The Lost Realm Page 17

  Sylva rode up, flanking her brother on the other side. She reached out a hand and steadied him, clearly afraid he would fall from his horse.

  “I was here.” Cedric’s eyes were glassy.

  “What?” said Elodie.

  “Becktown. This is Becktown. Part of the Farrier estate. This is where I was . . . where I lost my . . .”

  He teetered in his saddle. He looked as if he was going to be sick.

  “This is all wrong,” said Elodie. “How much longer before we reach Castle Darrand?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sylva. “We’re not exactly galloping along. And with all these stops to show off Father’s power, we’re moving even more slowly. A day. Maybe two.”

  Elodie calculated. The convoy’s first destination—having meandered its way in supposedly glorious fashion through the outlying villages of Ritherlee—was supposed to be the castle of Lady Darrand. Once there, the plan was to make camp for a single night, arraying the Vicerin flags and weapons on the field before their enemy. A show of strength, Lord Vicerin had said.

  A show of stupidity, more like.

  After that—and assuming Lady Darrand didn’t unleash her own army upon them—the convoy would break in two. Sergeant Stown would lead the insulated wagons south to the Icy Wastes, on a mission to defeat the Helkrags and find Elodie’s brother.

  As if that’s going to happen, when Tarlan is far to the north in Isur.

  A thought occurred to Elodie.

  Why Stown? Why didn’t they wait until Captain Leom could lead the convoy? He’s the only one who knows Yalasti and the Icy Wastes.

  Leom had been given chambers in the castle, where he was recovering from a fever brought on by his ordeal. The healers said he would be well in a few days. Surely the mission could have been delayed until then.

  What doesn’t Vicerin want Leom to see?

  Lady Vicerin had stayed behind too, also complaining of sickness. That was less surprising. Elodie couldn’t imagine her giving up even a few days of luxury for a forced march on a muddy road. While Stown led the convoy onward, Captain Gandrell would lead the remainder— which included Lord Vicerin, as well as Cedric, Sylva, and Elodie—to rejoin her at Castle Vicerin.

  Up ahead, a large gray stallion broke formation and trotted back to join them. On its back rode Lord Vicerin.

  “I trust that all is well?” He eyed Cedric with unguarded suspicion.

  Cedric’s face contorted as he straightened his back and sat upright in his saddle. Elodie clenched her fists. She wanted to shout at Lord Vicerin, tell him to leave Cedric alone. But if she gave him any cause to suspect her loyalties, she would be unmasked.

  “I have been wondering,” Lord Vicerin went on. He opened his arms, taking in the tremendous length of the army convoy. “Which unit is it that you plan to join?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Father.”

  Elodie’s heart went cold. Surely Lord Vicerin didn’t expect his son to go all the way to the Icy Wastes? The lad could barely stay on his horse, let alone carry a weapon.

  “Come, come,” said Lord Vicerin. “There are so many to choose from.”

  Cedric stared dumbly at the line of marching men and horses. He looked lost and afraid. Elodie followed his gaze, for the first time fully appreciating the enormous scale of this operation.

  How many soldiers can be left at the castle? Surely no more than a handful.

  Then a thrilling realization came to her. Castle Vicerin was practically unguarded.

  This is my chance. . . .

  “Sylva?” she said, pitching her voice loud enough to override Lord Vicerin’s blather. At the same time she slipped her feet out of her stirrups. “I don’t . . . I don’t feel very . . .”

  With a theatrical groan, she allowed herself to slither from her saddle. The muddy ground rushed up toward her. She resisted the urge to stiffen her body against the coming blow.

  This is going to hurt!

  It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. She landed on her side in a puddle, the impact knocking all the breath from her lungs. Filthy water splashed over her, splattering her face and ruining her fine silk riding breeches.

  “Elodie!” Sylva was off her horse in an instant. She knelt in the mud and pressed her hands to Elodie’s face. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Elodie moaned, but didn’t open her eyes. She kept her body limp.

  More voices joined Sylva’s. The commotion grew around her. Elodie kept her eyes shut.

  “Give the girl room to breathe.” That was Captain Gandrell, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  “Elodie . . .” said a thin, plaintive voice that could only belong to Cedric.

  Wait . . . wait . . .

  “Will none of you imbeciles help my daughter?” Lord Vicerin’s reedy cry cut through the babble.

  Fluttering her eyelashes, Elodie lifted her head out of the mud and made a feeble attempt to stand. Sylva’s hands, strong and comforting, held her down.

  “Wait for the dizziness to pass,” she said.

  Elodie stared at the circle of faces gazing down at her, their expressions ranging from concern to fear. She found Lord Vicerin’s. The rain had washed most of the powder from his cheeks; the skin beneath was so pale it was practically white.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “It was seeing all those bodies. I just . . . I couldn’t bear it.”

  Lord Vicerin produced a fan shaped like a butterfly and wafted it in Elodie’s face. The flimsy thing only succeeded in spraying her with raindrops, but Elodie endured it without protest. As he fanned, he frowned up at the sky. The sun, making a brief appearance through the rain clouds, was beginning to sink toward the west.

  “We must get you to shelter, my dear. Do you think you can ride?”

  “I think so. It’s just . . .” Elodie crumpled her face and pretended to cry. With all this rain, nobody will spot that there aren’t any tears.

  “I don’t think I can go on. I can’t face any more of this . . . this awfulness.”

  Peeking out through half-closed lids, she noted Lord Vicerin’s brief show of frustration before he assembled his features into a mask of concern. Then, finally, he said the words she’d been waiting to hear.

  “Then you must go back to the castle, my dear. An escort will accompany you, of course.”

  “Will you come with me, Father?”

  “Alas, I cannot. I am sworn to accompany my men as far as Castle Darrand. The stand we will make there is vital to morale. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course.” Elodie faked more sobs. “But surely you won’t just surround me with soldiers? I need friendly faces too. And f-f-family.”

  Lord Vicerin’s expression softened. “Of course, my dear. Sylva will go with you.”

  Sylva, still kneeling at Elodie’s side, smiled warmly.

  “And Cedric!” Elodie blurted.

  “Cedric?”

  “Of course,” said Sylva. “Who better to protect us?”

  Oh, Sylva! That’s clever!

  Lord Vicerin’s eyes narrowed as he considered this.

  “Very well,” he said curtly. He turned to Cedric. “This is no easy ride, boy. Protect your sisters.”

  “I will do my duty, Father.”

  To Elodie’s delight, for the first time since his return, Cedric was able to meet his father’s eye.

  The arrangements were swiftly made. Lord Vicerin personally selected twelve horsemen from one of the cavalry regiments, and assigned Captain Gandrell to lead them. As they made ready to depart, Elodie continued to feign wooziness, faltering as she climbed back into Huntress’s saddle, and making a show of rubbing her head at regular intervals.

  “Are you all right?” said Sylva.

  “I’m feeling a lot better,” Elodie replied. “Cedric—close your eyes.”

  “What?” He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Close your eyes,” she repeated gently. “Then you won’t have to see the war. I’ll ride beside you and guide your hor
se. That way it will look as if you are guiding me.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  He smiled at her, seeming so surprised to be shown kindness that it was all she could do not to cry.

  Trotting back along the muddy road, with Captain Gandrell leading, six soldiers ahead and six at the rear, they soon left the convoy behind. As they retraced their steps, the clouds thinned and the sun reappeared, bathing their faces in orange light.

  “That feels good,” said Elodie. She closed her eyes and drank in the warmth.

  “You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,” said Sylva. Seeing the knowing smile on her face, Elodie couldn’t help but smile herself. “You did it for Cedric, didn’t you? Thank you for protecting him.”

  Elodie turned her face back to the sun. What Sylva said was true. But there was so much more to her plan than that.

  Sylva sighed. “I just wish we didn’t have to spend another night on the road.”

  Elodie felt the same. It had taken the convoy two days to reach Becktown by way of winding village tracks. Even if they rode at a steady trot—and took the more direct South Dale road—they wouldn’t reach Castle Vicerin before sundown the following day.

  But who needs to trot?

  Her smile widened into a grin. “Are your stirrups tight? And yours, Cedric?”

  They both nodded, looking a little bemused.

  “Then we won’t be camping tonight! Hie, Huntress! Hie!”

  Elodie spurred her horse first to a canter, then a smooth gallop. After a brief pause, Sylva and Cedric followed suit.

  They left the rear guard standing and were soon speeding toward Captain Gandrell and the front-runners.

  “Princess Elodie!” Gandrell called, but it was too late—they were already past, riding free and clear on the road to the castle.

  The wind ruffled Elodie’s short hair. For the first time, she wished she hadn’t cut it off. How wonderful it would be to feel her red-gold locks streaming behind her like a pennant.

  When I’m queen, I’ll wear my hair long again. When I’m queen, and not before.

  The soldiers soon caught up with them. Riding hard, Captain Gandrell drew alongside Elodie. His gaunt face turned toward hers. Was that the ghost of a smile on his thin lips?

  “Are you determined to wear out the horses, Princess?”

  “I’m determined to get home, Captain Gandrell.”

  “I see you are. Will you let me lead?”

  “Just as long as you don’t get in my way.”

  “Never, my lady.”

  And so they rode, sixteen horses galloping into the setting sun, pounding the mud to slush and slowing for neither the rise of a hill nor bends in the road. As the afternoon melted into evening, the rain returned, and Elodie rejoiced at the lash of the water on her face and the bite of the wind, because it reminded her that she was alive.

  It was dark by the time they reached the castle. Huntress’s black coat was flecked with foam, and she was breathing hard.

  “Thank you,” Elodie whispered, patting the horse’s neck.

  They slowed to a trot and passed through the gate, where Elodie spotted Samial. He was loitering in the light of a torch near the doorway that led from the stable yard into the castle, just as if he’d known they were coming.

  Elodie reined Huntress to a halt, swung her leg over the saddle, and dismounted. She wanted to run over to Samial and let him know why they were back so soon, but she forced herself to be patient. Captain Gandrell mustn’t suspect anything.

  The captain leaped down from his own mount. “My men will take care of the horses. I will summon a guard to accompany you to your room.”

  “I’ll probably be in my room before the guard gets here. All I want is my bed.”

  “Very well. Be sure to go straight there.” Gandrell’s mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. “Please.”

  If only Lord Vicerin was as easy to manipulate as you, Captain Gandrell.

  “I’ll go with her,” said Sylva, preparing to dismount.

  “No,” said Elodie. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  She walked briskly, but not too briskly, toward Samial. Now that she was here, every moment counted, because there was really only one reason she’d forced them to ride so hard.

  Hold on, Fessan. I’m coming.

  With most of the soldiers gone, this was her best chance of freeing him.

  “We need a rescue plan,” Elodie whispered as she and Samial went through the doorway. “Is he still in the water cell?”

  But Samial didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring intently into the shadows at the end of the passageway.

  “Samial, did you hear what I said? Is Fessan—”

  “Elodie! Run!”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement. The shadows unfolded, became the figure of a man, rushing at her. The man gripped her shoulder and spun her around. Something cold and thin touched her bare neck . . . then bit into it.

  The pain was sudden and immense. It was as if a line of fire had been drawn across her throat and was now burning into it. Elodie tried to scream, but no sound came out.

  Strangled! I’m being strangled!

  She threw up her arms, trying to grab at the head of the man who was throttling her. Her fingers failed to grip his coarse, short hair.

  Is this how Palenie felt, when Rotho strangled her to death in the Trident camp?

  “Hold on, Elodie!”

  Then the thing around her slackened. Pain still seared her neck, but suddenly she could breathe again.

  “Witchcraft?” said the man who’d been trying to kill her. His voice was thick and gruff and full of surprise. “What is this?”

  Drawing in agonized, rasping breaths, Elodie managed to turn in her attacker’s grip. Samial was there, right behind her, his grimy fingers sunk deep into the would-be assassin’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged.

  Then the noose tightened again, and Elodie felt herself slipping into a faint. Perhaps into death.

  The knife!

  She reached clumsily beneath her cloak. For a moment she thought it was gone. Then she had it: the ornate dagger Lord Vicerin had given her. Her fingers tightened on the hilt and she pulled it from its scabbard. She slashed blindly behind her, stabbing three times before she finally felt the blade sink into flesh. The man howled, his cry cut off by Samial’s hands, and the pressure of the noose went away completely.

  Clutching at her burning throat, Elodie finally managed to break free. She staggered back down the passageway, only to see Samial thrown against the wall. He slid down it, his eyelids flickering.

  The man—a white-faced hulk dressed all in black—looked briefly puzzled as he tried to determine who had attacked him. Then he lunged for Elodie and tried to grapple the dagger from her hand.

  As his large fingers closed around her wrist, she finally found the scream she’d been looking for.

  The first to reach her was Cedric. He hurled himself at her attacker. Even as he shouldered the man aside, Captain Gandrell and two of his soldiers fell upon him, dragged him out into the courtyard, and wrestled him to the ground.

  Breathing hard, Cedric put his left hand—his only hand—gently on Elodie’s shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  Elodie tried to speak, but all she could manage was a wordless croak.

  Sylva appeared behind Cedric, her normally rosy complexion turned to the color of chalk.

  “Elodie!” She slipped her arm around her waist and hugged her tight. To Elodie’s relief, Samial had picked himself up and stood close by, his eyes still wide with shock.

  Then Captain Gandrell was there.

  “He will be taken to the dungeon,” he said, his face more skeletal than ever. “Do you know him, Princess? Is he one of that wretched Trident rabble?”

  If not for the pain in her throat, Elodie would have informed him that Trident wasn’t a rabble, and that the people he called wretched were her friends. Perhaps it was as w
ell she couldn’t speak. Instead she just shrugged.

  “I don’t think this had anything to do with Trident.” Cedric had bent to the ground to pick something up. “Look at this.”

  Dangling from his fingers was a long strip of leather, thinner than rope, thicker than wire. Each end was capped with a curved handgrip that looked like ivory.

  Elodie shuddered. She’d seen a weapon like this before. Rotho had used an identical leather strip to strangle Palenie.

  “I know what this is,” Cedric went on. “It’s a garrote from Galadron. You can tell by the grips—they’re carved from sea-wolf tusks.”

  The leather garrote swung hypnotically back and forth in Cedric’s fingers. Elodie watched it sway, fascinated and repulsed by the thing that had almost killed her.

  Galadron. The desert land where the sun never sleeps.

  It was a phrase she remembered from her lessons. Galadron lay far to the west of Toronia, on the other side of the ocean. Its heartland was said to be a scorching wasteland of white sand, a place of death and strange magic. Yet its coast was green and fertile, home to many large cities.

  This man from Galadron had clearly also seen the empty castle as his opportunity to strike. But why were the Galadronians so intent on assassinating one of the heirs to the throne of Toronia?

  Elodie could think of only one reason.

  Invasion.

  CHAPTER 16

  I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

  Tarlan kicked at the smooth surface of the stone platform in frustration, then dropped to his knees. He peered down into the water, willing Melchior to move.

  But the wizard remained just as he had for the past few days: stiff and immobile. No breath lifted his chest. His spine was bent backward, his arms were thrust out, his fingers were clawed. His mouth was drawn down in what might have been pain or dread or both. He looked like a man undergoing the worst torture imaginable.

  Sometimes, in the wastes of Yalasti, Tarlan had come across animals frozen in the ice. In what passed for the Yalasti summer, a sudden thaw might occasionally create a flash flood that cascaded down the mountain slopes, washing away any unwary creatures caught in its path.

  Tarlan remembered a particular hunting trip he’d taken from Mirith’s cave. He’d rounded a corner and there it was: a sinuous ice snake of frozen floodwaters, standing twice his height and extending far out of sight both up the mountain and down. Inside its glassy, blue-white confines was a black mountain bear, locked inside forever.