I wonder what the dungeons are like here?
She opened the door at the foot of the stairwell, expecting to find Lord Lionsclaw and Kiam Miar waiting for her by the customs table, tapping their feet impatiently.
Instead, she stepped into chaos.
Despite the bitter weather outside, the main hall—the beating heart of Winternest—was filled with Raiders, obviously preparing to ride out. There must have been more than two hundred men checking weapons and equipment, sharpening swords, and piling on extra furs to protect them from the cold. At first, Charisee couldn’t even pick out Valorian Lionsclaw or Kiam Miar, and then she spied them by the huge fireplace on the hall’s eastern wall near where the barkeep stored his barrels.
Lord Lionsclaw, I have a confession to make . . .
Whatever these fighting men were up to, she had her own mission. Charisee braced herself for what she must do, striding purposefully across the hall through the melee until she reached her goal. Valorian Lionsclaw looked up as she approached, closed his eyes for the briefest of moments as if he’d forgotten about her, and then he forced a smile.
Lord Lionsclaw, I have a confession to make . . .
Before she could get the words out, Valorian shook his head apologetically and bowed to her. “Your highness, I am so sorry you weren’t advised. But your journey to Greenharbour won’t be happening today.”
“Why not?” she asked, which was not what she’d intended to say at all. Lord Lionsclaw, I have a confession to make . . . That’s what she should have said. And it was a stupid question anyway.
“The Farman Brothers’ caravan was hit by bandits in the Widowmaker last night,” Kiam explained, surprising Charisee with the reason, because anybody with eyes could see the weather was unfit for travel, and she’d assumed that was the only reason their journey would be delayed.
She must have been staring at them like an idiot, prompting Valorian to add, “The large caravan that left here yesterday morning, your highness. Do you remember?”
Charisee felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh . . . gods . . . no . . .”
“Your highness?”
I’ve arranged passage with a caravan, which will get me safely out of Winternest . . . Rakaia was in that caravan. Charisee was certain of it. She glanced around the hall at the Raiders getting ready to ride out in the storm. “They’re . . . they’re going to rescue the survivors, yes?”
Lord Lionsclaw shook his head. “No. They’re going out to hunt down the bandits before the trail grows cold—no pun intended. There are no survivors.”
Charisee’s world suddenly shuddered out of alignment. She felt ill with the force of the jolt.
“What . . . ?” She didn’t have the breath or the strength to finish the question.
Valorian didn’t answer her. Someone was hailing him from across the hall. Too distracted to notice her distress, he apologized for his rudeness, bowed briefly, and hurried off, leaving Kiam Miar to answer her questions.
Kiam watched him leave and then turned to Charisee. “Best they can tell, the bandits hit the caravan just on dusk yesterday. They were sitting ducks, actually. The lead wagon broke an axle—which may or may not have been an accident—blocking the whole caravan in the pass about three miles our side of the border. The bandits hit them just before the storm did. Do you need to sit down, your highness?”
This can’t be happening. It can’t be true. She felt her knees give way. Kiam caught her before she could fall, his arms the only real thing she had to cling to in a world suddenly spinning out of control. “But there were guards . . . lots of them. And . . . all those people . . .”
“Oh . . . they put up a decent fight by all accounts,” Kiam agreed, leading her to a bench so she could sit down. “Lord Lionsclaw thinks they were pretty badly outnumbered. Apparently, the bandits around the Widowmaker have been getting more and more aggressive these past few years.” Kiam studied her with concern for a moment. “Pity they tried to fight. They might have been better off just handing over the goods. I’m not sure a few wagonloads of wool and some barrels of ale are worth more than fifty lives.”
“No . . . but . . . but . . . there must have been some survivors. What about the women? The children?”
“Raped and put to the sword, according to the patrol who found them. Those who didn’t die in the fighting were left to perish in the blizzard. I’m sorry, is this distressing you, your highness? You’ve gone very pale.”
Raped and put to the sword.
Oh, Rakaia, what did you do? Did you fight them off? Did you die in terrible agony because you resisted or did you perish afterward in the cold, broken and battered and alone?
“Your highness?”
Charisee had to force herself to concentrate. “What?”
Kiam was looking at her with real concern. “Did you want some mulled wine? You really shouldn’t have braved that wretched bridge in this weather.”
Charisee shook her head. The last thing she needed was alcohol dulling her senses. “Are you going out with your men to hunt the bandits too?”
“My job is to escort you to Greenharbour, your highness.”
That surprised her. Surely the last thing on the minds of anybody here was escorting a lone woman to Greenharbour, even one as important as the imposter posing as the high princess’s sister.
“But doesn’t Lord Lionsclaw need the Raiders you brought with you? I mean . . . if there were enough bandits to overwhelm a caravan so large . . . ?”
“Those Raiders are here to escort you, your highness.”
“But one princess doesn’t need a hundred-man honor guard,” she said before she could stop herself. “She’s just one person . . .”
I have a confession to make. I’m not even the person you think I am.
“Excuse me if I misunderstand you, your highness, but are you suggesting you’d be happy traveling to Greenharbour with a reduced guard so the remainder can stay here and help hunt down these bandits?” He spoke as if he couldn’t believe such a circumstance were possible.
Had Charisee been a real daughter of Hablet, it probably wouldn’t have been possible. But she was a fraud. And the only person in Hythria who knows it is dead.
I love you, Charisee . . . take this gift I’m giving you.
“Um . . . yes . . . I believe that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” Oh, dear gods and little demons, what am I doing?
The assassin was silent for a long moment and then he nodded. “Very well, I’ll speak to Lord Lionsclaw and tell him he has reinforcements, news I’m quite sure he’ll welcome. Would a guard of, say . . . ten . . . be considered suitable to escort someone of your rank to the capital, do you think?”
Charisee nodded slowly as the enormity of what she was doing began to dawn on her. She gulped and then waved her hand to cover her nervousness. “My dear sister, the High Princess Adrina, clearly trusts your judgment in these matters, Master Miar,” she said, trying to answer the way Rakaia might have done, “or she would not have sent you to escort me. Whatever number you think is appropriate will be acceptable to me.”
There. That wasn’t so hard.
Still staring at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, Kiam nodded, and then called over one of his Raiders, ordered him to arrange wine for the princess and to see she wasn’t disturbed. The Raider—a young ginger-haired lad with dark freckles scattered across his nose—ordered her wine from the barkeep who catered to Winternest’s travelers and residents alike, and then took up post to guard her from the riffraff.
Charisee accepted the wine a few moments later with a grateful nod to the barkeep, sat with her back to the rest of the hall, and buried her face in the goblet to hide her guilt, a puddle of nervous self-loathing and grief.
I love you, Charisee . . . take this gift I’m giving you.
Charisee drained the wine in a gulp as her eyes filled with grief-stricken tears. As soon as she got back to her room, she was going to burn that wretched letter. There was
no point keeping it now.
I love you too, Rakaia. And I will.
Chapter
13
RIDING IN A wagon with no suspension on a wooden box covered with a sheepskin that had seen better days proved a very uncomfortable way to travel, even with a couple of talkative court’esa for company. By midafternoon, Rakaia was quite certain she would be permanently twisted out of shape, and when the caravan ground to a halt when the lead wagon broke its axle, she was relieved beyond words for the chance to get out, stretch her legs, and, most of all, relieve herself.
She wasn’t the only one who took the opportunity, despite the cold wind howling though the Widowmaker, funneled by the steep cliff walls lining the road still covered with snow. The trees at the top of the jagged cliffs had shed most of their winter white, but down here in the pass, where the ground was shadowed for much of the day, it was cold, unpleasant, and nerve-wracking.
Bandits were a problem in the pass. Even in Talabar they knew that, hence the reason her father . . . or rather, the king of Fardohnya, had been so anxious to broker a deal with Highcastle farther to the south, where attacks on trading caravans were much less frequent. Stopping was never a good idea in the Widowmaker. The rule, so Marten had explained as they entered the pass this morning, was no stopping. Not for anything.
“If you want to pee, you hop out of the moving wagon, do your business, then run to catch up,” he instructed them all as they trundled into the pass at the end of the caravan. “Hope you don’t need a crap, because we’ll not be waiting for anybody’s shit.” He’d laughed uproariously at his own joke and clucked the horses forward.
It hadn’t seemed such a problem first thing this morning. As the day wore on, however, Rakaia could feel her bladder filling until it was painful. Her two companions had done exactly as Marten instructed, some time ago, laughing as they ran to catch the slow-moving wagon and clamber onboard. If they guessed how much pain Rakaia was in, they said nothing, although when Rakaia grunted after they’d hit a particularly nasty pothole, they exchanged a look she just knew was laden with amusement at her expense.
Once they were out of the wagon, Rakaia discovered most of the passengers, and quite a few of the traders and their guards, had the same idea. Within moments there was a long line of men unlacing their trousers and more than a few women lifting their skirts to irrigate the icy cliff wall, accompanied by jokes about the size of their equipment and the lousy aim of quite a few of the men. Shivering in cold wind, Rakaia knew she should join them. She was supposed to be a commoner. Relieving herself in full sight of everyone should have meant nothing to her. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Look at Lady Prim-and-Proper,” Aja laughed as she lifted her skirts and squatted on the side of the road, not caring in the slightest that she had an audience. “You waiting for a private privy?”
Rakaia forced a smile and glanced around. There was a scraggly bush forcing its way between the rocks some twenty paces from their wagon, which was the last one in the caravan. “Looking for somewhere upwind,” she said. “This wind is brutal and I don’t fancy a golden shower.”
Barlia laughed. “I could introduce you to a few men who’d pay handsomely for a golden shower!”
Rakaia laughed too, or at least she pretended to, and made her way toward the bush. There was one lone guard standing at post, hand on his sword, watching the pass behind them. He nodded to her as she passed, but seemed more concerned about what might be coming up the road than what she was up to. The pass curved slightly behind the bush, giving her the illusion of privacy. Anxious to relieve her pain she raised her skirts, squatted down, and sighed with relief as her bladder emptied.
She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how she was going to get from Tarkent to Lanipoor, where her mother promised her uncle—whom she had never met—would provide her with a safe place to hide from Hablet’s wrath. Rakaia still thought the plan was just a little bit crazy. Surely, if anybody tried to look for her, the first place would be with the only family she owned outside of the harem.
But then, the plan was that nobody would realize she was missing. That’s what Charisee was for . . .
“Talk about being caught with y’pants down.”
At the sound of the whispered comment, Rakaia’s eyes flew open. Infuriated, she silently cursed whoever had followed her and ruined her momentary illusion of privacy. Ready to give this rude miscreant a piece of her mind, Rakaia stood up, pulled down her skirts, and then she hesitated.
The voices were not coming from the caravan, out of sight around the slight bend in the road, but from above her on the cliff.
Bandits, she thought, her anger dissolving into fear.
A bird whistle echoed across the steep cliff walls, remarkable mostly because there were no other bird sounds. She studied the opposite wall, searching for movement. If this were an ambush, surely there would be bandits on both sides of the pass. A moment later she caught a glimpse of someone moving. It was then she realized the sheer steepness of the cliff was an illusion. It looked sheer from the ground, but it was actually quite stepped and weathered, offering endless places of concealment.
“There’s the signal,” the whispered voice above her hissed. She was too afraid to look up to see how close the bandits were, or indeed, make any movement that might attract their attention.
Despite the cold, Rakaia could feel herself breaking into a sweat. Marten and his court’esa had claimed their caravan too large to be a target. Too many guards, he said, and they weren’t stopping for anything.
But they had stopped . . .
A scream split the air. Rakaia flattened herself against the cold, jagged cliff face. Within moments the air was full of shouting, more screams, and the clang of metal on metal, the icy wind whipping away the sounds of the battle, leaving her with only a vague idea of what was happening just around the curve of the cliff wall, and too afraid to move so she could see what was happening for herself.
Run, she told herself, firmly, as if that would force her fear-frozen muscles into action. Run before they find you.
Run to where? Behind her were miles of icy road through the Widowmaker Pass and it was almost dark. She would not survive a night out here wearing a slave’s dress. Her woolen cloak was back in Marten’s wagon and she had nothing with which to make fire, assuming she could find the fuel to burn or had the faintest idea how to make fire in the first place. And even if she somehow managed to get back to Winternest, what would she tell them? If Charisee was posing as her, either they wouldn’t believe she was Rakaia or Charisee would be in peril for impersonating her.
But ahead of her was a pitched battle. Rakaia closed her eyes as if that could block out the sounds. There were more screams. One of them sounded like Barlia. She wanted to be sick. There was only one reason a woman screamed like that.
Her indecision cost her dear. While she was still internally debating what to do, Aja ran past, heading back toward Winternest, a bandit right on her heels. The man was bearded and dressed in a coat that was almost the same light caramel color of the cliff walls. He was panting heavily, his short blade dripping blood as he charged after his quarry. He caught Aja not three paces from where Rakaia was standing, pressed against the cliff.
Aja screamed, fighting like a trapped wild cat. But the bandit was stronger and clearly annoyed this court’esa would not provide willingly the service she was trained to provide. He threw her down onto the road. From where she was standing, Rakaia clearly heard her head crack as she hit the rocky ground. Stunned by the fall, Aja lay there, limp and unresisting as the bandit dropped to his knees, groping at the laces on the front of his trousers.
Rakaia wanted to run. She wanted to help. She wanted to look away. She wanted to live.
But she was too afraid. Tears filled her eyes as she watched, as much at her own cowardice as what was happening to Aja.
But if she moved, the bandit would see her and she would be next.
For the br
iefest of moments she considered stepping forward and announcing who she was. That might distract the bandit and stop this abomination. She might not suffer the same fate if she told them she was a daughter of the Fardohnyan king. Prisoners of rank were always treated better than ordinary folk because they were worth more unharmed.
Surely, even the savage bandits of the Sunrise Mountains would hesitate before raping a Fardohnyan princess to death.
Assuming they believed she was a princess.
Rakaia didn’t look anything like a princess. She’d run away from Winternest with everything Charisee owned, rather than her own possessions, mostly to stop her far-too-honest-for-her-own-good half-sister from refusing to take part in Sophany’s clever escape plan.
It didn’t seem so clever now.
Aja lay still as death while the bandit took his pleasure with her. Rakaia couldn’t tell if she was unconscious, dead, or merely giving in to the inevitable.
She held her breath, wishing for it to be over. Wishing this beast would be done with his conquest and go back to the real fight—assuming there was anybody left to fight.
Wishing she was not such a craven coward that she would stand here and watch Aja being raped, and do nothing to stop it, just because she was afraid of the same thing happening to her.
And then with a grunt of satisfaction he was done. He lay on top of Aja for a short time, savoring the moment, and then pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around. Aja lay motionless, eyes wide open, staring sightlessly at Rakaia. She was dead, skirts up around her waist, her lower body exposed to the elements, a small trickle of blood coming from her ear. Rakaia tried to melt into the rocks.
But he saw her. Smiling slowly, Aja’s rapist, her murderer, climbed to his feet, and fixed his gaze on Rakaia. “Waiting your turn, eh, little one?”
She ran. There was no point in doing anything else. No other thought than to get away filled her mind; no other thought than to not be laying there like Aja, raped and dead, and probably not in that order. The same fear that had paralyzed Rakaia a moment ago suddenly gave her strength. She bolted east, back toward Winternest, as if she could somehow outrun her fate.
The Lyre Thief Page 9