by Jayne Castel
Mira’s body went cold, and she drew Foebane. Then, with her free hand, she grabbed Ninia by the arm and propelled her forward, east along the road. “Run!”
The Swallow and the princess fled.
Around them the woods exploded with feral screams, wails, and unearthly cries. The hunt was on.
Mira’s feet flew over the dirt road, blood roaring in her ears. She didn’t look back, didn’t dare even glance from left to right. Their only chance now was to outrun their hunters, to make it to their destination. As tired and unfit as she was, the princess kept up with her. Terror had given Ninia’s feet wings, although Mira knew that adrenalin would only sustain her for so long. Eventually, exhaustion would hook its claws in and drag her down.
They hadn’t gone far when Ninia tripped. Mira hauled her up by the arm. “Keep running!” She could feel the girl’s bubbling hysteria, smell her terror. Panic also welled within Mira. She could hear the breathing of their pursuers—the scrabble and slap of their feet on the road behind them. She dared not look back, or she’d be lost.
We’ll never make it to the village in time.
And yet, as they fled east, their jabbering, screeching pursuers behind them, the trees drew back, and the road descended a hill into a shallow vale.
There, just three furlongs ahead, lay the walls of Deeping. Fires burned from the wooden watchtowers at each end of the village palisade. Mira saw the jagged outline of the high fence that ringed the village, and her breathing caught in her chest.
Just a little farther.
The gates were closed, as they would be after dark—especially with shadow creatures roaming the night—and Mira heard Ninia’s gasp of despair. They could both hear the closest of their hunters now: the curses and hissing.
“Open the gates!” Mira bellowed, her voice cutting through the night. “Open … the … gates!”
They were only a few yards away now, the heavy oaken and iron gates an impenetrable wall between them and safety.
Mira tightened her grip on the hilt of Foebane, readying herself to turn and fight. It would be short and bloody, but she would not let them take her down easily.
Some escape this is.
She’d taken Ninia from one danger and plunged her into another. This was her fault—her miscalculation. However, it was too late for regrets now. Too late for anything except to pray someone had heard her shout, to pray those gates opened.
And they did.
Just a couple of feet from the gates, Mira heard the groan of metal and wood and glimpsed the glow of firelight from within. She and Ninia hurtled for that space, Mira pulling back so that the princess could enter before her.
And then strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her inside too.
The gap closed, the gates slamming shut with a boom.
A heartbeat later the tide of shadow creatures at their heels crashed against the barrier of wood and iron. The gates shook under the onslaught but held easily. Howls of fury, the hammering of fists, and screeched curses and shrieks echoed through the night.
Mira sank to the ground, her chest heaving from that final sprint, while beside her Ninia was retching. The girl was shaking, and tears streaked her face.
Climbing to her feet, her heart still thundering in her chest, Mira’s gaze met that of their savior. Balding, with a blunt-featured face and clad head to foot in boiled leather, the man raked his gaze over her, his expression incredulous. “Fine night to be out traveling.”
6
Duty Be Damned
THE ROOM ABOVE the Wheatsheaf Inn was small but comfortable. A fire burned at one corner of it, and although the night was not cold, both Mira and Ninia were glad of it. Shock had settled over them like a chill blanket.
Mira warmed her fingers over the dancing flames and glanced over at where Ninia sat opposite her, wrapped in a fur, her young face the color of milk, her hazel eyes unnaturally wide and glassy. The princess had barely uttered a word since their rescue, although she’d wept a lot. She’d refused to touch the supper of oatcakes, cheese, and apples the inn-keeper’s wife had brought up to them.
Mira didn’t push her. The girl was still in shock; she too didn’t have much of an appetite.
“You did well tonight,” Mira said after a few moments; it was a reluctant admission, but one she felt compelled to make. “You were brave.”
Ninia stared back at her, eyes glittering as tears welled once more.
“They’ll all be dead by now.”
Mira held her gaze, aware that Ninia was speaking of her family.
“You don’t know that,” she replied. “The King of Anthor might spare their lives.”
Ninia shook her head, her jaw tensing. “If that were true, mother wouldn’t have sent me away.” The girl scrubbed at the tears that now trickled down her blotchy cheeks. “She knew.”
Mira didn’t answer. The princess was right. There wasn’t any point in feeding her false hope, and there weren’t any words that would put this right.
Silence fell between them for a while, before Ninia spoke again, her voice husky. “Where are you taking me?”
“North,” Mira replied, picking up a poker and nudging the log in the hearth with it. “To the Kingdom of Rithmar.” She glanced back at the princess and saw the girl’s eyes had widened. “Your mother assured me you’ll be safe there.”
Mira stretched out her legs, stifling a groan as her muscles protested. Outside, it was chill and windless. The howls and screams of the creatures that hunted the night echoed over the Deeping Vale. Listening, Mira was relieved to be locked up indoors. They were fortunate indeed that a high palisade protected the village.
She reached across to the leather pack she had brought and extracted a scroll of parchment, unfurling it upon her knee.
“What’s that?” Ninia craned forward, wiping at her tear-stained face as curiosity overcame her.
“A map of Thûn,” Mira replied, her gaze tracing the broad swathe of territory between Deeping and the northern border. “Your mother gave it to me. We need to find a safe path north to Thornmere.”
The princess edged up closer still, her keen gaze taking note of the few settlements that lay between Deeping and their destination. “Witchmere is the largest town between here and Thornmere,” the girl observed, “but it’s still days away.”
Mira nodded. “It’ll be slow going. We won’t be able to travel at night. Not with the shadow creatures at large.”
As if to make her point, a wild screech split the night outdoors.
Ninia paled and drew back. Her eyes glittered. “We won’t make it.”
Mira gave her a tight smile. Back in Veldoras, Ninia had all the answers, but the princess wasn’t so sure of herself now. In this world it was Mira’s survival skills that mattered—not how many languages you spoke, how well you could flatter, or how superior you felt to others. “Yes, we will.”
A grey, misty dawn greeted Mira as she stepped out of The Wheatsheaf Inn. An eerie hush had settled over Deeping.
There wasn’t a soul about; Mira had ventured outdoors alone. She’d left the princess upstairs while she went in search of horses. In order to move swiftly from village to village, and to ensure they didn’t find themselves stranded out in the open after dusk, Mira needed to find them fast steeds. The journey would be painfully slow on foot. Also, not only did they need to avoid the shadow creatures, but this area would soon be crawling with men of Anthor. Once the capital fell, the invaders would make short work of the rest of the kingdom.
Mira moved up the street, toward the stables. The heavy bag of gold talents the queen had given her as a parting gift clinked with each step. She was loath to spend too much of it, for she wanted to use the money to build a new life once she got Ninia to Rithmar. Still, horses were essential.
Unfortunately, she discovered the stables empty.
“No horses here, lass,” the man she found sweeping the yard informed her. “The king wanted them all for the war effort. They’ve all gone south.�
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Mira stared at him, incredulous. “There aren’t any left … at all?”
He shrugged, leaning on his broom and viewing Mira under shaggy brows. “You might find a nag or two around here, but they’ll be lame or broken winded. No good for traveling.”
Back in their room above the inn, Mira broke the news to Ninia.
“That can’t be the truth.” Ninia glared at her from the window-ledge where she perched, a heavy leather-bound book on her lap. “The man must be lying.”
Mira raised an eyebrow. “He has no reason to—I offered him a healthy amount of gold.” Her gaze shifted to the book. “Where did you get that?”
Ninia gave her a haughty look. “I brought it with me.”
Mira frowned. “I told you only to pack essentials.”
“I did.”
“Books aren’t essentials,” Mira replied, her voice hard and flat. “You’ll be leaving it behind when we go from here.”
Ninia drew herself up, her mouth thinning. “It’s mine and I’m taking it with me,” she snapped. “And you’ll address me as Your Highness.”
Mira’s mouth twisted. “No, I won’t. Your head will have a price on it now. We’ll have to leave our old names and identities behind till we reach Rithmar.” She enjoyed seeing the shock on Ninia’s face, although the girl swiftly covered it up with a scowl.
Ninia slammed her book shut. “My mother paid you to get me to safety,” she said coldly. “So far you’re not doing a great job, are you?”
Mira shrugged, folding her arms across her chest. “Considering she thrust the task upon me at the last moment, I think I’m doing admirably.”
“And how are we going to travel north without horses?”
“The man at the stables told me that a stage coach passes through here every three days,” Mira replied. “One is due tomorrow, so we’ll wait till then. Hopefully it’ll get here before the invaders do.”
Ninia’s silence told her she wasn’t pleased by this news. Ignoring her, Mira crossed to the window and glanced out. The gloom pressed close, and a fine rain had started to fall. Mira craned her neck up at the sky. “Shadows, I miss the sun,” she muttered. “I don’t understand this shitty weather.”
She glanced back at Ninia, to find the princess glaring at her. “I suppose the likes of you wouldn’t,” Ninia said coldly.
Mira scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“You don’t read much, do you?”
“No … not these days,” Mira replied, forcing herself not to show her increasing irritation. Ninia could be rude, but this morning she was insulting.
“Well, surely you must have heard the tale of Valgarth, The Shadow King?”
Mira snorted. “Of course I have.” She remembered her mother telling her the story of the powerful enchanter who could wield both the Light and the Dark. Driven by a need to dominate and enslave, he’d seized power and unleashed a reign of terror over the world. But the people had risen up against him, and another enchanter had imprisoned him inside a mountain, entombed forever behind a wall of ice.
Sometimes she swore the princess thought her dull-witted. Who hadn’t heard the tale?
Ninia gave her a withering look. “Well when Valgarth ruled, he cast a great darkness over the land so that his servants could walk abroad freely. What if the same thing is happening again?”
Unease settled over Mira at this. “You think this gloom is tied to the shadow creatures?”
Ninia held her gaze. “After what happened last night … it makes sense.”
Mira glanced back outside, at the helmet of grey that pressed down upon them. Has Valgarth been freed? Has someone broken the enchantment?
Despite the roaring fire the room suddenly felt chill, and for the first time since fleeing Veldoras Mira began to really worry.
If things are really that bad, shouldn’t I be looking out for myself instead?
The survival instinct reared up, and she considered her options. She didn’t even like Ninia; she owed her nothing. She could leave the princess behind and flee. The girl would be a dead weight pulling her down.
The queen would never know.
She was tempted, but something made her hesitate. Escaping Veldoras on her own was one thing, deserting someone who couldn’t fend for herself was another.
Mira gritted her teeth. Since when did I grow a conscience?
Upon joining The Swallow Guard, Mira had been forced to take their sacred oath—to protect the Thûn royal family with her life—but she’d never taken it to heart. She wanted to disregard it now, yet the promise she’d made to the queen needled at her.
Mira heaved in a deep breath. Shadows take you, Rena. You sly bitch.
She felt the princess’s gaze upon her then, scrutinizing her. Mira looked away from the window to see the girl was watching her under hooded lids, her expression speculative. Tensing, Mira wondered if she had let her thoughts show on her face. Her gaze dropped to the book that now sat closed on Ninia’s lap.
“The Lore of Light and Darkness,” Mira read the title aloud, before she glanced up and caught the princess’s eye once more. “Why are you reading that for?”
Ninia shrugged. “It’s part of my education.”
Mira’s gaze narrowed. “Your governess gave you that book?”
“No, I found it in the library.”
Mira studied the young woman’s face, noting the stubborn set of her jaw and the arrogant tilt of her head. So like her mother. “I don’t think your father would approve.”
Ninia’s face tightened. “Maybe not, but that hardly matters now does it? He’s dead.”
With that, the princess climbed off the window ledge and stalked away to the narrow sleeping pallet on the far side of the chamber. Mira watched her go, noting the rigid set of her shoulders. Despite Ninia’s brave front, a violent storm of grief still churned within her. Mention of her father had just unleashed it once more.
Ninia climbed onto the pallet, facing the wall, and pulled the covers over her head. Even from the other side of the room, Mira could see the tremors that shook her body.
Watching her, Mira tried to feel pity for the girl—and failed.
She’d been much younger than Ninia when she lost her parents—just eight years old. No one had shown her any compassion or pity. No one had cared what happened to her on the streets.
Mira leaned back against the window-ledge and shifted her attention from the quaking figure on the bed to the dancing flames in the hearth opposite.
Her sense of duty be damned—the first chance she had to rid herself of Ninia, she would take it.
Six months later …
7
The Summons
The Royal City
The Kingdom of Rithmar
He couldn’t get rid of that bird. Every morning it was there, perched on his window—watching him with those beady, dark eyes as if it expected answers.
Asher had none to give.
Yet Grim, for that was the hawk’s name, wouldn’t let him be.
“Thrindul’s dead,” he told the bird, as he shrugged on his short, grey tunic and fastened a heavy leather belt around his waist. “Don’t glare at me … I can’t bring him back.”
The High Enchanter had been one of the few of the Order of Light and Darkness with a familiar; he and Grim had been close. Thrindul had even been able to interpret the screeches the hawk made. However, those ear-splitting calls, some of them resembling a hiss of outrage, meant nothing to Asher.
Grim glared at him now, hunched upon the stone window ledge, his gaze tracking Asher across the room. As always, Asher found the sensation unnerving.
The bird put him on edge.
He’d been tempted to try and chase Grim off, but the hawk’s razor-sharp beak and curved talons had dissuaded him. Grim wasn’t to be shooed away like an annoying blackbird. And he was clearly here for a reason—although Asher couldn’t guess what it was.
Thrindul had fallen during the Battle of the S
hadefells five months earlier, when a horde of men and shadow creatures had faced the Rithmar army and the Enchanters of Light and Darkness. Grim had traveled north on that campaign with his master, and no one had seen him for a while afterward.
Until the day he’d landed at Asher’s window.
Asher pulled on his boots, fastened his long pale hair back with a thong at the base of his neck, and cast an irritated look in the bird’s direction.
“Go hunt some rodents,” he muttered. “I won’t be back till dusk.”
With that he strode from his chamber. It was still early, too early for breakfast, and so Asher made his way down to the ground floor, and then outside to the Hall of Healing. A hard frost lay over the city this morning. It was now a moon after Winter Blood—Serran’s mid-winter solstice—yet the bitter season still held Rithmar fast within its grip. Asher’s breath steamed in the dry, gelid air as he crossed the few yards to the door of the Hall of Healing.
Inside, two huge hearths burned low, keeping the chill off the air. There were a handful of patients in the Hall at present, far fewer than months earlier in the aftermath of the reign of terror caused by Valgarth’s shadow creatures. Even though the servants of the Shadow King no longer hunted the people of the kingdom after dark, it had taken a while for folk to believe the threat was actually gone.
Sometimes, Asher had trouble believing it himself.
“Enchanter,” an old man croaked. “Some water.”
Asher gave a curt nod and went to the corner of the room, where he filled a large cup of water from a barrel. Then he took it to the patient, handing it to him wordlessly. The man grasped the clay vessel and gulped its contents down before thrusting it out to Asher once more. “Another … please.”
Asher’s gaze narrowed, before he glanced at the empty jug beside the pallet. “Didn’t someone fill that up last night?”
The patient shook his head, his expression pained.