by R. K. Thorne
She glanced at her captive. He was sitting cross-legged on the bedding, munching on the hardening bread and cheese she’d given him. He didn’t seem worried, frightened, happy, or unhappy; he just sat, munching and staring into the fire. He was beginning to show slight stubble around his chin, which she had to admit had a handsome effect on his already-striking jaw. His skin was quite pale—probably from living in that underground fortress. How long had he lived there? And the brightness of his eyes! It made her long for him to look into hers again. But really nothing good could come of longing for that.
He was definitely an odd one. She could still see the grin she’d woken up to on his face, which disturbed her most because she couldn’t explain it. Handsome as he might be, he might also be a little batty. Wouldn’t be the first member of a royal family to turn out that way.
She folded up her maps and took her last bite of bread. She thought of her resolution the night before to learn who he really was. In the daylight she dreaded it more. They had a long journey, more than a four-day ride at this more careful and burdened rate—at least six, she guessed. Wouldn’t there be plenty of time later to figure him out?
She shook her head at herself. Kidnapping a foreign prince—no problem. Talking to him? Now that was scary. Still, she did not want to know. What if he had a wife—children! By the gods, she couldn’t do it. At least not this early in the morning.
She readied her things. They needed to make good time today, and she needed to find a town where she could buy a saddle from someone, preferably without too much suspicion. And all the while she’d need to keep him seeming anonymous, uninteresting, docile—and, of course, keep him from escaping at the same time.
She glanced again in the hawk’s direction, then cast her mind after it. She found nothing. It was gone.
“So are you going to tell me any of your plans? I’m guessing no?” he asked suddenly, making her jump.
She stared at him, saying nothing and letting the silence stretch as a response. Perhaps she’d have her conversation whether she liked it or not.
“Clever answer. I suppose I can’t blame you. But I’m at least wondering about a time frame here. I mean, how long do I have left? Hours, days? Minutes?” He was laughing as he said it, but she suspected he meant it.
She hesitated. The binding would keep her from telling him anything the Masters didn’t want him to know, right? “You’ll receive no harm from me unless you force my hand. I am only to transfer you to another.”
That seemed vague enough.
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” It was true. He seemed to believe her.
“Then how far till we get to wherever you’re taking me?”
“Not minutes or hours.”
“Days, then. Or weeks?”
“Depends.” She shrugged. He was staring at her hard, and she could see his brain churning, trying to figure out how to get her to tell him more. What did he want? Peace of mind? He wouldn’t get that by actually getting answers to his questions. He looked down at his lap, still thinking but saying nothing for now.
“C’mon,” she said. “Pack that up and make ready to ride. You can ask me your questions while we travel.”
“I suppose you can avoid them just as well on horseback as on foot.”
She snorted, smiling. “Yes, exactly.”
5
Threats
Aven didn’t ask her many more questions that day. She didn’t ask him any back. They rode mostly in silence, stopping occasionally for the horses to drink and rest. From time to time, she felt sure the eyes of some creature were on her back, hawk or something else, but she couldn’t catch one. They reached the next town as the sun was three fingers above the hills.
She reined their horses in and turned to him. “We’ll sleep more comfortably tonight if we can make it into this town without event. I can’t have you causing any disruptions or drawing attention to us, so this may be slightly uncomfortable—”
“More uncomfortable than being tied to the ground all night?” he said. By the gods, he didn’t want to be a mouse in a pouch again—or whatever he’d been.
“No, but I can’t have you being recognized—”
He laughed aloud at that. “There’s really no danger of that.”
“Well, I’m hardly in a position to believe you, am I?”
“But I’ve hardly ever—” He was about to fire off another snide remark, but a strange tingling, twisting sensation in his face caught him off guard. He put his hands to his face and felt—to his sudden shock and disgust—his cheeks and jaw and neck suddenly move. It only lasted for a moment, but his hands felt and felt. His face was no longer his own. For one thing, he had a beard.
“I told you it would be uncomfortable.”
“What in the name of—”
“That won’t do either.”
He heard a small snapping noise, perhaps the noise of her snapping her fingers, and suddenly he could not finish his exclamation. By the gods! He tried to speak but not even a croak came out or a whisper. Just air.
She had taken his voice!
Was such a thing even possible? Had he gone mad? Shocked, he watched her cork a small jar and put it back into a purse that hung from her belt.
Damn him and his incompetence! Just what had she done?
“Now, don’t make a scene, and maybe I’ll give you that back at some point.”
As if he hadn’t been quiet enough all day! Now he regretted it and wished he had prattled on incessantly. And what was he going to do now? Even if he found a way to get free of her, what would he do without his voice?
If he could get his hands on the purse, maybe he’d find a way to get it back. Perhaps the key to these magical chains was in there, too. She would have to sleep sometime. Maybe with more people nearby he could figure something out.
She led their horses toward the small village. A few low buildings clustered together with gardens and fields around them. The town was likely little more than a gathering point for folks from surrounding farms and cabins to trade and socialize. Of course, he knew about the larger cities of Akaria and had briefly visited those a few times, but towns like these he’d never seen. A shame, really, if he was to be their king someday. Perhaps that was one silver lining to this gray cloud.
The horses walked calmly down the road into the center of town. The buildings were run-down and old, but colorful fall leaves decorated windowsills and flower boxes. Some residents had gathered the leaves into lovely wreaths hung on doors. The streets were mostly empty of all but the brisk autumn wind, but the chimneys puffed welcoming black smoke that said there were people and warmth and hot food inside.
His stomach gurgled. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. But the smell of the fire and food cooking tantalized him.
She was leading them toward a building where other horses were tied. A painted sign hung from some ironwork that read Twisted Oak Inn.
She dismounted and tied their horses, giving him a hard look as she did. To his shock, her own face was transformed, but at the same time he could still recognize her. Her hair was streaked with white, and her skin was creased and wrinkled with age. Her eyes were green. But he could still see the face he’d discovered in the garden.
Was it really her face? Or just another disguise? It hadn’t occurred to him until now that perhaps her beauty was designed to distract or hide her true identity or even attract him. For all he knew, she was far uglier. Or far more beautiful. Really, there was nothing about her he could know for sure, even the name she’d given him.
She was glaring at him now, but in his surprise, he just stared at her, realizing how little he knew and trying to adjust to her new face.
Get off the horse.
He gasped and shakily dismounted without consciously choosing to. She had spoken into his thoughts—how? By now, just how little he knew was starting to terrify him.
Follow me, she said now. And like I said, don’t make a scene. It should be ob
vious what we need to do. We just need a room. Which will be far better than vines on the ground, but we can do that if you prefer.
He shook his head. She nodded. He was learning more about magic every minute, but he hadn’t imagined it to be such a shocking process. He followed her into the inn.
The air was thick with smoke and loud conversation, and light was dim inside the inn. He followed her to the innkeeper’s desk near the entrance. The tavern was packed with people and smelled like it; he was tempted to hold his breath.
“A room, please,” she said. Her voice, too, was older, gravelly. “My son and I need refuge for the night.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the innkeeper said with a smile. He had friendly, twinkling eyes and a thick brown mustache that reminded Aven of Tepolt, the cellar master, and gave him a pang of longing to be back at home.
A stray bit of wind whipped leaves around the floor beneath them. Strange, since the door was shut tight and the place was far too warm to have drafts all about. What could it be?
Oh no, he’d been thinking of home. Was that him? As he felt a shot of fear mixed with embarrassment at the idea, the leaves whipped around again. It was definitely him. Him and his cursed, stupid magic with a will of its own. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice.
“Stable your horses? Would you like supper, too?”
“Yes to the horses.” Mara glanced at the packed tavern room with clear hesitation. But he hoped she would want a hot meal as much as he did. She looked back at the innkeeper. “All right. We’ve got to eat. Two meals and two ales. What’s cheap?”
She paid him her coin in exchange for two rabbit stews. Then she moved toward the most private table in an emptier corner. Although there were still several drunks nearby, they looked to be the type that kept to themselves.
Mara and Aven sat and drank their ale, obviously not saying much. He toyed with things he might have said. So, should we rob them all now or later? My, that fellow next to us looks very ugly, don’t you think? This town isn’t good enough for you, Mother! Where did you stash our treasure again? Do you think the bounty hunters will catch us?
He hoped that last one was at least a little bit true.
Hmm, yes, she was probably right to silence him. He smiled wryly to himself. The things he could have said! My, you’re a crazy mage, kidnapping a prince—any of you subjects want to help me out here? I’m going to be your king, you know. What, you wouldn’t recognize your prince from a mute fool? What kinds of subjects are you! And what kind of a prince do you have that you wouldn’t even recognize him if he weren’t transformed by a witch?
Well, now he just felt like shit. He hadn’t gotten himself into this situation, but it was entirely his and his parents’ fault that he had such little ability to get out of it.
“Hey—you, lady,” said the drunk next to them. “That yer man there?”
She shook her head, her eyes hard as steel.
“Who are you then, man?” said the drunk to him.
Aven, of course, could not respond. He only stared at the man, hoping his gaze was as steely and cold as hers was.
“He’s my son,” she said.
“And you answer all his questions still? You’re old to be treated like an infant, don’t ya think, man?”
Aven looked into his ale, hoping the man would shut up. Mara, too, looked toward the fireplace, trying to disengage.
“Not much of a man, are ya?” the drunk leered. Aven’s eyes flicked to him without intending to, and the man grinned, waiting for a retort. Aven studied his ale. “My, not even a word outta ya. You must be quite the whip, lady, to keep him in line like that.”
You have no idea, Aven thought. If all mothers had shackles and magic, children in general might be better behaved. Aven caught himself smirking at his own joke and straightened his expression. He was finding far too much entertainment in his captivity.
“Look at the fool smirk—see he knows it! Well, if you got no man, then you oughta spend the night with me, then!” He slid toward her from his seat, then circled his hand around her neck and pulled her face toward his, perhaps trying to kiss her.
A gust of wind knocked over the drunk’s ale, spilling it down onto his leg. Another blew out the candles on the wall above them. Confused, the man tried to right his ale, missing entirely the dagger Mara had drawn. Aven watched her slip it back into her bodice, unnoticed by anyone but him. The others were too busy looking around for the source of the wind. The door was shut tight, and no one had recently entered.
Smaller tendrils of wind whipped in tiny vicious bursts around the room, nipping at the candles, the fireplace, grizzled beards. The drunk frowned at his wet pant leg, and Aven again found himself smirking. He straightened his expression as soon as he realized it. Served him right, though. Mara might be his captor, but Aven was still a knight, and such behavior he would not abide.
The man locked his eyes with Aven’s, his glare growing more angry and suspicious by the minute. Aven stared back. The light in the room flickered as a blast of air threatened the fire.
“You’re too drunk for your own good if you can’t keep your ale upright,” Mara said suddenly. “Do I need to call the innkeep?” The drunk grudgingly turned his eyes from Aven to Mara, still suspicious.
Thankfully, the stew arrived. The barmaid came between the two tables, breaking the tension slightly, and Aven hunkered over the stew and shoveled. Damn, he’d been hungry.
The air in the room continued to misbehave. Usually, at home, he would try to still his thoughts and calm himself until whatever was motivating his magic to misbehave was cleared from his mind. But not this time. Why should he? For once, he didn’t have to. For once, there was no one to stop him from letting his magic do as it pleased. And… it was strangely exhilarating.
He stifled a laugh. But it was damn funny. Now that he was in shackles, he felt freer than ever. Perhaps magic was more a part of him than he’d realized. It felt good to let it run wild, even if it was making this drunk suspicious of them. He couldn’t prove anything. What could he do? Leer? He glanced at Mara’s older face as she took a sip of ale. She was staring at him, a complex and unreadable expression in her eyes.
No number of years she could add would hide the beauty of her face. But he did miss her dark, brooding eyes. The white streaks in her hair gave her a wild, exotic look, and he had a feeling that the world-weariness in those wrinkles might be true to her soul, if not her face.
They finished their stew and retired to their room without a word.
The room held two low beds next to a warm, roaring fire. Aven headed straight for one of the beds and sat down in hope of somehow claiming it rather than the floor. The innkeeper brought them a pitcher of hot water for the basin. He ran his fingers over the rough but reassuring blankets folded at the foot of the bed, amused to watch the shackles slide over them, jarring against the brown linens. Nothing like the blankets at home.
When the innkeeper had left them and Mara had thoroughly locked and barred the door, she turned and glared hard at him. “I told you not to make a scene!”
He opened his mouth to try to answer but then looked at her flatly and shrugged. Of course nothing could come out.
“That was stupid. Moronic! What did you think that was going to accomplish?”
He shrugged again and looked at her, puzzled. What was she talking about?
“Damn drunks. Damn ale. Shouldn’t have had any myself. Maybe that was it—was it the ale talking?”
He stared at her blankly, unsure what she was even saying at this point.
Even more irritated, she grabbed the bottle from the pouch, hastily yanked off the cap, and tossed its invisible contents in his direction, as though she were throwing water in his face. With a strange sort of thud, his throat felt suddenly heavier. He coughed, testing it.
“I can’t wait to be done with you,” she said. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“What are you talking about?” he finally choked out.
&
nbsp; She shook her head at him in disgust, hands on her hips. “You are a fool.”
“A fool!”
“A damned fool.” She sat down on the other bed with her back toward him and jerked her boots off roughly, kicking them against the wall. “Going to get me killed.”
“Well, then let me go.”
She glowered at him. “Nice try. Not going to happen.”
“Why not? If I’m such an idiot, you’d be better off rid of me, don’t you think?”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Her stare was even icier at him than at the drunk.
“Why are you doing this?” he demanded.
She said nothing.
“Isn’t there something I can do—something I can get you? Something I can trade for my freedom?” She sat still, watching the fire. She didn’t reply or turn to meet his gaze. “Look, I don’t know what I’ve done to be a fool, so I’m not likely to stop unless you tell me.”
That got her attention. She twisted and stared wide-eyed, incredulous. Then she snorted and rose, heading to the window and surveying the street.
“C’mon, be sensible. You’ll never get away with this,” he said, trying to sound practical.
“Really? Is that a threat or your attempt at an observation?” She shook her head at him again. “You know nothing about me. How can you even dare to say that? Would you care to make a bet on it?”
“No. Gambling is against the Code.” She looked away from him and back out the window. “You’ve kidnapped a prince, you realize. It’s not like no one will notice I’ve disappeared.”
“Oh, damn, what a mistake this has all been! I was trying to find the court jester and mistook you for him—imagine that.” She rolled her eyes.
Finally, some confirmation of something. It was because he was a prince that she’d captured him. “I’m just trying to say, they are going to look for me.”