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  Weaver kept lowering the rope and she bumped and slithered her way for several feet before regaining her footing and pushing herself away from the cascading water. Then something beneath her hampered her skirts and her feet became tangled in branches. Goddess, was she stuck in a tree? She risked a look down and discovered she was close enough to set her feet on the ground, if only they weren’t entangled in a scrubby thorn. Above her Weaver paid out more rope and she landed bruisingly on her back, the rope going slack and bumping across her face as the pressure on her ribs eased. She floundered for a moment, then managed to kick her feet clear of the bush and clambered onto her knees.

  The ground she knelt on was perilously steep. They had to be some forty or fifty feet below the citadel walls now. The rope dangling down the rock face above her twitched and she peered upwards, just in time to get a faceful of grit. Here in the shade of the trees it was difficult to make out what was going on, but when the rope tugged sharply at her waist she remembered she was supposed to untie it. The knot had pulled tight. She dug her fingernails into it, hands so numb with cold she could hardly tell when at last the knot loosened. She worried the loops apart, heedless of the grit that bit into her fingertips as she finally drew the end of the rope free. She tugged twice on the rope and was rewarded by another shower of grit and small pebbles from above as it snaked back up the cliff.

  Then there was nothing. No movement, no sound from above. The knuckles of one hand began to sting and she discovered she’d bloodied them at some point during the descent. It crossed her mind that Weaver could just leave her down there. She would make an easy target for Tresilian’s enemies. Then she glimpsed movement above: a bulky figure was being lowered down the rock face, a few feet at a time. She gathered her wits together in time to spare Wynne the ignominy of getting entangled in the same small thorn, and the pair of them began to fight with the knot about the servant’s waist as the end of a wet rope slapped down against them.

  A few moments later Weaver slithered down beside them. He unwrapped the rope from about his shoulder then undid the knot at Wynne’s waist without any apparent effort. “Step over by that tree, so the rope won’t hit you.” He began pulling one end of the rope and the other vanished back up the cliff, disappearing from sight. He kept pulling it through until a skittering sound from above and another shower of pebbles heralded the arrival of the rope on the ground.

  Alwenna’s clothing dragged as she moved over to the tree, weighed down from her soaking. Shivering, she perched on the steep bank and began wringing out the water. It pattered down onto the leaf mould at her feet. “W-what now?” Her fingers burned as the life returned to them.

  Weaver coiled the rope hastily and draped it over one shoulder. “We get our horses.”

  Horses. Of course, he’d mentioned them earlier. Thank the Goddess she was not expected to walk all the way to Vorrahan.

  “This way, my lady.” Weaver took her elbow. “You’re drenched.”

  This surprised him? “You just lowered me down a waterfall.” It was an effort to force the words out through chattering teeth. She stood up, only to find her skirts weighed her down as heavily as before and she stooped to wring them out again.

  “Let me, my lady.” Wynne hurried over to help and Weaver stepped away, fixing all his attention on the gorge below them as if he expected pursuers to spring out of the river.

  “That’s the best I can do for now, my lady.” Wynne straightened up, stretching her back.

  “Thank you, Wynne.” Alwenna knew a pang of guilt. The servant had agreed to accompany her on this adventure after only a moment’s hesitation. At least she’d avoided a soaking as Weaver had lowered her down the cliff. He was still watching the gorge, his shoulders tight. He probably disapproved of the delay. “Well, Weaver, where are these horses?”

  “This way, my lady.” He supported her weight as they scrambled over the steep ground beneath the citadel. “The walk will help you warm up. It’s not–”

  Weaver froze, listening. Alwenna halted, mid-stride, holding her breath. There were voices behind them – several. Had they been followed after all? Then the jingle of harness and the braying of a mule. A burst of laughter.

  Weaver relaxed. “Merchants. On the road on the far side of the gorge.”

  They clambered out of the steep-sided gully without further incident. A few minutes’ easier walking through forest brought them to the place above the citadel where two horses were tethered. Weaver tightened the girths and led one forward.

  “Begging your pardon my lady, but you’re lightest, so you’d better ride behind.” He didn’t look for any sign of agreement, but legged Wynne up into the saddle first and helped Alwenna up behind her.

  Weaver vaulted into his own saddle and turned his horse’s head to the west. “We’ll put a few miles between us and Highkell before we stop for the night.”

  When they’d climbed above the tree cover Alwenna twisted round to take one last look at the dark bulk of the citadel below them. A few dim lights showed through the patchy shroud of mist. Somewhere in there lay the bodies of Stanton and his two companions. Alwenna suppressed a shudder. Her parents had died the night she’d arrived at Highkell. Now she was leaving the same way, in the company of death and darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sound of splashing pulled Alwenna away from her old nightmare to the dank chill of early morning. It took her longer than usual to catch her breath, to convince herself she wasn’t still trapped in the tumbling carriage, suffocating beneath the weight of her father’s body. The twelve years that had passed since the accident had done nothing to diminish the horror. She eased herself up from the ground, her left hip protesting where a stone had been digging into it. They’d stopped by a river. Mist brooded over the sluggish water, obscuring the far bank. Nearby, Wynne was also stirring. Weaver crouched at the water’s edge, refilling pear-shaped leather costrels for their journey.

  Alwenna unwrapped the blanket from about her shoulders. “Is it time to move already?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Weaver handed her a brimming costrel.

  There was a neat semi-circle of bruises coming up on his hand. Her teeth must have caused the damage when she’d panicked in the culvert. She said nothing. Instead she drank, more thirsty than she’d realised. The water still held the chill of the mountain streams that fed the river. She topped up the bottle herself, conscious of Weaver’s eyes upon her as she splashed her face to chase away lingering tiredness. “So, we are to travel by daylight?”

  “Until we reach open country. Then we’ll rest and move on after dark.”

  She couldn’t look at Weaver without recalling the callous way he’d dragged those bodies into the barn. Images of violent death had stalked her sleep: Stanton’s bloodied head bouncing against the cobbles, moonlight glancing off Weaver’s sword as he felled the men. All so she could be taken to safety. “How serious is the risk to Highkell?”

  Weaver turned away to secure his blankets to his saddle; he must have saddled both horses while she and Wynne slept on. Doubtless he thought her fit for nothing more than ornamenting the high table on feast days. His dour silence irked her.

  “You’d sooner be there, wouldn’t you, fighting with the rest?”

  “I’m sworn to do the king’s bidding.” He tightened both horses’ girths. “We’ll set off as soon as you’re ready.”

  She gathered up her blankets and shook them, before rolling them into a bundle as he had done. Somehow her bundle was lumpier, and floppier. “You didn’t answer my question. Is Highkell at risk?”

  “The garrison at the citadel is under strength and Vasic has skilled mercenaries on his payroll. As long as he can pay them he’s a serious threat.” He took the blankets from her, rolled them up neatly and strapped them to her saddle.

  “How serious?”

  “If he attacks before the troops return from The Marches, the citadel will fall in a matter of days.”

  “Can you be so sure?”


  “Soldiering’s my business.” He met her gaze for the first time that morning. “I deal in truth and nothing else, my lady.”

  Did she imagine the challenge in his eyes? “That would be when you’re not dealing in death, I suppose.”

  “A wise man once told me that death is the ultimate truth.”

  “Indeed?” Weaver discussing philosophy? This was too incongruous. “And you agree with him?”

  “I’ve seen nothing yet to convince me it could be otherwise.” He stowed the last of their belongings back in his bag.

  She shivered. Again she saw the image of Stanton’s head bouncing as he was dragged over the rough ground, and Lord Ellard’s squire, blond hair soaked with his own blood. “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of men die?”

  “Yes, my lady. I told you – I’m a soldier.”

  His indifference was almost as irksome as his silence. “How many, Weaver? Do you even know?”

  “I don’t, my lady. Counting’s for clerics. If you’re ready, we’ll ride on.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Weaver sat up, reaching for the hilt of his knife. Some strange sound had woken him. Not a sound of the forest, but something else. Something out of place. There it was again, a mumble, and a whimpered protest. The Lady Alwenna, uneasy in her sleep, shifted, then flung out an arm. She mumbled again, then stilled and seemed to settle. Beside her Wynne slept deeply. The older woman was everything Alwenna wasn’t: solid and easygoing.

  The sky in the east was lightening; it would be dawn soon enough. No point trying to catch any more sleep. He rolled up his blanket and fastened it to the back of his saddle, with another glance at the girl as she turned fretfully. For that was all she was here: not his queen, not his king’s wife. But still too delicate for this journey, too fine.

  Too close.

  He could reach out and brush that strand of hair from her face. What was there to stop him acting on the impulse, out here, beyond the confines of citadel and court? Only his king’s trust.

  Tresilian could have chosen anyone else. Should have, damn him.

  Another sound out of place in the forest caught his attention. Hoofbeats. Several horses, approaching, heading slowly towards the river they had crossed earlier that night. A man’s voice, still too far away for the words to be distinct, but the crack of laughter in response was unmistakable. Unconcerned they might be overheard, and sounding pleased with their night’s doings. And not likely to have been doing anything honourable, a group of riders abroad at this time of night.

  Wynne stirred and sat up. Weaver glanced her way, holding a hand to his lips. She nodded understanding, and cautiously unwrapped the blanket from about her shoulders. Alwenna shifted again and mumbled, louder than before. If she brought that group down on them–

  “Hush, my lady.” Wynne set a hand on Alwenna’s shoulder but the younger woman twisted away with a muffled protest, caught in the throes of some nightmare.

  Weaver knelt at Alwenna’s side and pressed his hand over her mouth. She threw out her arm and clawed at his face before he could catch hold of her wrist with his free hand.

  “Be still, my lady. There are riders nearby.”

  She pulled away from him and he clamped his hand harder over her mouth, then her eyelids sprang open. She stared at him in horror, struggling to pull away until recognition dawned. She stilled.

  “Riders,” he hissed, inclining his head towards the track through the forest.

  She blinked, then nodded as much as she was able and he lifted his hand from her mouth. She sat up abruptly and her head thudded against his chin.

  “Keep quiet. You understand?”

  She drew a shuddering breath in a visible effort to still the trembling of her limbs, then nodded.

  Weaver twisted around to study the riders, or what little he could glimpse of them through the cover of the trees. Perhaps as many as a dozen, straggling across the forest track, unconcerned. They carried no colours to distinguish them and were too far away to be recognised, although one of the horses was a distinctive grey. The pole arms, swords and shields they carried confirmed they’d been up to no good. He was aware of the faintest sound of movement behind him as Alwenna pushed back her blanket and moved to his side.

  Once the riders were out of earshot she spoke in a low voice. “Who are they? Not Vasic’s men, surely? They can’t have got past Highkell already, can they?”

  Weaver sat back on his heels. “No. They could have been some of Stanton’s men. This is – or was – his land. As well we didn’t meet them on the road.” Her hair was tousled, eyes heavy. In the homespun garments she looked as far removed from the untouchable queen as he could imagine. Further.

  “There’s blood on your face.” She raised a hand towards him but checked the movement. She lowered her hand to her lap once more.

  Was he relieved or disappointed? Conscious that Wynne was watching them, Weaver raised his own hand to the scratch on his cheekbone. His fingertips came away with a tiny smear of blood. “It’s nothing.” Relieved. She was his king’s wife. Of course he was relieved.

  She lowered her eyes, brushing leaf litter off the corner of her blanket. “It was another nightmare. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve no need to apologise, my lady.”

  “It was so vivid. I thought I’d forgotten…” She shrugged. “Those riders – you said we would meet no one on these forest tracks.”

  “I said we were less likely to meet anyone.”

  “What do we do now? There may be others following them.”

  “We go carefully. They looked as if they were on the way home after riding hard through the night.”

  She sat up on her knees, tucking her skirts about her. “They were joking about it. So callous. I know what they’d been doing, Weaver. I know you’re trying to spare me, but– Oh, never mind.” She pulled a comb from her small bag and began tugging at the knots in her hair.

  Wynne stepped forward. “My lady, let me do that for you.”

  “There’s no need, Wynne. I should be able to manage this myself. You’ve enough to put up with as it is.” Alwenna dragged the comb through her hair a few more times then fastened it back with a loop of leather.

  Weaver retrieved oatcakes and dried meat from his saddlebag, and handed some out with a costrel of water. Alwenna looked doubtfully at the food but accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

  “It’s not what you’re used to, I know, but we can’t risk lighting a fire here.”

  Her eyes widened, a moment of startled realisation as the import of his words sank in. “No, I can see that,” was all she said. She took up her meagre breakfast, tearing off a small piece of oatcake and nibbling it cautiously. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

  Weaver left them to it while he saddled up the horses. At least the oatcakes were still fresh. Let her ladyship see how she liked them after a few more days on the road. By then they’d be so dry they’d snap.

  They paused often that morning while Weaver scouted the path ahead on foot, leaving Alwenna and Wynne with the horses, hidden among the trees.

  They were still backtracking the group of riders they had seen earlier. Weaver needed to know where they’d come from, if only to be sure there were no others in the vicinity. They’d been travelling thus for a couple of hours when Weaver first picked up the hint of woodsmoke on the air. Within a minute Alwenna commented on it.

  “I can smell burning.”

  Weaver had forgotten she could speak, she’d been so quiet since they’d set off. “Stay here.” Weaver slipped down from his horse and handed Alwenna the reins as before, but she hesitated.

  “What is it? A forest fire?”

  “With all the rain we’ve had lately?”

  She reached out and took the reins, her face sombre. “You think it’s those men we saw?”

  “Their handiwork? Possibly.” He turned away.

  “What if some are still there? If they see you–”

  “We’d hear something.” S
houting. Screams. He wasn’t about to spell it out for her. “They’ve gone.”

  Her expression suggested she’d guessed what he meant. “Be careful.”

  Fifty yards brought him to where he could hear the hiss and spit of flames. But that was all. There was no hint of commotion, of people fetching and carrying water to fight the fire. A few more yards brought him to a clearing. Smoke straggled across the open space, hanging on the still air. A wooden barn was three-parts burned, smoke rising from the collapsed roof, charred timbers jutting skywards. Beyond it low turf walls, smoking steadily, were all that remained of a farmhouse. A figure sprawled in the mud between house and barn. A lone hen scratched the ground nearby.

  Weaver skirted round the clearing to the other side of the buildings, but could neither see nor hear other signs of life. No tracks left the clearing, apart from those they’d followed back from their overnight camp. Flesh of some kind burned inside the wreckage of the barn. Like the dead woman sprawled on her back in the mud, the owner of the flesh was far beyond needing his help. The only thing moving around the steading was the chicken. The attackers had probably taken the rest. He caught it and broke its neck. Her highness would enjoy one decent meal, at least. Carrying the chicken, he made his way carefully back to his original vantage point. Then he heard movement: the swish of a branch, and the thud of horses’ hooves nearby. He spun around, drawing his dagger – and recognised his own horse pushing through the trees towards him, Alwenna bending over the withers to duck beneath a low branch. Wynne followed behind on the other horse.

  Weaver strode over, taking his horse’s bridle. “I told you to stay back there.”

  “You were gone so long. We thought something must have happened.” Alwenna’s eyes moved to the dagger in his hand, then beyond him to the burning buildings. “Was there someone there?”