C H A P T E R F I V E The wind began to dwindle sometime before dawn. Raisa awoke to the sudden quiet and the realization that Edon Byrne was missing. She sat up, shivering, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands. Byrne’s blankets were rolled and tied, and a pot of tea steamed over the rekindled fire. A breakfast of more bread and cheese was laid out just outside the fire ring. The message was obvious: Byrne meant to make an early start.
Raisa stood and stretched, gingerly massaging her hip bones and backside. She had too little padding to enjoy sleeping on the ground. Unwinding the linen from around her neck, she scraped the poultice free, hoping Byrne wouldn’t insist on replacing it. She ate quickly, washing the dry breakfast down with tea, then began layering on clothing. Her socks and gloves were dry, but stiff and uncomfortable.
When she stepped outside, carrying their remaining gear, she was confronted with one of those transformations that are common in the mountains. Stars glittered over the peaks to the west. Where the thick pines blocked the wind, the ground was covered with a thick layer of new snow, pristine and virginal, in some places drifted higher than Raisa’s head. More exposed areas were scoured clean, with the wind still teasing the snow free and spinning it off into the darkness. Although it was still dark and very cold, the coming day promised to be a fair one.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” Raisa spun around. It was Byrne, leading their horses, both already saddled. Switcher was fighting the bit, ears laid back, protesting the early start. “We can hope our assailants are sleeping in, but I think it wise to travel as far as we can under cover of darkness.”
Raisa nodded. She stroked the mare’s neck, making soothing noises, examining the gash in the beast’s shoulder. Byrne was right: it looked superficial. Strapping her bedroll and saddlebags behind her saddle, she swung up onto Switcher’s back, every muscle screaming a protest.
It was slow going. This climb to the pass would have been difficult in good weather with fresh mounts. The footing was treacherous, with hazards and obstacles concealed by the drifts. At times they waded through snow that reached the horses’ chests. Where space permitted, they left the trail and walked under the trees to either side. The snow wasn’t as deep in the forest, and they would be less visible to anyone who might be watching from a distance. But once the sun spilled over the eastern escarpment, Raisa felt terribly exposed: a dark insect climbing a white wall of snow.
At least they had a clear view of their back trail. Raisa couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to see a crowd of riders coming fast. But she and Byrne climbed all morning with no sign of pursuit, and Raisa relaxed fractionally. If they could reach Marisa Pines Camp, the clans could provide an escort the rest of the way.
They took their midday meal in the saddle, dismounting only to walk beside the horses where it was steepest, to rest them a bit. The sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky, kindling the ice that coated rock and pine branches. When they were still several miles below the notch, Byrne turned aside into a copse of trees. Raisa followed automatically, reining in when he did.
“Here’s where it gets dangerous,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Raisa looked about, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the gloom under the pines. Here and there, glittering shafts of sunlight penetrated all the way to the ground. Switcher dropped her head and nibbled hopefully at the pine branches within reach.
“There are many ways to get to the pass, but only one way through. And no cover for the last couple of miles, since we’ll be above the tree line.”
Branches stirred above their heads, and snow sifted down. Raisa raked it out of her collar. “They can’t possibly have caught up with us, could they?” Would anyone who was not fleeing for his life have braved the storm so long, or pressed on before daybreak?
“Anything’s possible.”
Raisa waited, and when Byrne did not speak, she said, impatiently, “Well, if they’re coming, it doesn’t do us any good to wait for them here, does it?”
He grinned. “A fair hit, Your Highness. And well deserved.” He paused, as if debating whether to go on. He stroked the gelding’s neck, murmuring soft endearments, then said to Raisa, “You’re different from Queen Marianna, if I may say so.”
“So I’ve been told,” Raisa replied dryly. “Usually in the midst of a scolding.”
“Meaning no disrespect to your mother, I think it’s a good thing.”
Raisa flinched in surprise. This was most unexpected, coming from a man who was clearly devoted to Marianna. “What do you mean?”
Byrne cleared his throat. “I told you she was frail and beautiful, like maiden’s kiss. You’re more like juniper. You seem to thrive in the worst weather, and I’d guess you’d be impossible to uproot once you’ve set yourself.”
“You’re saying I’m tough, prickly, and stubborn.” She’d heard that often enough, most recently from her teachers at Oden’s Ford.
“Aye, but because you’re small, they’ll underestimate you. And that’s not a bad thing, in these dangerous times. Keep ’em guessing, is my advice, and you’ll survive in the capital.”
Raisa smiled, knowing she was being paid a compliment. “Thank you, Captain. But first, I have to survive the afternoon.”
“Look you, if there’s trouble, you lay down on that horse and ride for the notch and don’t look back. I’ll follow after as soon as I can.”
Right. Just like the rest of the triple.
In response, Raisa set her heels hard in Switcher’s sides. The startled mare tossed her head and stumbled forward, out of the grove of trees and back onto the trail.
The brief winter’s day was failing when they passed the tree line. Long blue shadows extended before them as the sun declined behind the West Wall. Out of cover of the trees, the wind daggered right through Raisa. She leaned forward, as if by doing so she could urge the mare along faster. Byrne took the lead most of the time, breaking trail. On this last long push to the top, they simply made all the speed they could.
As they neared the notch, the snow cover dwindled, scoured away by the relentless wind. The sun plunged behind the West Wall. The stone escarpment flamed momentarily, then night fell with the suddenness of the high country.
Finally, there was no more trail above them, only a long steep slope behind them. On either side, great granite slabs framed Marisa Pines Pass. At its narrowest, it was no wider than a horse trail. It was said that, years ago, a small band of Demonai warriors had held a thousand southern soldiers in the pass.
“Wait here,” Byrne ordered. Raisa did as she was told, while Byrne rode on at a quick walk to scout the pass ahead. Raisa shivered, even though the great stones blocked the rising wind. Moments later, Byrne returned, appearing nearly silently out of the gloom. “Come on.”
They rode ahead slowly, single file, through the narrow waist of the pass. Raisa squinted up at the sheer walls on either side, the slice of sky between. Beyond, the way broadened into what would be a lovely alpine meadow in summertime, now hidden under a shroud of snow. The moon was already rising. As it cleared the mountains to the east, the meadow was flooded with a silver brilliance, as cold and pure and unforgiving as any breath of mountain air. She felt the prickle of magic all around her.
They were home.
Somewhere behind her, a wolf howled, its voice raking up gooseflesh on the back of her neck. Ahead and to the right, its packmate answered, its voice a cold, heartless note in the dark.
Raisa’s heart began to hammer.
Byrne was just ahead and to the right, horse and rider a dark silhouette against the shield of the moon. He half turned to face her, as if to inquire what the matter was.
And then she heard it, like a bad memory from the night before, the sound of crossbows, the thwack of bolts hitting home. Byrne’s body shuddered with the impact of multiple blows. The gelding reared nervously, shaking his head, then screamed as he, too, was struck. Byrne clung for an instant like a thistle to his back, then toppled sideways from the saddle.
“BYRNE!” Raisa’s scream reverberated in the small canyon. Heedless of the volleys of arrows that hissed past her and clattered against rock, she spurred Switcher forward to where her captain lay on his back in the snow. Sliding from the saddle, she knelt next to him, lifting his head. His body bristled with shafts, and one transfixed his throat. He tried to speak, but produced only a gush of blood. Lifting one arm, he weakly waved her off. Only the confusion and the wildly plunging horses had saved her thus far.
Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. A gauntleted arm circled her waist and dragged her off her feet, shoving her belly-down across the saddle in front of him. Her captor kept her pinned in place with one arm while he spurred his mount to a gallop.
With the horror of Byrne’s murder and the helpless jouncing against the horse’s back and the kaleidoscopic view of the ground, Raisa nearly lost the contents of her stomach. No! she said furiously to herself. I’ll find a way to make the bastards pay if it’s the last thing I do! She concentrated on that thought, and made what plans she could.
The scent of pine and a reduction in the force of the wind told her they’d reentered the forest. Which side of the pass? she wondered. Her captor slowed his horse to a walk, apparently looking for some landmark. Finally he grunted in satisfaction and turned to the left. Another hundred yards, and he yanked on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. He slid out of the saddle, then dragged Raisa down also, setting her on her feet, but keeping one beefy hand on her shoulder. She swung around to look at him.
She took in the stringy brown hair, the cruel slash of a mouth, the tobacco-spit eyes. He was the same soldier who had gashed Switcher’s shoulder, but this time she recognized him.
Blood of the demon! Raisa thought. Can things get any worse?
One side of his face was puckered and scarred, evidence of a serious burn.
Raisa had been responsible for that.
He was clad in what looked like army-issue winter garb, but there was no signia on it anywhere. A discolored stubble covered the lower half of his face, lorded over by a broken nose.
Raisa knew where and how it had been broken.
Mac Gillen, she thought, and all the hope drained out of her.
She’d last seen Gillen at Southbridge Guardhouse, when she’d rescued members of the Raggers street gang from the dungeons where he’d been torturing them. She was the one who’d smashed a burning torch into his face. The other gang members had beaten him badly, payback for the treatment they’d received at his hands.
His belly cascaded over his sword belt, but Raisa had no illusions. He’d be all muscle underneath. He smelled of horse and sweat and general poor hygiene. He grinned wolfishly, revealing intermittent teeth stained with kafta nut in a jaw swollen and discolored where her boot had connected the night before.
Raisa looked about. They stood in front of a kind of rude cave, created where two slabs of rock leaned together. His horse was an upland breed, shaggy and wiry enough to negotiate mountain trails. Standard issue for the Queen’s Guard.
A dozen wolves sat on their haunches in a semicircle around them, whining uneasily.
Gillen stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. Raisa said nothing, knowing that nothing she said could possibly do her any good.
Finally, Gillen couldn’t stand it any longer. “You wondering why you an’t dead yet, girlie?” he said, scratching his privates.
None of the possibilities that came to mind were appealing. Raisa stood, feet spread slightly apart, and said nothing.
“I’m curious, y’see,” Gillen said. “That’s why I carried you off. I wanted to ask a few questions—just you and me.” He took a step toward her, and she took one back. “We was told the Princess Raisa would be riding through here. But the only girlie that’s come through here is you.” He lifted his hands, palms up, in mock confusion. “The thing is, I know you, but you wasn’t no princess when we met before.”
Raisa shook her head. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “We’ve never met.”
“You sure?” he said, crowding her back toward the entrance to the cave. “Maybe I looked different when you saw me before.”
The gray wolves swarmed in around them, growling and snapping their jaws.
Right. I’m in danger, Raisa thought. Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.
“You sure your name an’t Rebecca? Rebecca, sister to Sarie, the Ragmarket streetrat?” He pressed his palm against his ruined cheek. “The Rebecca what did this to me?”
Raisa continued to back away, shaking her head.
“You know, the girlies don’t like me so well as they did,” Gillen said, “with my face all scarred up like this.”
You couldn’t have been all that charming before, Raisa thought, but didn’t say it aloud.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said. “Surely you can see that.” She’d decided it was best not to be Rebecca just now. The only thing she could do was deny it, and keep denying it.
“You do talk different than before,” Gillen said. He gave her a push, and she stumbled backward, barely keeping her feet. “You’re like a whole different person, know what I mean?”
The wolves set up a chorus of yips.
Raisa glared at them. Either shut up or attack, she thought. Make yourselves useful.
“So what were you doing in Southbridge, Your Highness?” Gillen breathed, his hand closing around her throat. He pushed her back against the rock slab, pinning her. “You go down there to see how the other half lives? You got a soft spot for streetrats, is that it? You one of those blueblood ladies likes to walk on the wild side?”
Raisa pulled at Gillen’s hand, trying to release the pressure. “If I’m like a different person, maybe it’s because I’m not who you think I am.” It wasn’t easy to force her voice past Gillen’s grip on her throat.
Desperately, she sorted through the street moves that Amon had taught her. Gillen’s clothing was heavy enough to deflect some of the body blows she knew. And anything she did, it would have to take him down for good. She’d find no escape or rescue in the middle of the woods. She couldn’t risk making him angrier than he was.
All this thinking took no more than a fraction of a second. Time seemed to have slowed to a creep, as if to stretch out what little remained of her life.
“Our orders are to kill you, Your Highness, but there’s no reason I have to do it right off,” Gillen said, his foul breath washing over her face. “So long as you end up dead, it don’t matter. I think you owe me for what you done, and I’m going to make you pay.”
“Sir. Whoever you are. I am not without resources. If you free me unharmed, my family will make it worth your while,” Raisa said.
Gillen released a loud bray of laughter. “Your family? How do you know they an’t the ones that hired us?” He slammed her head against the rock to emphasize his point.
Stars circled in front of her eyes. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and a bitter, metallic taste swelled in the back of her throat.
“Listen to me. I don’t have much money with me, but if you take me safely home, there’s a reward in it for you. If you kill me, you won’t have a moment’s peace for the rest of your life.”
He laughed. “I know better than to cross the one that hired me,” he said. “I learned my lesson on that. I’ll take my reward here and now.”
“Who hired you?” Raisa asked, thinking maybe he’d actually tell her.
Gillen just shook his head, grinning.
“Well, whoever it was, he won’t be happy when he finds out you killed the wrong person,” Raisa said.
Gillen gazed at her, brows drawn together, and she could see the wheels turning behind the piggy eyes. “I’m gonna take my time on this, know what I mean? I don’t want them others to come and interrupt.” He turned to his horse, dug into his saddlebag, and pulled out a coil of cording.
“Come on.” He shoved her roughly, sending her stumbling toward the cave. Another shove and she was inside, on her hands and knees, the rock and ice on the floor of the cave slicing into her palms. She quickly turned and gathered herself into a crouch. He loomed in the doorway, blotting out what little light there was.
“I’m going to tie you up and come back later,” he said, walking toward her, slapping the coil of cord against his hip. “I want to give you time to think about what’s gonna happen.”
Raisa debated, her thoughts seeming to reverberate inside her skull. There was the unlikely chance she could get free before Gillen returned. There was also a chance she’d freeze to death before he came back.
Freezing to death wasn’t a bad way to die. It seemed preferable to what Gillen had in mind.
But if she allowed herself to be bound up, she’d have given up any chance of fighting free. She was the descendant of Hanalea, the warrior queen. She would not die bound hand and foot in a cave. Or ravished and tortured to death by this traitorous lowlife.
She lifted both hands in appeal. “All…all right. Just don’t hurt me.”
Gillen focused on her left hand, on the heavy gold wolf ring on her forefinger. “Gimme that ring,” he said. “I need something to take back, to prove you’re dead.”
Raisa pulled on the ring, struggling with it. “It’s too tight,” she said. “It won’t come off.”
“We’ll see about that,” Gillen said. “I’ll cut it off if I have to.” His hand snaked out, and he seized her left wrist, yanking at the ring with his right hand.
Raisa straightened her arm, allowing Byrne’s dagger to fall free of her right sleeve. She had to catch it, and she did, gripping the Lady hilt. Gillen was focused on the ring, wrenching at it, swearing.
Raisa rammed the blade through soiled wool and the soft flesh of his belly, up under the rib cage, as far as it would go, until the crosspiece rested against his shirt.
He screeched and let go of her hand. He tried to shove back from her, but she followed, keeping pressure on the blade with both hands now, twisting it with all her strength, knowing she’d have one chance, and one chance only, to deliver a killing stroke. If he survived the first one, she’d live to regret it, but not for very long.
Mac Gillen’s fist slammed into the side of her face and she flew backward, colliding with the stone wall of the cave. She lay there stunned for a few moments, swallowing blood from her bitten tongue, half expecting Gillen to come and finish her. But he didn’t. Finally, she lifted herself upright, propping herself against the wall to keep from falling over.
Gillen still lived, though he probably wouldn’t for long. The sergeant lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the cave, breathing wetly, an expression of sick bewilderment on his face, blood bubbling on his lips. He’d managed to yank out Raisa’s dagger, and it lay next to him, caked with blood and dirt.
She recalled what Cuffs Alister had said a lifetime ago: Next time you go to stab someone, do it quick. Don’t study on it so long.
He’d be proud, she thought. She hadn’t hesitated with the blade, and she’d struck true. Was this progress—that a street killer would be proud of her?
And then she knelt on the floor of the cave and heaved out her midday meal. After, she cleaned out her mouth with a fistful of snow.
That’s all right, she thought. Killing should never come easy, not even for a warrior princess.
Gillen finally lay quiet, his eyes wide and fixed.
Retrieving her dagger, Raisa wiped it clean in the snow at the cave’s entrance. She restored it to its sheath and tucked it into her breeches. She forced herself to search Gillen, hoping for clues or proofs of who’d hired him, but found nothing of consequence. A purse with a few coppers and crowns, and a hip flask—that was it.
It was unlikely he’d be carrying that kind of evidence anyway. What did she expect, a death warrant from the queen her mother? A scribbled note from Gavan Bayar? These were the kinds of orders that were whispered in the dark corners of the world.
Her head pounded and her right eye would no longer open properly. She pressed a fistful of snow against the side of her face, hoping it would reduce the swelling. All the while she tried to ignore the small voice that whispered, What’s the use? You may as well surrender. You are totally alone now, and these hills are filled with your enemies. What was it Byrne had said? Well fed, well mounted, and well armed. And you have a dagger against them.
Recalling Gillen’s concern about being interrupted, she knew she had to go, and quickly. Their trail would be easy enough to follow. Gillen’s comrades might arrive at any moment.
Gillen’s horse waited outside, apparently a well-trained military mount. The gelding rolled his eyes at her approach, but did not protest when she searched through the saddlebags. He was even more cooperative when she fished out an apple and fed it to him, stroking his nose.
Gillen’s gear included a large heavy sword in a scabbard, a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. A bedroll and a canvas tent. One entire saddlebag was packed with trail food, which would prove useful, assuming she lived long enough to get hungry.
She fingered the crossbow. Unlike Byrne’s longbow, it required no great strength to draw it. A memory came back to her: her eight-year-old self trailing Amon to the archery field. She’d refused to leave the butts until he gave her a chance at the crossbow. At first, the quarrels had gone wide of the straw target, but her aim improved quickly. Amon had loaded the first few bolts for her, then shown her how to cock it herself, his patient hands over hers.
On her next name day, her father, Averill, had gifted her with a longbow, made to fit her size and strength. That was her preferred weapon, but her bow had been left in the pass.
Fitting her foot into the weapon’s stirrup, she spanned it, grateful for the muscles her year at Oden’s Ford had built. She clipped the bolt into its channel. She’d have one shot, at least.
Methodically, she adjusted the stirrups to her small frame, wanting to hurry, but making sure she did it right. Leading the gelding alongside a fallen tree, she used the trunk to vault aboard.
A glance at the sky told her that dawn was not far away. By then she needed to get a better fix on her location and find a hiding place. If she weren’t already dead or in the enemy’s hands.