After the midday heat passed, the riders left the farmer’s hut. Vesperi struggled as they secured her to the back of the gigantic man’s equally gigantic white horse, but she could gain no leverage. That he, Xantas, was the group’s leader became obvious throughout the afternoon’s journeying. The others showed him deference, asking for permission to chart a tree line, examine a plant, taste the wind, or something equally inane. Only one man had not approached Xantas in that manner, the one who had bound her. She could feel his eyes drift toward her every two miles or so. Each time she met them, his scowl deepened.
At a particularly uninteresting patch of sallow moss, Xantas turned to her. He held up a water horn. “Are you thirsty?”
She was, but she did not trust what these people had to offer.
He lowered the horn to his chest. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Would you?” She raised her arms. “My fingers, they are so numb.” It was worth a try.
The redhead shouted, “No!” He drew close nearly as fast as he spoke. Vesperi suppressed a sigh then considered the young man. His face was freckled despite his deep olive skin, and he bore himself like an adver who had earned his first bone.
Xantas regarded him with cautious eyes. “And why are we keeping her hands bound? It is not becoming to leave a woman in such discomfort.”
The man’s shoulders slumped, and Vesperi’s spirits soared. He does not know, she thought. But he had to, had to at least have felt something or why—
“I just do not trust them.” His voice wavered, the same way Uzziel’s did when he tried to lie. A man this age should be more practiced; it was almost endearing.
“After Agler’s death, I mean,” he said. “With how wildly she fought, it is obvious she’s one of them, the Meduans. They sent him back to us in ashes.”
Agler? The spy she’d killed? But how could this man know about that? True, the rosewood box had born Sellwyn’s mark, but she was careful to bring nothing displaying the viper with her.
“I won’t trust any of them,” the man continued, “not with Serra on my mind. This woman will answer for her crimes with my father, and I am not anxious for her to commit more on the way.”
Xantas nodded in assent, and the redhead returned to his mount.
His father? She should have realized he was in charge earlier. The rest of the men had been too nice, helping her up when she fell, speaking in gentle tones, addressing her with courtesy. This man had done none of those things, sparing her no regard beyond the scowls and the insistence her hands be tied. He was the real leader here, the one who treated her like what she was, like an afterthought.
But he handled the other woman—Marabil—differently. Marabil had introduced herself when she helped Vesperi break water earlier. The woman had yammered on about how she had never been this far south and how they would reach the central road soon, and wouldn’t that be a sight, reaching the jeweled bridge and attending the wedding? Vesperi had paid her no mind, but when night fell and they made camp, Marabil unleashed a torrent of playful insults directed at the redhead. He chuckled but refused to banter back. His behavior reminded Vesperi of Bellick’s, acting as though he enjoyed the woman’s company, not just imagining her undressed. After dinner had been cooked and Vesperi had refused a bowl—it could be poisoned—she realized none of the men had gone near Marabil except to crack jokes or bring a new candle as she hunched over maps in the darkness. She had not stirred their stewpot once.
At the evening campfire, the puniest man among them, his head bald and orange like a pumpkin, spoke. “Are you ready?”
“It is only a few days more,” said the one she thought was named Velak, “and you will be a married man.”
They addressed the redhead, who fell into surliness, apparently not fond of the conversation turn. Who could blame him? Her father had always resented her mother. But having only bastards was anarchy for a man who wanted to preserve his fortune.
“Best rest up, all of you.” Xantas rose, brushing off a few ashes. “Lady Gavenstone will have our heads if we return the prince late for his wedding after it has already been delayed.”
Vesperi sputtered. “The prince?” This group of weak-willed men concerned with will o’wisps and drapian seeds was a royal sortie? They were not soldiers, that was clear, and what prince was fool enough to travel without a guard? King Ralion kept a dozen nearby at all times, and the Guj had his wizards.
“She speaks.” Xantas lifted an eyebrow. “Aye, this is our prince, Janto Albrecht. I suspect he is not yours, however.”
She quieted immediately, her throat aching with the effort of speech. Tomorrow, she would have to take water. Avoiding poison was no benefit if she died of thirst. But the shock of falling into the prince’s hands might kill her regardless. Could her father have sent word over the mountains about her escape and they had meant to capture her? She shook her head. Lord Sellwyn would never go to the trouble. That she had been captured by a Lanserim prince who had known how to restrain her talent was a bizarre coincidence. Perhaps he was merely lucky and she was not.
Vesperi was so tired, had struggled so much first in the net and then with understanding these people and their ways. She knew Lanserim were different, but she had never considered how much. Foreign did not begin to describe it. All she had accomplished was learning Lansera’s prince could not tell a lie to save his life. Yet while her hands stayed bound, he succeeded at saving his and his men’s. Perhaps he was smarter than he appeared. Vesperi would figure him out, figure them all out … come morning.
CHAPTER 28
JANTO
Rope grating against wood and a passing whiff of smoke from the breakfast fire woke him. Janto lurched from his bed roll and blinked several times as the image of a woman with silver eyes and illuminated hair was replaced by the same woman with brown eyes and black hair struggling against her ties with increasing desperation.
“You will never undo those,” he called out. “The Ertions tie knots tighter than a boggart’s embrace.”
She struggled more fiercely. And will break a bone with this insolence. He sighed as he brushed off ants that had crawled beneath his blanket in the night. Then he went to her.
“You are giving yourself welts with this madness.”
Her skin was inflamed where the rope bound her to the tree. She glared but stopped her thrashing. “Your servants have abandoned you.”
She was right, not about them being servants but about being alone. All of the group’s things remained minus the horses and a few packs. The fire had been recently extinguished and beside it lay two bread rolls stuffed with lukewarm eggs and strips of beef. Beside them, a message was scribbled in the dirt in Marabil’s graceful hand.
Left for town. Will be back by nightfall. Watch the captive, your royal horse’s arseness.
So he had been elected to captive duty. Maybe it was Madel’s way of forcing him to sort out this mess. Yesterday, he had hoped it a waking dream, but the woman was still there, too real and angry to be one.
“We appear to be alone for a time at least.” He raised one of the stuffed rolls to her mouth to help her eat. Her hands must stay bound, but she need not starve. Why he had restricted the movement of her hands the moment he laid eyes on her was a mystery to him, but he had felt as sure of that impulse as he had running into the Braven woods, following a silver flash.
She spat at the offering. “I don’t want your Lanserim filth.”
Janto tensed but remained calm. Days of restless sleep had frayed his temper and being confronted with her—her existence—had only made it worse. Yesterday, he had acted unkindly, treating her with less respect than was her due as a captive, no matter her citizenry. But with the new day came new perspective. Braven had proven Janto could accomplish the unthinkable. He only wished he knew what was asked of him with her. Maybe she could help him piece it together.
He wiped her spit from the roll and took a bite. Then he held his own to her mouth, confusing her more
than handing Jerusho a battle axe would do.
“Why are you eating that? Are the Lanserim mad?”
“Perhaps, if I am imagining your voice. I was uncertain you possessed one after yesterday’s silence.”
“I am not prone to talking with people who keep me in chains.” She took a bite and chewed loudly, her mouth hanging open between bites.
“Tell me why I should take you out of them. What is your business in the mountains?”
She narrowed her eyes, contempt running through them. “You think you can break me, while your servants could not? You aren’t half the size of your fur-covered friend, and he could get nothing from me. Unless they have left you so we could have some privacy? Is that it? I will not be much use without fingers for stroking.” Another bite, and she rolled her tongue around it with faked pleasure. “I have never pleased a prince before.”
You are not pleasing this one. “You did not recognize me?”
She looked at him, forehead cinched in confusion. He covered his tracks quickly. “Of course, it has been many years since my family was in Medua. My great-grandfather spent every winter in Qiltyn, to make certain the people of your region could be heard without the burden of far travel.”
She laughed. “What sort of ruler comes to his people rather than the other way around?”
“A caring one. I hope to be the same someday.”
“Would a caring leader keep his people restrained thusly?” Her voice sweetened, though a scornful edge remained.
He plopped the last bite of roll into her mouth. “He would when he did not know what danger she posed to his people.” Crumbs had fallen in the tangles of her hair, and he brushed them out. That it was only hair almost startled him—rougher than Serra’s, but hair just the same. No unearthly shimmers of silver tinged the curls. “I will not unleash a Meduan among us. We let you have your own land to avoid that danger.”
Janto took his dagger from his belt and lifted it to the rope her right arm’s skin puckered around. She was rendered speechless as he sliced through it … for a moment.
“Let us have our land? I am surprised we did not decimate your people. Only a few of your servants carry weapons.”
“They are not my servants. If anything, I am their servant on this trip. We have been cataloguing the plants of this region and their layout for the maps. I am here to assist and learn.”
Her mouth hung open as he cut through the ties on her legs. It might be risky, but keeping her hands secured and feet bound should do. If she escaped, she would not get far, and the ropes had worked her skin to bleeding in a few spots. The flesh was puffy, and irritated pink bumps lined the white rings on her skin where the rope had been snuggest. The worst wounds were scabbing already, but trickles of blood seeped out from beneath them.
From his own pack, Janto retrieved a vial filled with an orange powder and tipped some of it into his hand. A quick search led him to a rubar leaf the size of his opened hand. He poured the powder onto it, added a few drops of water, and mixed it into a paste.
The woman watched skeptically as he advanced. She looked at the ointment with disdain. “What is this?”
“Salve for your cuts.”
She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. “It smells like an adver stumbling out of a milk wine barrel at the convent.”
Janto knew her false priests called themselves advers, but he did not know they had such a reputation. “You might want to keep that description of its smell to yourself,” he cautioned. “My mother takes pride in her medicines.”
“Your queen made this refuse?”
Her skin was incredibly dry, and he rubbed it onto her forearms, hips, and calves, wondering if she’d ever had the luxury of a mineral soak, something Queen Lexamy insisted on at the beginning and end of every winter. “Are you a slave?” He softened his voice.
“A slave? You take me for a slave?” She laughed and the sound rose from the depths of her throat, genuine for the first time. “The last week must have treated me worse than I suspected.”
So she had been traveling for a week. Enough time to make it over the mountains, certainly, but she must be from a close province. A Durnishwoman, perhaps, like the farmer and his wife? Work in mines could explain the chaffed skin. “Not a slave, then. I apologize for any disrespect I gave you.”
“Do you speak that way all the time?”
“What way?” The rope burns paled in hue. They would heal in a day or two.
“Like you are glued to your mother’s teat and begging for a taste.”
It was too much. Marabil could come up with more inventive insults than any of Eddy’s stable hands, but they were in jest. This woman’s words inflicted pain, not humor. “You should not be so quick to besmirch the queen as my captive.” He pulled his dagger out to sharpen it against a stone, intending the implicit threat of his action.
“Now that’s more like it!” She hopped over to him. “Do you want me to extend my neck? Or do you prefer a slice at my wrists? Be careful—you might loose them.”
He should have kept her tied to the tree and gagged as well. This Meduan would tell him nothing, nor did he want to learn what his connection to her might be, did not want there to be a connection. How could he have one with any of the people who had killed Serra’s brother? If Madel had sent a message in the form of this woman, it would remain unread.
“More like you might lose your bargaining chip.” His dagger hovered over her hands, and his cheeks flamed red, knowing he was letting her goad him.
She jerked her hands up, flinging the dagger high in the air before it fell to the stony ground with a tinkle. “If I knew the Lanserim were the idiots my father claimed, I would have run away months, nay, years ago!”
Run away? He could not imagine anything scaring her enough to send her over the mountains by choice. Madel’s hand, he hoped the others returned soon.
They did not. It was well into evening before hooves plodded into camp. Janto vacillated between anger at the woman and anger at himself for his behavior all day, more sullen than Nap when ordered to play Lash the Feathers. As afternoon fell, he busied himself making dinner, ignoring her except for frequent checks that she had not wandered off. The food was cold by the time the others arrived, but they feasted on rabbit legs and boiled potatoes without complaint while Janto started their evening fire. Questions at finding the Meduan untied went unasked.
Lord Xantas sat down next to him near the flame, not bothering to smooth out a place in the dirt. He leaned toward the fire, holding his hands out. There was a crack on his right hand between thumb and forefinger that had to be painful. From his furs, Xantas pulled a flask that flashed orange and red in the firelight.
“Want a sip?” He took a protracted swill.
Janto shook his head, alcohol not a good idea after that day. “I have some of the queen’s salve in my saddlebags.”
The older man regarded him quizzically.
“For your hand.” Janto gestured at the cracked skin.
Lord Xantas laughed. “If I patched every wound on my body, I’d be slathered in the stuff. You could smell me coming from a mile away.”
“You already can.” Janto wrinkled his nose. “Might be an improvement.”
Xantas gave no defense, taking another swig. “True enough, prince.” His salt-and-pepper hair appeared wilder than normal, practically forming its own bramble bush.
“Where have you been? Fall in a briar patch?”
Xantas chuckled. “No, not quite. We went to Urs, a town half a day’s ride from here.”
“I know of it. Two of my fellow Muraters are from there. I would have liked to have seen them. What good is a ride through my countryside if I must stay out of sight the whole while?” Janto sounded petulant even to himself. The day had been too long. “I apologize for my tone. Spending all day with a Meduan is not my idea of a good time.” He eyed the flask. “I will take some of that after all, if you don’t mind.”
Lord Xantas handed it over. Janto’
s fingers rubbed across the etched metal. The liquid burned, tasting of sourmint and mushrooms. “Bombal draught?” The spirit was an Ertion specialty, said to make the man who could drink a whole wineskin tougher than a koparin, if not first struck dumb.
Xantas nodded, and Janto took another drink, holding his nose.
“Was she all that bad, prince?” Lord Xantas teased. “She must have won you over enough to untie her, and she is easy on the eyes.”
“It’s her mouth that’s the problem. She does not speak often but when she does, her words are full of malice. She is a fiend straight from her false god’s lair.”
Xantas stroked his beard. “I know you have not met many Meduans, but the division between our people happened only two generations ago. Our farmer friends from yesterday were not so far removed from us, and neither is this woman.”
“We are as different from her as Gavenstone wine is from this undrinkable swill.” Janto took another draught. “They might mature in the same skins, but their base ingredients make the difference. Ripe grapes and scraggly, wind-tossed herbs do not yield the same water.”
“That is an astute observation for a freshly Murated young man. What did Sielban teach you there, wine appreciation?” He gave Janto a good-natured poke.
“You call that slop wine?” Marabil came through the clearing, just as Janto reached for a stick to scratch an itch on his leg. She had bathed and brushed her auburn hair, which Janto was surprised to see fell to her hips. She usually kept it in a pinned braid.
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