Mother Rothgard speaks a blessing and Theophanu grunts, and the vision smears into the dull glow of fading coals.
The rain had slowed to a shushing patter, and as Liath replaced the gold feather against her chest and clasped her knees for warmth, the twilight faded into the chill expectation of dawn.
Sorcery. How powerful had Hugh become? Was she herself no longer immune to his magic? Had she ever been?
With this disquieting thought like a burden weighing on her, she saddled her horse and made ready to leave. As she took its reins to lead it out from under the shelter of the overhang, a stabbing pain burned at her breast. She pressed a hand to the pain … where the gold Aoi feather lay between tunic and skin.
In that pause, standing motionless and still half-hidden by the hanging evergreen branches, she heard a twig snap. Mounting, she drew her bow and an arrow out of its quiver. She laid the bow across her thighs and started west on the forest road, one hand on the bow, one on the reins.
A covey of partridges took wing, a sudden flurry, startled out of their hiding place. She stared into the undergrowth but saw nothing. But the crawling sensation grew: Someone—or something—watched her from the shelter of the trees.
She urged her horse forward as fast as she dared. With the next town so far ahead, she couldn’t risk exhausting her horse, and anyway the road was cut here and there with gashes, holes of a size to trap a horse’s hoof. Nothing appeared on the forest road behind her, nothing ahead. In the forest, all she saw was a tangle of trees and little sprays of snow where wind rattled branches.
Abruptly, dim figures appeared in the shadows of the forest, darting around the trees like wolves following a scent.
A whoosh like the hiss of angry breath brushed her ear, and she jerked to one side. Her horse faltered. An arrow buried itself into the trunk of a nearby tree. As delicate as a needle, it had no fletching. Pale winter light glinted off its silver shaft. Then, in the space of time it takes to blink, it dissolved into mist and vanished.
The scream came out of nowhere and seemingly from all directions: a ululating tremor, more war cry than cry for help. It shuddered through the trees like the coursing of a wild wind.
Maybe sometimes it was better to run than to stand and fight.
Galloping down the forest road, she hit the opening in the trees before she was aware that trees had been hacked back from either side of a wide stream. At the ford, a dilapidated bridge crossed the sluggish waters.
A party of men blocked the bridge and its approach. They raised their weapons when they saw her. She pulled up her horse and while it minced nervously under her, she glanced behind, then ahead, not sure what threatened her most. The men looked ill kempt, as desperate as bandits— which they surely were. Most of them wore only rags wrapped around their feet. A few wore scraps of armor, padded coats sewn with squares of leather. Only the leader had a helmet, a boiled and molded leather cap tied under his scraggly beard. But they stood in front of her, surly and looking prepared to run; they were tangible, real. She had no idea what had let loose with that scream.
“I am a King’s Eagle! I ride on the king’s business. Let me pass.”
By now they had guessed that she rode alone.
“Wendar’s king,” said the foremost, spitting on the ground. “You’re in Varre now. He’s no king of ours.”
“Henry is king over Varre.”
“Henry is the usurper. We’re loyal to Duchess Sabella.”
“Sabella is no longer a duchess. She no longer rules over Arconia.”
The man spit again, hefting his spear with more confidence. He cast a glance at his comrades, who were armed with clubs fashioned from stout sticks. Two came off the bridge and began to circle around on either side to flank her. “What the false king says of Duchess Sabella don’t mean anything here. It’s his mistake to send his people here and think his word protects them. We’ll treat you better, woman, if you give up without a fight.”
“I’ve nothing worth anything to you,” she said as she raised her bow, but they only laughed.
“Good boots, warm cloak, and a pretty face,” said their leader. “Not to mention the horse and the weapons. That’s all worth something to us.”
Nocking the arrow, she drew down on the leader. “Tell your men to pull back. Or I’ll kill you.”
“First rights,” said the leader, “to the man who drags the rider off the horse.”
The two men charged. The one to her right made the mistake of reaching her first. She kicked him, hard under the chin, and as he reeled back she turned just as the other man reached her. Her string drawn back, she held her arrowhead almost against his face as he grabbed for her boot. And loosed the string.