Chapter 22 #3
“Lord Gareth isn’t here.” She kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “The children, the refugees—Marian has them. They’re safe. But these men are looking for me. If I can lead them away from the hidden places—”
“No.” Bertram’s grip tightened. “’Tis witless folly. I’ll not allow it.”
“You can’t stop me.” She met his eyes—this old man who had served Greywatch for fifty years, who had watched his lord fall silent and never once treated him as less for it. “But you can help me. Is there a way to the stables from here? If I can get a horse—”
“Going somewhere?”
The voice cut through the darkness like a blade. Elodie spun. Cecily stood at the end of the corridor, torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. Her golden hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was smiling—actually smiling—as two of Alaric’s soldiers flanked her on either side.
“You,” Elodie breathed.
“Me.” Cecily’s smile widened. “I must confess, you led us on quite a chase. All those servants vanishing into the walls—very clever. But ’tis no matter now.
” She stepped closer, the torchlight casting her beautiful face in harsh shadows.
“Lord Alaric cares naught for servants. He wants the faerie woman. He wants you.”
“Why?”
“Because you matter to him.” Cecily’s voice dripped with contempt.
“The Silent Reaper—three years of patience, three years of planning, and what finally wakes him up? A madwoman in a gossamer dress who can’t stop talking.
” She laughed, high and cruel. “You’re bait, Lady Elodie.
Nothing more. And once Lord Gareth comes charging to your rescue like the lovesick fool he’s become, my master will finally finish what he started. ”
Lovesick fool. The words hit Elodie somewhere unexpected—not an insult, but a confirmation. Gareth loved her. Had told her so with trembling hands and eyes that held nothing back. And he was riding toward a trap because of her.
“Run,” Bertram said, and shoved Elodie behind him, raising his sword with hands that trembled but didn’t waver. “Get to the passages, my lady. I’ll hold—”
“Bertram, no—”
The soldier’s blade moved faster than Elodie could follow. Bertram crumpled with a sound that would haunt her nightmares—a wet gasp, a clatter of steel on stone—and then the soldiers were on her, rough hands grabbing her arms, her hair, dragging her forward despite her kicks and screams.
“No!” She twisted toward Bertram’s fallen form. “You murderous bastards, he was an old man—”
“Stop struggling,” Cecily said coolly. “Lord Alaric wants you alive. He said nothing about unbruised.”
Elodie fought anyway. She bit one soldier’s hand hard enough to taste blood, drove her elbow into another’s stomach, twisted and writhed like a fish on a line. The candlestick—she still had it clutched in her white-knuckled grip—connected with something soft, and someone howled.
But there were too many of them, and she was no warrior, and when the blow came—a blinding crack against the back of her skull—the last thing she saw was Cecily’s satisfied smile and the cold stone floor rushing up to meet her.
Gareth, she thought. I’m staying. I choose you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.
And then there was nothing at all.
Marian pressed herself flat against the passage wall and listened to the sound of Lady Elodie’s screams fade into silence.
She’d followed. She’d known she shouldn’t—had known she was supposed to stay with the others, keep them safe, wait for dawn—but she couldn’t. Not when the lady who’d given her a voice was walking into danger alone.
And now she knew. Tears streamed down her face, hot and useless. She pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that wanted to escape, her whole body shaking with the effort of staying silent.
She slipped back through the passages, checking on the grain store—still sealed, still safe, thank the saints—before emerging near the stables.
The fighting had moved elsewhere. The night was quiet here, eerily so.
Frost glittered on the cobblestones like scattered diamonds, and her breath plumed white in the cold air.
One horse remained in its stall, an old mare too slow for the soldiers to bother stealing. Marian had never ridden alone in her life, but she’d watched the stable hands often enough. She’d learned by watching. She was good at that.
She led the mare out through the postern gate, still hanging open from Cecily’s betrayal, and climbed onto its back with more determination than skill. She had no saddle, no reins beyond a rope halter, nothing but desperation and love.
Lord Gareth needed to know. The closest border lords’ keep was half a day’s ride north, if she pushed hard, if she didn’t stop, if the old mare’s heart held out.
She kicked the horse into motion, her carving knife tucked into her belt, her grandmother’s courage burning in her chest.
It was a good day to die, she thought grimly, because that was what the ballads always said about heroes riding into danger. But she wasn’t planning to die. She was planning to find the Silent Reaper and point him toward his enemies.
And then, Lord Alaric would learn what happened to men who hurt the people she loved.
Through the longest night of her life, with nothing but a kitchen knife and a servant’s courage, Marian rode toward dawn—and toward the man who would burn the world to get his lady back.