Royce stopped as if he’d been hit.
The crowd had been generally quiet to start with, but with that pronouncement everyone fell silent. Rain pattered on rooftops, on grass, on the wagon, and on the people gathered in a circle. The sky cried at her passing. A silly thought, but at that moment Hadrian didn’t find it so foolish. Dulgath wasn’t like other places. Its differences lay somewhere below the mind’s ability to reason. Ever since he’d arrived, Hadrian had sensed something odd, something different, somehow out of place. As Asher draped a blanket, pulling the wool toward Lady Dulgath’s face, Hadrian felt a deep upwelling of sorrow, as if something profound was ending, something greater than a single life.
Thunder rolled nearer, and lightning flickered behind the thick clouds.
“I’m not dead.”
Asher jerked back, his face going white.
Royce dropped the reins of his horse and lunged forward, shoving his way to the wagon.
“Get me to the abbey, Royce,” Nysa told him. “I’m running out of time.”
“Royce,” Hadrian shouted, “mount up. I’ll hand her to you.”
Royce nodded, grabbed his horse, and leapt up. The crowd scattered as Hadrian lifted Nysa. The pain in his side screamed.
“Clem, Wagner…” Hadrian looked around and spotted the tavern boy.
Fish are good, but Gill’s the best.
“Gill! Help me lift her.”
With the boy’s help, they got Nysa in front of Royce, who cradled her before him.
Scarlett appeared, coming down from the direction of her house on a saddled black horse. “Everyone ready?”
“Scarlett, no,” Hadrian said. “You stay here. They don’t know about you. No one knows you had anything to do with this.”
“I don’t give a damn. She’s…I care for her far more than either of you do, and I won’t stay here—”
“Don’t have time to argue!” Royce snapped.
“Go,” Hadrian told him. “Down to the river. Cross the stone bridge, then just follow the trail uphill to the left. The monastery is at the top of the mountain. I’ll be right behind you.”
Royce nodded, kicked his horse, and trotted down the cobblestone streets, as overhead lightning warned that the storm was coming closer.
Christopher hesitated at the stall of Immaculate, then looked down five gates at Derby, Lady Dulgath’s sleek courser. Immaculate’s, while not an awful horse or a biter, was a durable linen shirt compared with the fine damask doublet that was Derby. Nysa certainly wasn’t going to be using her that evening. Throwing open the chest before Immaculate’s stall, Christopher took his saddle to Lady Dulgath’s horse.
“Where did they go?” Vincent was shouting outside the stable, where a light rain was falling. “Did anyone see?”
A dozen men were in saddles and a dozen more were still working on it. The king himself was mounted after having a breastplate and helm slapped on him. Sir Jacobus had tried to dissuade His Majesty from coming, assuring the king they could take care of things, but Vincent was still fuming, and the rain did nothing to dampen his anger.
“They’re rogues—assassins—hired to kill Lady Dulgath,” Christopher said. “There’ve been rumors for weeks that two men—professionals from the north—were coming to kill her. It’s likely they’re headed for Gath Pass. From there they’ll try to escape by racing north to Rhenydd.”
“Chrissy,” the king snarled. His face was furious red. His horse sensed his mood and spun, tossing his head…ready for the run. “Do be quiet. I need a chance to think.”
“Actually, Sire,” Sir Jacobus said, “I think he may be right. Several witnesses saw the lady placed in a wagon that went that way.”
“If they’re in a wagon, they’ll have to stick to the road,” Sir Dathan pointed out.
Vincent nodded. “If they’re in a wagon, we should catch them before they reach the pass.”
Christopher found his stirrup and swung up on Derby, who jerked sideways and turned around, bending her neck, trying to bite him.
Why do the good horses always try to bite me?
“Best watch out—the last one to do that died,” he told the horse.
He gave Derby a sharp tug on the bit and pulled her head back hard. This caused the horse to back up, which was fine because Knox was behind him. The sheriff had a less-than-triumphant look on his face.
“This is a mess,” he hissed.
“Relax, everything’s fine,” Christopher whispered back. “Just stay close.”
“Everyone”—the king rose in his stirrups—“to me!” With that, he spurred his horse forward and the race began.
With Nysa Dulgath propped between his arms, Royce found the path. Like navigating crowds, he was also good at finding his way. He’d never been lost, not outside at least.
Because I’m elvish.
He looked down at Nysa as if she’d said the words, but her eyes were closed.
Royce had no idea if elves had a better compass than anyone else. Fact was, he didn’t know much about elves. Common knowledge held that they were less intelligent and physically smaller and weaker than men. They were lazy, avoiding work like an intelligent man avoids a bare hilltop in a lightning storm. They were filthy all the time, too. Everyone knew elves hated water. They had ugly pointed ears and sinister slanted eyes. But some generous folk also said they had better hearing and sight than men. Others—shopkeepers, mostly—maintained they were strangely quick and agile, and could steal merchandise right out from under watching eyes. Their agility led to rumors that elves were somehow related to cats. That their god had cursed a family of felines, turning them into abominations. The one thing everybody agreed on was that back in the days of the First Empire, they had been slaves, and freeing them had been as foolish as turning milk cows loose or expecting chickens to fend for themselves.
Royce did have high cheekbones and was fast, agile, and could move quietly. He could see farther than others seemed to be able to, even in near-total darkness. His hearing was also better than that of anyone he knew, but his ears weren’t pointed, and his eyes were like everyone else’s. I’m not completely elvish, Royce qualified, arguing with the voice in his head. A mix maybe, a half-breed of some sort. And he never got lost. Maybe that’s a thing.
Rain battered the leaves. It came down harder, sounding like a fast river or nearby waterfall. The volume of the shower helped muffle the sound of his horse’s hooves as she plodded up the narrow trail. Royce didn’t dare push. The path was uneven, steep, rocky, and growing slick. If she stumbled—if they fell—Royce would never get Nysa back up on the horse, not with his hands the way they were.
Nysa’s head hung limply. He cradled it to his chest, sheltering her face from the raindrops with his hood. Her chin, lips, and the lower half of her cheeks were stained red. As he held her, as he looked into her face, Royce realized she wasn’t breathing.
He touched her neck, feeling for that little pulsing thump that—
“I’m still here,” Nysa said. Her eyes opened slowly and with effort, like jammed wooden windows swollen with humidity.
“Didn’t look like you were breathing.”
She offered him an effort-filled smile. “Thank you for this.” Her voice was sluggish, cracking.
“Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.”
“Strength is fine.” She coughed and spit more blood.
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Just hard to talk. Blood is in my throat.” She coughed again. A dark, almost black line drooled down her chin.
Royce looked behind. No sign of Hadrian.
He should have caught up by now.
“Royce,” Nysa said, her voice clearer. “Do you like me?”
Royce looked at her, surprised at the absurdity of the question, and decided to respond in kind. “Of course not. I always risk my life for people I hate.”
She smiled. “I mean, are you attracted to me?”
In another place and time, and with someone else, Royce would have smirked.