Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 15

  Every window gaped open, and speckled fish flew in through the back door to the entertainment of all. The man who caught the slippery bodies made a show of flipping them over his shoulder to a group of three women who attempted to catch them in woven baskets. He spied Catling and bowed as a fish sailed above his head into the ashes of a fire.

  “Ha!” A robust woman trundled over and bowed. “Forgive the antics, Influencer. Marsti at your service. You’re the queen’s influencer; we heard about your eye. So unusual, I’d say. I’m the Chief Baker at Guardian. Can we be of service?”

  Catling bowed and stirred a taste of cheer into the fragrant air. “The queen requests food for her guards who will be on duty during the dinner hour, four of them.”

  The woman’s mouth formed a little “O” as she blinked at the request. “Seems odd to send an influencer, doesn’t it? But that’s royalty for you. Have their own ways that don’t brew a cup of sense to the common man. We’ll fix a basket and bring it right up.”

  I’ll wait,” Catling said. “And please pack it all in a sack.”

  “We have a basket that will do fine.”

  “A sack,” Catling repeated. “Something for men on horseback.”

  The woman’s chubby face lit up. “Ah, now that makes better sense.” She grabbed the arm of an older blond woman with chapped hands. Catling stared at Sianna-Bes, the high wardess who had traded a traitor’s death for a life in Guardian’s kitchens. The woman looked down at the stone floor, awaiting orders.

  Marsti counted her list off on her fingers. “A travel basket of bread, Sianna. Cheese, shave some roast and toss in a dozen potatoes. Enough for six so they don’t complain.” Sianna nodded and set to her task. Marsti smiled. “That will make a hearty pack.”

  By the time Catling returned to the stable, the fourth bell finished its peal, and Gannon paced, his cloak swirling with each pivot of his heel. He grinned like a lover when he saw her and draped her cloak over her shoulders. “I’ve found the evenings in the Fangwold unpredictably cool, my love.” The stableman chuckled as Gannon secured the travel pack to a saddle. “Catling, did you remember the wine?”

  “Wine?” Her heart skipped. “You didn’t say wine.”

  “No worries, my darling.” He tossed a silver coin to the stableman. “We’ll return before the next bell, ready to ride.” He hooked Catling’s arm and gave her a slight tug down the slope toward the dining hall.

  “You didn’t say wine,” she complained.

  “With reason. All for a reason. By the by, the queen is seeking us.”

  They strolled around the building’s corner. The jailhouse rose two stories from the yard’s hard dirt. A windowless block of stone, it bore a single iron-strapped door and arrow slits etched into the second-floor walls. Catling chewed on a fingernail. “You wait outside.”

  “I need to come in.” He shook his head. “Part of the plan.”

  She glanced at him. “Give me time to clear the room. Stay out of my way.”

  When he stepped back, she hauled in a breath and opened the door. The stone room appeared larger from the inside than the outside. Four cells spanned opposite walls, and only one held an occupant. Whitt rose from a narrow cot. “Catling?”

  Three guardians lounged around a small table, playing a game of dice, one of them Sergeant Tavor from the assembly hall. They looked up as she shut the door behind her. She pushed a wave of pleasure their way, added affection and a touch of fear to establish her right to stand there. “I’m here to visit Whitt,” she said, approaching the table.

  “Catling,” Whitt called her from between the bars of his cell.

  Her focus on her task, she ignored him, a playful curve on her lips. She stood a pace behind two guards, and all three began to rise from their seats, beaming and bobbing, their dice forgotten. She reached out to the nearer men as if she would take their arms for a promenade around the fortress yard.

  “Catling, don’t,” Whitt shouted.

  Lightning spikes of debilitating pain pierced the three guardians. The men reeled and fell, teeth gritted as they curled on the floor, hands gripping their heads. Their painful keening blended with Whitt’s pleading, a noise droning in the back of her head. She crouched and touched two of the agonized guardians, shutting down the air to their brains and leaving them unconscious. Tavor crawled away from her, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said and touched him too.

  “Catling?” Whitt shouted at her. “No, Catling. What are you doing? Why?”

  “They’re asleep,” she assured him. “They’ll recover.”

  The door opened and Gannon slipped inside. “Sodding foul, Catling.” He knelt by Tavor, felt for a pulse, and exhaled a relieved sigh.

  “Gannon, find the key.” She darted to Whitt’s cell. “We’re freeing you. You have to leave here.”

  “I can’t.” Whitt backed up.

  “You can and you will.” She hadn’t considered that Whitt would refuse and his resistance infuriated her. “You will if I have to influence you all the way through the gates.”

  He reached through the bars and grabbed ahold of her shoulders, pinning her with his eyes. “I can’t leave. I swore an oath. I’m a guardian. That means something to me.”

  “They’re talking about hanging you.” She shook her head and pulled away, tears filling her eyes. “You mean something to me. You’re to only one I have left.”

  “You have Rose,” he said with a smile. “Think of her. She needs you.”

  “I don’t have her.” Sorrow streaked her cheeks, her rage melting into desperation. Gannon jammed one key after another into the lock.

  Whitt blinked at her. “Where’s Rose?”

  “Gone from me.” She wiped her eyes. “I need you to survive, Whitt. I can’t lose anyone else. You must survive, for me. I’ll tell them I forced you. I’ll tell them I influenced you. Just go.”

  The bolt slid, and Gannon swung the door open. He began stripping off his clothes. “Time to trade places.”

  “What happened to Rose?” Whitt stood in front of her, unmoving, his forehead creased and eyes heavy as he glanced between them.

  “I can’t explain. Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “I’d suggest hurrying,” Gannon said, kicking off his boots.

  Whitt shuddered as if waking up. He peeled off his shirt and swapped with Gannon. They traded trousers and kept their own boots, reminiscent of their escape from Lim-Mistral. Last of all, Whitt donned Gannon’s cloak and pulled the hood over his head.

  “Go to the stables,” Gannon said. “Let Catling do the talking. There are two saddled horses, a blanket, and food for a week if you stretch it. You’re lovers out to admire the view.”

  “We’ll head south,” Whitt said. “I know a place we can go.”

  His words juddered through her; his assumption that she would join him caught her without a reply. She exchanged a troubled glance with Gannon as he tugged her hood over her head to shadow her eye. He hurried them to the door. “Get going. As soon as one of these fellows wakes and realizes I’m not you, Guardian is going to explode.”

  ***

  Catling retrieved the horses, a tall terran black for Whitt and a stocky native mare for herself that she eyed with suspicion. As she instructed, Whitt lingered outside the stable, his face hidden in Gannon’s hood. Surely, the stablemen would recognize him if he managed a glimpse. She supposed half the men and women at Guardian would know him by name, the other half by sight.

  When she led the horses out, he helped her up and then mounted the taller black, noting the pack and rolled blanket.

  “Gannon tucked a knife in the folds,” she whispered and flicked the reins. The horse climbed the sloped yard, wound around the citadel’s wall, and traversed the edge of the practice fields.

  “You lead until we near the gate,” she said. “Then let me ride ahead.” He nodded, keeping his mouth shut.

  Their escape unrolled like a plush carpet. She smoothed the path with false em
otions, and the guardians they passed ushered them along without a second thought. It seemed a dream, dusk falling, the Summertide breeze cool. Darkest Night lay days away, Sogul already masked in blackness. Yellow Clio and blue Misanda winked, their crescents painting the twilight green.

  They rode through the open portal in the inner wall and across the killing field. He reined his horse and let her overtake him. She reached toward him as she passed, and he mirrored the gesture, touching her fingers. The grief in his eyes wrenched at her heart; he was leaving the life he loved behind. With a heavy exhale, he glanced over his shoulder. She followed his gaze to the stone citadel, its narrow windows awash with luminescent light.

  “They’ll challenge us,” he whispered as they closed the distance to the south gate. “These hoods, our shadowed faces. This is a ridiculous time to head out with horses when a short walk is all we require. We look like criminals.”

  “Shhh,” she breathed.

  At the gate, she peeked at Whitt, his face lowered, hands tight on the saddle’s pommel. She turned to the guards and tugged on her hood, hiding her eye in shadow. She hummed a sigh, and the guardians smiled at her sensuous blend of emotion. “The gate, please. I heard the Fangwold nights are perfect for star-gazing with a lover.”

  The guards chuckled. “Mind your step with the horses.” A man stroked her mare’s neck. Another guard held the reins while two more raised the bar on the gate and pushed open the doors.

  “We will take great care and return by the seventh bell,” she said, her voice light and flirtatious. “Should we knock on the gate?”

  “We’ll see you coming,” the guard at her knee canted his head toward the wall. The men stepped back, and Catling heeled her horse through. She rode up the road without a glance back. Long after the gate closed behind them, she released the tension knotting her shoulders and stole a glance at Whitt. He heeled his horse and rode ahead of her up into the timberlands, following the track as it narrowed.

  “Whitt,” she called.

  He slowed to a halt and swiveled in the saddle to face her. “We should keep riding. A little more, another hour, until the way is too steep and dark for travel.

  Her mare stood on the path. She dropped her hood back, and a cool breeze tousled her hair. “I’m not going.”

  Whitt’s mouth opened, and he shook his head. “No, no, no. You can’t do this to me. If I’m going, you’re going.”

  “I’m the queen’s shield. She’ll come after me. As long as I’m out here, she’ll search for me.” The truth had been apparent to her from the start as well as her deceit. “I’m too dangerous to roam free. I’ll never be unleashed, but you’re different. You can live without this.”

  He reined his horse around. “We’re both fugitives. We’ll ride west or east with the Farlanders. No one will find us if we leave Ellegeance behind.”

  “I can’t.” She met his eyes. “It’s not merely the queen. There’s Rose. The Cull Tarr threw her in the Slipsilver, Whitt, to drown her. Jafe fished her out. I abandoned her to save her. You’re the only one who knows she isn’t dead. I can’t leave if there’s a chance…”

  “You said she was gone.” He squeezed his eyes shut, the muscles of his jaw tightening.

  Catling added fuel to his ire, subtly, another oath broken. “Rose is gone from me but, perhaps, not forever. I don’t know. I had to abandon her. I am too dangerous to love, Whitt. But I’m learning to lie like the rest of them. I’m an influencer, a manipulator. I can sway events, save you, save her, maybe save myself.”

  “You never intended to flee with me, did you?”

  “No.” A horn sounded in the distance, the hunt on. She clenched the pommel, feeding him with fury, betrayal, and fear. “You must leave me.”

  “I try, Catling. I try and I try, and you pull me right back again.” Anger flushed his face. “You deceived me, misled me, used your tears to prod me into an action I had no desire to take. I’m tempted to ride back and lock myself up or drag you south against your will.”

  The sounds of men and horses reached them on the wind. Catling looked behind her, worry stifling her breath. She hit Whitt in the chest with a surge of anger, defiance, and fear. “Go!” she snapped. “I’ll hold them here.”

  Without a word of farewell, he heeled the horse and fled. She threw her ugliest emotions at him, forced him to loathe her, and flooded him with the fear of capture. His horse vanished up the twilit trail. She reined her mount around and rode down to face the onslaught. When the first rider appeared on the trail, she stood in the stirrups and raised her voice, “Pass by me, and you will bear an agony so vile, you will beg me for your death!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as Whitt raced beyond her sight, the influence vanished. His heart pounded like a smith’s hammer. The anger scorching his veins remained but without the bitter hatred. He loved her, always had, and always would. He reined in his horse, desperate for a sorting of his own thoughts and emotions.

  Her threat tolled through the trees, and he marveled at her strength. He had failed her for years, attempted to protect her or rescue her from a world marred by manipulation and intrigue. For most of her life, forces beyond her control buffeted her like a boat on a stormy sea, played her like a chip in a game of chance. That abruptly changed with his arrest; something inside her had broken free.

  The queen may slay Catling, but it would be no easy task. He needed to trust her, heed her word that she could save herself. His surrender would complicate her choices, leave her vulnerable, and disparage her sacrifice. Despite his wishes and regrets, nothing he did would help her. Not now. He’d honor her choice.

  Heeling the horse forward, he weighed his options. Travel south, skirt Tor, and rejoin Sim and Ranger at the rebel camp? He’d asked the queen for a chance, and though he hadn’t convinced her to keep Ellegeance’s word, he’d done the next best thing. He could think of no better man than Gannon to fight for justice. Whitt’s presence would only complicate the coming negotiations.

  The trees broke to his right, and he reined the horse to the edge of a meadow. Guardian spread across the gap far below, its walls winding like snakes across the rough terrain. The fortress had become his life, his home, a place he belonged. He’d planned to spend his life in greens, grow old in a world that honored oaths, that stood for justice.

  Torches burned in iron brackets beneath a baleful sky, the fortress under stress. A company of horsemen entered the killing field through the outer gate, and though he couldn’t pick her out, he knew Catling rode in their midst. His heart ached for her, and nothing he could do would comfort her.

  Except, perhaps, protect Rose.

  ***

  Whitt held on to the rock face, steadied his breath, and shuffled forward. He’d freed his mount after a week in the saddle. No horse could traverse the diagonal path he found in the cliff wall, a natural cut he assumed Bromel had used when trapping in the wilds above Mur-Vallis. Veins of luminescence sparkled in the rock seams like gold, and tiny yellow flowers fluttered from the deeper cracks.

  Other than a few tight spots, the ledge was a pace wide. Only a clumsy fool would plummet off the edge to his death, and yet the height left him woozy. He swallowed and crept forward, ignoring the wind, the sun’s glint in his eyes, and the circling vultures eager for a feast.

  The trail ended at a tricky climb using hand and footholds chipped into the wall. He found the perfect place to anchor a rope if Gannon and Catling had thought to equip him with one. Near the bottom, he jumped to a flat ledge and then scrabbled down a steep slope of loose rock and scree. That landed him on the Blackwater’s sandy bank, south of Mur-Vallis.

  He camped in the timberland and spent an hour cutting and peeling a sapling to use as a staff, whittling a point as a precaution. Two days later, near midmorning, he entered the warrens’ market.

  The Summertide plaza looked and sounded the same as he remembered it—a tumult of haggling voices and unruly children, crates and rickety tables, hurrying sh
oppers and idle conversations clogging the walkways. Traders hawked wares from the northern cities, farmers tended livestock pens and unloaded wagons crammed with ripe bounty.

  Yet, despite all the echoes of years past, the aura of the place had transformed from the strange frenzy of influenced emotions to one of unremarkable calm. Ordinary citizens walked the ramp to the first tier, and no one danced off the edge to an abrupt death at the end of a rope. Kadan had done well, Whitt would hand him that.

  In addition to the handy blade, Gannon and Catling had secreted a purse of copper and silver in the rolled blanket tied to his saddle. He flipped a split copper to a baker for a lucky cake and cup of hot greenleaf, then sat on a bench in the first tier’s shadow.

  “Holy sock fondlers.”

  A beefy arm wrapped around Whitt’s throat from behind, and his tea sloshed over the rim. He resisted an attempt to flip Tiler over his shoulder, a feat that would have failed anyway. His nose had scarcely healed, and he didn’t relish the idea of cracked ribs for the pure enjoyment of a little sport.

  “Tiler.” Whitt quirked a smile when the big enforcer clambered over the bench and slouched beside him. “How’s life in Mur-Vallis?”

  “High ward’s a pecking plank bender if you ask me.” He scratched his head with both hands and shuddered like a wet hound. “Kadan-Mur’s making a life of crime harder by the day. He’s spiffed the place up, so there’s nothing to do. I haven’t enjoyed a good nut cruncher since Winterchill.”

  Tiler eyed Whitt’s lucky cake. Whitt broke it in two and offered half. Tiler popped it in his mouth and rubbed his ample belly. “About the only respectable change is there’s plenty of food.” He dropped a hefty hand on Whitt’s shoulder. “What brings a little dip wipe like you up the Blackwater?”