The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (42 page)

There was no sense of impending doom here in Ankeny. The woodcutters felling trees, the ox teams hauling them away, the occasional merchant with mules or wagons, seemed to inhabit another reality, one where Ivek’s curse and witches and assassins didn’t exist.

That
was the reality that he wanted to be in. He wanted to wake up and find the last two months had been nothing but a nightmare. That he was still in Osgaard. That he’d not been bred by witches to destroy a curse that everyone had believed was only a legend.

He glanced at the faces around the fire. Witches, weary and grim-faced and dirty.
I bet they wish this was a dream too
.

But it wasn’t a dream. This was reality. And in the eastern kingdoms, there was yet another reality—one where the curse poisoned the water with blood lust, and towns and villages emptied in a wave of panic.

Harkeld tried to imagine it and failed. He rerolled the map. Cora and Katlen and Rand were discussing supplies, their voices a low murmur.

He pushed to his feet, rinsed his bowl and spoon in the creek beside the campsite, and stacked them ready for the morning. Then he lay down in his tent and waited for sleep, hoping that tonight the dream-Innis would visit. He wanted to hold her hand and feel the calmness, the contentment, she always brought with her.

But the dream-Innis didn’t come. She hadn’t come for many nights.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

T
HE CABIN WAS
smaller than the one on the
Sea Eagle
. It had been stripped of furnishings. A pallet to sleep on and blankets to keep her warm, a chamberpot, and a window to look out of; those were the things she had. And a candle at night while she ate.

I will not be bait to catch Harkeld
. But escape was impossible.

Death was possible, though.

Britta sat on the pallet, hugging her knees, and went over the arguments for and against.

If she lived, Harkeld could be more easily caught. If he was caught, he’d be killed. His hands and blood would go to Jaegar. And Jaegar would use them to subjugate the other kingdoms. Only once they’d submitted would he end the curse.

If she died, she couldn’t be used to catch Harkeld.

It was clear what her choice must be, however much she shrank from it.

She heard Karel’s voice in her head, heard his fierce belief in her.
You can do it. I know you can
.

Britta stood and went to the window. It was small and narrow, nailed shut, with tiny panes in an iron lattice.

The options were three.

One. Break a pane and cut her wrists.

Two. Break a pane, cut off a strip of blanket, tie one end to the lattice and the other round her throat and let her body weight strangle her.

Three. Prise out the nails, open the window, and throw herself overboard.

The third option was the one Britta liked best. She didn’t want to die in this bare little cabin, imprisoned by Fithian assassins. And there was always the chance that a passing ship would find her before she drowned.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

J
UST AFTER NOON,
Vlesnik came into sight. Rand and Katlen met them outside the gates, a string of laden packhorses behind them.

“The ferry crosses east once a day,” Harkeld heard Rand say. “In the morning. We’re booked on tomorrow’s.”

“Cora, it’s not like Lvotnic at all,” Katlen said. In her long skirt, she looked like a farmer’s wife. “There’s an inn that’s as good as any at home. They’ll launder our clothes for us!”

“How safe is it?”

“We’re going to be noticed anyway,” Rand said. “Can’t sneak a party this large through the town and onto the ferry. If anyone’s watching, they’ll see us.”

Cora frowned. “In your opinion—”

“It won’t do us any harm to put up there for tonight.”

T
HE INN WAS
not only cleaner than the one in Lvotnic, it had bathtubs. Harkeld washed, shaved, dressed in his spare clothes and went down to the stableyard with Ebril and Hew.

He spent the rest of the afternoon sharpening and oiling weapons, seated on a bench in the sun, with a witch on either side. A dun-colored dog sat at their feet, ears pricked, alert: Justen.

Harkeld ignored the dog. It was either that or let the cold, congealed anger in his chest simmer into rage again.

Katlen and Petrus hung bedrolls to dry on the long lines strung across the sunny yard, and unrolled the tents and hung them out too. The tents flapped like great birds in the breeze. In the stables, Rand and Cora examined each horse, sending two to the farrier for new shoes. Katlen and Petrus inspected the saddles and bridles, checking the stitching, oiling the leather. Harkeld paused in his sharpening and watched as inn servants pegged their washed traveling clothes out to dry, and then their blankets. The blankets and clothes steamed.

At dusk, they packed everything away and moved inside. The tables in the taproom were clean, and fresh straw lay on the floor. Ebril sniffed. “Food smells good.”

They sat at a long table in the corner farthest from the door. Innis joined them, dressed in a skirt, and Hew stretched out on the straw in dog form. A plump, cheerful maidservant brought them tankards of ale and served a meal that was simple and delicious: warm crusty bread, pats of golden butter, tangy cheese, a haunch of roasted meat with root vegetables. Harkeld ate heartily and pushed his plate away. He leaned back, sipping his ale, feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

Ebril heaved a sigh, shoving his plate to one side. “By the All-Mother, I needed that.”

Harkeld nodded. He glanced around the taproom. Four gray-headed men sat at a table, engrossed in conversation. Locals, he thought. The innkeeper brought the men more ale and stayed to talk with them.

Rand stood. “I’ll ask about the road conditions to Roubos,” he said with a wink to Cora. He wandered across to the locals, tankard in hand.

The serving maid cleared their table. Harkeld saw Petrus glance at her, then at him. His good mood ebbed.
You needn’t look at me like that. I’m not going to tomcat tonight.
Anger stirred in his chest. He gulped another mouthful of ale.

Ebril touched the girl’s elbow, spoke to her, and followed her from the table. He returned a moment later bearing a board painted with familiar-looking squares and a small wooden box.

“Would you like to?” he said, his manner diffident, as if expecting a rebuff.

Harkeld shrugged. “Why not?”

Ebril’s face lit with a smile. He opened the box and laid the pieces out on the board. “Red or black?”

“Red, please.”

Ebril was as good a player as Justen had been. Harkeld lost the first game, and narrowly won the second. The serving girl brought them fresh tankards of ale. Ebril whistled between his teeth as he set up the board again. Harkeld glanced across at the locals. Rand sat with them. They were deep in conversation.

Harkeld won the third game, lost the next two, and won the next.

Rand returned to their table. “The road to Roubos is in good condition,” he said loudly. “Not as rutted as what we’ve had lately; there’s no logging on that side of the Szal.” He leaned closer, and lowered his voice: “One of them’s just returned from Droznic-Drobil. From the way he tells it, everyone’s talking about the curse there. Wild rumors. This lot don’t believe it yet. Or don’t want to.”

Ebril grimaced. He set up the board again.

“Do they know about us?” Cora asked, her voice as low as Rand’s.

“No. They’re so ignorant it’s frightening. They truly seem to think Ivek’s curse is a tale.”

Harkeld looked down at his ale. His face frowned up at him from the surface of his drink.
Of course they think it’s a tale. I did, until two months ago
.

“The other interesting information”—Rand’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper—“is that Vlesnik has a one-armed inhabitant who breeds pigeons.”

Ebril froze, one piece held above the board.

“He’s not from Ankeny. Used to be a merchant in the Allied Kingdoms, before he lost his arm. From time to time, travelers visit him. Always men. Members of his old guild.”

The silence at the table had an unusual quality. Harkeld glanced around at the grim faces. “What?” he asked Ebril in a baffled whisper.

“Tell you later,” Ebril whispered back.

“Is anyone visiting him now?” Cora asked.

“No. His last visitor was several weeks ago. A young man with red hair, heading west.”

Harkeld glanced at the witches again, still baffled. This was something to do with Fithian assassins, but he didn’t understand what.

“So they’ll know we’ve passed through,” Cora said. “But there won’t be anyone immediately on our trail?”

Rand nodded. “That’s how I read it.”

“W
HAT WAS THAT
about the one-armed man?” Harkeld asked Ebril when they were in their room. “He’s Fithian?”

Ebril nodded.

“How do you know?”

“Well...” Ebril sat on his bed and yawned. “If a Fithian can’t fight any more, the Patriarch finds other uses for him.”

“Patriarch?”

“The head of the Brotherhood.” Ebril eased off his boots. “Some of ’em become poison masters, others become... well, we call them ‘agents.’ Don’t know what the Patriarch calls them.” He shrugged. “They gather information and pass it on, and provide shelter and assistance to assassins passing through.”

Harkeld shook his head, his bafflement growing. “How do you know this?”

“Because we study them, the way they study us.”

“What?”

“Fithians study us,” Ebril said patiently. “Because Sentinels are some of the few people who actually have a chance against them in a fight. Well, shapeshifters and fire mages do, healers don’t. And we study them, because sometimes we come up against them, and we need to know what to do.”

Harkeld sat on his bed. “So this man with one arm...?”

“It’s classic. A foreigner living on a route between kingdoms, badly injured, visited by travelers who’re always male. He even has pigeons.”

“Pigeons... to send information?”

Ebril nodded.

“Where to?”

“Ah, now
that’s
the question. Maybe somewhere in Roubos, or one of the cities on Ankeny’s north coast. Or Stanic. There’s an agent there.” Ebril yawned again. “Someone, somewhere, is going to know we passed through. But we’ll have a head start, so it shouldn’t matter.”

Harkeld frowned. “Do you think there were agents in Lvotnic and Gdelsk?” Did every Fithian in the Seven Kingdoms know where they were?

“Rand didn’t reckon so.”

“He asked?”

Ebril nodded. “Always has a chat with the locals, our Rand.”

“Huh.” Harkeld pulled off one of his boots. “I didn’t notice.”

“You wouldn’t have, would you?” Ebril grinned. “You had other things on your mind.”