In the fields, Madia saw families busy with the early harvest; men scything hay, women and children laying it out to dry or bundling that which the sun had already finished with. She saw people along the riverbank, bathing, washing their clothing, watering their livestock or fetching a bucketful. The waters flowed slowly south to Kamrit—welcome there, she thought, as she no longer was. Even the simplest peasant was welcome on his lord's manor, unless he'd committed the most terrible crimes. . . .
The truth of the matter was still almost impossible for her to accept, and yet here she was.
She kept walking, the sun high above her now. She watched women coming from a small manor house on a hill to the west, carrying pots of ale for the midday break. She had never observed such goings-on in detail before—never more than a passing glance from behind the king's swift horses. To Madia, the life of a serf seemed such a quaint and simple one, days filled with decent, productive work and plenty of the lord's ale, evenings filled with family and village conversations, and a good deal more ale. Of course, she had often heard tell of some lords who were entirely without compassion, those that gave almost nothing to the villagers who bore them on their backs, but surely this was the exception. For most, as far as she had been able to determine, manor life was rather fair.
After all, the majority of barons treated their vassals and serfs reasonably well, awarding them land to grow what they needed to eat and even paying them enough to replace lost livestock. Some dreamed of freedom and saved enough to become freemen one day; perhaps many, she had never made a count. And these were all the dreams such people were capable of, certainly. All that they might require.
As she walked past pastures and small fields of crops she could not bring herself to imagine her own life coming to that. It was, after all, the same work, day after day, the same talk among the village huts each evening. A small existence with little sport or adventure. Though your taste for adventure is what got you into trouble in the first place, she reminded herself. That hunger was fading, but the idea still did excite her in a very real way. For the past two days, she had wondered how she would fare on the road, alone in the world, lost in the land. She did not see the situation as hopeless, having been well educated in spite of herself, and she still had her beauty—something a few men she'd known had valued more than gold. In the proper light, this could be seen as an opportunity for her to discover the world. Surely some wonderful things would happen, and just as surely, if trouble arrived, there would be a gentleman or two more than willing to come to her aid if she asked.
And her father, for all his ridiculous spit and rage, would not forsake her for long. Anna was right about that, Madia thought, I am almost certain of it. Without doubt this whole unfortunate affair was largely theatrics, all the result of an aging king's boyish posturing, of having too little to occupy his time—a king who would calm himself and come to his senses in due time. He had given her gold enough to live on for several weeks, if she spent it well, but no more. So he apparently planned to come for her long before winter spread across the land. She need only get by until then, prove herself somehow—whatever that involved—and then apologize again to His Pompousness like a good little girl when the time came, as it surely would.
The road curved away from the river then, branching off to the east. She kept to the main way, losing sight of the river as the country grew rocky and turned mostly to woodlands. As she walked in shade the air felt cool against her face, a breeze that came through the trees, free of the scent of livestock and cut hay, thick with the smell of moss. Many feared the forest, she knew, superstitious peasants who counted backward and hung garlic about and avoided stepping on each other's shadows—a whole parade of nonsense she had never understood. She had been through many a wood on royal hunts, and it seemed that no real or imagined menace dared so much as come near the king's knights and nobles, or his daughter.
Though, as she looked back and ahead at the road winding through the tall oaks, empty as far as she could see, as she listened to a silence touched only by the sounds of distant birds high in the forest's thick leafy canopy, she began to wonder what might be there, hidden, watching her even now? Who could say what mortal or mythical creatures existed in such deep, dark, silent places—afraid, perhaps, to confront a hunting party, but full of much sterner stuff where a single young girl was concerned?
She quickened her pace and tried to keep her eyes set on the road ahead. She had never been much afraid of anything, and she didn't wish to start now.
The road turned again and rose up onto a knoll cast deep in shade, a place even farther removed from countryside and daylight than the rest of the woods. A small rocky hillside rose beneath the trees to her right, while on the left the edge of the road dropped away several feet into thick brush, then gave way again to the tall dark trees beyond. She began to wonder if she hadn't gone the wrong way back at the fork.
Move on, she thought. Just get to someplace else. A sudden rustling from behind startled her. She turned to find two figures approaching. The boy, a young man really, tall and stout, was staring at her with flat eyes set in a brutish, bone-heavy face; the girl looked about Madia's size and age, and her face made her the young man's sister. They were dressed in very plain shirts and tunics, dirty and worn, made of poor but sturdy linen. Each one wore a dingy white vest, possibly wool, Madia thought, though it was impossible to tell. They carried drawn ax and blade, crude rusted weapons, no doubt scavenged from some long forgotten battlefield, but sturdy enough that Madia knew her short sword would be a poor match.
Madia tried to draw her blade just the same, but the young man moved too quickly, laying his ax against her arm to stop her from bringing it up. The girl came slowly around to the right, extending her sword, and Madia feared she would simply run her through. I may die, she thought, tasting the idea like some new imported dish, finding little appeal. She felt her insides turning hard and cold, felt the blood pounding in her ears as sweat formed on her hands and face. An awful feeling, really, and getting worse. She noticed she was shaking. . . .
"A lady of some sort," the girl said, grinning a drunkard's grin. Madia could smell the ale on them now, overwhelming, and believed they would kill her for certain.
"We'll just see what you have in that purse," the girl said then. She slipped the edge of her sword blade under the leather cord on Madia's pouch and sliced back. The cord split and the bag fell to the ground. Next the girl leaned carefully and grabbed Madia's sword, then pulled it out and threw it down behind her. She sheathed her own sword and scooped up the bag.
"Gold," she said momentarily, plunging her hand into the bag, pulling out some of the coins. She grinned broadly and tossed a gold piece to her friend. He caught it with one hand, but kept his ax at the ready with the other.
"Best we've done in weeks," he said, looking the coin over. "How much have we got?"
"The king will have you killed for this!" Madia said, glaring at them, though she kept very still.
The girl barely glanced up as she rummaged in the bag. "Three handfuls at least," she announced—which Madia took to mean she couldn't count very high. Worthless folk, she decided, though they were experienced enough at robbery. And killing, no doubt.
Madia tried to think of something—any way to call attention to something else and grab the girl's sword, or lie that she had more gold in a pouch under her arm, and then, when the girl got close—but it all sounded so crazy! She knew none of that would work. These people knew what they were about, and she did not.
"Take the whole bag," the brother said, observing the food and change of clothes the girl was lifting out and examining, then putting back.
"And her jacket," the girl said, touching the leather of Madia's sleeve. "Take it off!" she snapped, the smile suddenly gone. And Madia saw a mood in the other's face that made her even more uneasy, a cold ire come to the surface that seemed more animal than human—something Madia knew she could not hope to fight. She tugged her coat off before the girl could force her and handed it over; she felt the cool air touch her as she did. The girl put the coat on, then ran her fingers over the front of it, grinning at the material.
"And see what's that little bit around her neck, too," the boy said, squinting.
The girl looked up and eyed Madia more closely. She stepped near again, then reached out and tugged at the thin gold chain that disappeared into the front of Madia's blouse. When the girl saw the medallion, her eyes went wide. She wrapped a fist around it and worked it up over Madia's head, yanking when it caught on one ear. Madia winced and tipped her head and the chain pulled free.
The girl looked her prize over thoughtfully a moment, then tossed the medallion to her friend. This too he caught in one hand, then held it up to the light. "The king's mark, I'd say."
The girl nodded.
"Gold dip, anyway," the young man added. "Bet she stole this off some other poor bastard!" He broke out laughing as he tossed it back to the girl. She slipped it over her head, centered it on her breast, then they laughed together, the two of them making enough noise that Madia didn't hear the sudden scuffle from the road behind them until her eyes called her to it.
A knight—wearing leather and mail armor, a mail coif over his head, and a surcoat which bore the mark and colors of King Andarys. His face was mostly obscured by the coif as he came near, rushing forward on foot, head down and sword drawn.
Which seemed odd, Madia thought. If her father had sent an escort after her, or someone to bring her back, surely he would have sent them on horseback—and certainly more than one. But if some dishonorable lord or paid knight from Kamrit had ransom or worse on their minds, they might come alone, hoping to catch up to her on the road. . . .
The others turned an instant later. The girl faced the attacker while the boy told Madia not to move. Madia watched the knight pause as he drew near, apparently looking things over, then he came forward again and prepared to strike the girl down. She is dressed like me, Madia realized. He wants to kill me! But the boy stepped up instead and stood before the girl—who seemed to understand. She turned and checked on Madia again. The knight took up with the peasant boy without protest. As the contest began, the other girl's eyes danced with the two men, following every move.
Madia stepped aside and scurried to pick her sword up off the ground. The girl saw the movement quickly enough and thrust her blade out straight ahead. Madia grasped her weapon and blocked the thrust, but felt her own narrow blade nearly give as it took the blow. No match, she thought again.
A few yards away, the knight and the boy traded a flurry of fierce blows, and the boy began falling back almost at once, his actions already purely defensive as he gave up ground. He called to the girl above the clang of steel, and she stepped back from Madia and turned toward him.
"Help me!" the boy yelled, then ducked as the knight's broadsword parted air where his head had been. "Kill the girl and get over here!"
Madia's eyes flashed from side to side—the girl, the two men, the near, inviting brush beside the road and the shadowy woods beyond. The girl glanced at Madia, then back again, taking another look at the two men as she readied herself for action. Madia turned and leaped, trying for a new advantage, but the other girl saw the move and swung hard. Madia pulled her sword back in time to shield herself, but at such an angle, and under such force, she could not hold onto it. The weapon left her hand and fell. She turned and leaped as high as she could, then leaped again.
She landed on her side at the edge of the road and rolled down the bank. Brush and rocks rose up, scratching her face and hands, bruising her back. At the bottom, she jumped up and felt pain lance through her right knee. She ran ahead, made it work anyway. The tall oaks waited there. She glanced over her shoulder as the leafy canopy cast cool shadows all around her. She could barely see the road now. No one followed.
She ran on all the same, stopping finally when she knew she could run no more. The quiet of the forest surrounded her, dark and thick and vast, like sleep. She stood till she caught her breath, until her heart had slowed down a bit. Finally she began to feel the chill of the damp air. Tiny jolts stabbed at her muscles like invisible pins, making them jerk.
You can't stay here, she told herself. Night would come in a few hours, and even the worst idiot knew not to be in the woods at night, at the mercy of animals or bandits or leshy—or worse. She began to recall in greater detail folk stories to do with the forest's penchant for swallowing unwary travelers, without leaving so much as a trace.
She felt an added chill sweep her spine, found herself glancing over her shoulder between tree trunks and seedlings. No doubt the scuffle was over already, the victors proclaimed. She could make her way back toward the road again, keep out of sight in the brush, get just close enough to glimpse the outcome. If the knight had killed the two robbers he might have left her bag, having little need of a few coins and women's clothing. Or the knight may have fallen and been carrying money that a wounded knave would overlook. She could at least attempt to learn who he was.
The combination of fear and curiosity began to overwhelm her. She felt nervous energy forming deep within her bruised and twitching body. Go wide around to the south, she told herself. Approach from the higher ground, where the trees are closer to the road. Get up, she insisted. Quietly!
She felt the bruised knee protest as she put weight on it. When she rubbed at a scratch on her cheek, she came away with blood on her sleeve. Her back ached in at least two places. She thought of her petty concern over the sword bruise on her backside; she wouldn't be anything so pretty to look at now, she guessed, though it didn't seem as important anymore. She started back through the trees toward the road.
"Someone ahead, Captain," the lead rider shouted back. Grear followed his line of sight. Three figures moved about in the road just at the bend. He pulled his horse up and ordered his men left toward the edge of the road, then waited until all five of them had come in line. Without the clamp of hooves and the rustle of battle dress, he could hear the metal ping of clashing sword blades, and he realized what the movement was about.
"Our friend Kaafk said she'd be alone," Grear said, mostly thinking out loud.
The man nearest to him shrugged. "Maybe it isn't her?"
"He did say she might be followed, which would explain at least a part of this mystery."
"If it be her, do we kill them all?"
Grear frowned. He had never taken a job quite like this before: payment in bits and pieces, no clear idea who he was ultimately working for, killing children. The entire arrangement had been conducted by a messenger sent to Ikaydin with a good deal of gold and just enough information—sent specifically to seek Grear out and bring him to southern Ariman. Since his work in the Dokany Wars, he had enjoyed a reputation as a trustworthy assassin, but he hadn't realized his name had come to command such a price!
The order to kill the king's daughter had come from a man who met them near the seaward swamps just south of Bail, a velvet and silk merchant calling himself Kaafk, and someone Grear did not especially care for. The merchant seemed a coldblooded man, even to Grear—a man whose round face and carnival manner very nearly concealed the look of poison Grear recognized in his eyes.
But the order had been accompanied by more gold, and the promise of still more afterward. Then came talk of additional, quite profitable work to come after that.
Grear had his questions, about why he was to report to no one else but Kaafk, about the Bouren surcoats the merchant had given him and his men to wear, and about this strange, somewhat distasteful task of killing the young Princess Madia—all questions he would ask the merchant when he and his men arrived back at Bail.
In the meantime, he had already collected more gold than he had ever imagined, a fortune that would buy himself and his comrades some glorious days in Kopeth while waiting for Kaafk and his purse to return as promised (and many good years afterward). To Grear's mind, that was answer enough for a while.
"Draw swords," he ordered. He heeled the horse forward, riding at a slow gallop until they were almost upon the others. The three were a peasant man and a soldier, King Andarys', at a guess, and with them a young girl wearing a coat of leather and fur and clutching a brown drawstring pouch. The girl and the knight had no doubt been set upon by a robber, or robbers—perhaps the knight and the other man were both opportunists, fighting over who would get to collect a bounty set on the girl's head?
It was difficult to tell who was fighting who, Grear thought, dismounting with a wave at his men to follow. No matter, he thought. The girl matched the description of the princess closely enough.
"Take him!" he shouted, pointing three of his men to the knight, certain that even in Bouren armor those odds would be enough. His other two men lunged at the highwayman, one fending off the young man's fatigued first swing of the ax, the other dodging to the opposite side and swinging his own ax with both hands. The ax ran through the boy's side and ripped out the front, and the boy's body fell almost at once. Grear saw the look in the girl's eyes as she turned toward him, the horror as he approached.
He stepped nearer and she raised her sword to defend herself, anticipating the need to block his attack. She turned her head wildly, searching for the two men circling behind her now, checking on Grear in front of her again. Grear took a stance and nodded, and suddenly advanced. She blocked his blade well enough, then jerked suddenly as the men behind her both thrust their blades into her and withdrew. She crumpled with a gasp beside the boy.
Grear looked over his shoulder. The knight lay dead, bleeding from both his arms and his abdomen. The men had tackled him, held him down and hacked through his mail with their battle-axes. One of Grear's troops had a bleeding gash in the vambrace protecting his arm—it looked as though the knight had cut it deep.
"All right, we're not through with this yet," Grear shouted. "Kaafk wants her to vanish." His men groaned in unison, but said nothing in particular. Grear bent over the girl, noticing the gold medallion she wore around her neck. "It's her all right," he said, nodding, working the chain over her head. He stood looking at the engraving. "We'll bring this, and the bag, to the meeting at Bail. But not until we've dug a quick and proper hole."
Grear put the medallion away, then grabbed one of the girl's arms. Easy money, he thought, and more to come. One of his men grabbed the other arm and together they dragged the body off.
Madia hid in a hollow in the center of a patch of sumac, peering through leaves. On the road she could see a half-dozen mounted men wearing armor and long tunics bearing what appeared to be the crest of Lord Ivran of Bouren. The girl and her brother lay dead on the ground, as did the knight that had come charging up on foot. Madia stayed very still, breathing quietly, watching as the soldiers dragged all three bodies behind thick brush. They dug a single large, shallow hole, pushed the bodies in and covered them up. They worked quickly, checking the road as they did, then they took to their horses again.
When they left she stayed, thinking, waiting for the courage or the inspiration to move again. Madia crouched on the one good knee with both arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Lord Ivran of Bouren had sent his men to kill her!
But why? What would Ivran or his son have to gain by killing me? Unless the rumors were true, and they really did want a war? Unless Lord Ferris was right. . . .
But that did nothing to explain the crazed knight from Kamrit—charging up all alone, obviously prepared to slay anyone in order to get at her. Whoever was he? Whatever was he trying to do?
How many people wanted her dead or captured? How many more? She felt a crushing urge to run home—to her father, to Anna—but they had both already betrayed her, and someone there certainly may have sent the dead knight!
She felt tears in the corners of her eyes and tried not to let them come; she didn't seem to have any choice. After a moment she got the sobbing under control, sniffing it back, and felt a little bit better, though she soon noticed the air growing even colder, or so it seemed.
Time to get moving, she told herself. Already it was beginning to get dark. She scrambled from cover and searched the road for her shoulder bag and sword but found nothing. Then her eyes noticed the light color of something caught on a bush near the path the others had taken to the burial site. She hurried over, knelt and pulled it out: the peasant girl's worn vest. She put it on, ignoring the thick aroma that lingered in its weave. She was a little warmer, she decided.
As she started up the road she heard horses, many of them, approaching from behind. She left the road again and ran until she found another sheltered hollow in the trees and sumac, where she lay down and waited. Eventually the riders passed, perhaps two dozen in all, mounted soldiers from Kamrit. She thought she recognized the lead rider as Captain Tornen, though in the poor light of the setting sun it was difficult to tell.
She nearly cried out to them. Then she thought better of it and kept her mouth shut. When they had gone, she curled up, shivering. She fell asleep watching the moon rise in the sky.