The Blood Curse (14 page)

Throwing herself into the well seemed the only option she had. Death, not escape, but with the same result: she couldn’t be used to kill Harkeld. But would she reach the well in time to jump in, or would the Fithians catch her first? And if she did jump in, would they haul her out before she drowned?

She hesitated too long. The busy hum of the market died behind them. There, at the end of the street, another town gate stood tall. Desperation rose in Britta’s chest.
Jump off the horse. Jump and run
.

But where could she run to? An image flashed into her mind of herself scurrying down the street, beating on closed doors, begging someone to let her in, while songbirds looked down at her from their cages and the Fithians closed leisurely around her.

Up front, Leader spoke a few words. Pox nodded and trotted ahead, turned into a street to the left. Britta tensed. Were they stopping in this town? Was there a Fithian house here?

The rest of the party didn’t slow. As they passed the street, Britta glanced down it.

Pox had halted outside a house with a tall wooden fence. He rang the bell dangling at the gate. Half a dozen pigeons perched on the fence, watching him.

Who lived there?

They passed the street. The gate grew close, closer. Britta’s desperation increased, pushing up her throat in a silent scream.

The gate loomed above them. They were through it.

She’d failed to escape.

B
RITTA SAGGED IN
the saddle, her exhaustion unfeigned. Dusk was drawing in. She closed her eyes, swaying, longing for hard ground to lie on, for sleep.

She dozed lightly until the clatter of wheels jerked her awake. An oxcart piled high with household goods passed them, heading towards the town.

Britta rubbed her eyes. They were past the last of the straggling farmsteads, climbing a rocky hillside. A forest of thorn trees and scrub surrounded them. Surely they’d stop soon? Eat. Rest.

Movement caught her eye, about a hundred yards ahead. Men riding towards them. Armed men.

She stiffened. Bandits?

No, from their colored vests they were a local militia.

Britta’s exhaustion evaporated. She counted the approaching riders. A full score of men.

A quick, cautious glance at the assassins told her that Pox was still in the town. Five Fithians against twenty militiamen. She’d never get better odds than this.

Britta fumbled in her pocket for the sharp twig. The militiamen were thirty yards distant. Twenty yards. Ten.

The Fithians drew to one side of the road to let the militiamen pass. Plain was at her side, his knee touching hers, the reins fisted in his hand. Britta’s heart beat hard and fast in her ears. Her chest was tight with terror. It was a struggle to fill her lungs.

Five yards. Two yards. The first militiamen were level with her.

Karel’s voice whispered in her ear:
You can do it, princess.

Britta drew in a sharp breath, stabbed the stick deep into the web of flesh between Plain’s forefinger and thumb, wrenched her reins free, and dug her boots into the mare’s flanks. “Help me!” she screamed. “They’re kidnapping me! Help!”

She plunged into the militiamen. Horses shied on either side of her. Riders shouted and hauled on their reins, reaching for their swords.

“They’re kidnapping me!” Britta shrieked. “Help!”

The piebald mare collided with a huge black stallion, almost unseating her. The stallion’s rider grabbed her arm. He was a massive man, with bristling eyebrows and beard.

“Help—!”

A throwing star buried itself in the bearded man’s forehead. He jerked backwards, releasing her arm, toppling from the saddle.

The rest of Britta’s cry choked in her throat. She jerked a glance behind her. The road was a chaos of horses and riders. Shouts bellowed in the air. She heard the fierce clash of sword blades.

She tried to push deeper into the militiamen, to burrow between them, but there were too many horses, too many men. A bandaged hand snatched at her reins, and missed. Leader’s. Their eyes met. Fury was stark on his face. His mouth snarled at her. Britta’s heart kicked against her ribs.
Run
.

She slid off the other side of the mare and ran, pushing through the tangle of horses’ legs and stirrups. Above her, men shouted. Someone snatched at her cloak. A militiaman. “What—?” he yelled at her.

Britta wrenched free, falling to her knees.
Leader’s after me!
She scrambled to her feet and plunged deeper into the turmoil, dodging horses. The sounds of battle came from all around her. Someone screamed, a sound full of agony.

Britta crouched low, her heart thudding hard in her chest.
Where to run to?

The forest. Downhill.

She caught her breath, took a moment to orient herself, and ran again, low, almost on hands and knees. Horses buffeted her, swords clanged—and then she burst from them and bolted into the trees on the far side of the road.
Run. Run
.

D
ARKNESS FELL, AND
still Britta ran, scrambling, sliding, crashing through thickets of thorn trees, falling to her knees, dragging herself upright, plunging deeper and deeper into the forest. Stones tripped her and branches slapped at her, tore skin and clothing.

When she had no breath left, she halted, sinking to the ground, shaking, laboring to drag air into her lungs.

Had anyone followed her?

She strained to hear sounds of pursuit, but heard only her own harsh breathing and the loud gallop of her heart. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed. Her breath came more easily.

The forest was silent around her. No crunch of feet. No shouts.

Britta relaxed.
Safe. Free.

She groped on hands and knees, found a tree trunk to lean against, and fumbled in her pocket for the bread she’d hidden there. She was lost, completely and utterly. But that was good. If she had no idea where she was, how could the Fithians find her?

Elation filled her.
I escaped!

Britta broke off a small piece of bread and tucked the rest safely in her pocket for tomorrow. The elation faded. She saw the bearded militiaman’s face for a moment, saw the throwing star sink into his skull, saw him fall.

Men had died because of her today.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I
NNIS WAS STILL
unconscious in the morning. “Don’t worry,” Rand said, when Petrus checked on her. “Sometimes it takes time.”

The words were reassuring, but Rand’s expression wasn’t. He looked deeply worried.

“Eat,” Rand told him. “Then I want you in the air. Stay close to us. Keep your eyes peeled. Serril’ll fly ahead, see if he can spot any Fithians.”

Petrus ate his gruel fast and stripped out of his clothes, trying not to worry about Innis. But it was impossible not to. What if she never woke?

“Justen, you ride this morning,” Rand said. “Change your hair color. I want you to have the same brown as Flin.”

“No,” the prince said.

“Just until we’re past the last of the refugees—”

“We didn’t do it yesterday. Why do it today?”

“An oversight,” Rand said. “If there are assassins—”

“
No
.”

Rand looked past the prince to Justen. “Justen, change your hair color.”

Justen obeyed. His hair became dark brown, his eyebrows, his stubble.

“Change it back, Justen, or I’ll break your rutting nose,” the prince said fiercely, his fist cocked to punch.

Justen took a step back, holding up a hand to ward off a blow.

“Flin,” Rand’s voice was curt, impatient. “It’s only until we pass the last of the refugees.”

“No! Hew’s dead because he was pretending to be me. Thayer’s dead because he was pretending to be me. I will not have Justen—or anyone!—do it again. Do you hear me?”

“We can all hear you, son,” Serril said, his voice a low rumble.

Prince Harkeld swung to face him, fist still raised.

“Suppose I make myself look like you... You plan to break my nose, too?”

The prince wasn’t cowed by Serril’s size, by his authority. “Yes,” he said, not lowering his fist.

Petrus halted, one leg out of his trews. Was the prince going to hit Serril?
He’s a braver man than me
. No one beat Serril in a fight. The man was stronger than an ox.

Serril met Rand’s eyes, shrugged.

Rand blew out a breath. “Fine!” He flung up his hands and turned away.

“Change back, Justen,” Serril said.

Justen’s hair became dun-colored again.

Petrus finished undressing. He watched Rand clamber into the wagon. He’d never seen the healer lose his temper before.

“I
APOLOGIZE FOR
threatening you,” Harkeld said.

Justen shrugged. “Ach, forget it.”

They rode in silence for several minutes, side by side, then the shapeshifter grinned. “Would have liked to see you try to hit Serril. He’d swat you like a fly.”

“Probably.” Harkeld glanced at Justen. The shapeshifter was almost the person Innis and Petrus had pretended to be. Friendly. Patient. Good-humored. “I... uh, I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass. It wasn’t your fault they used your face.”

Justen shrugged again. “Ach, forget it.”

Harkeld looked at the wagon ahead of them. “All this would have been much easier if I was a shapeshifter, not a fire mage. The Fithians would never have found me.”

“Wouldn’t have helped,” Justen said. “Takes years to learn how to shift safely.”

“It does?”

Justen nodded. “Lot of studying. Got to understand the anatomy of what you’re shifting into. You make mistakes, otherwise.”

“What kind of mistakes?”

“Well, birds’ bones are different, see? If you don’t give yourself the right bones, you might
look
like a bird, but you can’t fly.”

“Huh.”

“And they have different types of feathers, too. Flight feathers and down feathers. Get the flight feathers wrong, and you can’t fly either.”

Harkeld looked up and found Petrus gliding above them, his underwings and breast creamy white. “Do you
like
being a shapeshifter?”

“Love it,” Justen said. “Especially flying.”

Harkeld considered this answer, following Petrus with his eyes. What would it be like to ride the air currents? To rise up on the wind?

To have feathers instead of skin? Talons, instead of fingernails? A beak, not a nose and mouth?

He shivered. No, he didn’t want to be a shapeshifter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

B
RITTA WOKE BY
slow degrees. She opened her eyes and saw light filtering through tree branches. At first she had no idea where she was, or why she was there—then memory returned.

I escaped!

She pushed up to sit, suddenly alert, tense, listening for sounds of pursuit.

She heard birdsong and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. No twigs snapping, no stealthy footsteps, no voices.

Britta relaxed. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Scratches and dried blood crisscrossed her face and hands, thirst burned in her throat, but none of that mattered. She was
free
.

B
RITTA DECIDED NOT
to eat breakfast. No more bread until she’d found some water to drink. She headed downhill, walking as quietly as she could, picking her way through the thorn trees and scrub, stopping often to examine the forest, to listen. But she heard nothing, saw nothing.

Within half an hour she found a small, boggy creek fringed with bright green reeds.

Britta crouched and drank greedily, gulping handfuls of water. Then, she sat back on her heels and wiped her chin and looked around. Thorn trees. Scrub. Stones. Reeds. Creek. She had no idea where north and south were, no idea where the road lay, or the town they’d passed through yesterday. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter if she walked in circles until her strength gave out and she died in this forest. What mattered was that the Fithians couldn’t find her. That she couldn’t be used against Harkeld.

She pushed to her feet. She would follow the creek. At least she’d have water then. There was bread in her pocket, but she wouldn’t eat until she absolutely had to. Until she was starving. A few crumbs at a time.