She sighed.
Why must I always focus on the negative? The man has done nothing at all. So he’s quiet, so what? He’s risking his own life smuggling me to this meeting. He’s nervous, watchful. Perhaps he’s frightened too. Is it so odd he’s not making small talk? I’m just scared, that’s all. Everything looks bad when you’re scared. Isn’t it possible he’s just shy around women? Cautious around noble ladies? Concerned anything he says or does could be misconstrued and lead to dangerous accusations? Obviously he has good cause to be concerned. I’ve already practically convicted him of a host of crimes he hasn’t committed! Royce and Hadrian are honorable thieves. Why not Etcher as well?
The trail disappeared entirely and they rode across unmarked fields of windswept grass. They seemed to be heading toward a vague and distant hill. She spotted some structures silhouetted against the pallid sky. They entered yet another forest, this time through a narrow opening in the dense foliage, where Etcher was content to let the horse walk. Away from the wind it was quiet. Fireflies blinked around them and Arista listened to the clacking steps of their mount.
We’re on a road?
Although it was too dark to see anything clearly, Arista recognized the sound of hooves on cobblestone.
Where are we?
When at last they cleared the trees, she could see the slope of a bald hill where the remains of buildings sat. Giant stones spilled and scattered to the embrace of grass, forming dark heaped ruins of arched doorways and pylons of rock. Like grave markers, they thrust skyward at neglected angles, the lingering cadavers and bleached bones of forgotten memories.
“What is this place?” Arista asked.
She heard a horse whinny and spotted the glow of a fire up the slope. Without a word, Etcher kicked the horse once more into a trot. Arista took solace in knowing the end of her ordeal was at hand.
Near the top, two men sat huddled amidst the ruins. A campfire flickered, sheltered from the wind by a corner section of weathered stone and rubble. One man was hooded, the other hatless, and immediately Arista thought of Royce and Hadrian.
Did they somehow arrive ahead of us?
As they drew closer, Arista realized she was wrong. These men were younger and both as large as, if not larger than, Hadrian. They stood at the horse’s approach and Arista saw dark shirts, leather tunics, and broadswords hanging from thick belts.
“Running late,” the hooded one said. “Thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“Are you Nationalists?” she asked.
The men hesitated. “Of course,” the other replied.
They approached, and the hooded one helped her down from the horse. His hands were large and powerful. He showed no strain taking her weight. He had two days of beard and smelled of sour milk.
“Is one of you Degan Gaunt?”
“No,” the hooded one replied. “He sent us ahead to see if you were who you said you were. Are you Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar?”
She looked from one face to the next, all harsh expressions. Even Etcher glared at her.
“Well, are you or aren’t you?” he pressed, moving closer.
“Of course she is!” Etcher blurted out. “I have a long ride back, so I want my payment, and don’t try to cheat me.”
“Payment?” Arista asked.
Etcher once more ignored her.
“I don’t think we can pay you for delivery until we know it’s her, and we certainly aren’t taking your word for it. She could be a whore from the swill yards of Colnora that you washed and dressed up—and did a piss-poor job of it, at that.”
“She’s pretending to be a commoner and she’s dirty on account of the ride here.”
The hooded man advanced even closer to study her. She backed up instinctively but not fast enough as he grabbed her roughly at the chin and twisted her face from side to side.
Infuriated, she kicked at him and managed to strike his shin.
The man grunted and anger flashed in his eyes. “You bloody little bitch!” He struck her hard across the face with the flat of his hand.
The explosion of pain overwhelmed her. She found herself on her hands and knees, gripping a spinning world with fists full of grass. Her face ached and her eyes watered.
The men laughed.
The humiliation was too much. “How dare you strike me!” she screamed.
“See?” Etcher said, pointing at her.
The hooded man nodded. “All right, we’ll pay you. Danny, give him twenty gold.”
“Twenty? The sentinel agreed to fifty!” Etcher protested.
“Keep your mouth shut or it’ll be ten.”
Arista panted on the ground, her breath coming in short stifled gasps. She was scared and rapidly losing herself to panic. She needed to calm down—to think. Through bleary eyes, she looked at Etcher and his horse. There was no chance of grabbing the animal and riding away. Etcher’s feet were in the stirrups and her weight could never pull him off.