The grass parted for him, Amber’s trail plain as if painted in red. He constantly scanned the dim horizon for any signs of Torina. In two hours, he was rewarded with sight of a persistent runnel in the grass ahead. Soon the runnel produced hoof-beats, and there was Amber, tossing his golden head, neighing to the mare.
Beron frowned. Why had she allowed Amber to escape? Did she fall asleep, slip off his back? Eric said she left at daybreak. She must have ridden hard, without stopping, to come so far.
He tried to catch the stallion’s bridle, but the horse would not allow it. Amber was known for being particular. After fruitless attempts, Beron decided to waste no more time. The horse was almost as valuable as the princess, but would doubtless find his own way home.
As hours passed and the afternoon edged towards evening, Beron was puzzled. Amber’s trail was plain. But how had she come so far? Unless Eric lied about the time! Perhaps he knew it was she! That would explain things.
Beron picked up his pace, not wanting to come to the end of the day without finding her. That would give her a chance.
Grey twilight found him at the banks of a stream in the foothills, sodden and bad-tempered. Rain was washing away Amber’s tracks, but he could still see them by the stream. There they stopped and turned back.
Beron nosed about in the gathering darkness, the brim of his hat dripping with rain. Nothing. Frustrated, he splashed across the water and found a scattering of muddy prints and a depression in the ground. He ran up and down the stream-bed where the tracks disappeared, cursing. As true night fell, he coaxed a fire to burn and pitched his tent, plotting vengeance on Eric.
* * *
Torina lay in the crook of a tree hanging over the water. She had made a tortuous trek; wading till her feet were numb and raw, then climbing up an overhanging branch and warming her toes by blowing on them, rubbing them, wrapping them. Then down again into the cold, cold water, pushing on, her lips tight, chin stiff, blankets heavy with rain. Up to some sheltering tree, teeth chattering, blowing, rubbing, wrapping. So the day went, and at last she could stand no more. She climbed into another huge willow. The tree must have stood for centuries. Its twisted branches welcomed the hungry, soaked princess.
She had walked all day and never touched a foot to the banks. She believed her trail was invisible but could not celebrate.
Three days later, Beron stood before Vesputo, his clothes a mass of mud, face beaded with sweat. Vesputo’s handsome face was grim. ‘Well, Captain?’
Beron licked his lips. ‘Sir, her tracks disappeared by a stream bank across the plains, in the first foothills.’
‘Did you follow the stream?’
‘I looked on both banks for a distance of ten miles, and found nothing. No footprints. No hairs of her head.’
‘Signs of struggle?’
‘None, sir. No blood, no bones, no marks of being dragged, not even rearranged ground; but then, it rained.’
Vesputo frowned. ‘Do you believe she’s alive?’
‘My lord, if I hadn’t seen it myself, I would say it was impossible. If a man came to me with the tale I have for you, I’d send him away and curse him.’
Vesputo smiled his chilly smile. ‘Ah, Captain. But I believe you’re neither a fool nor a liar. She’s simply cleverer than we knew.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Without help, she must soon starve or freeze. You’re certain she travelled alone?’
‘Yes, sir. However, I met Amber on the second day of tracking her. And sir, when I followed his tracks they ended in the foothills. Eric must have lied about the time.’
Vesputo stood on the lookout set atop the high rocky outcropping and took in the wide sweep of valley below. Far away, the formidable outline of the Cheldan Mountains cut the sky. Vesputo had never been across those mountains; his campaigns always waged north or south. King Ardesen, ruler of Desante, had kept an uneasy truce with Kareed. A messenger had been sent to him reporting Kareed’s death. The man returned with Ardesen’s condolences. He spoke of the journey as treacherous.
Could Torina cross the mountains at the edge of winter, and live? What would she tell the soldiers guarding the borders? She’d look an odd figure indeed, with cropped red hair, dressed in a silk dress, probably wrapped in stable blankets. Vesputo chewed his lip in agitation. Beron had followed orders too closely, returning when he lost her trail. Now they must trust to cold, damp and hunger to finish her.
Gravel crunched behind him. Beron led Eric up the path. Eric’s hands were tied behind his back, but his step was firm and strong, as though his legs refused disgrace. The clear, dark eyes were circled with fatigue.
Vesputo waited till the other two were next to him. ‘Look out across that plain, Eric,’ he said, ‘and tell me how a horse taken close to dawn could travel to the foothills and back again by next day?’
A muscle in Eric’s face twitched. ‘So far?’
‘You lied about the time the horse was taken. Why?’
‘I – I. . .’
‘How long did you know the Princess Torina?’
‘All her life.’
‘She may be on the point of death.’ Vesputo smiled tightly, watching.
‘Y-your wife is ill?’
‘My wife is in the best of health.’ Vesputo made a broad gesture towards the plain. ‘But Torina, out there alone, without food or warm clothes . . .’
The young man’s face paled.
‘Yes, she rode due east. Come, Eric, you’re too wise a soldier to give away my most valuable horse to a lady at dawn, even if she mentions the name of her king. But a wild-eyed princess in late evening, ah now . . .’
He was surprised to see Eric straighten, the colour rushing to his face. ‘You haven’t captured her then! But who did you marry?’
Vesputo ignored the question. ‘Did she convince you with her babble? Enough to forget that your first duty is to the king you serve?’
Eric took a deep breath, looking out across the valley.
‘The king I serve is dead. You are not my king. And all your power wasn’t enough to stop Torina. I serve her.’
Vesputo drew his sword. It whistled loudly, stopping Eric’s words. Eric twisted, crumpled, fell. Beron’s mouth hung open, his eyes glistening. Vesputo guessed his feelings. It was hard, sometimes, to see the death of an old enemy. Hadn’t Beron and Eric been rivals since they were boys? Ah, that was much more personal than a stranger picked out in battle.
Vesputo cleaned his sword. ‘See he gets honourable burial,’ he said. ‘Died doing his duty.’
Irene shifted her weight, admiring the exquisite soft lace of her gown. How fine it was! She curled a finger inside her short hair. How long would it take to grow? She smiled at Vesputo, then pouted. ‘When is Torina coming so I can go out again?’
He gave her a long look. Her scalp prickled.
‘Where is the cap with Torina’s hair?’ he asked.
‘In the cupboard. I can’t bear looking at it. It reminds me she cut mine off.’
‘Put it on, my dear.’ How cold his voice sounded!
‘Are we going out?’
‘Put it on, and I’ll tell you.’
Irene opened the cupboard. There sat the cap with Torina’s braid pinned to it. How Irene wished she dared burn it. Reluctantly, she picked it up between finger and thumb.
‘Unbraid it, my love.’
Irene loosed the ribbon, and the lustrous richness of another woman’s hair spilled into her lap.
‘Wear it,’ Vesputo said.
She put the hated thing on her head, fussing with the fit until it was snug. Vesputo helped her tuck away every strand of blonde, but left the veil up.
‘Are we going out?’ she asked again.
Strong arms went round her. ‘Sorry, darling. All I need is a body.’
She was melting into him, but her back stiffened at his words. ‘A body?’
‘Sh-sh.’
She felt a rending pain as his dagger slid between her ribs. He wa
s letting her go, she was falling backwards onto the bed, her vision filled with the red stain that ruined her dress. Astounded by her bodily agony, she wanted to hurt him back, to see his calm change to fear. From a distance, she heard a roar coming towards her. She must speak before the roar silenced her. She tried to see his face, but it was blurring. Everything glazed over and fell dark.
Chapter Nine
Queen Dreea sat in a chair near the wall of her bedroom. Thick, dark curtains were drawn across the windows, making the air dim and gloomy. She stared ahead with an empty look, trying to find her way through the fog in her mind.
Someone had spoken to her. She knew who it was, but couldn’t think of his name. A handsome, dark-haired man, very familiar. She rubbed her tired eyes. Her arms felt heavy, as though lead had been sewed into her sleeves.
‘Sorry, sir. What did you tell me?’
‘My queen, I’m sorry to be the one to give you such news.’
‘What’s the matter with me? Send for a doctor,’ she said. Her voice sounded far away.
‘Certainly, my queen. In time.’
‘Something is wrong with me . . . Who are you? This room is so dark.’
‘Madam, I bring you news.’
‘Where is my daughter? Why does Torina keep me away? I love her.’
‘Torina is dead. She died yesterday.’
‘I don’t understand you. What did you say?’
The man turned to a shadow behind him and murmured to it. The shadow mumbled back.
She was missing something, something that gave her peace.
‘Have you brought my goblet?’ It was a terrible effort to speak.
The men were still muttering together. She heard them say ‘doctor’. The shadow shook its head. The dark-haired man stood.
‘The funeral is tomorrow. Make her ready for it. She must be there.’ He faded away.
The shadow moved forward, grabbed her face, looked into her eyes and mouth. Then he too disappeared.
Dreea was alone. She tried to get up and move to the bed. The room spun sickly. She held on to the chair, waiting for the world to right itself. It took a long time. As she stood, her legs trembled. She leaned against the wall. Her hand felt soft drapes. She tugged on them for support. A shaft of brilliant light shot out, stabbing her eyes. A window. Dreea buried her face in the drapes to escape the excruciating light.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait for your eyes.’
Gradually, her pupils accepted the day. She opened the curtains a little farther, leaning on the sill. The exertion made her sweat.
She made her way to the bed, shivering violently. She crawled between the covers, overpowered with anguish.
The shadow came in, carrying a goblet. He leaned over her, prying open her chattering teeth. He was poised to pour it down her throat. But it smelled bitter . . . no; it should not be bitter and dark. It should be sweet and cherry-coloured. Dreea knocked the goblet from his hand. Sweat soaked her gown.
She tried to sit up. Her body would not obey. He lifted her, gave her a glass. Water; she gulped it, still pouring sweat. She asked for more and he gave her more. Her stomach churned and heaved, expelling its contents. When the fit of sickness passed, he stowed her in a chair propped with pillows. He cleaned the bed.
Dreea felt more exhausted than she had believed possible, but her hazy head was clearing. Something inside told her to conceal this from the man who now lifted her into bed again. Her forehead throbbed. The man paced beside her for a while, then put a hand on her damp forehead. At last, she heard him leave.
What sickness was this? Had she been poisoned? Her dear Kareed was poisoned.
She tried to remember. Thick mist swallowed her recollections. Kareed had been killed. And she hadn’t seen her daughter. Torina stayed locked in her room, and Vesputo . . . Vesputo said they must not disturb her.
Why had she listened to him? She was Torina’s mother. She knew her child. Torina needed her.
I must go to her.
Dreea sat up, but lacked the strength to stand. Where was Mirandae? The queen called faintly. Why was no one there? The man who tended her, who was he? Where had she seen him before? For he was familiar. He’d been in her room many times, felt her pulse and looked at her tongue. Sometimes given her drinks to help her sleep. Was he a doctor?
‘Drinks to help me sleep,’ she said aloud. An image floated through her mind, a silver goblet on a silver tray. A pretty woman bending over her.
He had left the water pitcher. Arduously, she poured for herself, crying at her weakness. She tried to recall when it had started, how it had started.
Torina struggled against a heavy wind, her desperately cold hands wound inside the blanket she clutched round her body. She tried to hear the sounds of her own life, her ragged breathing and shuffling footsteps, but the wind overpowered them. Cracked lips raised to the freezing snow as she prayed ceaselessly for strength to gain the summit. She knew it was close, for nothing grew here, nothing but rocks, snow and wind.
In this wild desolation, she lost all fear of pursuit and travelled the open pathway, the only one. Here, sharp stones were worn down into a semblance of a trail. The track seemed to tell her this crossing was possible; others had gone before her.
Weariness dragged at her, a cloying imperative companion she longed to send away, one who tried to shout down her inner voice, tie up her spirit; who promised peace and comfort if only she would stop. The wind seemed to be Vesputo pushing her back. She fought him with all her will, ignoring the demands of fatigue.
There it was; the endless view that proclaimed her triumph. She was at the top. Below, the welcome rim of trees, seemingly close. Not too far away, a garrison post, wedged into the edge of the trees. Beyond that, valleys. She could even see distant cultivated fields, and a wide swathe of blue sky.
Torina began the descent, sparing gratitude that, in Archeld, shoes for stable-hands were made thick and strong, for she knew it was time to leave the path again. If she stayed on the trail, they’d find her. She climbed over boulders and slid on the crunching slag, aiming herself at the tree line, sure that if she could get out of the wind, she’d win those far and beautiful fields.
It was evening. Three more times Dreea’s body had sent her through a racking spate of shivering and nausea. The same man gave her water and tried to get her to drink the bitter brew. She couldn’t keep it down. He cleaned the bed each time, saying nothing.
Her body craved something.
When Vesputo appeared with the other man, she knew his name. Her wits were clearing.
She trembled with desire when she saw the goblet resting on its silver tray. Her nerves clamoured with raw longing as the man brought it near. It smelled right, not bitter. The man smiled at her.
‘Better, my queen?’ His tone was deferential, not fooling her.
She doubted he knew she remembered anything. The inner prompting guided her to pretend. ‘Better, thank you. What was the matter with me?’
‘A sickness.’
‘Thank you for bringing my cordial.’ Her hands shook with the wish to drink it. ‘Vesputo, where is Mirandae?’
A small frown appeared on Vesputo’s forehead, and disappeared like a wrinkle smoothed by a hot iron. ‘Mirandae has been with her dying mother these last two months, my queen.’
‘Why don’t I remember?’ Dreea rubbed her eyes. ‘So tired. I need to sleep.’
‘Madam, there is news I must tell you.’
‘Please, Vesputo. It can wait till morning.’
‘Madam, do you remember that Torina and I were married several days ago?’
‘M-Married?’ She shook her head stupidly. ‘No, Vesputo. How could I remember something . . . I knew nothing about?’
‘Ah, my queen, your illness is at fault. You were told, of course. Torina particularly wanted you to be there.’
‘She’s better then? She’ll see me now?’ Dreea’s heart fluttered and leaped.
‘No, my queen. She is past seeing.’
‘P-Past seeing?’
Vesputo sat in a chair beside the bed and took her hands. ‘She died yesterday, by her own hand. She never recovered from her grief.’
‘D-Died? Impossible! She would not!’
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘It isn’t true! I know my daughter. She would never – never leave without saying goodbye.’ Dreea yanked her hands away from him.
She stared at Vesputo. Looking at his familiar face, she felt as though she saw him for the first time. He was a monster, not a man. He was lying, lying, lying. Torina was not dead.
From a deep, strong cavern in her heart, something told her what to do. She must say nothing to these men. They were the enemy. Dreea made herself stare glassily at them.
‘I know this must be hard for you,’ Vesputo said.
She didn’t answer.
‘The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. You will want to be there.’
Dreea didn’t miss the command concealed in his oily words. She nodded.
‘Leave me, please,’ she told them. ‘And send me a woman tomorrow, to help me bathe and dress. I need more water. I have a dreadful thirst.’ Vesputo bowed.
They left. Dreea looked at the goblet, still sitting there, enticing her. She clenched her fists till her nails drew blood. She felt drawn inexorably to the sweet, delicious drink beside her.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’
Drenched in sweat, she swung her legs to the floor and stood. The room spun. She waited for it to pass. She picked up the goblet.
‘Only one drop. Just a sip,’ she pleaded with herself. ‘One sip won’t do me any harm.’
Panting and swaying, she staggered to the hearth. She threw the contents of the goblet into the fire. It steamed and hissed.
‘No more,’ she groaned, stumbling to the bed. She replaced the goblet on its tray.
The shadow man returned with a pitcher of water. She saw his eyes register the empty goblet.
‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ he asked, as if it were a normal evening.