Into the Shadows

by Linda K Hopkins

  “Because the magic was destroyed!”

  “Magic?” he snorted. “I told you before, there’s no such thing as magic!”

  “Then tell me, since you know so much, how Citadel was built?”

  “With the power of the Ancients.”

  “They had no power! That’s why they wanted us destroyed!”

  He pointed a finger in her face. “You are determined to believe these fabrications, but know this – you’ll pay for the sins of your ancestor.”

  “The Ancient wants revenge.”

  “My mistress seeks justice.”

  Lark lifted her eyebrows incredulously. “Do you believe everything she tells you?”

  “She did not tell me but showed me. And I know it to be true.”

  “I refuse to believe your wicked lies.”

  “Believe what you will, Cambrian. The truth is all around you, but you must be willing to open your eyes to see it. Now let’s go.”

  He began striding down the road, and after a moment, Lark followed. It was clear that the Drameara believed what he said, but Master Clem’s confirmation just a few days before her kidnapping provided ample evidence that the Drameara was wrong in his beliefs.

  They made camp beside the lake that night, on a sandy strip of beach, and Lark fell asleep to the sound of gently lapping water; but her dreams were restless as she ran in fear from one place to the next, only to be accosted at each location. The faces of her attackers shifted and changed: the man from the tavern, the men in the first village, Val, the Drameara. When she woke, exhausted, the Drameara gave her a long look before turning away, and she frowned. Had she been talking in her sleep, and if so, what had she said?

  The days began to merge together as they walked endless miles towards the mountains. She could feel her strength increasing day by day, and her trousers were no longer tight around her waist and thighs. As her exhaustion receded, she began to be more vigilant to the possibility of escape. The bulge in her shoe was a constant reminder that she needed to remain attentive, as she might miss the perfect opportunity to kill her guard. Even so, he was constantly alert and on the move. He frequently stopped at the Rhymer villages and towns, talking to various people, although Lark never heard the conversations.

  Once, they were passed on the road by a unit of Crimson Guards. They had still been a long way off when the Drameara turned to look at her and, with a look of resignation, dragged her from the road. They remained hidden in the trees as the Guard rode by, unaware of their audience, and Lark wondered what the Drameara would have done if she had not been there. Would he have alerted the Shadow Warrior of their presence? Despite the weapons that bristled all about him, he would have been completely outnumbered if he had attacked on his own. As they passed by, Lark searched the members of the unit longingly, hoping for sight of Crag or Iron, but she saw no sign of them.

  A few evenings later, the Drameara dropped his pack beneath a copse of trees. Throughout the day, the terrain had been changing; the hills were less rolling and more rocky, while thick clumps of bushes lined the road where they walked. Large boulders lay strewn across the landscape, and the grass on the hills often gave way to layers of dark rock. He caught a rabbit and Lark watched as he cooked it over a fire, turning it on the spit he had made from a branch. Reaching into his pack he withdrew the clay jar that he carried and swallowed some of the contents, as he did every night. He sat easily on a fallen log, his hands dangling over his knees as he watched the rabbit cooking. As usual, he paid her no attention, and they sat in silence as she watched him. No, he was not handsome in the suave way that Val was handsome, but he was striking, and Lark knew from experience that both men and women always stopped to stare at him as he passed by. His hair was too short to be fashionable, and his eyes were too dark to be comfortable; his jaw was well defined, while his body was that of a warrior, strong and virile, and his skin was a dark, golden tan, so unlike her own pale features.

  As weariness once again tugged at her, she closed her eyes and leaned her back against a tree. She wondered about Pip, and how Mother was coping with her health. Had news of her daughter’s death made her health deteriorate? The thought of her family mourning her was like a thorn in her heart, and once again she felt the anger rising against the man sitting across from her; he might not have been the one to take her from the river, but he had been her jailer ever since. She looked away, but not before she saw his eyes flick to her, his gaze narrowed.

  As she did every night, Lark fell asleep almost at once, the exertion of the day leaving her exhausted. She woke with a start during the night, her heart pounding as she opened her eyes and stared up at the stars. Something had awoken her – an owl perhaps, or a predator lurking nearby – but the night was still and silent as she listened. Across from her lay the Drameara, his head propped against his backpack and his hands folded across his chest, which rose and fell evenly, and Lark realized that for the first time, she was seeing him asleep. She watched him for a moment, before cautiously raising herself on her elbow to study him. Even in sleep, his strength was evident, his body tightly honed. He slept bare chested, and she stared for a moment at the silver dragons that circled each breast.

  Holding her breath, she raised herself to a sitting position, then watched for another moment before reaching for her boot where her knife lay hidden. His breath stuttered slightly and she froze, but it evened out a moment later and she brought the boot closer. Reaching inside, she lifted the sole, then wrapped her hand around the handle of the knife, feeling the grain beneath her palm. It was smooth, as though it had been handled many times, and the thought gave her reassurance. It was a reliable weapon, ready to finish the task to which she put it. Placing her hands on the ground, she drew her legs beneath her and slipped onto her knees, her eyes fixed on the Drameara. He did not move, and she began to slowly inch forward, a little at a time. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was surprised it did not waken him, but he slept on, unaware that death was lurking only a short distance away.

  It took a while to cover the few feet between them, and her hand was shaking by the time she reached his side. His finger flicked, and she froze, then slowly drew in a breath to stem her trembling nerves. Wrapping both hands around the handle of the knife, she lifted it into the air above his chest, then clenching her muscles, brought the blade down with all the force she could muster. His eyes flew open as his hand shot out, wrapping around hers and stopping the descent of the blade. Yanking the knife from her grip, he flipped her over and covered her with his body, his face twisted in anger as he glared down at her.

  “Did you really think you could kill me, princess?” he snarled. “I’ve been waiting for you to make your move.” He bent down lower, bringing his mouth to her ear. “I knew about the knife, you see.” He raised his head to stare down at her, his eyes holding hers as she stared back mutely. It was like looking into a dark pool the depths of which could never be reached, made even darker by the night around them. His body was pressed against hers and she felt the heat of his skin through her trousers as his legs pinned her to the ground. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out and instead she bit her lower lip nervously. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then rose again to meet hers. His gaze was penetrating and the air around them thickened as he pinned her down, until she could bear it no more and squeezed her eyes shut. In the next moment he was off her, and she lay in the dirt, drawing in shaky breaths as she waited for him to retrieve his sword and kill her.

  There was no movement, however, and she opened an eye to see that he was standing at her feet, watching her intently; as soon as her gaze met his he leaned down and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet and manhandling her back to the tree where she had been sleeping. He pushed her to the ground, then grabbing a rope from his pack, wrapped it around her waist and tied her to the tree. Turning away, he picked something off the ground, and she saw it was her knife. He snapped the blade in two with his fingers, the
n into halves again, and flung the pieces into the bushes as she watched in shock. Without another glance in her direction, he turned and walked into the trees, disappearing into the darkness. Lark slumped against the trunk; she had lost her one chance of escape, and she doubted there would be another.

  She closed her eyes, and his face rose in her mind, his black eyes staring down at her. She could still feel his heat against her skin, and the brush of his breath against her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she frowned angrily into the darkness. He thought he had bested her. But her failure just made her more determined to find a means of escape. He would lower his guard and she would be ready to take advantage of whatever fate brought her way. And in doing so, she would also bring about his destruction.

  Chapter 14

  Lark’s hands were tied once more, and she stumbled wearily as she struggled to keep up with the Drameara. He had increased his pace, and she glared angrily at his back. Two days had passed since her assassination attempt, but instead of lowering his guard, he seemed more vigilant than before. She had managed to retrieve a piece of blade, however, when she had attended to her personal business the morning after the attempt, and she could feel it digging into her leg where it lay in the pocket of her pants.

  They had left the open plains behind them and the terrain was far more undulating than before, with rocky hills and small clumps of trees. The path they were on was narrow, and they had not passed a town for days, but from time to time she saw small huts and cottages in the distance.

  It had been drizzling on and off all morning, and Lark was glad for the few rays of sun that were starting to make themselves seen through a break in the clouds. The light caught the whitewashed walls of a house ahead of them, making it gleam. It was larger than the other cottages she had seen, and beyond the house she could see yellow fields of grain, each clearly marked off with wide corridors of grass. A small rock in the path made her trip, but the Drameara did not even slow his pace as he yanked her forward. She glared at him angrily, imagining herself driving a knife through his back and into his heart.

  “Your thoughts are so loud I can hear them from here,” he said over his shoulder. She frowned but remained silent. “The tiny piece of blade you carry in your pocket could cut my skin to ribbons, but you should know by now that you cannot kill me.”

  She bit her lip to cover her shock, then muttered, “Never say never.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “You have more spirit than I expected in such an insipid creature.”

  “And you have less between your ears than I would have expected for such a big head,” she retorted.

  “No need to pout, princess. Even your precious Guard are unable to kill me.”

  “You say that so often it’s getting tedious.”

  He fell silent, and she smiled grimly. Perhaps she could irritate him to death.

  There was a movement outside the house and she glanced up to see a woman step out, a large crate in her arms. She set it down against the wall before retracing her steps. The sun caught her golden hair as she stepped to the door, then paused and turned when a man came around the corner and pulled her into his arms. Wrapping her hands around his dark head, she gave herself to his kisses before pulling back and smiling up at him as Lark stared in shock. The woman was clearly Cambrian, but just as clear was the fact that the man was Rhymer. She watched as they entered the house, his arm around her shoulders, then dropped her gaze to the ground as she considered the sight. Unions between Rhymers and Cambrians were forbidden, to ensure that bloodlines remained pure, but these two were living together in the open, snubbing their noses at the law. And it seemed clear that they were happy together. Although the path past the house was little more than a track, if the Crimson Guard came across them, it would mean death for them both.

  Her mind was so preoccupied she did not notice that the Drameara had stopped walking until she bumped into his back. She quickly stepped back a pace.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked.

  “I want to bathe.”

  “Bathe?” She looked around in confusion to see a small pond a short distance away, on the opposite side of the path to the house.

  “Yes. I haven’t bathed in days. You could do with a wash, too.”

  She backed up another step. “I think I will survive, thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you please, princess. What would your family say if they saw you now?”

  She looked away and stared at the house. Her family might not even recognize her in her grimy yellow shirt, tangled hair, and heavy, peasant boots. But nothing on earth would induce her to step into the water with the Drameara.

  He led her to the edge of the pond and dropped his bag as he began relieving himself of weapons. She turned around and walked over to the other side of the path, towards a small stand of trees, their fruit ripening in the sun. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Drameara tugging off his boots, and turning back, headed into the trees. She would take a moment to attend to her own private needs, and since the man already knew about the piece of blade she had hidden away, there was no reason not to use it to cut her bindings. It took a little maneuvering to remove the blade from her pocket and then slice through the rope, but finally it fell to the ground and she shook out her wrists, glaring at the cuffs balefully before returning the blade to her pocket. A small bird hopped from branch to branch and she watched it for a moment before heading behind the trees. In the distance she heard the door of the house open, and peering around the trunk, she watched as the woman stepped out once more. A voice called from the house, and she laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It was clear that this woman had not been coerced into a relationship with the Rhymer, and Lark wondered what she would think of her situation. Would her sympathies lie with Lark or the Drameara? She could not imagine that a Cambrian woman would approve of the way she had been kidnapped and dragged across the countryside.

  The woman laughed again, and suddenly Lark knew what she had to do. Without a backwards glance she began running towards the house. The woman looked up in surprise, watching as Lark grew closer, her eyes widening as Lark grabbed her hands.

  “Please, you have to help me,” Lark gasped. The Rhymer man stepped from the house.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, and the woman shrugged.

  “I don’t know. She appeared from nowhere.”

  “He’s going to kill me. Please help me hide.”

  “Who?” the woman asked, but she was already pulling Lark towards the house.

  “A man. He kidnapped me near Lenora and has dragged me all this way.”

  “Lenora?” A look passed between the man and woman that Lark could not decipher.

  “Please, you must help me. He’s going to kill me.”

  “Yes, of course,” the woman said. “There’s a cellar where you can hide. Where is he?”

  “I left him at the pond.”

  “Then there’s not a moment to lose. Quickly, get inside.” The woman gestured Lark forward as the man pulled open a door in the floor. There was a narrow ladder which Lark hurried down as the door closed behind her, leaving her in darkness. It was only as the light shut out behind her that she wondered at the wisdom of the plan. She had no way of knowing if the pair were trustworthy. She had no option but to stay, however, and see the plan through.

  The minutes ticked by as Lark waited, clutching the ladder to ensure she did not get lost in the dark. She could hear the murmur of voices above her and the sound of feet on the floorboards. After what seemed an interminable age, she heard a knock on the door and the Drameara’s voice through the floor. Hearing it sent a shiver through Lark as she leaned her head against the ladder, straining to listen.

  “I’m looking for a Cambrian woman. I believe she came this way.”

  The woman answered, although Lark could not make out her words.

  “Well, if you see her, please be careful. She’s dangerous.”

  “Dan
gerous?” It was the man who spoke.

  “Aye. Left a trail of bodies across the countryside.”

  Lark gripped the ladder tightly as she listened in shock. There was a nervous laugh as the woman said something.

  “Unbelievable, I know. She gets into violent rages and leaves destruction in her wake.”

  Lark’s jaw was clenched as tightly as her fists when the door above her opened and she looked up to see the Drameara gaze down at her, a small tic at the side of his mouth the only evidence of his humor. She glared at him angrily as she mounted the ladder. “How dare you say such things about me,” she hissed.

  “It served my goals,” he said as she stepped out onto the floor. The woman was watching her nervously, although the man seemed unconcerned about a potential murderer in their midst.

  “He’s been lying to you,” she told them. “I have not done any of those things!”

  “She’s correct,” the Drameara agreed. “She’s really my wife.”

  “Your wife?” The Rhymer man looked shocked.

  “No!” Lark shouted. “I’m not his wife.”

  “Well, what is it?” the Drameara said. “My wife or a murderer?”

  “Neither,” she seethed.

  He turned back to the couple. “As you can see, she’s wearing my cuffs.”

  The woman’s gaze dropped to the cuffs as Lark looked at him in shock. “Really,” she sneered. “If these are yours, what does the V stand for?”

  “My initial. Vance.”

  “Vance?”

  “She doesn’t know your name?” the woman asked suspiciously. “Are you sure she’s your wife?”

  “She knows me by my nickname.” He gave a deprecating smile. “We’ve only been married a few days.”

  “He lies,” Lark said.

  “Those cuffs look costly,” the man said. “How did you afford such an extravagant gift?”

  “They’re an old family heirloom,” the Drameara explained.