Before she descended into the hiding spot, Imeyna bound Rayne's hands with rope to better give the appearance of being a captive in case they discovered her. Rayne paused at the door, her eyes finding Imeyna's.
“Did I do this?” Rayne asked.
“Did you do what?” Imeyna asked, impatience lacing her voice. She was eager to go, to always be in motion. It probably killed her to be here with Rayne instead of in the action.
“Bring them here. What if—”
“There is no what if,” Imeyna said quickly. “There is only now, this moment. Soon, we will know.”
The descent was difficult but manageable, and before she shut the hatch, Imeyna looked in on her and said, “Know that you are not alone in this. Never alone.” And before Rayne could reply, the hatch dropped closed with a thud. There was the scraping of heavy bags of grain and barrels of mead as Imeyna rolled them back into place over the trap door, and then she was left with only the pounding of her heart in her ears, drowning out the distant sounds of clashing swords.
Every now and then, someone would run past her hiding place, but no one stopped, not even as the night dragged on. She should be out there. Not cowering in fear like a rat in the dark. Like Imeyna said, one way or another, tonight they would know, and Rayne needed to find out what was happening. She began to work on the ropes. Imeyna was good at many things, but a strong knot was not one of them.
With her efforts entirely focused on working her wrists through the widening gap, she didn't notice the sounds of anyone above her until it was too late. There was the clank of the iron ring and then the creak of the hinges, and suddenly she was squinting against the light, looking up at a large figure without even time to extract her daggers. At first, she assumed it was Imeyna, but then the figure shifted and light fell across its face and she saw that it was a man, not much older than she was. His long, brown hair had come out of its bun and his face and armor were smeared with crimson streaks of blood. There were others with him, but Rayne kept her gaze fixed on him. Smoke wafted around him, creeping down into her hiding place, giving the illusion that he was on fire.
The soldier grunted in surprise. “He told us you were here,” the man said, standing and putting his gauntleted hands on his hips, his eyes never leaving Rayne's. “But damned if I believed him.”
CHAPTER TEN
Rayne
Behind her, Bricboro burned beneath the pitiless eyes of the Silver Hills. Rayne twisted in the saddle to watch. It was the least she could do to bear witness to the demise of everything she had known for the last five years. She could barely remember the tattered and hungry twelve-year-old girl who had ridden through those gates on the back of Imeyna’s horse, except to know that she had been lonely and afraid. Really, she was not so different now.
“What are you looking for, princess?” asked the soldier from his place in front of her on the saddle. It was the same one who had pulled her from the crawlspace and then dragged her through town without giving her so much as a chance to see if any of her friends had survived. It was almost as if he had done it on purpose, and maybe it was better that she hadn't been able to further incriminate herself, but it made her resent him. He made it worse by forcing her to share a horse with him as if she were incapable of riding her own.
He was young—maybe just a few years older than her—and handsome, but treated her with no great respect, and she feared it was because the king held her in suspicion. Her arms were around his waist, her chest pressed against his broad back. She tried to remember that he wasn't supposed to be her enemy, that she was the damsel in distress and he was her daring rescuer. And years spent hiding the war raging inside of her meant she had become exceptionally good at playing pretend.
“Just—” She paused to let her voice break a little to emphasize her fear. “Just making sure they're all gone.” There was a crash and a great cloud of smoke as the meeting hall roof where she had been sitting just hours before collapsed in on itself under the weight of the flames. Then the horse crossed the path and entered the trees that separated Bricboro from the river, and the town disappeared behind the trunks.
The soldier scoffed carelessly. He either thought the idea of survivors was absurd, or he didn't believe her. He had been none too gentle with her after all, and spat the word princess at her like it was a derogatory term instead of a respected title.
“Five years,” he said. His voice was lower so she had to press herself closer to him to hear him over the tremendous ruckus made by the other soldiers. After years of living in near-silence, it amazed her how loud these men were now that they had been victorious. If they truly knew anything about the Knights, they would never let their guard down again. They did not know Wido or his capacity for revenge. “Five years and all you have to show for it are some bruises and a pretty dress?”
Rayne was glad he couldn't see her. The shock on her face was involuntary. How dare he insinuate— How dare he talk to her—
He muttered something that sounded like, “Another useless princess.”
Her mouth gaped open and closed like a fish out of water struggling to breathe. Finally, she was able to choke out an indignant, “I'm sorry?”
“No need to apologize to me,” he said.
“I wasn't—” But what was the point? The man was insufferable. He was awful at playing the part of a hero, though perhaps admittedly she was not fully invested in her part as the fair maiden.
They rode on in silence, Rayne fuming and the soldier humming the tune to a bard's song about the Malstrom Massacre that Rayne had heard several times before. “There was a queen / a maiden fair / with lips of blood / and golden hair.”
“Must you sing this song?” she asked his back. He didn’t respond or stop. She had always thought the tune to be gruesome, even more so after hearing Tamsin’s first-hand account of the event, made worse through a child’s eyes.
“A knife she did hide / up her sleeve / and with it made / the young prince bleed.” The tune turned into a gentle humming as if he did not know the words, until he reached the refrain. “Crows and trees and princesses three / blood on the steps and blood sets them free...”
Once, Rayne started to drift off and felt the soldier put a hand over hers where they met at his chest, steadying her. The contact—too gentle for this brute—jerked her awake and she moved her hands instead to his arms. There, her fingers brushed over something metal on his forearm, hidden by the sleeves of his jacket.
“What is that?” she asked before really considering that she'd rather not talk to him.
He shifted in the saddle, the movement shaking her hand from his arm. “Oh, just a bit of jewelry,” he said flippantly.
But of course, she knew what it was: a slaver’s band. He was a banded soldier, a slave to the army. It explained his rash, rude behavior—he didn't really have any loyalty toward her, and in fact likely felt spite since her father was the one to bring slavery to Hail. But it didn't explain his obvious high rank at such a young age. He seemed to be leading this garrison. Most banded soldiers were bottom-rung foot soldiers like the ones marching behind them.
Their boats were moored not far down the Tor. The small fleet was close enough to Bricboro that the sky was still tinted orange by the flames that continued to consume the town. This close, they wouldn't have been able to surprise the Knights if they hadn't attacked during the memorial service. The mainmast still flew the Crowheart flag that she had seen from the roof, but there was another flag beneath it, this one displaying a fanged snake, its maw open in attack.
“The Ashsky prince sent you?” Rayne asked, sudden terror gnawing at her gut. Did this confirm that the prince or her sister had recognized her during their duel? Was this soldier escorting her to her execution? If she leaped down and ran now, would she be able to escape him? Surely she could outmaneuver him and his giant beast of a horse in the forest, at least long enough to draw her daggers and stab him once or twice. But there were a hundred other soldiers here, too. She woul
dn't make it far, and when she was caught, she'd have a lot more explaining to do.
The soldier grunted in response. They were at the riverbank now, and he dismounted easily, handing the reins to a waiting page.
Rayne forced herself to breathe before she looked down at him. “But how did he know?”
He turned back to her and reached his hands up. After an awkward pause, she realized he meant to help her down. It was ridiculous; she'd ridden horses her entire life. But then she remembered that here, she was a dainty princess, not a hardened rebel, so she let him help her. She brought one leg over the front of the saddle and turned sideways, the leather creaking. He wrapped his huge hands around her waist and began to lower her down.
“We wouldn't have if that boy hadn't survived the cave in,” he said.
Rayne could tell the words meant nothing to him, but to her—to her, they were everything. She froze mid-slide, her hands covering the soldiers' on her waist.
“What?” was all she could say.
“The rebels burned Iblia,” he said, looking up finally and studying her face with shrewd eyes the color of storm clouds. She cursed herself for revealing too much. “We found one in the forgotten tunnels beneath the city. He was tough to break, but Prince Danyll can be very…persuasive.”
He knew. He saw it on her face or heard it in her voice or felt it in her hands. Her tongue felt like she had sucked on a wad of cotton—dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth. For once, she had no words.
“You'll be glad to know that he died after the interrogation.”
Oh, Enos save me. She had left him, and he had been tortured, bad enough that he had given her away. What could the prince have done with the elements at his disposal? She imagined burns and breathless lungs and swirling water and crumbling earth. She heard Merek scream and beg and finally, mercifully, give in. She was nearly blind with rage and guilt and sadness, but she forced herself to speak. “What of my family?” she asked, trying to get him off her trail.
“They're fine,” he answered, a small smirk returning to his face. “King Innis and the crown princess are en route to Orabel, and Prince Rin and your mother are safe in Dusk, as always.”
He let her drop the rest of the way until her feet finally touched the ground. She was glad that he didn't let her go, though. She wasn't sure her shaking legs would hold her up. But then he pulled her close.
“Your concern for others is touching,” he said in a low voice meant only for her.
His breath was warm on her ear and sent a charge down her spine that she didn't like. Composing herself, she stepped back, putting an arm's length between them. “Of course,” she answered, swiping at an errant curl that had crept into her eyes. “I have worried about them for years, ever since my capture.”
“Indeed,” he answered, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And yet…five years…” The words hung in the air between them, the moment suspended in time until finally a soldier approached cautiously, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the two of them.
“General,” he said, “we're ready to depart. At your orders, sir.”
General? A banded general?
No.
Realization dawned suddenly. He wasn't a banded general. He was a bound general. The only way a slave soldier would be a general would be if he were a powerful wielder, and if his power were in someone else's hands. In this case, Prince Danyll's. This garrison wasn’t just a garrison; these men were Sons of Enos. But she hadn’t felt his power. Was that because most of it was in the hands of the prince?
“Load the captives,” the general was saying. “I want to make sure they all make it on board.”
The captives? Had they taken hostages? Rayne saw them then, the huddled group with downcast eyes, their hands bound together in one long chain. Most of them were Knights, though there were a few civilians, but no one gave any hint of recognition when they saw Rayne gaping at them. In the midst of them, taller than any others, was Imeyna. Strong, larger than life, her black hair slick with blood and her face set in a stern scowl. A guard tugged on the chain and they stumbled forward just as Imeyna's eyes met Rayne's. Rayne opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Imeyna shook her head. It was a small, barely visible gesture that left no room for argument. And behind her, hiding in plain sight, was Wido, playing the part of an old, helpless man, his wrists bound and his head bowed. He didn't even lift his eyes as he filed past behind his daughter, shamelessly using her as a shield, a distraction. Who wouldn't suspect her to be the bigger threat? Tamsin was nowhere to be seen.
The hostages waded through knee-deep water before reaching the gangplank that would take them aboard. “What will you do with them?” Rayne asked, watching Imeyna struggle to walk with the chains around her ankles. Chains that her father didn't have. Wido pushed past his daughter and disappeared onto the ship’s deck, not looking back.
The general took her by the arm and dragged her forward behind them. “Again with the concern,” he said. “But it's not up to me, is it?”
No, it certainly wasn't. Their fate was up to her father. And Rayne saw only slaver’s bands or a gallows in Imeyna's future, and neither was really any future at all.
✽ ✽ ✽
The general had locked her in a small room below decks, leaving her with only a bed and desk, both bolted to the floor, a wash bin, and a bedpan. After depositing her in the room, he had stepped away from her, putting the distance of the room between them, and held out a hand. She had been confused until she felt the sudden swell of warning in her stomach and then her daggers had flown from their sheaths with the sound of ripping cloth. The traitorous blades landed one after another in his waiting hand.
“Am I a prisoner or a princess?” Rayne had demanded, still trying to look indignant in her torn skirts, feeling naked without her weapons. She should have drawn them on him when she’d had the chance.
The general had paused before shutting the door. “Is there really a difference?” Then the door had banged closed, the iron lock turning with a finality that made Rayne's heart sink. She had never been on a boat for an extended period of time, but they would be riding this ship down the Tor River to where it joined the Clement River at Alas, and then turning south to Orabel. It would be a long journey, and this was a small, lonely space for someone who was so used to freedom.
The hours passed slowly. In her pocket, she had Merek’s map book but she dared not pull it out to examine the pages. She couldn’t think of him, not now. She had to shut him out of her mind or she would be lost to grief. So Rayne spent the day trying not to throw up, but eventually, she fell asleep. When she woke, there was only darkness through the small porthole. A small oil lamp burned feebly on the desk, but the light did little more than depress her, exposing her bare surroundings.
She paced for a while as the moon rose higher. The movement helped quell the sickness. She was standing beside the lamp, her fingers dancing over the flame, when there were footsteps beyond her door. She froze, hurriedly extinguishing the light with a pinch. What would the general have to say to her this late at night? In her experience as a shadow-lurker, the darkness only brought danger. On the other side of the door, there was the unmistakable sound of metal on metal, the hollow clang of a key in a lock. It had to be the general, but why was he here? Surely if he was bound to the Ashsky prince, he would be under strict orders to deliver her to him. He wouldn't dare kill her or sell her to the highest bidder. That would be justice, though, wouldn't it? The slaver king's daughter banded and bought.
She would never let that happen. It was a sobering realization that there were fates worse than death and that some people lived them. Her only weapon in the room was the empty bedpan, and she was debating whether or not to risk going for it when the door creaked open and a familiar voice ripped through the silence.
“Little Crow?”
All thoughts of the bedpan vanished when Wido stepped into the room, looking for all the world like a specter wi
th his billowing black cloak and wide, white eyes. “Sir,” she said, both a greeting and a question. She had feared the general only because she hadn't considered the other possibilities. “How did you—”
“Get free? That's neither here nor there, but let's just say that Knights have friends in every corner,” he said, shutting the door behind himself.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I'm here to make sure you remember your mission,” he said, and as he spoke, he drew a dagger from the folds of his cloak. He held it in the moonlight for her to see that it was one of her own, the very one that Tierri had taken from her earlier that day. Wido twirled it in his fingers, and while the gesture was not particularly menacing, the knife's presence was threat enough.
He stepped closer to her, and she did her best not to back away. “You can no longer launch an anonymous attack,” Wido said. “Your failures have made sure of that.” Failures. Of course he counted her capture as another thing in a long line of her mistakes. “Though perhaps we are looking at it all wrong. They'll never expect the threat to come from right under their noses.”
He still wanted her to kill Edlyn. The Knights had invested five years into her training, had put their rebellion on the shoulders of a traitorous princess. “But they'll know it was me…after…”
“Sacrifice one for the many,” he reminded her. “It will be a worthy death if it comes to it.”
Why was she even listening to him anymore? Once she was off of this ship, she probably never had to see him again. In fact, she could call out now, scream for guards, have him arrested. Prove that she had no allegiance to this man. For the first time since she decided to run away, she had a choice. She recognized that her father had to be stopped, but did it have to be because Wido told her to do it?
But he must have seen it on her face, because the knife twitched suddenly and he palmed it, lifting his arm and pressing the tip firmly to the hollow of her throat. She leaned back but he only pressed forward. Her hands itched to take it from him.
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