When the army stopped for a midday rest, Pultarch led his horse toward the stream. Kalara joined him. “We are close to the next village. My father wishes you to ride with him.”
“With pleasure.” Pultarch flushed with joy. So far, he had ridden with the squads who skirted the villages, waiting for Maligon’s victorious return. He was anxious to see and meet Adana’s subjects.
Kalara granted him a small nod before she walked away.
While his horse drank, Pultarch considered his reflection in the water. He wanted Adana’s people to see him in his glory. The dust of the road clung to his clothes. His hair hung in greasy clumps. He ran his hand over the rough, six-day beard growth on his face. He dunked his head in the water and scrubbed as hard as he could, including his beard in his efforts. Moniah was much warmer than Elwar, especially as they traveled farther south. His hair would dry before they reached the village. No time to shave though. He picked a bristly stalk from one of the short bushes scattered along the stream’s edge and brushed at the dirt on his clothes. With a sigh, he cast the branch aside. Nothing could be done about his clothes, either.
Excitement pulsed through Pultarch’s veins as his horse trotted up to the front of the Lord’s army. It was easier to accept the man using this new name instead of Maligon. Based on the past five days, he doubted his early education about Maligon, but his conscience wouldn’t let him accept the truth that he followed a known traitor who had survived a death sentence.
Four dark and intimidating men rode beside the Lord. One of them uttered something guttural to the others, and they let their horses fall back, providing an opening for Pultarch. The men closed in around them after he came abreast of Maligon. The four only spoke in this guttural language. No one knew who they were, but they remained close to Maligon at all times while on the road.
The Lord assessed Pultarch’s appearance, his brow arching in displeasure. “We should find you better garments, soon. For this village, it won’t matter. It’s minor.”
Pultarch flushed with embarrassment. The Lord’s flowing robes of purple shimmered with iridescence in the light, a reminder to Monians that he could afford their expensive glimmer cloth, even if he was an outcast. Not a speck of dirt dared attach to his clothes.
“I apologize for my drabness, Lord.” Pultarch bowed his head. “It’s difficult to remain clean while riding in the rear of such a large force. Now that I’m to ride into the villages with you, I should be able to rectify that.”
The Lord’s laugh bellowed. “That you will. That you will.” He nodded to a commander, and the line of soldiers fell in behind the Lord and Pultarch.
By mid-afternoon, the sun had sapped the moisture from Pultarch’s hair and mouth. He lifted his leather cask to quench his thirst, wondering why the caravan had stopped. Relief spread through him when Kalara trotted her horse up next to her father’s. “The advance was successful, Lord. We are ready.”
A malicious grin spread over their leader’s face, but Pultarch no longer felt troubled by the raw emotions expressed by the man. He preferred this honesty to the closed-off postures of the Watchers.
The Lord spurred his horse forward. “Come, Pultarch, and meet your future.”
They rode over the crest of a hill. In the valley below lay the village. Within the walls, several buildings clustered around the center of town where a large crowd waited in the square. Along the roads that stretched into the distance outside the walls, homes spotted the landscape, and fields stretched beyond them.
They rode down into the village, the streets quiet and empty. Their horses’ hooves clanged on the cobblestones. The air smelled of sunbaked earth. When they reached the street leading into the square, the crowd parted, eyes downcast, as he and the Lord rode to a platform.
Pultarch started with shock at the sight of a scaffold with a hangman’s noose next to the platform. The Lord rode right up to the platform, and a soldier helped him dismount and step straight onto the stand.
For a moment, Pultarch considered getting down from his horse and climbing up on the platform, but he didn’t see any stairs. With a shrug, he leaped from his horse and landed with a thud next to the Lord. Straightening with a smile, he grinned with joy at the crowd. Their faces stared back at him, angry, disgruntled, and fearful. He swallowed and fought the inclination to step backward.
Ignoring the mood of the people, the Lord spread his arms and addressed them in a jubilant voice. “People of Moniah, citizens of the city of Shamar, I bring you great news.”
Murmurs rustled through the crowd, but Maligon ignored them.
“Your queen, Adana, lives!”
A thousand pairs of hopeful eyes lifted toward the Lord’s. No one spoke.
“I bring before you, her betrothed, the next Husband King of Moniah, Sir Pultarch of Elwar.” He gestured to Pultarch, and all those faces swiveled toward him.
He fought the urge to wave. Did he recognize hope in their scrutiny? He scanned the crowd. Many frowned or refused to look at him when his gaze swept over them.
From the rear of the square a voice called out, “What of King Kiffen? Is he not her betrothed?”
“No.” The Lord’s voice boomed over the crowd. “A mistake. Neither your queen nor the Watchers support it. Pultarch is the rightful man. A husband who will be her king, not the king.”
People turned and talked to their neighbors, their voices murmuring in confusion.
The Lord leaned toward the crowd. “Do you really want to hand over the rule of your land to Elwar?”
Scattered shouts of “no” rang out from the crowd.
The Lord smiled. “Neither does your queen. She desires that this kingdom remain yours, not Elwar’s. My soldiers search for her as I stand here, trying to save her from this cruel decision. She does not love Elwar or Kiffen. She loves Moniah. She loves Pultarch.”
A small part of the crowd cheered at this pronouncement, but others looked unconvinced. As the crowd shifted their feet and murmured, small tussles broke out between people.
With a nod, Maligon directed his men to break up the skirmishes. Six swarthy soldiers elbowed through the crowd, pulling the troublemakers apart. Two of the men struggled against them until a soldier cuffed one of them across the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Stop this.” A well-dressed member of the town’s upper class stood at base of the platform, shouting up at Maligon. Beside him stood a Teacher of the Faith. “These men are good citizens. Cease your violence.”
The Lord’s soldiers seized the two fighting men and dragged them forward. Four other soldiers surrounded the man and teacher at the base of the platform.
“Please,” the Lord said, “please join me on the platform so your people can see and hear who speaks.”
The men glanced around with the same confusion Pultarch felt earlier. Finally, the teacher lifted her green robes and clambered up. She helped the other three men.
When all stood on the platform, the Lord stared at them with concern. “Do you not support your queen in this decision? You, sir.” He faced the wealthy man. “Aren’t you the city leader? Do you desire a different fate for Moniah and your queen?”
Pultarch studied the man closer. This was the man Adana entrusted to govern this town. How could he object to the plans of his queen?
The city leader stiffened and glared at the Lord. His voice rang out loud and strong. “You say our queen lives. Where is she? I do not take orders from you. I have not received any information concerning her wishes.”
Others in the crowd shouted agreement, and more arguments broke out. The Lord clasped his hands in front of his chest and allowed a smile to bloom over his face.
The leader turned toward the crowd and pointed at the Lord. “Do you not know him? This is Maligon! Surely, you—”
The man gagged. Blood fountained out of his throat.
Pultarch stared in horror as the man’s legs collapsed under him, and he fell to the platform. The Lord held a knife in his good hand, blood
dripping to the ground. The crowd surged forward, screaming. Maligon held his gaze on them as he slowly wiped his blade on the dead man’s coat.
A frightened hush spread through the citizens as he straightened and frowned at the crowd.
* * *
When Pultarch and the Lord left the village of Shamar, the heads of the three men and the teacher were displayed on pikes at the gates of the town. The two men dragged forward by the soldiers and the teacher had been hung on the spot without question. As they kicked their last from the noose, the Lord had scanned the crowd. The villagers huddled closer together, wide-eyed in shock or fear.
The Lord had turned to his soldiers and said in a loud voice, “Cut these traitors down and behead them and the city leader. Place their heads on pikes at the gates as a warning to others.”
Pultarch tried to not look into the faces of the people who stood by the roadside as they rode out. Some cheered, calling out his name, but sullen anger like a wet blanket hung over those who remained silent. Was this how the Lord expected him to regain Adana’s hand? By killing her people?
“It had to be done.” Maligon’s voice penetrated his thoughts.
Pultarch looked at the man and saw Maligon, not the Lord.
“If we don’t make an example of a few,” Maligon continued, “then many will die.”
Pultarch did not know what to say.
“Come now, Pultarch. The end result is good. Few will die, and you will sit on the throne.”
“I don’t want the throne. I want Adana.”
Maligon frowned at him. “Of that, I am well aware. But you will have the throne, too. Do you really believe you can marry royalty and never rule?”
“I don’t want it.” Pultarch shook his head. “And definitely not this way.”
“Well, you better get used to it.” Maligon kicked his horse forward and shouted over his shoulder, “Adana’s View is just four days’ ride from here.”
Kalara kicked her horse up next to Pultarch’s. “The Lord is right. You must set your mind to this. Adana will be here, soon.”
His heart leapt at her words. “Adana? How? Are you sure?”
Kalara pulled her horse in closer to Pultarch’s and lowered her voice. “Our spies learned much in this village. We know where she is, and we have sent forces to rescue her.”
Pultarch gripped his reins tightly. “She is held against her will?”
Kalara scowled at him. “Of course she is. Why else would she be in a small village temple on the outskirts of her kingdom? You know she desires to set foot in her home again. Nothing but imprisonment would stop her.”
* * * * *
Chapter 17
Princess Leera, her identity concealed beneath a plain cloak she’d found in the servants’ quarters, inched up a side aisle of the temple. She clutched the wrap tight, praying for the worshipers to remain aloof and separate. The sanctuary felt cool, and the spicy smells of incense did little to cover an underlying odor of mustiness. Still, she found the quiet starkness of this temple comforting. In contrast, the sanctuary within the castle gleamed with riches and smelled of wax and expensive fragrances.
She scanned the few parishioners, looking for Gerguld. His message, delivered by a young page while Leera ate her breakfast alone, cautioned her to take care and not be followed. She was early, and he was not, so she took a seat on a pew and slid to her knees in a supplicant’s prayer pose.
This was her first meeting with the merchant since their fortuitous encounter a few days ago. The man’s entreaty to meet her in secret came as a surprise. She’d imagined the requests, when they occurred, would originate from her.
Intrigued, she knew she must attempt to honor this invitation. In Gerguld, she sensed a kindred spirit, a man anxious for excitement that always seemed to pass him by. The entire morning, she fought to keep her wits, afraid the feeling of adventure burning along her nerves might betray her.
A plump woman knelt beside her, and Leera fought the urge to order her to move away. She took a few deep breaths, touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead, and rose to move to another seat, but the woman’s hand gripped her elbow.
“Don’t go on my behalf, m’lady,” a sweet voice whispered. “I wish to chat with you.”
Leera risked a peek into the woman’s face and blinked in surprise when greeted by the green eyes of Mother Sariah, Protector of the Faith. The woman smiled at her and patted her arm.
“Don’t be alarmed. I’m here to help.”
“Why would I need help?” Leera allowed her royal haughtiness to drip into her whispering voice.
“Good, good.” Sariah nodded. “You are cautious.” She glanced around the sanctuary. “Gerguld told me you are trustworthy.”
“You’ve spoken with him?” She fought the urge to glance around. Had Sariah informed her mother of the money she gave the merchant?
Sariah slipped a piece of parchment into Leera’s hand. “Yes, I know him. We can’t speak here. Meet us at this location after the temple bells ring.”
The woman touched her fingertips to her forehead, rose, and shuffled out of the pew.
“Us?” The question came too late. Sariah was gone.
Curiosity bloomed within Leera. The note held an address from a part of the city she didn’t know. It must be Gerguld’s shop.
* * *
It was not the merchant’s shop. Nice carriages traveled the streets, and the people walking along the storefronts wore the clothing of the upper class, maybe not the nobility, but people of means, anyway.
Disappointed, Leera gazed around the location, checking the address of the shop against the parchment. A dressmaker’s shop. Before ducking into the door, she cast discreet glances around to ensure no one followed.
“Good day, my lady,” came a woman’s bright and jovial tone as she entered.
Leera smirked beneath the shadows of her hood. She knew that voice.
The dressmaker wore a very unflattering style, an unappealing grey skirt paired with a white blouse. This woman had not been so pleasant the last time they had met. She had suggested Leera wear a more conventional color than the pink she had requested for Adana’s birthday celebration. Rather than deal with someone who dared question her decisions, Leera had taken hers, and many of her friends’, business elsewhere.
“Can I interest you in a flattering shade of rose?” The woman stepped out from behind the counter, tipping her head forward to peer over her glasses at Leera.
She bristled at the irony in the woman’s question, but a sparkle of amusement crossed the dressmaker’s face, surprising Leera. Everywhere she went, it seemed, people had given up on propriety.
Two could play this game. “I was thinking of something more conventional. Maybe a red…blood red.”
The woman sniffed, and Leera overheard smothered laughter behind a curtain in the rear of the shop. The dressmaker gave a sharp nod and pointed toward the sound. “I believe you will find such a color in our newest stock, if the lady does not mind visiting the rear of the store.”
Satisfied she had won the interchange, Leera swept past her without response. Before she ducked behind the curtain, a twinge of curiosity overcame her. She had never been in a back room anywhere. What would it be like?
It was not exciting. Stacks of material, shelves with bolts of cloth, wooden bins of buttons, beads, and ribbons overflowed the small room. Daylight glimmered through a partially open door in the rear. It appeared to exit onto a small patio. She looked around for the person who had been standing behind the curtain moments ago. Her heart thumped an unsteady rhythm when she realized she was alone.
Spinning on her heel, she almost bumped into the dressmaker. The dour woman’s mouth twitched, alarming Leera even more.
“Why—?”
“M’lady?” Gerguld’s voice sounded from the patio.
She glanced one more time at the shopkeeper and turned to follow the voice, bracing for the knife she feared might slice through her back as she did.
The brightness of day after the dark back room blinded her for a moment, but her hood helped shield her from the worst of the glare. Gerguld executed a proper bow. Beside him, Mother Sariah followed suit and curtsied.
Leera threw the covering off her head and forced her strong regard on the man. “Why have I been summoned in this way?”
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Mother Sariah said. “We had to be careful.”
“Of what?” She arched an eyebrow at the woman.
Mother Sariah continued to smile at her. “Child, your intervention with Gerguld’s plight was lovely, but we needed to see whether you could slip out of the castle and make it to this point unobserved.” Sariah’s gaze drifted past Leera’s shoulder to the dressmaker who stood in the doorway. “This woman is Helmyra. She says you have met before.”
Leera frowned at the woman. “Have we? I meet so many dressmakers in the castle. I suppose it’s possible.”
To Leera’s surprise, this earned a laugh from Helmyra and Sariah.
“She was not followed.” The dressmaker’s eyes carried a hint of respect. “And we can see she is capable of falsehood, if necessary.” She smiled at the princess. “Although, she does seem to carry a grudge a little far. Don’t you think so, Princess?”
Ignoring the last barb, Gerguld gestured for Leera to sit. “Please, mistress. We would like to discuss some things with you.”
Glad for the redirection, Leera perched on the proffered chair and waited. The dressmaker unnerved her, but the thrill of intrigue stayed her sharp tongue, and caused her to forgive the woman without much thought.
The Watchers in Exile Page 15