Is it my destiny to flee? Is that how freedom is to come? Is that the reason this object of my past has come into my hands? The temptation flitted through his head, enticing him, making him promises.
It would be so easy to turn around. With the speed and agility of the milk-whites, I might make it over High Pass before the dust clears. Before I am missed. I could leave the King’s Road and head east to the Plains of Loonish, then—
Clank! The iron collar hammered against the cowling at the end of the swinging chain and jolted him from his intoxicating flight of fantasy. Clank! The sound drove a fist into his stomach, reminding him who he was. What he was. The clanking was deafening. Iron striking iron stabbed his ears and rattled his being. The grievous weight of bondage settled on his shoulders, ending his escape.
His future was forward. There was nothing for him on the road behind but fear and flight and, ultimately, death.
The dreadful thought came as the red dust settled, revealing a long stretch of ugliness that violated the beauty of the King’s Road. Qhuin had heard of such things, but never seen it for himself. He hardly believed such atrocious punishment could be true. The sight of it was a vivid image he could never expunged.
The King’s Road was lined with the heads of men condemned for treachery impaled on a row of wooden spikes. He recognized one of the hapless souls. There was no mistaking the shag of red hair. It was a slave from the stables of Blackthorn who had run away.
Qhuin stared ahead, and the cool stone of crystal grew hot against his skin.
CHAPTER 19
Meesha stood at the mirror. She turned her head until the dusty light from the window fell across her dark red birthmark. She had never seen her face without it, but it had been years since she had stood and stared at it as she did today.
Today was different. They were coming. How long had it been since the boys of Blackthorn had seen her? The sons of Prince Kadesh-Cor were no longer boys. Chor and Sargon—would they remember her? The fragile smile that came with the memory trembled as she stared at the dark side of her face.
When she was younger she had stood at this same mirror with her eyes closed tight and her fingers crossed and recited the wishing rhyme taught to her by her governess. The woman was wise and kind—and compassionately blind to Meesha’s blemish.
Meesha had not thought of the rhyme in many years, but standing before the mirror it floated into her mind. She closed her eyes.
With fingers crossed And eyes shut tight I ask the fairies of the night To hear my wish And come to stay And make my wish come true today
No matter how many times she had repeated the whimsical words as a child, and no matter how many times the little girl had lain in her bed in the darkness and listened for the fluttering of fairy wings, and no matter how many times they had not come, she never lost hope that someday when she stood before the mirror and opened her eyes, the blemish would be gone. That someday she would open her eyes and her face would be shining white.
She felt the familiar warmth of hope flickering deep inside. She opened her eyes slowly, then touched her face with her fingertips, moving them slowly across the redness of her ruined skin.
Today was not the day the miracle was to be. A little flush of anger pushed her hope away.
Moved by an impulse more than reason, she stepped to where she kept a long sword hidden behind a fold of curtain. She drew the weapon from the leather sheath in a swift and graceful motion and whirled to face an invisible opponent. To wreak vengeance on them that betrayed her with the curse. Who was it and what had she done to deserve their wrath? She lunged and slashed at her enemy with her blade, then whirled and slashed again from the opposite side. She parried their frail efforts to strike, then thrust the sword all the way through their heart, spinning about to smash the iron pommel into the mirror. A spiderweb of jagged cracks raced away from the point of impact.
Meesha recovered her breath as she stared at herself in the broken mirror. It had been more than twenty years since her day of blessing, and it was not a little girl looking back from the fractured glass.
Had Meesha been born a peasant she would have been demonized as a witchchild, marked by Ahriman, the spirit of destruction, with a splay of darkness on her face. The old crone of the village would have taken her to the woods and abandoned her to the wolves. Had she escaped the old hag, her childhood would have been a painful experience of rude curiosities, teasing, and open ridicule. She would have been shunned by other children and pitied by adults. Had she survived to adulthood, she would have been driven to the fringes of society to suffer the pains of self-loathing.
But Meesha was not a peasant; she was the daughter of Tolak, son of Orsis-Kublan, and thus granddaughter to the King of Kandelaar. When Tolak had been exiled to Stókenhold Fortress, she had been three years old, and her birthright as a princess had been nullified by an edict of the King. Ironically, he was the only one who still thought of her as royalty.
Lovely gifts arrived from Kingsgate from time to time. They were never personal, at least not in the way a grandfather might show his affections for a granddaughter. The presents were lovely. A shawl of delicate lace. A feathered hat. A porcelain cup or figurine. The gifts were always accompanied by a parchment sealed by wax and impressed with the sigil of the king. The message inside was always the same: For Lady Meesha, a royal gift from His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King.
Only once had there been a personal note. It was the only clue Meesha ever received to understanding her grandfather’s obvious affections for her, despite his disdain for her father and the whole of his household. The words were written by an unsteady hand and said simply: “I have been told by one who serves at Stókenhold Fortress that you are the incarnation of my beloved Edoora.”
It was true. Meesha’s exquisite face tapered in a gentle curve from the high bones of her cheeks to her perfect chin. Her eyes were dark brown, softened with a flare the color of honey that matched the highlights of her long hair.
Meesha had never met her grandmother, but she liked to imagine she resembled her in more ways than simply appearance. She certainly didn’t feel that she took after her mother.
Katasha, of House Dressor, was Tolak’s second wife. She was younger than Tolak by a few years and considered by some to be too old for marriage or children. She was almost thirty-five when her brother, Romonik, proposed the marriage. Because she married so late in life, Katasha’s superstitions ran deep. Katasha never spoke of it, but Meesha knew her mother blamed herself for her daughter’s disfigurement.
The winter she had been in her mother’s womb had been harsh. The sleeping chambers in the old fortress were so cold that water left standing for the night was covered by a layer of ice come morning. Even when the weather was temperate, Katasha was chilled, and she spent long hours by the fire. She heeded the old superstition that said if a pregnant woman stared into the flames, the child would be born with skin badly burned.
Katasha took great care not to gaze into the fire, but when her baby was born and she touched the wine-red stain on her face, she knew she had failed. She had been the one to bring the curse upon her daughter.
As a result, Katasha felt a deep responsibility to nurture her daughter in a way that would compensate for her failings before Meesha was born. From the earliest days, she reassured Meesha that “True beauty lay within and not without.” She taught her feminine graces and the social codes and manners of House Kublan. She praised her intelligence and reminded her that it was character that mattered most.
Katasha’s diligent mothering endowed Meesha with a curious sense of confidence, but she had no illusions. She learned quickly that men had little interest in character and inner beauty. She knew she was not like other girls and, with a face like hers, could never be. If she was never going to be pretty or sought after or flirted with by handsome boys, then she would make no effort to be like other
girls. Since she knew there was not a man in the dominions of Kandelaar who could see past her face, she accepted the truth that she would never marry.
Meesha had shunned the ways of women and focused her life on books, music, and art. She resisted laces and linens, pampering and powders. She did not follow fashions and stopped dressing in the elaborate silks worn by the fine ladies of the great houses. She did not adorn herself with bracelets, bangles, and bijoux. She remained feminine, but in her own way, and preferred a fashion of her own creation that included the coarse cloth and leather of the villages. She was more a woman of the woods than a lady of a great house.
In her teenaged years, Meesha’s disdain for feminine ways was discounted by her mother as the rebellious nature of growing up. “The strong independence of her nature is a passing fancy,” her mother was heard to say. In truth, it was a conflict between the lady tradition expected Meesha to be and the woman she truly was.
Because she did not aspire to be like her mother—or her stunningly beautiful sister-in-law, Sarina, with her perfect red hair, eyes the green and gold of soft moss, and the delicate smattering of freckles on her pale skin—Meesha grew up preferring the company of her brother, Valnor, to the ladies of Stókenhold Fortress.
Meesha was a little girl when Valnor left to be trained by their uncle Romonik. When he returned, she was a young woman and demanded he teach her everything he had learned about fighting and weapons and combat.
“These are not good things for a lady to know.” He laughed.
She knocked him to the ground and playfully pounded him with her fist until he agreed.
An abandoned part of the old fortress became their secret place to practice and train. They went there as often as Valnor was willing. Besides her fine mind, wit, and confidence, Meesha had surprising physical strength and adeptness, and over time, she became remarkably proficient with a sword.
“You are better than many with whom I have trained,” her brother often told her. There were few words that brought her greater delight.
CHAPTER 20
Qhuin reined the milk-whites to a stand. He wrapped the reins around the iron hook and stepped from the chariot. He stretched his arms above his head and twisted to relieve an ache in his back. He squatted to a count of fifty to stretch the muscles in his thighs. The wheelhorse nickered and nudged him, hoping for a scratch.
Qhuin heard the sound of hooves on the road behind him. He gripped the bridle of the wheelhorse lest the team bolt. Bandits on the King’s Road!
“Hail, traveler!” the approaching man shouted, out of breath. “Hail . . . hail, good friend.” He led a chestnut horse, lathered in sweat. The horse’s nostrils were bleeding.
Qhuin frowned at the exhausted state of the animal. Such a fine horse deserved better treatment. “Steady girl,” he whispered to his wheelhorse, his hand tight on the bridle. Does a bandit hail a traveler as a friend? He breathed more easily.
The man leaned over with a hand on each knee and took a long, slow breath. “Forgive me, m’lord,” he said, his fingers fluttering an apology. “Are you, by some good fortune, with the expedition of Prince Kadesh-Cor?”
Qhuin was taken aback by the deference of the man’s salutation. It struck him in a rush of delight. He doesn’t know I’m a slave.
“I am,” Qhuin said, graciously lowering his head and biting his lip to keep from adding “master” or “m’lord.” He was amused by his rather good impersonation of highborn gentry.
“The gods be praised,” the man gasped. “I am Nagor, son of Romnolof, royal horseman of the stables of Kingsgate and courier to His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King. I ride with an urgent message for Prince Kadesh-Cor. Is the good prince here, m’lord?”
“He is some distance ahead,” Qhuin said as he knelt beside the courier’s horse. There was a gash on her left front leg. The cannon was bloody to the hoof, and the feather of hair soaked through. The animal trembled.
“How did this happen?” Qhuin scowled at the man. “You have ridden her too long and hard and given her no water!”
“I have ridden night and day by command of the king, m’lord!” He glanced at the horse’s ruined leg. “The poor beast lost its footing and fell in the rocks.”
If the bone was cracked, the horse would not survive, but Qhuin had no heart to put it down. He wrapped the wound with a linen cloth. The bleeding stopped. If they reached Stókenhold Fortress in time, perhaps the horse could still be saved.
“Please, m’lord. Take me to the prince.” He lifted a parchment from his leather satchel as if it were a scepter endowed with magical powers.
Qhuin stood, looking from the courier to the wounded animal. What message was so urgent it justified riding a horse nearly to death?
By the time Qhuin and the courier caught up with the end of the procession, the red dirt of the road had turned to hardened clay. It was evident the courier had never ridden in a chariot because he stood behind Qhuin and clung to the railing with both hands.
The chariot driven by Qhuin was the one Rusthammer designed for the prince. He had replaced the iron parts with wood, which made the chariot smaller and lighter but still retained its strength and balance. Rusthammer had also designed a modified harness and saddle pad for the horses. On the bridle, he had placed a bronze rosette engraved with stylized foliage and the symbol of a bleeding rose with thorns. “Your sigil,” he had said to Qhuin in private, adding one more treasure to the cache of secrets between them.
Qhuin’s iron collar clanked against the cowling. The courier made no comment but stared at the redness on Qhuin’s neck with suspicion.
Qhuin was not thinking about his passenger. A single question pounded through his head. How will the prince react to a slave taking it upon himself to leave his place in the rank?
Rusthammer’s voice whispered in Qhuin’s head. “To do, not to think, is the burden of bondage. Masters and highborn dare not consider that the mind of a man in bondage might be brighter and better than their own. You must never forget that the burden of bondage does not keep you from being free!”
Qhuin closed the distance to the end of the procession. He waved a casual salute to Jehu, who drove Prince Kadesh-Cor’s chariot. It was the largest of the cortège and heavier than the other chariots. The iron cowling was decorated with the Blackthorn sigil in bronze relief. The four horses were black and perfectly matched, each with ragged stockings of red dust. It was a chariot made for riding in parades, not hunting.
Jehu cocked his head and raised his eyebrows in an unasked question. Qhuin jerked his head toward the courier. Qhuin liked to think of Jehu as a friend in spite of the unbridgeable chasm between a slave and freeman.
There were four chariots on the expedition. Qhuin and Jehu drove two of them. The third was driven by a freeman named Jewuul, reinsman to Horsemaster Raahud, and the fourth by a reinsman Qhuin did not know.
Qhuin understood Princeling Sargon had demanded he ride last in the procession, but he thought it curious Raahud put the other chariots to the rear as well. The other drivers were freemen. Raahud was a hard master in many ways, but his respect for Qhuin’s skill as a horseman showed itself from time to time in obvious ways. Qhuin decided putting all of the chariots together was Master Raahud’s way of acknowledging him as a peer among the drivers in spite of his caste.
The wranglers and extra horses were next. By the time Qhuin saw Raahud in the procession, the horsemaster was already riding toward him, his face in a scowl.
“By the gods, Qhuin, what are you doing?” he yelled as he caught up to the chariot.
“He’s a courier of the king with a message for the prince, Master Raahud,” Qhuin said with appropriate deference, indicating the man behind him. “His horse is injured.” He nodded to the chestnut tied to the back of the chariot.
Raahud untied the horse and frowned at the animal’s injuries. “I’ll see
to her; drive on.”
Qhuin nodded and rolled the leather reins across the croups of his horses with a snap.
The narrow road forced Qhuin to stay in the weeds as he passed the wagons loaded with foodstuffs, supplies, and equipment for the camp. Camp gillies rode in the last of the wagons or walked behind, while the crew of stewards and cooks found places to ride among the bundles in the wagons. Six kingsriders guarded the wagon train, which was a tempting target for robbers or bandits.
Qhuin passed six horseman of the Order of Huszárs, a fraternity of cousins and kin of House Kublan, however thinned the blood. These men were guests invited by the prince to join him on his hunt for wild tarpan.
The youngest of them twisted in his saddle to look at the chariot as it passed and waved at Qhuin. He smiled broadly, bright-eyed and exuberant. He was no older than seventeen, Qhuin guessed. Young for an expedition of such prominence. The young man showed none of the disdain Qhuin saw so often on the faces of the highborn. He smiled and returned the salute.
Ahead of the Huszárs, three kingsriders rode abreast, and ahead of them there was a small, brightly painted coach the color of plum and trimmed with burnished brass. The windows were covered by yellow silk curtains. As Qhuin drove past, the curtain was pushed aside, and he looked in time to see a girl smiling at him. He looked away quickly. Everyone knew the prince’s courtesans rode in the plum-colored coach.
The coach of the princelings was next, and as Qhuin passed it, Princeling Sargon looked up at him from the window of the carriage. His body stiffened, his eyes widened, and his nostrils flared.
A fist of iron gripped Qhuin’s gut.
Qhuin knew he should look away. Eye contact with the royals was forbidden, and failure to look away from one as arrogant as Sargon would surely bring severe punishment.
Sargon growled something to his older brother, who sat across from him. Chor glanced up but showed no interest.
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