by Raven Bouray
The next problem seemed to be the stiffness that suffused her legs. And she bent them at the knee a few times before deciding to lean forward into Arya’s warm side. “Let’s go to the water, Arya. Please.” She half croaked out.
And, just as bid, her white steed turned slowly from the tree and plodded gently to the side of the stream before leaning back down and taking a chunk of grass out with her teeth.
“Many thanks.” She patted her horse gently and knelt down rather awkwardly to cup her hands and dip them into the water, bringing a handful up to sip on. The water tasted clear, clean, and vibrant in the way that the well water from the castle never had. She took another few cupfuls of liquid down her dry throat and felt better rather quickly. The next handful she splashed on her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and cheeks before drying it with a handful of her nightgown. She stood once more and took another look around from her new vantage point.
Maybe she had ridden Arya in her sleep? But that still did not explain how she came so far. Her family, or Uracen, or some servant would have led her safely elsewhere, but this was nowhere she recognized….
Or maybe she did? The stream, the tree… Looking at them now, they seemed familiar. But what clicked in place was the presence of a ring of mushrooms that she had overlooked in her first survey of her surroundings.
Yes! This was where she had come when she was angry with her father. This place. Maybe Arya remembered it, but she still didn’t know why she had come here instead of their meeting place.
The fighting, her head wound, poor Master Telgrin. Last night had been some sort of terrible dream made real. Even Tylred dying was horrifying despite his repulsive demeanor. There was so much blood. So much death. She could smell it even, the metal, and the sweat and the fear. The screams. Those poor people who did nothing wrong. Her heart began to race. She shivered as if a bucket of cold ice water had been poured over her. And with that, her stomach began to roll.
She couldn’t fight the dry heaves that racked her body and eventual upheaval of the water she had just drank as she remembered the vacant stare of her favorite teacher and the look in that boy’s eyes as his life faded from his body.
Tears fell down her cheeks, and she remembered that before she was hit, her father had been injured. She had to get back to him. What if he was hurt badly? What if he was looking for her?
But the tears and the shaking wouldn’t stop. In fact, she was so caught up in it that she didn’t hear the footsteps coming quietly from above, nor the thud of boots as a figure dropped from the trees. She did, however, feel a slight pressure on her back from what felt like a hand and that prompted a reaction.
She screamed and jumped nearly a foot in the air before scrambling up and taking off into the forest despite her previous sickness. Someone was there with her. She had to get home, find a way to get home.
Tears had made her vision blurry and her stomach rolled and jerked around, threatening another episode of heaving and she fought it down until she was encircled by what seemed to be an arm and hauled backwards off the ground. She screamed and thrashed in the unfamiliar grip with all the strength she had in her body but all the same she was held by a stone grip. She kicked out and back, connecting with a body part of some kind, hearing a muffled grunt of pain. A second move was waylaid by shifting her position. Emmaline continued her struggles and yells until she was unceremoniously dumped roughly onto the ground.
She looked up and inhaled sharply at the hooded figure standing above her. Fingers dug into the ground and she sat frozen, staring at the same figure who had attacked her guards not two days ago.
“Scorif!” An accented voice commanded. “Nicha ey tiongh gílbh tá.” The rumble of the strange language was soothing despite the words themselves being unfamiliar. It was as if he was trying to reassure her despite his menacing pose and the harsh lit to his tone.
Her heart pounded a thundering beat in her ears and she still could not move. “I-I-I.”
“Sacïr tá,” he said in his strange language.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered out.
He let out a frustrated noise. “Oi will no ‘urt ye.” His Common was almost as incoherent as his strange language, but she managed to find the jist of it.
“You won’t hurt me? Is that what you said?” She tried to sound braver but all she could manage was a strangled whisper.
“Yes. Ye be quie’. Loud are ye. Break me ears.” His voice was gravelly, and he sounded annoyed more than anything.
“You grabbed me!” Louder now, affronted and irritated which was better than her whispered fear by leaps and bounds. “And scared me! Of course I will scream and try to run away.” This person didn’t seem keen to kill her and that was a good thing as far as Emmaline was concerned. “Did you bring me here? Where are my parents? What happened to the battle?” Each question was higher pitched than the last as she pushed off of the ground and stood up to face the hooded figure.
“Ye don’ nee’ ta wurry abou’ them.”
“Are they dead?” Her heart nearly froze in her chest.
“No. No’ dead.”
“I want to go back home,” she exclaimed shrilly. “If you aren’t going to hurt me, then take me back! My father was hurt. I need to go back.” Emmaline had no idea why she was pleading with someone who had abducted her. She should be looking for something to knock him out with, get on Arya, and run. “How did you get me here? Where were all the guards? Arya doesn’t like strangers.” If there was one things she was good at it was talking, and each word seemed to make her captor get more and more tense. She watched as fists clenched at his sides and gave a second thought to her rapid assault of words but buckled down.
“Tύs!” He roared out and she stopped mid sentence, unwillingly backing up from him. He followed her. “No run. I jus’ ge’ ye.” He threatened.
“Well then, I guess I have a challenge then, don’t I?”
She heard him growl under his breath. “Well ye do the’ ye will nee’ strong.” And with a movement that her eyes could barely follow, he threw a pouch from his belt onto the ground. A surprised exhalation was uttered moments after as she watched him leap from the ground, plant a foot on the tree, and push off into the air to land on a high branch, then proceed to sit down with his back against the trunk.
Emmaline knew that he was in a league of his own but she was smart and agile too and she knew that her father would come looking for her because once Gregor D’Terin was focused on something nothing could stand in his way for long.
But her captor did have a point of his own. She did need to eat, and her stomach agreed with her after spitting up the water she had drank to fill a bit of her belly. Nimble fingers untied the pouch, and she reached into to withdraw a small handful of freshly picked berries. The inside of the pouch and her fingertips were speckled with juice from the small red fruits. A quick sniff of the juicy berries told her that they were probably safe, and she popped a couple into her mouth and bit down. A quiet hum of contentment at the sweet taste had her quickly devouring the rest, and soon the bag was empty but her belly was still rumbling.
A shifting above her heralded a pouch falling to the earth in front of her. With more berries. She looked up at her hooded captor and opened the next pouch. Which disappeared just as quickly as the first. “Don’t think that I am just going to roll over and take this. I don’t want to be here. And I don't care what your plans are. I’m going home.”
No reply came from the trees above, so she huffed and looked around to find her own tree to climb.
Spotting a likely candidate, she walked over to the tree and hefted her small body into it. The bark felt rough to her feet and she winced quite a few times as she went hand over hand up the branches of the tree. After what seemed a long climb, especially to her now sore feet and still aching head, she broke the treeline into the fresh air and dwindling sunlight. The west was illuminated by pinks, purples, and oranges that heralded nighttime, and she wondered how
long she had been asleep for.
A survey of the area around them confirmed her suspicions that she indeed in the same clearing as before, and to the south, her home stood tall against the encroaching night. Lights danced in windows and atop the battlements, and she was at least relieved that everything seemed normal despite the attack. Her home was unscathed, save for the casualties that she knew about.
Now that she knew where she was it would be easier to leave and get back home before she was caught. All she would have to do was get on Arya and there was no way he could catch her.
But for now, she would climb back down and await the cover of darkness.
Chapter 11
The forest was dark as the sun had fallen behind the horizon nearly four hours ago. Drowsiness tugged at her eyelids with increasing fervor and frequency as the hours grew. This was despite her excess of sleep in the past week of her life, and she couldn’t understand it. But she was stronger than her body’s desires and so she sat against the tree trunk with her knees pulled up and her chin resting upon them. Hands were locked in front of her around her calves and she shivered slightly with the cool air. Her captor hadn’t even given her a blanket or anything, left her to stay on the hard ground by herself, and had been annoyingly silent despite her continued questions about her family and her home and desire to annoy him so much he would let her go. Or perhaps kill her. She hoped for the first one.
He didn’t say one word to her, but she could sense his growing agitation and annoyance and decided that it was a victory. She had thought about crying for attention as most men couldn’t stand a woman or girl with tears and sobs and would seek some way to make it stop. But she had to keep some tricks for later. That one worked with her father often enough, even though he knew all of her tricks.
Emmaline couldn’t tell anything with his silly hood on. If his eyes were open or closed, if he was watching her or their surroundings. So she just had to continue to wait and steal glances up at him. Her night vision had always been superior to other people’s, and it seemed that within the past few weeks, it had become more acute especially with the aid of the moon and stars.
Arya was dozing a few feet away, and she watched her mare’s white sides rise and fall with each intake of breath while hearing the rush of air that accompanied it which gave her an idea. Emmaline listened upward, past the sounds of her horse, past the nighttime insects and up into the trees. A person sleeping sounded different than one who was awake. Their breathing was slower and deeper and didn’t really follow any set rhythm. Not that she regularly snuck out at night or listened to her parents sleeping in their room or anything of the sort, really. The stray thought of her parents once again set her back on her chosen path of escape.
Her keen hearing was able to pick up the cadence of her captor’s breaths and she listened for what seemed like half of an hour, but was probably in reality much less than that. It didn’t change in that time but it might have seemed slower. But maybe since he was different than her, he would sleep differently as well.
There was only one way to find out, and she would have to take it where she could. Slowly, carefully, she released her hands from her legs and bent them out at the knee. They dragged against the grassy ground, and she winced at the stiff soreness that permeated them. It took a little time for her legs to come fully to life again, as well as her backside from sitting on the hard ground for so long. Her body was unused to such things as she usually found herself sitting on cushions of goose down and fur. And wearing more appropriate clothing.
She stood and walked over to Arya letting her feet barely touch the ground and avoiding any small items on the forest floor that might make a sound. As she neared the pale mare, she stirred and made a small whinny in her direction, and Emmaline placed a hand onto a warm shoulder. Arya raised up her head and shifted her weight.
She pushed off the ground, lifting her lightweight frame over Arya’s soft back and she huffed slightly while pushing off of her belly to swing a leg over and seat herself properly on her horse’s back.
With barely more than a whisper, she tapped her heels into Arya’s flank and they were away.
Her polished hooves beat against the forest floor as she dodged and weaved through the trees and underbrush. It was probably not the safest thing to have her one and only friend and companion basically running through the forest with roots and fallen branches in the dark. There was hardly an alternative after being abducted by a maddened cloaked person. Although he hadn’t really hurt Emmaline or threatened to do so, but he was still holding her against her will and that was hardly very kind either.
Emmaline was sure they were going the right way when Arya came to a very abrupt stop not far from the exit and nearly threw the loosely placed girl over her head in doing so. Emmaline gave a cry of alarm and after pushing up from being sprawled out halfway up her horse’s mane, she looked up to find her cloaked captor standing a few feet in front of them.
“Inist ey tá nicha dëun retü.” There was that whimsical language again that she didn’t understand. And he sounded angry.
“Don’t give me your gibberish! Get out of my way or I’ll run you down. I won’t be held captive here.” She narrowed her eyes and looked into the darkened hood with challenge.
He let out a huff that sounded much like amusement. “Tol’ ye no’ ta run. But ye wish ta do this.”
When he started to advance slowly on them, Emmaline tried to spur her faithful companion into action, but Arya remained still and placid as he drew closer. “Traitor,” she hissed and screeched as a hand enclosed her ankle. She lashed the appendage outward in an attempt to disable her captor. He dodged her clumsy attack easily and grabbed her hand as he hauled her down onto the ground.
Arya chose this moment to dart away from her rider’s flailing and struggles as her hands were captured and bound together with a firm hand. “Ye walk, or oi carry ye. Choos’.”
Emmaline chose to walk and preserve at least some remnant of her dignity. She was unafraid of any threat that this man posed, because if he wanted to hurt her, he would have already done it. Her value was more while she was alive and undamaged, and she was not destructive enough to cause damage to herself to spite him she wanted to. While they walked, she tested his grip and found it rather unyielding, and the more she struggled, the clearer it became that she wasn’t getting away this night. “How did you catch me so quickly?”
Her question went unanswered. What a surprise.
“Can you fly? Do you have magic? How did you bewitch my horse? She only responds to my commands.” Trying and failing to keep the bitterness from her tone, she stole a glance behind them and found the white mare plodding along behind them. He must have put a spell on her beautiful mare and that rankled her further.
No answer except for a firmer tug on her hands than before, causing her to stumble slightly, and she let out a gasp of alarm, which was unheeded.
They made it back to the campsite, if one could call it that without a fire or any real presence there. And from a pocket in his cloak he pulled a long, thin rope. “Wait. You don’t need to tie me up. I won’t try to run away again. Promise.” And she struggled in earnest once more, landing a solid outward kick to his thigh and nearly slipping from his grasp as she did so.
But he was still stronger and quicker than she, and in no time, her hands were bound firmly but not too tightly in front of her, and the rope end was tied to a high branch near where her captor was perched.
Her freedom had been so close. Home, her parents, even whatever husband she would have had to pick. It didn’t seem so terrible now to have to get married if that meant she was out of the forest and the cold. She never should have made such a fuss over it. Emmaline just wanted to go home and be in her bed with her blankets and the sounds of the castle. It wasn’t fair.
Without really meaning to, all of her fear and anger at her current situation poured out of her in the form of real tears. Salty liquid flowed in a track down her cheeks and onto
her gown where she had once more pulled up her knees and buried her face into them. Her shoulders shook slightly, and she cried harder. Her throat clenched and released while she started to cough with heaving sobs, and she heard the rustling of the tree and the thud of weight on the ground. Looking up, she found her captor standing over her. “Go away!” She half cried, half yelled. “Get away from me! I want to go home! I’m cold and hungry and I’m sore and I hate you.” She snarled out the last bit before putting her head back down to continue to cry.
“Cold?” The voice was uncertain, uncomfortable.
“Yes, cold!” She raised her head again, tears slowing their descent and instead being replaced by a slow anger. “I’m dressed in nothing but a shift for bed! My father is injured! I don’t know anything about what you want. And I am sore from sleeping on the ground. Let me go!”
“Tús. Go ta Arya. She ye warm. Tha’ male tha’ ye call fat-her. Woun’ no’ bad. Be fine. Ye get clothes morn. Ye fool.”
“Foolish? I’m Emmaline D’Terin, daughter of Gregor and Malina D’Terin. You are going to regret taking me once my father comes. You will wish you had never been born.” Her words were a low hiss.