I cover my nose and mouth with my arm as the smoke starts billowing toward me. I move deeper into the room, my eyes stinging as I rush away from the flames, and discover a second door. I throw myself shoulder first against the sturdy door. It doesn’t budge.
I center myself and channel all my weight into my leg. My foot connects with the door, just beside the handle, and the latch bursts open.
The fire engulfs the space I was standing in only seconds before I make it into a kitchen. There’s a resounding crash as the roof collapses over the main room. I hurry to the back of the kitchen where a small back door deposits me out into the rubble and dirt.
The cold night air outside stings my face, and I gasp it in desperately, falling to my knees, taking huge gulping breaths.
But beneath the crunching sound of the inn burning and beginning to collapse, I still hear the sound of the dogs barking and howling.
My blood runs cold. Shapes shift in the dark nearby. I can make out the silhouette of a man with a crossbow.
My legs trip over themselves as I turn to run. Up ahead, I see the first hint of gray morning light on the horizon. I push myself in that direction, my heart slamming against the wall of my chest.
“There you are.”
There’s a sharp, shooting sensation in my scalp, and the horizon retreats in front of me. Someone has grabbed my hair, pulling me backward. My feet slide out from under me as I wince in pain. My head is twisted roughly. I’m brought face-to-face with the leader. He sneers at me. Sour liquor lingers on his breath.
“Willful one, aren’t you? I like that.” He laughs.
I grit my teeth and struggle, using every last ounce of strength I possess to free myself from his iron grip. I twist in every direction my body will allow. He continues to laugh at me, like he’s a cat playing with a mouse.
He grabs my jaw. With a quick toss of my head, my teeth sink into his hand, into the sensitive flesh between his thumb and forefinger. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. His hand wrenches away, and in that one, sweet second, I use my elbow to bash in his face and he screams, but still he hangs on to me with one meaty arm.
Something sharp pokes my hip, and I remember I have my embroidery needles in my pocket, nestled into a small ball of wool.
With a free hand, I manage to loose one, gripping it in my fist. I thrash upward, sending the needle’s point directly into his shoulder.
He screams again, calling me a word I have never heard but can only assume is forbidden. He loses his grip on me, and without stopping to think, I run.
11
They say the First Rider brought light and meaning into a world of chaos and darkness. I wish he could have made it a little less treacherous.
I travel the better part of the day, getting lost in a forest and finally stumbling across a narrow mountain creek, where I frantically collapse to my knees, splashing the cool water on my face and thirstily drinking.
I fight back the thought that Fiona was right as I double over with sudden hunger. If I had stayed, I would not be starving and alone.
I follow the creek, unsure how far I’ve strayed from the road. Panic rises in my throat, but I rein it in, remembering that the road holds just as many dangers as the wild, possibly more.
It is late afternoon when I catch a flash of movement not too far off—a trio of crows dart from some branches, cawing, and I hear it: the rumble of wagon wheels. I take off running toward the sound, tall dry grass scratching my legs through my torn skirt.
I stop short and duck behind a tree. I’ve hit upon a narrow country road. Three black horses round the corner, their golden tack shining in the afternoon light. The two in front bear crimson banners, and the third pulls an elegant wagon overflowing with food, fabric, and valuables.
Bards bearing a tithe caravan. My heart races.
I doubt I could rely on their charity to simply give me a lift to High House. I’m a peasant, and one who may carry the curse of the Blot at that. But if I’m swift and very careful, the wagon they’re escorting seems roomy enough for one impertinent stowaway.
I crouch in the underbrush, not even daring to breathe, until the horses draw level with me. None of them cut a familiar figure. They are not the same Bards I saw in town.
Once again, I’m overtaken by the beauty of the horses and their riders, like I was that day in Aster. It feels so long ago now. Their black uniforms are accented with the most beautiful golden thread embroidering their hoods, collars, and wrists. Their posture is regal, commanding, and somehow effortless. A hum of power seems to hover in the air around them; it penetrates deep into my bones.
Mercifully, they don’t notice me. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat. The horses pass; the massive cart follows.
As soon as the back wheels turn past me, I slip onto the road and run. I reach forward, my fingers finding purchase on the locked handlebars at its back, and before the wagon can begin to drag me, I push off with both feet, pulling myself upward. The momentum is just enough to send me over the top of the wagon walls, tumbling inside.
My fall is caught by a soft bed of hay at the bottom.
I manage to squeeze behind a large barrel at the back, right before the Bard driving the wagon glances behind him.
“Is something wrong?” I hear one of the riders up front ask.
“I thought I heard something,” the driver replies.
“Must have hit a rock. The damn roads out here are rubbish.”
I quietly exhale.
The rocking of the wagon steadies my nerves somewhat, but the feeling that the journey isn’t over gnaws at me. With any luck, these Bards will be heading straight to High House.
Which means I’ll have to figure out the next step from there. How to stay alive. How to find the truth.
I close my eyes and think of Ma. Her hand on my shoulder, the way a single touch could communicate in so many different ways. Be patient, or be strong, or be still.
Ma, who is dead and gone. Killed in secret, her death buried by a landslide of lies.
Who did it? And why? The need to know is a cold fire burning in my chest. I will find the person who took Ma from me. I will look them in the eyes and make sure they know they won’t get away with what they’ve done. And I’ll demand to know why.
That person is at High House. I feel surer of that than ever. With every turn of the wagon wheels, I’m getting closer, and an invisible thread is pulling tighter inside me.
And yet—despite my fear, and even the thrill of knowing I’m on my way to answers—the exhaustion of the journey has finally hit me. My lungs still ache from the thick smoke of the burning inn. My legs are weak, the soles of my feet numb. Evening is coming on; the sky above has gone from a litter of gold and blue between the leaves of the trees overhead to dusty lavender. The air is cooler. The jarring bumps in the road can’t even prevent me from succumbing to exhaustion.
* * *
I don’t know how long I’ve slept but I wake when the wagon jolts roughly. The ride is significantly smoother after. I listen quietly, but the Bards escorting the caravan do not remark on the change.
I venture a peek over the top of the barrel, shivering at the apparent temperature drop. The late afternoon sun is waning, and the altitude is making it colder. The route ahead is paved with silvery stone leading up into a mountain range taller twice over than the one bordering Aster. The white line draws my eye up a winding path through green pine trees that become dusted with white as the road leads upward and the snow-capped summit comes into view.