“Where are—”
“Shhh!” he snapped at her. His grip on her arm tightened as he began to maneuver through the woods. Occasionally he would glance behind, as if he expected to be followed. They reached a spot of ground that was exceptionally muddy and churned and plunged into it. Then the kishion surprised her by coming to an abrupt stop. He turned and hauled her off her feet, then swung her over his shoulder like a bundle.
She gasped at his rough handling and then again when she realized what he was doing—hiding their trail.
“Take me to the manor!” she ordered him.
“I will gag you if I must, Maia. Now be silent. This is to throw off your hunter a bit. Unless you want me to kill him like I did the dog. Not much farther now.”
He stepped through the muddy spot and then stomped his boots on the other side to dislodge chunks of mud. A moment later he commenced walking again at a brisk pace, taking time to maneuver through the trees at odd angles and change direction several times. Maia felt his shoulder biting into her stomach and clenched her teeth, wanting to pummel his back with her fists. She saw the knife in his belt and was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to risk it all to snatch it.
When he reached the edge of the Cider Orchard, he set her down and then took her arm and led her away again. They were walking toward the walls of the abbey, the very spot where the sheriff of Mendenhall had taken her months before. It was where the kishion had killed the sheriff and his men. She ducked under a low-hanging branch that clawed at her, and continued to follow him, her stomach wrenching, her heart battering in her chest. A sick feeling wormed through her stomach. He changed his grip from her arm to her hand as he started up a short hill. The woods completely concealed them. She heard a horse nicker as they reached the edge of the wall, and the feeling of dread worsened.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “Let me go!” She felt an impulse of panic, and in that instant she expected to see Corriveaux appear through the trees ahead, surrounded by Dochte Mandar. Could he be betraying her to the Victus?
The kishion snorted and did not reply. When he reached the opening in the wall, he held her back for a moment and glanced quickly around the edge to be sure it was safe. He looked back the way they had come and listened in the stillness. She could hear her own breathing from the pace of their hard walk. The only other sound was an animal snorting and pawing at the crackling brush.
The kishion then pulled her beyond the wall and led her past several thick trees to a large, sturdy horse—the kind a knight would ride into battle. One that would easily hold two. It had a mottled brown coat and specks of hay and straw throughout his mane. The beast snorted again as they approached.
“Do not try to run from me,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Everyone will be heading for supper soon. I know the grounds and how they are run. It will be a little while before they find our trail, and by then we will be long gone.”
Her stomach shriveled to the size of a peach pit. “Where?” she insisted.
“What I have to show you is in Bridgestow,” he answered confidently. “It has been some time since you were there, has it not, Your Majesty? We will be there by dawn if we ride hard tonight.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, struggling to control her emotions, her fear.
He gave her a knowing look. Then, without letting go of her hand, he brought her closer to the horse, stuck his foot in the stirrups and mounted. Pulling hard, he brought her up on the saddle behind him. “Hold tight.”
As soon as she clenched his shirt, he kicked the animal’s flanks, and the massive warhorse began to canter through the woods.
The road to Bridgestow was thick with traffic. Wagons and carts lumbered in either direction along the way—some heading to Muirwood laden with crates of food, some returning from Muirwood empty, to be filled again. Occasionally messenger riders would come from Bridgestow, riding fast and hard. The traffic on the left side of the road would veer away and let them pass. No one came from behind them, though. No one rode as fast as the war steed.