Behind her, Bricboro burned beneath the pitiless eyes of the Silver Hills. Rayne twisted in the saddle to watch. It was the least she could do to bear witness to the demise of everything she had known for the last five years. She could barely remember the tattered and hungry twelve-year-old girl who had ridden through those gates on the back of Imeyna’s horse, except to know that she had been lonely and afraid. Really, she was not so different now.
“What are you looking for, princess?” asked the soldier from his place in front of her on the saddle. It was the same one who had pulled her from the crawlspace and then dragged her through town without giving her so much as a chance to see if any of her friends had survived. It was almost as if he had done it on purpose, and maybe it was better that she hadn't been able to further incriminate herself, but it made her resent him. He made it worse by forcing her to share a horse with him as if she were incapable of riding her own.
He was young—maybe just a few years older than her—and handsome, but treated her with no great respect, and she feared it was because the king held her in suspicion. Her arms were around his waist, her chest pressed against his broad back. She tried to remember that he wasn't supposed to be her enemy, that she was the damsel in distress and he was her daring rescuer. And years spent hiding the war raging inside of her meant she had become exceptionally good at playing pretend.
“Just—” She paused to let her voice break a little to emphasize her fear. “Just making sure they're all gone.” There was a crash and a great cloud of smoke as the meeting hall roof where she had been sitting just hours before collapsed in on itself under the weight of the flames. Then the horse crossed the path and entered the trees that separated Bricboro from the river, and the town disappeared behind the trunks.
The soldier scoffed carelessly. He either thought the idea of survivors was absurd, or he didn't believe her. He had been none too gentle with her after all, and spat the word princess at her like it was a derogatory term instead of a respected title.
“Five years,” he said. His voice was lower so she had to press herself closer to him to hear him over the tremendous ruckus made by the other soldiers. After years of living in near-silence, it amazed her how loud these men were now that they had been victorious. If they truly knew anything about the Knights, they would never let their guard down again. They did not know Wido or his capacity for revenge. “Five years and all you have to show for it are some bruises and a pretty dress?”
Rayne was glad he couldn't see her. The shock on her face was involuntary. How dare he insinuate— How dare he talk to her—
He muttered something that sounded like, “Another useless princess.”
Her mouth gaped open and closed like a fish out of water struggling to breathe. Finally, she was able to choke out an indignant, “I'm sorry?”
“No need to apologize to me,” he said.
“I wasn't—” But what was the point? The man was insufferable. He was awful at playing the part of a hero, though perhaps admittedly she was not fully invested in her part as the fair maiden.
They rode on in silence, Rayne fuming and the soldier humming the tune to a bard's song about the Malstrom Massacre that Rayne had heard several times before. “There was a queen a maiden fair with lips of blood / and golden hair.”
“Must you sing this song?” she asked his back. He didn’t respond or stop. She had always thought the tune to be gruesome, even more so after hearing Tamsin’s first-hand account of the event, made worse through a child’s eyes.
“A knife she did hide / up her sleeve and with it made the young prince bleed.” The tune turned into a gentle humming as if he did not know the words, until he reached the refrain. “Crows and trees and princesses three / blood on the steps and blood sets them free...”
Once, Rayne started to drift off and felt the soldier put a hand over hers where they met at his chest, steadying her. The contact—too gentle for this brute—jerked her awake and she moved her hands instead to his arms. There, her fingers brushed over something metal on his forearm, hidden by the sleeves of his jacket.
“What is that?” she asked before really considering that she'd rather not talk to him.
He shifted in the saddle, the movement shaking her hand from his arm. “Oh, just a bit of jewelry,” he said flippantly.
But of course, she knew what it was: a slaver’s band. He was a banded soldier, a slave to the army. It explained his rash, rude behavior—he didn't really have any loyalty toward her, and in fact likely felt spite since her father was the one to bring slavery to Hail. But it didn't explain his obvious high rank at such a young age. He seemed to be leading this garrison. Most banded soldiers were bottom-rung foot soldiers like the ones marching behind them.
Their boats were moored not far down the Tor. The small fleet was close enough to Bricboro that the sky was still tinted orange by the flames that continued to consume the town. This close, they wouldn't have been able to surprise the Knights if they hadn't attacked during the memorial service. The mainmast still flew the Crowheart flag that she had seen from the roof, but there was another flag beneath it, this one displaying a fanged snake, its maw open in attack.
“The Ashsky prince sent you?” Rayne asked, sudden terror gnawing at her gut. Did this confirm that the prince or her sister had recognized her during their duel? Was this soldier escorting her to her execution? If she leaped down and ran now, would she be able to escape him? Surely she could outmaneuver him and his giant beast of a horse in the forest, at least long enough to draw her daggers and stab him once or twice. But there were a hundred other soldiers here, too. She wouldn't make it far, and when she was caught, she'd have a lot more explaining to do.
The soldier grunted in response. They were at the riverbank now, and he dismounted easily, handing the reins to a waiting page.
Rayne forced herself to breathe before she looked down at him. “But how did he know?”
He turned back to her and reached his hands up. After an awkward pause, she realized he meant to help her down. It was ridiculous; she'd ridden horses her entire life. But then she remembered that here, she was a dainty princess, not a hardened rebel, so she let him help her. She brought one leg over the front of the saddle and turned sideways, the leather creaking. He wrapped his huge hands around her waist and began to lower her down.
“We wouldn't have if that boy hadn't survived the cave in,” he said.
Rayne could tell the words meant nothing to him, but to her—to her, they were everything. She froze mid-slide, her hands covering the soldiers' on her waist.
“What?” was all she could say.
“The rebels burned Iblia,” he said, looking up finally and studying her face with shrewd eyes the color of storm clouds. She cursed herself for revealing too much. “We found one in the forgotten tunnels beneath the city. He was tough to break, but Prince Danyll can be very…persuasive.”
He knew. He saw it on her face or heard it in her voice or felt it in her hands. Her tongue felt like she had sucked on a wad of cotton—dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth. For once, she had no words.