Chapter 26
One who spurned you, and the other who humiliated you
Isobelle overslept, and woke from a bad dream.
The details evaporated when her lashes lifted, but she could still feel the fear of it trying to ooze its way through her veins.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You don’t have to fight the creature. Gwen’s doing all the hard work.
But that wasn’t true. Watching was just as bad, in its own way.
She fought each day to keep her own fear from showing.
To hide the dread that sat in the pit of her stomach like a stone, from the moment she woke to the moment she fell asleep.
Every day Gwen picked up her sword and stepped aboard the Elizabeth, and every day Isobelle watched her, desperately trying to believe she would be all right.
It had been thrilling, the first few times, to watch Gwen do what she did best. But the knight was getting tired, and it was showing – her reflexes were slower, her split-second decisions riskier.
How long would it be before she took one risk too many?
Gwen fought with a grim determination that chilled Isobelle all the way through. Like she didn’t care about the outcome.
Like she wouldn’t mind all that much if she …
Isobelle couldn’t finish the thought. Dismissing the notion from her mind, she rolled out of bed and found a robe, ready to emerge from her room for what would probably be her lunch tray.
Exhausted from the stress of the endless battles, both she and Gwen were sleeping when they could now.
If she could snatch a few extra hours, she’d take them.
She would take her tray to Gwen’s room, to make sure her champion ate. She could also give her bruises a new layer of Kadija’s, the lurid green ointment that had helped her during the tournament. At this point, Gwen was mostly green, and Isobelle’s fingers were permanently stained.
In the hallway, though, she found not only her lunch tray, but Orson running up the stairs, dishevelled and wide-eyed.
‘They’ve gone,’ he blurted out, bracing one hand against the wall.
‘Who?’ Isobelle’s gaze snapped towards the stairs, waiting for one of the girls to appear with a more coherent response.
‘Sylvie,’ he said, breathless. ‘And Jane, and Hilde. I saw Sylvie’s breakfast tray was still outside her door, so I knocked. Most of her things are still there, but her travelling gear is gone. So is theirs. And the carriage, too.’
Panic grabbed hold of Isobelle, as if someone had a hand around her ribcage. ‘The carriage?’
‘Gone.’ Orson shook his head. ‘Sylvie was saying last night that we should all go. That this place – but I didn’t know she was going to act on it.’
Shock settled over Isobelle like a cold layer of snow, but there was no anger to go with it. ‘They were afraid,’ she said quietly. The fear that had overtaken the town had come for her friends, too. She had seen the warning signs.
Orson’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. ‘I can’t believe that,’ he protested. ‘Sylvie wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. You’re her closest friend in the world.’
There were footsteps on the stairs, and Gwen appeared, climbing up from the taproom below. Isobelle hurried towards her, and was about to deliver this latest blow to morale, when she saw the lines of tension through Gwen’s body.
‘Where’s Grimshaw?’ Gwen demanded. ‘He’s not lurking in the taproom like usual.’
How it happened, Isobelle would never know. But the two separate mysteries collided with the sudden inevitability of thunder answering lightning, and she gasped, taking hold of the rail.
Gwen turned to look at her quizzically – but Isobelle had already darted past her, practically flying down the stairs and towards the room Grimshaw had selected for himself.
Tacked to the door was a note with a single line of text: No more delayes. Meet me at the pass else they face the punishment for your disobedience.
After a few seconds, Isobelle became aware of Gwen’s voice in her ear, demanding to know what was going on. Wordlessly, she stepped aside so Gwen could see the scrap of parchment. Orson was not far behind them, and it was he who finally shook them from their paralysis.
‘Oh god, it’s been snowing all morning. The pass won’t be safe—’ He ripped the note down, scanning it again, and again, as if hoping more information might be forthcoming. ‘What are we going to do?’
Gwen had turned away, settling into the same terrible icy calm that took her when she was facing down the sea monster. ‘We go after them.’
‘Gwen …’ Isobelle had no ready response, for everything in her was screaming to go after her friends. How could I have ever believed for a second that they would have left of their own accord? she thought. But Gwen’s face turned her cold. ‘Gwen, we can’t—’
‘We can,’ she replied, pausing on the landing to look down at them. ‘I kill monsters. That’s what I do.’
Snow muffled the sounds of hoofbeats as the three of them galloped down the ocean road.
Achilles snorted with effort and appreciation, venting his nervous energy eagerly.
Isobelle had been concerned that Princess Buttercup would refuse to let her mount, but of the three horses, the mare was the most like herself.
Isobelle supposed she was half crazed with anxiety all the time anyway, and was used to dealing with it.
Orson brought up the rear, his black horse stamping heavily.
The road bent inland, climbing towards the cliffs that loomed against the bleak grey sky.
Pines closed in, heavy with snow, their branches creaking under the weight.
The world grew quieter with every mile, until it seemed they rode not into battle but into some frozen dream.
Their breath, their horses’ breath, the rhythmic thudding of hooves – these were the only sounds left to mark their passage.
The trees gave way abruptly as the pass loomed ahead of them.
High on the cliffs, snow clung in ledges and shelves, and to deep crevices in the mountainside.
Each gust of wind set a veil of powder drifting loose, whispering down upon the road below.
The weight of it seemed restless, unsettled, as if the whole pass were holding its breath.
And there, far enough into the pass that there would be no easy retreat for anyone approaching, was the carriage.
It was halted in the road, its doors closed.
There was no sign of the girls at this distance, the light too low inside the carriage and too glaring without, but Master Grimshaw stood before it.
As their horses slowed to a cautious walk, and then to a halt, Grimshaw drew his sword.
Gwen leaned forward, about to give Achilles the command to charge. Isobelle touched her heels to Buttercup’s flanks and cut off the stallion’s path.
‘Gwen, stop,’ Isobelle panted. ‘You can’t fight Grimshaw.
Remember what he said when he arrived? Attacking him, or killing him, will give Whimsitt the only weapon he needs to take you down.
No amount of hero worship among the people will protect a—’ Isobelle swallowed, but made herself finish the sentence. ‘A murderer.’
Gwen looked at her blankly – it was worse than the cold fury that had seized her at the inn. ‘What does any of that matter?’ she asked, as Achilles sidestepped uneasily, sensing the tension in his mistress.
Isobelle could only stare at her. For months now, Gwen had been the one reminding Isobelle of the precariousness of their situation.
Insisting that they had to follow Whimsitt’s orders and ride their patrols if they wanted to stay together.
That they must smile and curtsy and say ‘yes, my lord’, because that was the price they paid to hang on at Darkhaven until salvation arrived in the form of Isobelle’s dowry.
‘You don’t mean that.’ It was Orson, his horse’s nostrils flaring, breath steaming the air. ‘It matters, you’re just tired.’
Gwen let out a soft sound. ‘I am,’ she agreed dryly. ‘But there’s no other option here. Look – he’s chosen his spot well.’
On the eastern side of the pass, the cliffs rose up nearly vertical only a few paces from the snow-covered packed earth. On the western side, the cliff had crumbled, leaving a sheer drop down to a river delta, frozen over on its journey towards the sea.
There was no way past him. No way to circle around to approach him from more than one angle. There was barely enough room for two combatants.
‘This isn’t like fighting the monster,’ Isobelle whispered. ‘Let’s take a breath and think of some way to do this that doesn’t turn you into an outlaw—’
‘There isn’t a way,’ Gwen retorted, cutting her off irritably.
‘Don’t you see, I’ve been an outlaw since I rode in that tournament, Whimsitt just hasn’t been able to touch me yet.
So what if this speeds his revenge? The odds are I’ll never be going b—’ She halted herself with a strangled sound and a visible twitch of effort across her lips as she turned away.
Isobelle felt rather like she’d been struck hard enough in her chest to knock the breath from her. She could feel her own thoughts slogging as if through hip-deep mud, slow and agonising.
‘Never be going back anyway, you mean?’ she whispered. The cold air was burning her nose, her lungs, her eyes – they watered, stinging. ‘Gwen, you are not going to die here. Not fighting Grimshaw, not fighting the sea monster. We will get past this, and we’ll go home together!’
In the distance, Grimshaw slammed his boot down against the powdery snow. He gave a shout that echoed eerily through the pass and sent a few more eddies of snow trickling down from the cliffs above. He had no interest in standing there while they argued.
‘I’ll fight him.’ Orson was still a few paces behind them, and his eyes were fixed on the distant figure of the Darkhaven master-at-arms.