Trouble with Kings (12 page)

I stared down at him, uncertain what to do, as the world revolved. His head turned slightly. One hand groped, and fell slack again.

He was alive. But wouldn’t be for long.

“I hate you,” I screamed stupidly, over and over, as burning twigs rained down around me.

I sprang to him, grabbed one of his wrists, and tugged. He only shifted. So I grabbed at his sodden shirt, but it was summer fabric, and the rents already in it made it rip worse.

Another branch crashed ten paces away, sending up a whirling fury of sparks.

I leaped to the carriage, yanked out the cloak I’d been wrapped in, and flung it on the ground next to Jason. My hands trembled as I pushed Jason’s ribs, trying to roll him onto the cloak. He woke briefly, turned over onto the cloak and went still. I tugged the sturdy wool about him, and yanked at the gathered hem. He moved—a pace, two paces, and as I backed downhill, he slid faster.

And just in time. A great branch crashed down where we had been. Weeping senselessly, I kept pulling Jason until I stumbled over an unseen root, lost my grip and rolled down a sharp mountain incline. I fetched up hard against a pine tree and lay for a moment trying to catch my breath.

Darkness shadowed the land around me; it was raining. Only the great fire gave light, though the fire began to hiss and send up steam.

I got to my hands and knees. The firelight beat with ruddy glare over a kind of rocky overhang not far below me. I looked back. The dark cloth fell away as Jason got slowly to his feet.

I staggered to the rocky shelter, and in. The cold wind and the rain abated, though my shivering did not. I essayed a step into the darkness, tripped over a stone, gouged my scalp nastily on an unseen outcropping of rock, fell again, then finally gave up. I curled in a ball and eventually drifted into a cold, uncomfortable sleep.

When I woke the second time, gravel ground my cheekbone. I stared in mute surprise into a pair of fever-bright blue eyes. Jason’s face was bleached of color.

I closed my eyes. My face was stiff with congealed mud. I lifted a swath of my gown and rubbed it over my cheeks and forehead. The fabric felt cold and gritty, but at least it wasn’t caked with mud.

When I opened my eyes again, I met Jason’s gaze. He did not speak.

I looked around me at the fantastic roof of ancient, interlocked tree roots, grass and rock that formed the shelter. Just beyond was the steady thunder of rain.

I discovered I was thirsty. But the sharp pain in my head when I moved killed the thirst: the residue of far too much sleepweed. I was beginning to know that sensation all too well.

When I opened my eyes again, the pale light of day outlined the dangling vines. Rain hissed in sheets just behind. Jason was not going to go away if I ignored him.

He lay against a great rock, his left hand clasped below his right armpit. A sluggish ooze of blood seeped between his fingers. What remained of his shirt on that side was stained, a great, frightening stain. More stain darkened the ground under him. The rest of him was filthy with mud and moss.

I shut my eyes again, this time against an almost overwhelming surge of nausea.

When I had that under control, I looked down at myself. My gown was a sodden, mud-smeared mess, ripped beyond repair.

I looked up at Jason. “You’re bleeding to death.”

“Most likely.” I could barely hear him.

“I can’t look at that.” My voice came out sounding accusing.

His eyes flicked toward the stream and beyond, and though he said nothing, the glance was clear:
so leave
.

“I wouldn’t get ten paces in that storm.”

His voice was barely audible above the rush of the stream. “Then suffer.” I saw the briefest narrowing of humor in his eyes.

The ridiculousness of the situation overcame the sense of danger, making everything more unreal. “Well,” I said. “Do you want some help?”

One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug, as if to say: what can you do?

Good question.

I looked about for something to staunch that horrible ooze. He had nothing, I had nothing. My gown was fragile and filthy—but my lace collar wasn’t.

I found the catches, and shook it free of the gown. I moved to the edge of the overhang and held the lace out until the rain had pounded it clean of mud. Then I folded the heavy lace into a pad.

Wishing myself a kingdom away, I examined the blood-soaked wad of cloth pressed between his fingers and his side. His hair had come untied, black locks straggling down into the gore. I shuddered. My own hair had come undone, lying in a sodden mass down my back and on the mud and moss-covered stone ground.

“You’re a fool,” he murmured. “You should be making your way downstream.”

“I don’t know where I am,” I said, as if that explained everything. “Move your hand.”

“Why?”

The
Why
did not mean
Why move my hand?
but
Why are you doing what you’re doing?
How did I know? I just, well,
knew
.

“I may loathe and despise you,” I said as emphatically as I could despite my shaky, squeaking voice. “But I loathe my conscience worse. I’ll leave as soon as I know I did what I could.”

He hadn’t moved his hand, so I reached down and tried reluctantly to pry loose one of his fingers. His hand jerked in resisting—which was his undoing. A spasm of pain tightened his features. His hand went slack and his eyes closed.

Gone off in a faint
, I thought, triumphant.
See how you like it.

I put his hand on his middle, flicked his hair out of the way, and pressed the lace over the long gash, wondering how to keep it there. His chest was bare where his shirt had ripped, and in the blood smears on his flesh lay a long silver chain. My eyes followed it, saw whatever was on its end was caught in his armpit.

As I tugged, it came free, but the object on the end was red and sticky. I dropped it, turned away and gagged dryly for a short but thoroughly nasty time.

When
that
passed off, I leaned back against the rock and fought to get my breathing under control. Since Jason was still in a faint, I pulled up an edge of his shirt and poked the thing on the chain down his other side.

Then I resumed my search for something to bind the lace over the wound, but he stirred, and his left hand came up again and pressed against his side, prisoning the lace there.

I moved away to watch the rain until the waves of nausea passed. When I turned, Jason said, “Ambush.”

And he’d been taken by surprise, I thought, remembering the battle gear he’d worn the day of the abduction. He’d been ready for trouble that day. The chain mail and battle tunic were probably burning back there with the carriage and the rest of his luggage. “Where are we?” I asked.

“Border between Drath and Ralanor Veleth.”

Almost to his homeland.

“Who did it? Garian’s people? Or yours?” I added snidely.

“Enterprising independents, I believe,” he whispered. “Of the sort my brother runs.”

“Who were they after? Me—or you?”

“Not sure. You were hidden by baggage.” He gave a brief, pained half-smile.

“So if they come back, what?”

“Won’t come back. Dead. All of ’em.”

“But if they have friends who come seeking them?”

“You tell ’em. Who you are. You’ll be. Safe enough.”

“
Another
ransom? Is that going to frame the rest of my life?” I asked the rocky ceiling. Seeing no answer, I faced Jason. “The fire?”

“Campfire. Most likely. Wind was coming up when they attacked. I used a stick from the fire. When my sword wouldn’t come free of one of ’em.”

“Ugh.”

“Sent Markham for backup,” he went on. “Didn’t know about the fire.”

“Markham?”

“Liegeman.”

“How long have we been on the road?”

Another brief half-smile. “Couple days. Had quite a run. Your brother. Was commendably fast this time.”

“But not fast enough, obviously. Well, at least when I get home Spaquel will be discredited for good.”

“Talk himself out of it.”

I sighed and braced myself to look at the lace again. There was white in it. So the bleeding was slowing. Time to go away.

I got to my feet, paused when I saw the gleam of a jewel not far from Jason. I bent. My fingers closed around the hilt of a long bladed knife. I said to Jason, “You lost my gems. This is a fair trade.”

“Didn’t lose ’em. Sold ’em. Get over the border faster.”

Belatedly I realized he meant bribes. To my own people. Anger surged through me.

I glared at him, the knife gripped in my fingers.

The smile was obvious now. “Go ahead. This is the only chance you’ll ever get.”

Why was he taunting me? He couldn’t possibly defend himself—even against me. I looked down at his blood-streaked flesh, the derisive blue eyes, and nausea clawed at me.

“You’re squeamish,” he whispered, and for the first time I saw him angry—really angry. “If I get through this one alive you’ll regret the outcome.”

Did he
want
me to stab him? I couldn’t possibly figure out what he meant, but one thing was for certain: “Maybe I’ll regret it, but I’m not going to do
you
any favors. Goodbye and good riddance.”

I turned my back on him and stalked out into the rain.

Chapter Eleven

I figured that at least the hard rain would wash off the mud. But not ten steps away from the rocky overhang, the rain abated abruptly, typical of mountain storms. I walked a short way in the light drizzle, then sat down on a rock to let the pounding in my head subside.

Next time I made it to a trickling stream. I got a good drink, which made me feel somewhat better.

One step, another. Concentrate. It took all my thought, and all my effort.

I didn’t go far or for long before I heard the sounds of a military horn echoing through the trees, followed not long after by the thud of horse hooves and jingling harnesses.

Thieves?

I looked about for a hiding place, tripped over something and fell into a mossy patch.

Horse hooves neared, someone dismounted and pulled me to my feet. Someone carried me and I was set down—not on a horse, but on a cushioned bench.

I was in an ancient traveling carriage smelling strongly of mildew. Jason lay on the opposite bench, that horrible wound wrapped with a hasty bandage.

As the forgotten knife was twisted from my fingers, he said, “I told you. Ought to have used it.”

“I took it to ward thieves.”

“Effective.”

“You’re stupid,” I said, with as much strength as I could muster. “And ignorant. Mistaking scruples for cowardice.”

He did not answer. Only gave me that faint, incredulous smile.

I made a sour face. “The ransom. You’ll address it to my brother, I trust?”

“Of course… No use applying to your father… No worth in making him drop dead… But your brother doesn’t know that…”

“You’ll threaten to tell Papa?”

“Don’t need to… Your brother jumps at shadows…”

I sighed in disgust, too sick to be angry. “It turns my stomach. Ransom me to raise an army to march on my own kingdom.”

“Wrong.”

“What? You’re not after Lygiera?”

“No interest. No. Would be interesting. No intention.”

He was in a fever. Would he ramble on about his plans? I studied him. His black hair hung down in his face, which was pale except for telltale red along the defined cheekbones that were so much like his siblings’.

“So whose is the fortunate kingdom?”

He did not answer.

I tried to think of something suitably scathing to say, but the carriage hit some kind of deep hole or root, jerked quite violently, and Jason shut his eyes, closing out the world, whether advertently or not.

I looked at the window. A pine-covered crag towered overhead. My skull and body ached. One of my more heroic ancestors might have been capable of leaping forth and making good her escape, but I did not know how to begin—or how to carry on if I did manage to get out of the carriage and past the escort whose gear and harnesses I could hear jingling at either side.

So I drew my knees up, tucked my sodden skirts around my ankles, put my head on my knees and went to sleep.

I roused when we stopped. Torchlight flared in the old-fashioned carriage windows. The door opened, and chill air puffed in, pure, cold, pine scented, and very damp. I discovered I was shivering.

A dark head and broad shoulders appeared in the doorway, outlined by the torches held high. A large male hand extended toward me. It was an offer—palm up—not a peremptory point, so I laid my own hand in it.

The silent liegeman guided me to the door then lifted me effortlessly out of the carriage, carried me a few steps, and set me down in what appeared in the leaping torchlight to be an abandoned woodcutter’s cottage.

Mold and damp wood were the chief smells inside the small single room. Someone had spread an old blanket on the stone floor near a fireplace on which someone else was in the process of setting up a fire. I lay down gratefully and was vaguely surprised when someone cast another blanket over me. It smelled of storage herbs and moldy wood, but I did not care. I crooked my elbow under my aching head, content to watch the four or five dark figures moving in purposeful silence about the little room.

Voices murmured just beyond the open door. One of them was Jason’s. Mumble-mumble-mumble, then a grunt of pain, followed by cursing.

Another voice: “Cut through the muscle, bone nicked. But the main blood vessel appears to be safe.”

“What I figured.” Jason’s response was hoarse. “Or I’d have been dead by now.”

Silence. I winced, trying not to think of what had to be happening in that old carriage.

The fire threw orange light on old plank walls, little shelves, and a moldy-green wooden trunk. An iron pot in a corner. Someone knelt at the fire; from the sounds outside others were rigging a shelter for the horses. Rain whispered in the high fir trees surrounding the cottage.

Cold puffs of rainy air blew in, making me shiver. My blanket did not hold heat, because of my sodden gown.

Two figures laid a heavy woolen cloak on the floor, covered it with two more. Jason came in, supported by that tall armsman from before. I noted with mild interest his dark, shoulder-length hair.