The next day they rode more slowly, for the weather had turned murky. The air had lost its icy feel, but now a thin, sickly mist clung to everything, wrapping around tree trunks and moving over the ground in visible tides. The country was gradually flattening, the woods growing sparser each hour, trees giving way to thick undergrowth. More animals, most of them strange to Kelsea, began to appear: smaller squirrels and drooling, doglike creatures that would have seemed like wolves but that they were docile and fled at the sight of the troop. But they didn’t see a single deer, and when the morning was well over, Kelsea identified another source of her growing uneasiness: not a single note of birdsong.
The guards seemed subdued as well. Kelsea had been awakened several times during the night by the continuous laughter from the campfire and had wondered whether they would ever shut up and go to sleep. Now all of their mirth seemed to have departed with the bright weather. As the day wore on, Kelsea noticed more and more of the guards shooting hunted glances behind them, though she could see nothing but trees.
Near midday, they stopped to water the horses at a small stream that bisected the forest. Carroll pulled out a map and huddled around it with several guards; from the snatches of conversation she overheard, Kelsea gathered that the mist was causing problems, making landmarks difficult to see.
She limped over to a large, flat rock beside the stream. Sitting down was excruciating, her hip muscles seeming to peel away from the bone when she bent her knees. With some maneuvering, she got herself sitting cross-legged, only to find that her bottom was also aching from hours on the saddle.
Elston, the hulking, broad-shouldered guard who had ridden beside Kelsea for much of the journey, followed her to the rock and stationed himself five feet away. When she looked up, he grinned unpleasantly, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. She tried to ignore him and stretched out one of her legs, reaching toward her foot. Her thigh muscles felt as though they were being shredded.
“Sore?” Elston asked her. His teeth gave him difficulty with enunciating; Kelsea had to think for a moment to figure out what he’d meant.
“Not at all.”
“Hell, you can barely move.” He chuckled, then added, “Lady.”
Kelsea reached out and grabbed her toes. Her thigh muscles screamed, and Kelsea felt them as raw flesh, seams that opened and bled inside her body. She held her toes for perhaps five seconds and then released them. When she looked up at Elston again, she found him still smiling his jagged smile. He didn’t say anything else, only stood there until it was time for them to mount up again.
They made camp near sunset. Kelsea had barely dropped to the ground when her reins were plucked from her hand; she turned and found Mace guiding the mare away. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of that and turned back to the rest of the Guard, who were also going about their various tasks. She noticed the youngest guard pulling the makings of her tent from his saddlebags.
“I’ll do it!” she called and strode across the clearing, holding out her hand for some tool, perhaps some weapon, she didn’t care which. She’d never felt more useless.
The guard handed her a flat-headed mallet and remarked, “The tent does require two people, Highness. May I help you?”
“Of course,” Kelsea replied, pleased.
Given one person to hold things and one to pound them in, the tent was a simple enough business, and Kelsea talked to the guard as she moved along with the mallet. His name was Pen, and he was indeed relatively young; he appeared to be no more than thirty, and his face held none of the wrinkles or wear that seemed tunneled into the faces of the rest of the guards. He was handsome, with dark hair and an open, good-natured face. But then again, they were all handsome, her mother’s guards, even those over forty, even Elston (when his mouth was closed). Surely her mother wouldn’t have chosen her guards only for their looks?
Kelsea found Pen easy to talk to. When she asked his age, he told her he’d just had his thirtieth birthday four days since.
“You’re too young to have been in my mother’s guard.”
“That’s right, Lady. I never knew your mother.”
“Then why did they bring you on this errand?”
Pen shrugged and made a self-explanatory gesture toward his sword.
“How long have you been a guard?”
“Mace found me when I was fourteen years old, Lady. I’ve been in training ever since.”
“With no ruler in residence? Have you been guarding my uncle?”
“No, Lady.” A shadow of distaste crossed Pen’s face, so quickly Kelsea might have imagined it. “The Regent keeps his own guard.”
“I see.” Kelsea finished pounding a stake into the ground, then stood up and stretched with a grimace, feeling her back pop.
“Are you adjusting to the pace, Highness? I assume you’ve undertaken few long journeys on horseback.”
“The pace is fine. And necessary, I understand.”
“True enough, Lady.” Pen lowered his voice, glancing around them. “We’re being tracked hard.”
“How do you know?”
“The hawks.” Pen pointed skyward. “They’ve been behind us since we left the Keep. We arrived late yesterday because we took several detours to throw off pursuit. But the hawks can’t be fooled. Whoever controls them will be behind us now—”
Pen paused. Kelsea reached out for another stake and remarked casually, “I heard no hawks today.”
“Mort hawks make no sound, Lady. They’re trained for silence. But every now and again, you might see them in the sky if you’re looking out for them. They’re devilish quick.”
“Why don’t they attack?”
“Our numbers.” Pen spread out the last corner of the tent so that Kelsea could stake it. “The Mort train their hawks as you would soldiers, and they won’t waste themselves by attacking a superior force. They’ll try to pick us off one by one if they can.”
Pen paused again, and Kelsea waved the mallet at him. “You needn’t worry about frightening me. I must fear death no matter which stories you choose to tell.”
“Perhaps, Lady, but fear can be hobbling in its own way.”
“These pursuers, do they come from my uncle?”
“Likely, Lady, but the hawks suggest that your uncle has help.”
“Explain.”
Pen looked over his shoulder, muttering, “It was a direct order. Should Carroll ask, I’ll tell him so. Your uncle has dealt with the Red Queen for years. Some say they’ve made alliance in secret.”
The Queen of Mortmesne. No one knew who she was, or where she came from, but she had become a powerful monarch, presiding over a long and bloody reign for well over a century now. Carlin considered Mortmesne a threat; an alliance with the neighboring kingdom could be a good thing. Before Kelsea could ask further questions, Pen had moved on. “The Mort aren’t supposed to sell their weaponry to the Tear, but anyone with enough money can get hold of Mort hawks on the black market. My guess is, we have Caden behind us.”
“The assassins’ guild?”
Pen snorted. “A guild. That’s assigning them too much organization, Lady. But yes, they’re assassins, and very competent ones. Rumor is that your uncle has offered a large reward to anyone who can track you down. The Caden live for such challenges.”
“Will our numbers not stop them?”
“No.”
Kelsea digested this information, looking around her. In the middle of the camp, three guards were hunched around the pile of gathered firewood, cursing assiduously as it refused to light. The others were dragging felled trees together to make a crude enclosure around the camp. The purpose behind all of these defenses was clear enough now, and Kelsea felt a helpless trickle of fear, mixed with guilt. Nine men, all of them now targeted along with her.
“Sir!”
Carroll came stomping out of the trees. “What is it?”
“Hawk, sir. From the northwest.”
“Well-spotted, Kibb.” Carroll rubbed his forehead and, after a moment’s deliberation, approached the tent.
“Pen, go help them with dinner.”
Pen gave Kelsea a brief, mischievous smile that seemed to convey goodwill and disappeared into the dusk.
Carroll’s eyes were dark circles. “They come for us, Lady. We’re being tracked.”
Kelsea nodded.
“Can you fight?”
“I can defend myself against a single attacker with my knife. But I know little of swords.” And, Kelsea realized suddenly, she had been trained in self-defense by Barty, whose reflexes were not those of a young man. “I’m no fighter.”
Carroll tilted his head, a flash of humor in his dark eyes. “I don’t know about that, Lady. I’ve watched you on this journey; you hide your discomfort well. But we’re coming to the point”—Carroll looked around and lowered his voice, then continued—“we’re coming to the point where I may need to split my men to evade pursuit. If so, my choice of bodyguard for you will depend much on your own abilities.”
“Well, I’m a fast reader, and I know how to make stew.”
Carroll nodded in approval. “You’ve a sense of humor about all this, Lady. You’ll need one. You’re entering a life of great danger.”
“You’ve all placed yourselves in great danger to escort me to the Keep, yes?”
“Your mother charged us with this task, Lady,” Carroll replied stiffly. “Our own honor would allow nothing less.”
“You were my mother’s man, were you not?”
“I was.”
“Once I’m delivered to the Keep, will you be the Regent’s man?”
“I haven’t decided, Lady.”
“Can I do anything to influence that decision?”
He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “Lady . . .”
“Speak freely.”
Carroll made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Lady, I think you’re made of much stronger stuff than you appear. You strike me as one who might make a real queen one day, but you’re marked for death, and so are those who follow you. I have family, Lady. Children. I wouldn’t use my children as a stake in a game of cards; I can’t set their lives at hazard by following you, not in the face of such odds.”
Kelsea nodded, hiding her disappointment. “I understand.”
Carroll seemed relieved. Perhaps he had expected her to begin blubbering. “Because of my station, I would know nothing of any specific plot against you. You may have better luck asking Lazarus, our Mace; he’s always been able to discover what others can’t.”
“We’ve met.”
“Be wary of God’s Church. I doubt the Holy Father bears any special love for the Regent, but he must love the person who sits on the throne and holds the keys to the treasury. He’ll play the odds, just as we must.”
Kelsea nodded again. Carlin had said something very similar, only a few days ago.
“All of these men in my troop are good men. I stake my life on it. Your executioner, when he comes, won’t be one of us.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Kelsea watched as the guards finally lit a fire and began to fan the small flame. “I guess it will be a hard road from now on.”
“So your mother said, eighteen years ago, when she charged me to bring you back.”
Kelsea blinked. “Didn’t she charge you to take me away?”
“No. It was Lazarus who smuggled you out of the castle when you were a baby. He’s invaluable that way.”
Carroll smiled, remembering something Kelsea couldn’t share. He had a nice smile, but again Kelsea noted the gauntness about his face, and wondered whether he might be ill. His gaze lingered on the sapphire, which had once again escaped from Kelsea’s shirt. He abruptly turned away, leaving her with a muddle of information to sort through. She dug deep into the pocket of her cloak and felt the second jewel nestled there.
“Your Highness!” Pen called from the campfire, which was burning brightly now. “There’s a small stream to the east, if you wish to clean up.”
Kelsea nodded, still turning Carroll’s advice over in her mind, trying to analyze it as a practical problem. She would need a bodyguard and a staff of her own. Where was she to find people loyal enough to resist the Regent’s threats and bribes? Loyalty couldn’t be built on nothing, and it certainly couldn’t be bought, but in the meantime, she would have to eat.
She wished she had thought to ask Carroll about her mother. He had guarded Queen Elyssa for years; he must know all about her. But no, every Queen’s Guard took a vow of secrecy. He wouldn’t divulge anything, not even to Kelsea. She gritted her teeth. She had automatically assumed that the transition to a new life would bring an end to all secrets; after all, she would be the Queen. But these men would be no more willing than Carlin to give her the information she sought.
She had meant to try to take a bath tonight after they stopped riding; her hair was oily, and she was beginning to smell her own sweat whenever she moved. The nearby stream would serve her purpose, but the thought of bathing under the watchful eyes of Pen or Elston, or worse, Lazarus, was unthinkable. She would just have to bear the filth, and take some comfort in the fact that her guards certainly didn’t smell any better. She gathered her greasy hair and fastened it into a bun, then hopped off the rock to go and find the stream.