Carlin had hammered this point home many times, but it was very different for Kelsea to see the system in front of her. The people working the fields looked hungry; most of them wore shapeless clothes that seemed to hang from their bones. The overseers, easily identifiable on horses high above the rows of crops, did not look hungry. They wore broad, flat hats, and each carried a thick wooden stick whose purpose was painfully clear; when Kelsea rode close to one of them, she saw that the end of his stick was stained a deep maroon.
To the east, Kelsea spotted what must be the house of a noble: a high tower made of red brick. Real brick! Tearling brick was a notoriously poor building material compared to Mortmesne’s, which was made with better mortar and commanded at least a pound per kilo. Carlin had an oven made of real bricks, built for her by Barty, and Kelsea had wondered more than once whether Barty had bought the bricks off the black market from Mortmesne. Mort craftsmen weren’t supposed to sell their wares to the Tear, but Mort luxuries commanded a great price across the border, and Barty had told Kelsea that anything was available for the right price. But even if Barty wasn’t above doing a bit of black market business, he and Carlin would never have been able to afford a brick house. The noble who lived there must be extraordinarily wealthy. Kelsea’s gaze roved over the people who dotted the fields, their scarecrow cheeks and necks, and dim anger surfaced in her mind. She had dreaded being a queen most of her life, and she was ill equipped for the task, she knew, though Barty and Carlin had done their best. She hadn’t grown up in a castle, hadn’t been raised in that privileged life. The land she would rule frightened her in its vastness, but at the sight of the men and women working in the fields, something inside her seemed to turn over and breathe deeply for the first time. All of these people were her responsibility.
The sun broke the horizon on Kelsea’s left. She turned to watch it rise and saw a black shape streak across the blinding sky, there and then gone without a sound.
A Mort hawk!
She dug her heels into Rake’s sides and relaxed her grip on the reins as far as she dared. The stallion picked up pace, but it was futile; no manned horse could outrun a hawk in hunt. She glanced around wildly in all directions and saw nothing, not even a stand of trees to give them cover, only endless farmland and ahead, in the distance, the blue gleam of a river. She dug beneath her cloak for her knife.
“Down! Get down!” Mace shouted behind her. Kelsea ducked and heard the harsh whistle of talons hitting the air where her head had been.
“Lazarus!”
“Go, Lady!”
She crouched against Rake’s neck and took all pressure off his reins. They were tearing down the length of the country now, so fast that Kelsea could no longer distinguish the farmers in the fields, only a continuous blur of brown and green. It was only a matter of time, she thought, before the horse threw her and she broke her neck. But even that idea brought its own strange freedom . . . who could have predicted she would survive this long? She found herself laughing, wild, out-of-control laughter that was instantly cut to shreds by the wind.
The hawk swooped in from her right and Kelsea ducked again, but not soon enough. Talons punctured her neck and ripped through the skin. Blood, thick and warm, oozed down to her collarbone. The hawk soared off to her left. Kelsea turned to track it and felt the gash in her neck pull wide open, sending a shot of pain all the way down her right side.
Hooves were pounding up behind her on the right, but Kelsea didn’t dare turn around; the hawk was circling in front of her now, preparing to come for her eyes. It was far larger than any hawk she’d ever seen, a deep, dark black rather than the usual brown, almost akin to a vulture. Suddenly it dived for her again, talons outstretched. Kelsea ducked a third time, throwing up her arm to protect her face.
A sound of muffled impact thudded above her head. Kelsea felt no pain, waited a moment, and then peeked above her. Nothing.
She glanced to her right, her eyes tearing with the pain of movement, and found Mace alongside her. The hawk’s body dangled from the spiked head of his mace, a pulpy mass of blood, feathers, and gleaming innards. He shook the handle truculently until the bird fell off.
“Mort hawk?” she called over the wind, trying to keep her voice steady.
“For certain, Lady. They’re like no other hawks in the world, black as midnight and big as dogs. God knows how she’s breeding them.” Mace slowed his stallion and looked Kelsea over, his gaze assessing. “You’re wounded.”
“Only my neck.”
“The hawks are killers, but they’re also scouts. A party of assassins will be behind us now. Can you still ride?”
“Yes, but the blood will leave a trail.”
“About ten miles southwest is the stronghold of a noblewoman who was loyal to your mother. Can you make it that far?”
Kelsea glared at him. “What sort of weak, housebound woman do you think I am, Lazarus? I’m bleeding, that’s all. And I’ve never had such a fine time as on this journey.”
Mace’s dark eyes brightened with understanding. “You’re young and reckless, Lady. It’s a desirable quality in a warrior, but not in a queen.”
Kelsea frowned.
“Let’s go, Lady. Southwest.”
By now the sun had risen fully over the horizon, and Kelsea thought she could see their destination: another brick tower outlined against the blue shimmer of the river. From this distance, the tower had the dimensions of a toy, but she knew that upon approach it would rear many stories high. Kelsea wondered if the noblewoman who lived there took toll from the river; Carlin had told her that many nobles who were situated next to a river or road took the opportunity to squeeze extra money from those who passed by.
Mace’s head swung back and forth, as though on a swivel, while they rode. He had tucked his mace back into his belt without even bothering to clean it, and the hawk’s innards gleamed in the morning sunlight. The sight made Kelsea feel slightly sick, and she turned to study the country around her, ignoring the pain in her neck. They were undoubtedly in the center of the Almont, the great farming plains of the Tearling, with nothing but flat land in every direction. The river up ahead was either the Caddell or the Crithe, but Kelsea couldn’t determine which without knowing how far west they’d ridden. Far to the southwest, she saw a smudge of brown hills and a darker stain of black against it, possibly the city of New London. But then sweat dripped into her eye, and by the time she could see again, the brown hills had vanished like a mirage and green land stretched as far as she could see. The Tearling felt enormous, much more so than it had ever looked on any of Carlin’s maps.
They had covered perhaps half the distance to the tower when Mace reached out and slapped Rake’s rump, hard. The stallion whinnied in protest but lengthened his stride, tearing off toward the river so suddenly that Kelsea nearly fell from her saddle. She tried to jog with the stallion’s movement, but the wound in her neck seemed to tear open each time Rake’s hooves hit the earth, and Kelsea fought to ignore a dizziness that rose and fell like the tide.
For a time she could hear only Mace behind her, but gradually her ears picked up the unmistakable sound of hooves, at least several sets in pursuit. They were gaining, and the river was approaching at an alarming pace. Peeking over her shoulder, Kelsea saw her worst fears confirmed: Caden, four of them, perhaps fifty yards back, their bright red cloaks flying in the wind. Hearing of the Caden in her childhood, Kelsea had asked Barty why professional assassins would wear such a bright and distinguishable color. Barty’s answer was not comforting: the Caden were such confident killers that they could afford to wear bright red and come in daylight. Those cloaks sent a clear message; something inside Kelsea froze at the sight of them.
Behind her, Mace snarled a curse before shouting, “On the right!”
Looking around, Kelsea now saw a second group of men, perhaps four or five strong, cloaked in black, bearing down from the northwest, angling to intercept them before they reached the river. Even if Rake was strong
enough to outrun both parties in pursuit, Kelsea would be cut off when the river forced her to turn. The river was wide, perhaps twenty yards across, and even from this distance, Kelsea could see that the deep green water flowed rapidly along, occasional spits and sprays betraying underwater rocks. It was too fast and wild to swim, and no boats were visible. Kelsea saw no option, but still her thoughts wandered back helplessly across that vast green land that stretched to all horizons, the fields covered with people. Her responsibility.
If she could gallop west along the riverbank, she thought, both packs of pursuers would be forced to follow her along the water’s edge; there would be no more angles for them to cut her off. They would probably catch her anyway, but it would extend the time during which a miracle was possible. She tightened her grip and rode headlong for the river. Blood from the wound on her neck spattered across her chin and cheek with each stride.
When the water was perhaps fifty feet away, Kelsea yanked on the reins, trying to take the other riders by surprise with a right turn. But Rake misinterpreted the movement and stopped short, and Kelsea went flying, taking in a confused muddle of inverted river and sky before she landed flat on her stomach. Her wind had been knocked out so completely that she could only chuff out small puffs of air. She pushed herself up, but her legs wouldn’t respond. She tried to force breath in and only managed a hitching gasp. The sound of approaching horses seemed to fill the world.
To her left, a man shouted, “The girl! The girl, damn you! Deal with the Mace later, take the girl!”
Something crashed to the ground in front of her. Kelsea looked up and saw Mace, his sword raised in one hand and his mace in the other, facing down four men in red cloaks. The Caden were all quite different in appearance, dark and light, tall and short. One even had a mustache. But each face had the same hard, blank look: disciplined ferocity. The light-skinned assassin got through Mace’s guard and raked the point of a sword across his collarbone. Blood spattered across the Caden’s face and sank into the scarlet of his cloak, but Mace ignored the wound, reached out with one hand, and jabbed his attacker in the throat. The man in red collapsed with a gargling, choking sound, his windpipe crushed.
Mace backed up to stand directly in front of Kelsea now, waiting, a weapon raised in each fist. Another Caden rushed him and Mace dropped to his knees, his sword slicing through the air. The Caden fell to the ground, shrieking in agony. His right leg had been severed just below the knee; blood fountained from the stump in bursts, soaking the riverbank a deep red. After a moment, Kelsea realized that she was watching the rhythm of the man’s dying pulse, his heart pumping out his lifeblood onto the sand.
Dimly, she realized that she should do something. But her legs still weren’t responding, and her ribs ached horribly. The two remaining Caden came at Mace from each side, but Mace ducked them neatly and buried his mace in the side of one man’s head, crushing it in a spray of blood and bone. Mace didn’t recover quickly enough; the last assassin reached him and sliced him up the hip, his sword tearing cleanly through the leather band at Mace’s waist. Mace dove beneath him, rolled once, and came to his feet with the grace of an animal, swinging the mace with crushing force against the assassin’s spine. Kelsea heard a snap, a sound like Barty breaking a branch of greenwood, and the Caden thumped to the ground.
Behind Mace, Kelsea saw that the black-cloaked men had arrived and dropped from their horses with swords already drawn. Mace whirled and charged forward to meet them while Kelsea watched with a sense of disappointed wonder . . . it seemed such a waste for him to die here. She’d never heard of anyone beating one Caden swordsman before, let alone four. She took her hand from her neck and found it slick with blood. Was it possible to bleed to death from a shallow wound? Barty had never covered death or dying.
Someone reached beneath Kelsea’s arms and flipped her onto her back. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. The gash in her neck tore wider and began to pulse with warm blood. Her legs splayed out, the feeling in them reawakened to horrible life as though shards of glass were being driven into her calves. A face loomed just above hers, a face the color of pale death with fathomless black holes for eyes and a bloodstained mouth, and Kelsea screamed before she could help it, before she realized that it was only a mask.
“Sir. The Mace.”
Kelsea looked up and saw a second masked man standing in front of her, though his mask was a mercifully plain black.
“Knock him out,” ordered the man in the white mask. “We’ll take him with us.”
“Sir?”
“Look around you, How. Four Caden, all by himself! He’ll be trouble, for certain, but it would be criminal to waste such a fighter. He comes with us.”
Kelsea hauled herself up, though her neck shrieked in protest, and reached a sitting position in time to see Mace, bleeding from numerous wounds now, surrounded by several black-masked men. One of them darted forward, quick as a weasel, and brought his sword hilt down on the back of Mace’s head.
“Don’t!” Kelsea cried as Mace crumpled to the ground.
“He’ll be fine, girl,” said the white-masked man above her. “Get yourself together.”
Kelsea dragged herself to her feet. “What do you want with me?”
“You’re in no position to demand answers, girl.” He held out a flask of water, but she ignored it. Black eyes gleamed behind the mask’s eyeholes as he studied her, peering closely at her neck. “Nasty. How did that happen?”
“A Mort hawk,” Kelsea replied grudgingly.
“God bless your uncle. His taste in allies is no better than his taste in clothing.”
“Sir! More Caden! From the north!”
Kelsea turned northward. A cloud of dust was visible across the acres of farmland, deceptively small at this distance, but Kelsea thought that the party in pursuit must be at least ten men strong, a reddish mass against the horizon.
“Any more hawks?” asked the leader.
“No. How shot one down.”
“Thank Christ for that. Tie up the horses; we’ll take them with us.”
Kelsea turned to look at the river. It was deep and wild, the far bank covered in trees and shrubs that overhung the water for at least five hundred yards downstream. If she could swim the width of the river, she could probably manage to pull herself out.
“What a coveted prize you are,” the leader remarked beside her. “You don’t look like much.”
Kelsea whirled toward the river. She didn’t make three steps before he grabbed her elbow and threw her toward a second man, nearly the size of a bear, who caught her neatly beneath the arms.
“Don’t try to run from us, girl,” the leader told her, his voice cold. “We might kill you, yes, but the Caden will kill you, and give the Regent your head as a prize.”
Kelsea weighed her options and decided she had none. Five masked men surrounded her. Mace lay on the ground twenty feet away; Kelsea could see him breathing, but his body was limp. When one of the men finished binding Mace’s hands, two more picked him up and began to bundle him onto his horse. Kelsea had no sword, and didn’t know how to use one anyway. She turned back to the leader and nodded her consent.
“Morgan, take her on your horse.” The leader turned and mounted his own horse, raising his voice as he did so. “Quickly now! Watch for outriders!”
“Up, Lady,” Morgan said, his voice surprisingly gentle in contrast to his massive frame and black mask. “Here.”
Kelsea placed her foot in the makeshift stirrup of his hands and hauled herself onto his horse. Her neck was bleeding freely again; the right shoulder of her shirt was soaked, and scarlet rivulets had begun to drip down her forearm. She could smell her own blood, a coppery odor like the old pennies Barty kept in his keepsake box at home. Once a week, he would polish them meticulously and then show them to Kelsea: dull round copper coins with a stately bearded man on the face, remnants of a time long gone. It seemed strange that a good memory could be triggered by the smell of blood.
> Morgan climbed up behind her; Kelsea felt the horse settle appreciably under his weight. His arms provided a sturdy frame on either side. Kelsea ripped the fabric of her sleeve until she had a patch to press against her neck. The wound definitely needed stitches, and soon, but she was determined not to leave a blood trail on the ground.
They galloped along the river’s edge. Kelsea wondered where they could go, for the river certainly ran too fast and wild for the horses to swim, and there was no sign of a bridge. Glancing north, Kelsea saw that the group of red cloaks had changed direction and were now on a direct course to intercept. But the masked men around her gave no hint of where they were going, whether they had a plan of escape. The leader rode in front, and behind him another man rode Mace’s stallion with Mace thrown across the saddle, his inert form bouncing with each of the horse’s strides. Kelsea could see only a little blood, but his grey cloak covered the bulk of his body. All of the masked men seemed singularly focused on the road ahead; they didn’t even turn to track the progress of her pursuers, nor did they look at Kelsea, and she felt another pang at her own helplessness. On her own, she would have been dead in a heartbeat.
“Now!” the leader shouted.
The earth turned beneath Morgan’s horse and they galloped headlong into the river. Kelsea shut her eyes and held her breath, preparing for the icy water, but it didn’t come. All around them the current roared wildly, freezing droplets scattering in the air and soaking Kelsea’s pants to the knees. But when she opened her eyes, she found that they were incomprehensibly crossing the river, the horses’ hooves splashing with each step, yet striking solid ground.
Impossible, she thought, her eyes wide with astonishment. But the proof was before her: they were cutting a broad diagonal across the river, each step bringing them closer to the far bank. They passed between two boulders jutting upward from the water, so close that Kelsea could see patches of deep emerald moss slicked across the surface. She thought of the glowing jewel around her neck, and almost laughed. The day had been full of wonders.
The Queen of the Tearling Page 6