding down the street, and she quickened her pace to catch up, unwilling to put too much distance between them in such a hostile town.

  “What are the Red Lions?” she asked.

  “The band of Rhymers rising against the Crimson Guard.”

  “And they called themselves the red lions?” she said with a snort. He sent her a disapproving look. “Where are we going?”

  “To find somewhere to sleep.”

  “We could have stayed at the inn.”

  “It costs money.”

  “You have money.”

  He gave her an incredulous glance. “I realize that where you come from, money can be thrown about like sand, but not everyone was born with a silver spoon and a crib lined in gold.”

  “I was not –”

  “And besides, I prefer sleeping beneath the stars.”

  She fell silent as he marched his way across the town and beneath the watchtower, where the guards nodded as he passed by. It was even darker beyond the town, but the Drameara did not slow his pace, and unlike Lark’s stumbling walk, his was surefooted and steady. Another hour had passed before the Drameara turned off the path and headed a short distance into the trees, placing his pack on the ground beside a rock.

  “We sleep here,” he announced as Lark peered through the darkness. As far as she could see they were in a clearing, and the ground beneath her feet was soft with mulch. Sinking down beside a tree, she pulled off her boots, careful to keep the knife hidden as she slipped it into the sole of the shoe. She resisted the urge to examine the scratches the knife had caused, not wanting to arouse the Drameara’s attention, and instead twisted the cuffs around her wrists, trying to relieve the itch they caused. She looked up to see the Drameara watching her.

  “Why haven’t you removed them?” he asked. “They clearly bother you.”

  She looked away. “They’re sealed with magic. They can’t be opened.”

  She turned back quickly when he gave a dry laugh. “Magic,” he scoffed. “There’s nothing magic about them.”

  “Of course there is,” she said sharply. “Do you really think I want to keep these horrible things on me?”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge, princess,” he said caustically, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  “What do you know about them?”

  “I know nothing about magic.”

  “But you know something,” she insisted.

  “No. Your highness has set me straight.”

  “I’m not your highness, and I’m not a princess,” she said irritably.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not ever! My family already think I’m dead, and since both you and the Shadow Warrior seem intent on killing me, I might as well be. I just wish one of you would get on with it!”

  “So impatient to die!”

  “Just tired of being dragged around the countryside by an ignorant barbarian.”

  She turned away, annoyed, and lay down on the ground as her thoughts went to the knife inside her boot. It would not be easy to kill her tormentor; his senses were always on high alert, and he seemed to miss nothing. He had stopped her from running away with Beauty, although how he had moved so quickly was something she could not fathom. No, she thought, she would have to do it while he slept. The thought was still in her mind as her eyes closed, and the sound of him sharpening his knives was the last thing she heard before falling asleep.

  Chapter 13

  The next few days passed much as the previous had done, with endless walking beneath the beating sun, at a punishing pace that Lark struggled to keep up with. Meals consisted of bread and water, and occasionally meat that the Drameara hunted. He drank from the jar in his pack every morning and evening, and Lark wondered what kind of spirits it contained.

  Sometimes they walked along well-worn
roads, joining other travelers, but usually they kept to quieter paths and tracks that wound through the countryside. She had hidden the knife beneath the sole of the shoe while the Drameara was attending to his needs, and although the lump beneath her feet was uncomfortable, it was better than the endless scraping of the blade against her shin. He had not re-bound her wrists, but she knew that he would not hesitate to do so if she made one false move. The skin beneath the cuffs itched continuously, and along the edges had turned to an angry red. The Drameara had left the jar of salve on a rock beside her one evening before leaving to fill the water canteen, and she had slathered it on gratefully, using a flat strip of wood to slide it beneath the cuffs. The following night he did the same, leaving the salve on a rock without a word, and she accepted the gesture gratefully.

  They passed no towns the first day, and slept under the stars once again that night, exhaustion causing Lark to fall asleep the moment she lay down. They were up early the following morning, the sun not fully risen as they began another day of traveling.

  They had been walking for a few hours when Lark saw a lake glittering in the distance. A steep hill rose a short distance away from the water, and as they drew closer, Lark could see a town nestled between the hill and the lake. More buildings were clustered at the top of the hill, but the Drameara led them onto a path running alongside the lake, and shortly after noon they entered the lower part of the town. Like Springdale’s, the streets were winding and narrow, following the lakeshore, and the buildings were painted every imaginable hue. Small skiffs were tied along the edge of the water, and a pair of fishermen stood in the shallow water, their rods cast into the dark depths of the lake. Lark followed the Drameara down a side street, and before long they arrived at an open square backing onto the side of the cliff, where vendors had set up stalls to display their goods. Brightly colored fabrics were displayed besides baskets of eggs and squawking chickens, while a variety of vegetables were placed alongside hanging cuts of meat. Pausing at one of the stalls, the Drameara selected a few pieces of fruit, which he placed in his bag, while at another he bought a loaf of bread.

  His shopping done, he led Lark back towards the lake where a tavern sat overhanging the water. Large windows ran around the perimeter, letting in lake breezes. Lark followed the Drameara as he entered the building and nodded at a table in the corner.

  “Go wait there,” he said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just do as I say,” he said before turning and heading to the bar, where the barman stood leaning over the counter, watching them. The barman said something in a low voice, nodding in Lark’s direction as the Drameara glanced at her. The Drameara turned back to him and they began a low conversation. Lark strained to hear what they were saying, but she was too far away to hear anything but murmurs. Reaching beneath the counter, the innkeeper pulled out a wooden box, which he unlocked with a key from his pocket. He retrieved something wrapped in a piece of white cloth which he handed to the Drameara. Opening one corner, the Drameara peeked into the package before stowing it in his bag.

  Lark was so intent on watching them she did not notice the man approaching her table until he slid into the seat across from her, and she recoiled in horror as she took in his face. Although one half looked normal, the other looked as though the skin had begun to melt from his face, while where his eye should be was a large, gaping hole.

  “Well, lookee ’ere,” he said. “A Cambrian, right in the middle of Rhyton.” As he reached over and touched her hair she jerked away, but he grabbed her jaw. Two of his fingers were missing, but his grip was still strong. “You know what ’appens to Cambrians in Rhyton? We kill ’em. But I think I’ll fuck you first.”

  “Get your hands off me,” she hissed.

  “Or what? Going to call for the Guard? Look, bitch, no-one ’ere going to ’elp you. They’ll be cheering me on!” Still holding her jaw, he rose, grabbed her arm, and dragged her to her feet. She struggled against his grip, but it was tight and she could not break free. Lifting her boot, she stomped down on his foot, then spat in his face as his hold slackened. Breaking free, she stumbled back a few steps and turned to run, but he grabbed her hair, pulling her to a stop as she slammed back into him. His hand wrapped around her arm as another voice reached her ear.

  “Let her go.”

  “I saw her first, bastard,” the man said, releasing her hair but still gripping her arm as he turned around, pulling her around with him. “Find someone else.”

  A man in his early thirties stood a short distance away, his arms relaxed at his sides. His black hair and tan skin identified him as Rhymer, and his dark eyes flashed to her for a moment before returning to her accoster.

  “You idiot,” he said pleasantly. “She belongs to him.” He tossed his head over his shoulder towards the Drameara. “Do you really think you could beat him in a fight?”

  Her attacker’s eye darted to the Drameara, and his hold slackened slightly. “’E left ’er alone, didn’t ’e? Shouldn’ave done that if ’e didn’t want nuffin to ’appen to ’er.” He lifted his chin, but his eye darting back to the Drameara revealed his failing bravado.

  The other man took a step closer. “I think you should go now.” He gave a slight smile, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lark’s accoster dropped her arm with a mumbled curse and turned away.

  Lark turned to look at her rescuer warily. “Are you alright?” he asked. His eyes dropped to the cuffs around her forearms, before returning to her face.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Should I have left him to do what he wanted with you?”

  “No, but I’m Cambrian, and I have the distinct impression that all Rhymers want us dead.”

  “Most only bear a grudge against the Guard. But Acton holds a grudge against all Cambrians because of his personal injuries.”

  “What happened to him?”

  He gestured for her to resume her seat. “His son was part of a raid against Fontina, a Cambrian town a few miles east. When the Guard came to arrest him, Acton intervened. He was pushed aside and fell into an open fire.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “Yes, it is. But I am going to assume that you are not personally responsible for his injuries.”

  Lark smiled. “Thank you …?”

  “Alron, I’m the mayor of this town. I’m afraid you’ve not had a good first introduction to Rhyton.”

  “It is a very pretty town, built right on the lake.”

  “Well, we certainly like to think so. The lake is the heartbeat of our town. We even used to build boats here in Rhyton.”

  “But not anymore?”

  Alron looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It was decided that Lenora was better suited to boat building.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s closer to the coast.” He forced a smile. “I gave you my name, but you haven’t given me yours.”

  “My apologies. It’s –”

  “Let’s go.” A heavy hand wrapped around her upper arm, pulling her to her feet. Lark glanced at the mayor as the Drameara began to drag her out of the tavern. She shook herself free and turned to face Alron. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled, then turned and followed the Drameara out into the street.

  “If it wasn’t for that man I would have been dragged from the tavern, raped, and killed!” she said when she caught up with him.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “People like that would rape and kill every Cambrian, given the chance,” she said.

  He turned around to face her. “Is that any different to what the Crimson Guard do? Besides, Cambrians have a lot to answer for in the way they treat Rhymers.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You considered all Rhymers to be thieving louts –”

  “Which they are!”

  “Like that mayor back there?” She was silent. “Yo
u Cambrians deny the Rhymers all opportunity to advance and better themselves. You even steal away their livelihoods. Is it any wonder that they turn to thieving?”

  “We don’t steal their livelihoods! And they can better themselves!”

  “They’re not allowed to open businesses in your cities or study in your schools. The Rhytonians built boats for generations, until the king decided to take that away from them. And when they do manage to earn an income, he takes it away in the form of taxes.”

  “That’s not true! The mayor said that Lenora is better suited to building boats because it’s closer to the coast!”

  “Is that so? Did he tell you that the Guard ensure that no boats are built here?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t know much for a future queen, do you?”

  “He also said that the man’s son was a thief.”

  “True. He was about to be arrested and hung. But the boy was only seventeen years old. Tell me what would happen if a Cambrian boy that age was found guilty of theft?”

  “How do you know he was seventeen?”

  “I know because I listen to people. I pay attention to what’s going on! Unlike you, moping in your palace because you must marry a prince. You don’t care what’s happening in your own country!”

  “You know nothing,” she snarled.

  “You Cambrians have been the same for hundreds of years, looking only to your own interests. Your ancestor was one of the worst, seeking to destroy the Ancients.”

  “They attacked first!”

  He laughed dryly. “The Cambrians took what they wanted from the Ancients and then set about destroying them.”

  “What could the Ancients possibly have that the Cambrians would want? They were little more than beasts, with the intelligence of a Rhymer.”

  He looked at her incredulously. “You’re more ignorant than I thought. Where do you think Cambrians gained the knowledge to build beautiful cities? From whom did they gain the power that made them excel in almost everything they did?”

  “Not the Ancients!”

  “Then why is Lenora such a poor replica of Citadel? Why have you not achieved the same heights of greatness that you attained before the war?”