As they careened around a cartload of bleating sheep, she imagined all kinds of scenarios—that Zachary was dead, or maybe he’d just fallen off that high-strung stallion of his and bumped his head. Maybe Sophina had actually seen something that had yet to happen and Laren would arrive in time to stop it. But somehow she knew better.
She could not give in to worry. She must keep her wits about her, for if the worst had happened to Zachary, there would be consequences for the entire realm. She loved Zachary, the little boy he had been and the man he had become, but the consequences for the country were bigger than even his life.
The ride took forever, pedestrians screaming and running to get out of her way, dropping sacks of onions beneath Robin’s hooves and snatching children from danger. Zachary’s party could not have had time to leave the city yet, could it? She tried to calculate the time in her head, but there were too many thoughts ramming into each other.
Robin skidded and almost lost his footing around a curve slick with melting ice. Laren was so numb with worry that she could no longer feel Ben clamped to her, but she could hear his whimpers and prayers.
Pray for Zachary, she thought. Pray for Zachary.
Near the second city gates, more people on foot and on horseback dashed to the sides of the street—not to get out of Laren’s way, but to escape something else coming toward her.
A wagon burst free of the crowd with two cart horses running full out and a Weapon gripping reins and lashing a whip. Four other mounted Weapons thundered alongside.
“Fastion!” Laren cried, but it was clear he was not going to stop for her. The wagon surged past her and she had to wheel Robin on his haunches to catch up with it. Ben emitted a muted scream and started asking every god in the pantheon for deliverance. Laren did not think Goltera, goddess of fertile swine, would be of much help, but it couldn’t hurt.
The mounted Weapons permitted her into their formation. She pushed poor Robin alongside the wagon and glanced in the back. There, stretched out on his side with an arrow in his gut was Lord Coutre, gasping for breath and his eyes wide open.
Beside him was Zachary, an identical arrow in his chest. His eyes were closed, his body moved limply with every bump of the wagon. Donal sat between the men, paying no attention to Lord Coutre, but pressing a blood-soaked cloth around Zachary’s arrow wound. It was impossible to know if Zachary lived.
“Arrows are still in,” Ben murmured in her ear. “Good.”
Laren had almost forgotten about Ben, so focused on Zachary was she, but she didn’t now. She jammed her heels into Robin’s sides to press even more speed out of him.
“Fastion!” she cried. “Mender! I’ve got Ben. Mender!”
Fastion did not appear to hear over the clatter of cart wheels and hooves, but one of the mounted Weapons understood and reached from her mount for the reins of the cart horses. Fastion whipped his gaze around, ready to draw his sword.
“Mender!” Laren screamed. “I’ve got Ben!”
This time he heard and pulled the horses up. Laren hauled Robin into a sliding halt beside the wagon. The escorting Weapons arranged themselves around it looking menacing.
“Hurry,” Fastion said.
Shaking, Ben dismounted, his face white as bone, and clambered into the wagon.
“The king,” Donal told him. “Never mind Lord Coutre. The king needs your full attention.”
Before Ben could settle entirely, Fastion flicked the reins and snapped the whip. Ben fell back, but Donal helped him up.
“Destarion should be up ahead,” Laren shouted at Fastion.
She dropped back into place beside the wagon, asking Robin to keep up the grueling pace, to please keep up. Though Ben glanced a couple times over his shoulder at Lord Coutre, he worked on Zachary as Donal had ordered. The truth was, though Coutre was a lord-governor and the future queen’s father, his life was not as important as Zachary’s. Zachary, she knew, would not view it in the same way, but in the scheme of the realm, the truth was the truth.
Laren could not see all that Ben did, with Donal assisting him, but one moment the arrow was there, then it was out, tossed into the bed of the wagon and Ben had his hands around the wound as blood bubbled up around his fingers. He closed his eyes and a bluish glow spread out from his hands. It was peaceful, like a clear summer sky and Laren felt herself calm a notch. The bleeding slowly ebbed, but Laren saw no change in Zachary.
The blue glow sputtered out and Ben gazed at his bloody hands, blinking stupidly.
“Ben!” Laren cried. “Ben!”
He slumped and was caught by Donal who shook and tried to revive him to no avail.
Damnation. Ben must have expended too much of his energies healing Sperren, giving an old, old man the hip of a twenty year old.
Oh, Ben, she thought. How could they have known this would happen to the king? Had he been able to heal Zachary before passing out, or was their king already gone from them?
The ride back to the castle grounds was a nightmare. Donal made no indication whether or not Zachary lived, and Ben did not regain consciousness. All she could do was consider the next step for the realm and her Green Riders if Zachary was dead. If he’d named an heir to the throne, such a document would be locked away in a box of secrets guarded by the Weapons, and called the Royal Trust. If Zachary had a child, the heir would be obvious, but he hadn’t even gotten as far as marrying Estora.
Even if an heir was named within the Trust, they’d have to wait until there was an assembly of all the lord-governors to open the box and reveal the name. As soon as word got out about Zachary, the lord-governors would be upon them like vultures, for they were princes of the realm, next in line for the throne if there was no direct descendent. Even if one of them was legitimately named, the others would contest it, fight over it. She prayed it would not come to civil war. They could not afford it with Second Empire building up its forces and the D’Yer Wall breached.