A Fugitive's Kiss

by Jaime Clevenger

  Ranik’s legs felt weak. He went over to the sofa finally, still not looking at the counselor. How could this man have guessed his relations with Jenner? “Are you the king’s counselor because you’re a forecaster? Do you predict storms?”

  “I’ve made a few weather predictions. But there’s more to it than storm clouds.”

  Ranik had the feeling that whatever he held back from this man would be guessed anyway. “Jenner knows about the weather. And other things too…he warned me against Captain Asa.”

  “You should have listened to his warning.”

  “They hit me over the head and dragged me aboard.” Ranik shifted. The seat was uncomfortably stiff. “I’m still learning to listen to forecasters. Someone told me they can’t always be trusted.”

  “A forecaster can be your worst enemy. Only listen to those you trust.”

  Ranik met the counselor’s gaze. Blue eyes burned into his. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “You know, your sister sat in that same spot not too long ago looking just as uncomfortable as you.”

  “My sister?” Ranik shook his head. “That can’t be.”

  The counselor didn’t argue. Instead he said, “Alekander is wanted dead by many. Two of my most trusted friends, my hound and eagle as it were, Darin and Illyan went on a hunt. Alekander was their prey. Both Northern fugitives.” He paused. “I’ve considered your role in this at length. At first, I was only thinking of you as a problem. The unfortunate fate that placed you on the docks that day, Captain Asa’s story that you’d been the one wanting Alekander murdered and of course your connections…But then I realized you weren’t a problem at all but part of my solution. I do, however, apologize for Captain Asa. He was necessary of course. You wouldn’t have come back to Caratia voluntarily.”

  “Why would you want me here at all? To charge me with attempted murder so your friends might escape justice? And why was my sister pulled into any of this?”

  A servant appeared from a narrow doorway at the side of the fireplace. He had a plate of toast and jelly and set this on the table near the counselor. After rounding up the empty mugs left by the soldiers, he quietly slipped out.

  “You should eat,” the counselor said, motioning to the food.

  Ranik stared at the plate. “What do you want with me?”

  “At the moment, I want you to eat.”

  The counselor leaned back in his chair. Ranik’s stomach rumbled and he finally reached for the toast. After his time in the hold, he thought he’d eat anything. Still after a few bites, he found he couldn’t swallow well. Questions rattled his mind. Before he could think of what to ask first, the counselor interrupted his thoughts.

  “You and your sister look very much alike. Are you a healer as well?”

  “A healer? No.”

  “Would you play your flute?”

  “What, now?”

  The counselor nodded. “Consider that I am still deciding what to do with you. You have a flute strapped to your belt where a sailor’s knife should be…hardly seem the murdering type. I prefer musicians to sailors anyway.”

  Ranik felt his cheeks burn under the counselor’s steady gaze. He felt no responsibility to answer the taunts. “Will I be charged with attempted murder or not?”

  “That’s still to be decided.”

  Ranik gritted his teeth. “When did you last see Aysha?”

  “Not long ago.”

  “Is she in Caratia then?” Ranik asked.

  “No, she’s gone to Tiersten to be the king’s medicine woman. We sent her in disguise. No one but Darin and I know her identity. The trouble will come if someone discovers she’s the same witch that the king wanted killed—the one all of Tiersten claims for their own—while she still argues she isn’t a witch.”

  “Why are you smiling?” Ranik asked. “You’ve sent my sister to someone who wants her killed? And you know that she might be discovered. Is this a game of yours?”

  “Now you want to steal a horse and run off to save her? How gallant.”

  Ranik gritted his teeth. He looked at the fire to stop the counselor from looking into his eyes. Somehow the counselor had read his mind—or it was a lucky guess meant to unnerve him. “I’ve heard nothing good about your king. I don’t understand why Aysha would want to help him, unless she’d been forced into it.”

  “She made her own choice.”

  “Did you send her to her death?” Ranik waited, but the seconds ticked by without an answer from the counselor. “How many will try to stop me if I steal a horse? Do I have a chance in making it out of the barn alive?”

  “That depends on how fast you run, farm boy.”

  Ranik stood up at this. The only one who’d ever called him a farm boy was Jenner. “Why’d you call me that?”

  The counselor pointed to the sofa. “Sit down. For the moment, yes, she’s safe. And frankly in a better position than you’d be, my friend, if you made any move to run. Raleigh would kill you before you reached the bottom step.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The bell rang and Aysha climbed wearily to her feet. She slid her feet into her slippers and pulled the heavy wool cloak over her underclothes. The bell rang a second time before she’d found a match for her candle. The second ring was good news—this meant the king was well enough to be angry that she was taking her time. Initially, he would only scream for her.

  “The pain in my shoulder’s back,” the king said.

  “I’ll bring you tea.”

  “I want that poultice you gave me,” he growled. “Not more tea.”

  Aysha straightened his pillows and he grimaced at the touch. “The tea’s what’s healing you. Tomorrow I’ll make a poultice.”

  “I’ll have that poultice tonight or you won’t see the morning!”

  Aysha nodded. She’d grown accustomed to his fits. “You’ll have it tomorrow. If you have me killed, who will make you the poultice?”

  As she reached for his emptied supper tray, the king cursed and swung his fist at her. Fortunately he was still too weak and his balance was off. He nearly fell out of bed trying to right himself. Aysha adjusted the pillows again. “Rest now. I’ll be back with the tea.”

  She waited in the kitchen for the water to boil, eyeing the soldier that leaned drowsily against the wall. Guards were posted in every room save her own. All of them were wary of her and never spoke except in whispers when she was near.

  When she first arrived, she’d heard the king’s screaming from outside the castle. The soldiers guarding the front hall and the king’s quarters all had scowls and wouldn’t meet her eyes as she was led in. All the better—no one questioned her disguise. Telvin had spread the rumor that she was half crazed and likely to set a curse on anyone who crossed her. She only had to murmur under her breath about herbs and the cycles of the moon to have them believe she was mad. The wig and the charcoaled seal oil smeared on her skin helped too. When she added the tattered cloak and hunched her back, no one dared to look closer.

  During the worst of the king’s illness, Aysha had little time to worry about someone noticing her identity under the costume. She’d held her hand against his forehead that first day and felt the searing heat of a high fever before he lit into her with a string of curses. A foul-smelling pouch hung from his neck and an oily salve was slathered on his neck and chest. When she asked, the king’s guard had said a medicine man had prescribed the salve of fish spleen and turmeric and the pouch was filled with rotting garlic. Not surprisingly, neither had done any good.

  Aysha had pulled off the reeking pouch and asked the guard to boil water for a bath. Once she’d scrubbed off the fishy salve, she made the king wash his face. The racket he made about the bathing sent all the guards into hiding. Then she started in with mug after mug of tea. After days of the fever and too many pots of tea to count, the king rallied. His temper did not improve, however.

  The man who’d hunted Darin—General Alekander—was seldom in the king’s presence at firs
t. He seemed to want no part of whatever had sickened the king and kept to the front hall. But now that the fever was gone, Alekander began to appear unexpectedly in the king’s chambers.

  Though she tried to never be in the same room with him, sometimes it was impossible to slip away. She stole glances while she busied herself with cleaning or brewing more tea. He was too tall to fit through doorways without ducking his head, and where his left ear should have been there was only a gnarled mass of scar tissue. He walked with a limp and yelled rather than spoke—his temper notoriously worse than the king’s. Anyone slow to get out of his way had a sword at their throat. The soldiers seemed to follow his commands out of fear of being beaten rather than out of any respect. Aysha thought him worse than she’d remembered. The frightening bounty hunter she’d run into on the road in Glen Ore long ago paled in comparison to General Alekander’s presence.

  By the time she’d returned with the tea, the king was snoring. She left the pot in his room and went back to hers. The bed covers were cold and she curled up with her cloak still on, longing for Darin’s warmth.

  Hours later, the sound of clashing metal and loud voices startled her awake. She sat upright and listened for the bell. A scream split the air followed by a thunder of boots in the hall outside her room. She scrambled out of bed and checked the latch on her door. Assured that the door was locked, she fastened the straps of her boots and tied her cloak tight against her chest. It was eerily quiet for a long moment and then the bell rang. She hesitated, hoping for a second ring. When only silence followed, she had the distinct fear that it wasn’t the king who’d rung the bell this time.

  More boots passed in the hall, running. She leaned against the door, trying to discern words, but heard only yelling. For not the first time, she wished Darin was with her. Two knocks came at her door, shaking the wood against the frame. She stepped back but didn’t unlock the latch.

  “What is it?”

  “Witch, the king needs you.”

  Aysha recognized Alekander’s voice. “I’m not dressed. Give me a moment,” she said hoarsely.

  “He’s been stabbed. I’ll break down the door and drag you out if I must.”

  Aysha unlatched the door just as his foot shoved it open. Alekander nearly tumbled in but caught his footing at the last minute. Aysha froze, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. In her small room, Alekander’s size alone was overpowering, but the look on his face made her blood still. He grabbed the collar of her cloak and dragged her out of the room, shoving her shoulder as he pushed her down the hall to the king’s chambers. Two soldiers hurried past and Alekander shouted for them to take their post in the front hall. Once inside the king’s room, Alekander slammed the door shut.

  “He was breathing when I went for you. If he’s dead now, you’ll hang for it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone attacked him. The guards saw men from town…”

  Aysha doubted him—he seemed to be only now thinking up the lie. But she wasn’t about to question him. She hurried to the king’s bedside. He was on his back with his mouth open. She waited for a breath and only breathed herself when she saw his chest heave. “He’s alive. But only barely.”

  “Then you’re to keep him alive.” Alekander sheathed his sword and went to look out the door. Without his searing gaze on her, Aysha leaned closer to examine her patient. Blood soaked his nightshirt. She peeled back the cloth and gasped when she saw the cut. A blade had split his belly from one side of his ribs to the other. The king groaned and a bloodied bubble of fat pressed out of the wound along with a fresh swell of blood. Aside from the groans, he was unresponsive. Either he’d lost enough blood to be near death or he’d been drugged before he was stabbed.

  Aysha eyed Alekander’s back. He was still in the doorway, staring out at the hall. She guessed he’d been the one to stab him. The story of the townsfolk breaking into the castle seemed impossible. But if he’d done this, why would he call for her to save the king?

  Aysha went to the dresser and found one of the king’s clean night shirts. The pot of tea she’d made hours earlier was still on his nightstand. She soaked the shirt in the tea and then dabbed the wound. The king would soon die no matter what she did, but she had to hope that Alekander wouldn’t realize this. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I can clean the wound, but I’ll need supplies to sew it up.”

  Alekander hollered for a soldier and then barked orders about a sewing needle and thread. Aysha had hoped Alekander would go for these things himself. She only needed a moment to escape. But to do so she had to make every appearance of an attempt to save the king. She folded the wet nightshirt to make a triangle that stretched the length of the wound and then set it in place on his chest. The king groaned again but seemed no more conscious than before.

  “What is that?” Alekander’s voice was uneasy.

  “A poultice for the wound.” Aysha thought of the king’s last request of a poultice for his shoulder. She pushed away the guilt that nudged her. None of this was her doing.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing more than poultices?” Alekander barked.

  Aysha started humming softly as she applied pressure to the wound. She used a melody her mother had taught her. With Alekander’s gaze still on her, she strung together a few of the nonsense words she remembered from the Widow Baylor.

  Alekander shifted on his feet. “What’s that you’re saying to him?”

  Aysha only hummed louder as she added more pressure to the poultice. Blood oozed from under the edges of the cloth. Once she had a good puddle of thick red blood, she tore a sheet to make a bandage around the poultice. It was difficult getting the band under the king’s back, but she managed it, noticing as she did that her patient was groaning less and the color had completely drained from his face. Despite his breathing, more labored now, he looked already dead. She tied the sheet in place and then touched the king’s forehead. His skin was cold. She leaned close to his ear and sang an old Glenland song. The words were said to numb any pain.

  As she sang, Alekander moved closer to the door. He kept his hand on his sword handle. She was clearly making him uncomfortable, so she increased the volume and added in tongue clicks and grunts to make it all the more strange. She rocked from her heels to her toes and added light pressure to the poultice, bringing more groans from the king.

  Alekander stepped into the hall then, calling for a soldier to watch the door. “Don’t let her leave his side,” he said. Over his shoulder, he continued. “She dies when the king stops breathing.”

  Not if, Aysha noted, but when. The door slammed closed and she immediately stepped away from the bed. Her hands were shaking and covered in blood. She wiped them quickly on the bed covers and then fished out the key she kept hidden in her underclothes. There was more than one secret entrance to the dark escape under the castle—as she’d discovered while sweeping in the king’s chambers one day. The trapdoor was under a rug at the foot of the bed. Her key fit perfectly in the lock.

  As quietly as she could, she pulled open the latch. Cold, stale air greeted her as she stared down the dark narrow hatch. A skittering sound of animal claws made her wish she had another choice.

  The king shifted and groaned. His end was near. As hers would be if she didn’t hurry. She found two candles in the nightstand and shoved these in her pocket along with matches, then dropped into the narrow hatch. She doubted if anyone else knew of the escape. It was best to keep it that way, she thought, trying to position the rug so it would cover the door as soon as she pulled it closed behind her. With a deep breath and one last look at the light in the king’s room, she pulled the trapdoor closed. The darkness was complete. She fumbled with the latch and finally locked the trapdoor, then finding one of the candles, struck a match. The match flared bright, then weakened. There was little air in the narrow space, but the candlewick took the flame and a circle of light spread out around her.

  Without wasting another second, she set off down the narrow corridor. Th
e walls pressed against her shoulders in places and the ceiling dipped at times so she had to crouch or slide sideways, but the light of the candle kept the rats back from her. She heard footsteps overhead that made her breath catch. Only thin floorboards separated her from the soldiers. As soon as anyone knew she’d gone…

  She kept going when the roof of the tunnel changed to dirt, though she had to push away the thought that she was walking into her own tomb. When the first candle burned out, she found another match and lit the second. The wick was short and hot wax threatened to drown it. Eventually the floor of the tunnel changed from dirt to granite and then to mud, and she had to slow her pace to skirt around pools of water. She kept the candle close to her chest. More than once her boot kicked something fleshy. She didn’t dare look down.

  The second candle was dangerously close to giving up its flame when she came to a divide in the tunnel. She tried to remember the instructions Tobias had given her long ago. Finally she picked the path on the left. The light fluttered and then failed, leaving her again in complete darkness. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and the cold damp air penetrated her cloak. Closing her eyes, she walked with one hand in front of her and the other on the wall to her right. She moved slowly, aware of every small sound. Water drips. A scamper of nails. Her own pulse thumping in her ears. Eventually, she knew, the tunnel would either lead deep into the mountain and stop at a granite wall, as Tobias had said one path would do, or she’d end up in a storage room behind a tavern in the town center. She could only hope she’d chosen the route to the tavern.

  After a long while, she felt the wall of the tunnel change from dirt to brick. Her heart lifted at the familiar texture. And then her outstretched palm landed solidly against wood. She moved in a slow circle to be certain that she felt three wood walls around her. A cold metal latch was at head height. She pulled the key from her pocket and fitted it into the lock. The latch was stubborn, but she finally managed to turn the key. When she pushed, though, the door didn’t budge.