A soldier in black leather approached, motioning for her to halt. His mount was a destrier, a powerful horse, and likely well fed and well rested. A second rider advanced on her right flank. I cannot outrun these horses, but can I fight? Her saddle concealed a pair of curving blades. If pressed, she would draw her knives.
The Harkan soldiers drew closer. The road ahead was clear. She could stop, order the men to turn back, to leave her, she could fight them if needed, but she had no wish to spill Harkan blood. Yet each moment that passed, her father was closer to the Sola. She beat her mount, but she could not outrun the soldiers. The rider at her right blocked her path. He came at her so quickly he spooked her horse. Ash reared, hurling Kepi forward, knocking her head against the horse’s mane.
“Let me be!” she cried. Kepi spurred her horse and tugged one rein, trying to turn her mount, but she could not swing a circle narrow enough to avoid the destrier.
“Halt!” said the soldier blocking her path.
Relief washed over her when she saw him clearly. In the failing light she had not recognized their silver-crested leather, their black shields. These were not, as she had feared, Merit’s hired soldiers. These were her father’s sworn men, the kingsguard, the black shields of Harkana.
“Where is my father? Why have you abandoned him?”
“He travels the Plague Road with a legion of Alehkar. He bid us to come find you.”
“How far away is he?” she asked.
The soldier shaded his eyes and searched the desert hills, his gaze lingering on a cloud of dust at the horizon. “One hour’s ride, maybe less.”
“We’re wasting time on words,” Kepi gripped the reins. “We should ride.”
The man waved to his comrade. “Off your horse, the king’s daughter needs a fresh mount.” He motioned for Kepi to dismount just as they heard the pounding of more hooves, more soldiers riding up the Plague Road.
“Your men?” she asked.
“No.” The captain shook his head and squinted at the horses, a worried look on his face.
Who, then? Kepi studied the horizon. The men wore the jade-green rings and the gray cloaks of the Wadi clan. Merit’s hired soldiers at last. Among them she saw Sevin, her sister’s captain. The approaching riders, five in all, bearing long spears, sent dust into the air as they encircled Kepi and the kingsguard.
“Back to the Hornring with you,” cried Sevin as his horse ground its hooves into road. “Queen regent’s orders,” he said, his jade rings jingling, his soldiers fingering their weapons. Sevin had drawn his sword, though neither Kepi nor the kingsguard had drawn theirs.
“Queen regent, Sevin? Is that what she is calling herself?” Kepi said, watching his blade bob up and down. “My father has barely stepped from the Hornring and my sister is calling herself queen already? Tell me, is she seated on Ulfer’s chair?”
Sevin grimaced, his fingers tensing on the grip of his sword, the deep lines on his dark face furrowing. “Damned if I care.” He motioned for his men to draw blades. “We’re just doing what we’re told, child.” He leveled his sword, the point resting no farther than a finger’s width from Ash’s nose. “It’s not in my nature to strike a lady, so do as you’re told. There’s no need for violence,” he said, his blade saying otherwise.
Kepi’s eyes flicked to the Plague Road. She saw black shapes dotting the horizon. Her father’s caravan was not too far. She could still catch up to him.
“Please,” she asked. I have to see my father, just this once, before he vanishes.
“There’s no use in begging,” said Sevin. “I’ve got my orders and it’ll be my head if I don’t follow through.” The others shrugged. There was no sympathy here, just men doing as they were told.
“Sevin, don’t,” she said, but the Wadi man did not lower his blade. He drew a scroll from his satchel. The black letters smudged as he unrolled the sheet—the markings were fresh, the ink damp.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Kepi did not want to read it, but he shoved the parchment in her face anyway. A few short words filled the top half of the sheet, a waxen seal dotted the bottom. The message was clear: the king of Harkana had released Kepi from her seven years of mourning and ordered her to wed, without delay, Dagrun Finner, the king of the Ferens and Lord of the Gray Wood.
It was sealed with Arko’s mark, an eld skull with a swirl of horns at its base.
“Dammit,” she cried. “This is not my father’s decree. Look at the seal.” She knew the mark was not made by Arko’s signet ring but with the large stamp her father kept in his chamber, and she knew exactly who made it. “This is my sister’s doing,” she said, her voice raised. “Arko did not even enter the Hornring.” This was not her father’s orders but her sister’s, using the king’s seal. Arko had slaughtered more Ferens than she could count when he pulled her from Roghan’s prison and he would do so again if needed. But that no longer mattered. What mattered was that it was a king’s decree with the king’s stamp. She could no longer protest, she could no longer put off Dagrun’s proposal. Without Arko, without the king to protect her through law and threat of violence, she must comply and she must do it immediately. She had only the kingsguard and the blades she concealed beneath her saddle.
“My father—your king,” she tried again. “He’s left for Solus. This is a forgery.”
Sevin bared his teeth, his sword trembling in his hand. “I only do what I’m told, my lady. I’ve been plenty patient, but now you’re starting to try my nerves. Drop the blade and we’ll all ride back to the Hornring. We can have a swig of amber and a nice ride.”
Kepi was finished with talking. She crumpled the letter, but the Wadi man tore it from her grip before she could wreck the scroll. Not hesitating, she drew the knife she concealed beneath her saddle.
“You can have a swig of whatever you like, but I’m going to find my father,” she said, her blade glistening in the moonlight, black and wicked. She reached for the second knife, but Sevin was faster. He pinned the saddle flap closed with the point of his sword. “How dare you, Sevin.” She glared at him, spit on her lip, fire in her eyes. Anger clouded her vision.
“You have no right to detain me—you are my subjects—I am the second born of the king,” she said. Her father would have their heads.
But my father is gone. Kepi knew it and Merit’s soldiers knew it as well.
“Draw swords,” she said to the kingsguard, but the men were already drawing their blades. They were two against five and they held their swords uneasily. Their eyes darted, uncertain of how to proceed.