6. Sabine
Chapter 6
Sabine
M y thighs ache worse than after sex.
For three days, I’ve been forced at the sharp end of a spear to ride on one of the massive fae goldenclaws that the Volkish army uses as war beasts. My velvet dress from Lord Berolt’s funeral hangs in tatters around my bruised and scratched limbs. The soldiers robbed me of my boots, knowing I couldn’t run far barefoot through the forest. My wrists suffer the most, bound in heavy iron chains like I’m chattel.
No, wait.
I take that back.
Worst of all? It’s the smell.
Riding a goldenclaw who’s gone longer without bathing than I have is infinitely unrecommended.
“I need to pee,” I call down sweetly to Captain Tatarin, the mage soldier with the godkiss of freezing time. The poor captain has been tasked with babysitting me, which means she, too, must suffer the goldenclaw’s reek. “Shall I piss on this bear’s fine saddle?”
Captain Tatarin flicks me an impatient glower. “We stop for a midday rest in an hour, Highness. You can empty your bladder then.”
I lift my eyebrows. “So you do want me to piss in the saddle.”
“Go ahead,” she answers, matching my mock cheerful tone. “You’ll sit in your own filth for three more days until we reach Norhelm.”
My eyes narrow into slits that she called my bluff.
That’s been more or less the extent of conversation with my captors since my abduction. Most of the Volkish soldiers don’t speak Astagnonian, and Iyre prefers to ride in a small, enclosed carriage carried on a goldenclaw’s back at the head of the party.
The terrain has gradually grown steeper and rockier the further north we traverse, yet the six goldenclaws carrying the carriages and supplies lumber effortlessly over the uneven ground, their giant paws leaving behind tracks dusted in gold.
My goldenclaw—unimaginatively named Two because she is second in the line of six—and I settle into a tentative routine. If I scratch the mite bites behind her scarred left ear, she graciously avoids the low branches that would otherwise slap me in the face.
As we plunge deeper into the forest, I can’t help but put aside my anger to marvel at the delicate wildflowers glowing in impossible shades of sapphire and indigo, their petals shimmering like moonlight on a still lake. Eerie fungi cling to tree trunks, casting an emerald glow. Beetles with luminescent spots dotting their wings leave light trails in their wake. Occasionally, a sentient vine will snake across the fallen leaves to curl around my ankle before a soldier severs it with his sword.
I never knew such a place existed. A land of cold magic, of living shadows.
I’m a princess of a place I’ve never been.
In the evening, the soldiers drag my aching body down from the goldenclaw and plant me, chained and bound, at the base of a tree while they set up camp. Amid the bustle of erecting tents and roasting spits over campfires, I’m all but ignored.
The hem of my dress ruffles as the mouse peeks out the tip of her snout, her twitching whiskers tickling my bare feet.
She runs through her daily report: I smelled standing water after breakfast, followed by wildflower nectar before lunch, then pine resin for the remainder of the day.
Great job , I commend her. Now stay hidden. I’ll save you some supper crumbs.
Between the two of us, we’ve been charting Iyre’s course from the border wall to Norhelm, the capital city of Volkany, so that if we get a chance to escape, we can find our way back. Few people know this, but humble as they are, mice are excellent scent trackers. Between the two of us, I have a good mental map of our trek.
Standing water? That means a swamp.
Wildflower nectar? A field laid bare by a massive fallen oak.
Pine resin? The forest we’ve traveled through all afternoon.
As I hug my legs close and rest my cheek on my knee, I let out a long exhale.
Who am I kidding? I’m fantasizing about an escape for the mouse’s benefit, not mine. We have no real chance of escape. We already tried. I definitely don’t want a repeat of what happened before—my stomach churns with guilt when I think of putting the little cloudfox through so much pain.
Plus, I’m not a skilled woodsman like Basten.
I can’t help but think of him as I tip my head up to look at the moon overhead, visible through a break in the tree canopy.
Are you looking at the same moon now, Basten?
I swallow back the lump in my throat before Iyre, Captain Tatarin, or any of the other soldiers see a hint of vulnerability that they can exploit.
A few minutes later, Captain Tatarin drops down beside me with two bowls of stew. She fishes out a key from a piece of twine around her neck and unlocks my shackles.
“You know,” I say as I massage my wrists. “There are other job opportunities besides kidnapper.”
She dips her spoon in her stew. “Kidnapper, eh? That’s an interesting perspective.”
“What would you call it?” I stab my own spoon in my bowl.
She thoughtfully chews on a tough hunk of venison. “Highness, no one has kidnapped you. This has been a rescue operation from the start. Your father has gone to great lengths, even sending a woken goddess, to bring you home.”
I burst out laughing so hard that soup sprays out my nose. Dabbing at my chin, I croak, “A rescue? In chains?”
“The chains are your fault,” she counters. “You tried to kill my soldiers.”
I huff another bitter laugh, quieter this time.
Patiently, she blows on her stew to cool it. After another few bites, she points the end of her wooden spoon at my chest, where my tattered dress’s neckline shows my birthmark. “I’ve never met someone who can speak to animals.”
I bristle, remaining silent, only opening my mouth for stew. But once my hunger fades, my mood slightly improves.
I’ve been watching Captain Tatarin closely for days now. She doesn’t cheat when she plays dice with the other soldiers. She thoroughly brushes down the goldenclaws after each ride. Puts ointment on any cuts on their tender noses. Even kisses their foreheads when she thinks no one is watching.
Plus, I’ll be honest—it’s getting boring to only talk to a mouse.
I sigh. “My godkiss doesn’t help me much now, does it? I’ve asked that goldenclaw you have me riding to run away a dozen times, but she only wants to play riddles.”
Captain Tatarin nearly chokes on her stew. “Did you say riddles ?”
I groan. “All day. Every day. That’s all goldenclaws think about, other than their bellies.”
She cocks her head, curious and a little awe-struck. “Tell me one.”
I shift to pull my legs cross-legged beneath me as I scoop the last of my stew. “What do you see if you follow a horse?”
My goldenclaw, Two, stumped me with that one yesterday.
The captain wrinkles her nose. “Its stable?”
“Its backside.’”
She laughs so hard that a few surprised heads turn from the nearby soldiers to look at us curiously. “One more.”
I lean back on my arms. “What is gold but never shines?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. ”
“Honey.”
“How like a bear,” she chuckles. She sets her empty bowl in the grass at her side and sits cross-legged, too, then pulls around her braid to start to unwind it. “You may call me Tati, by the way. All my friends do.”
I snort. Because we aren’t friends.
I wipe the remnants of my stew with my bread, savoring the flaky crust. Finally, feeling a little mellowed, I clear my throat. “Do you really believe you’re rescuing me?”
Her eyebrows rise as though it’s obvious. “Of course, Highness. Your father is the king. In Norhelm, you’ll be granted all the luxuries that a princess of your station deserves. You’ll have gowns threaded with silver and gold. A bed draped in the finest furs. You’ll dine on the rarest delicacies.”
I look away. “Can’t say I care about that—except maybe the food.”
A knowing smile creeps over Captain Tatarin’s face. “You’ll have safety, too. The protection of gods and kings alike. Not to mention freedom. In Volkany, women are not locked away or sold as unwilling brides to the highest bidder. We can choose our lovers. We can hunt or serve in the army.” She taps her captain’s rank brooch. “And you’ll be with your family, that’s the most important thing. Your father.”
The most important thing? I toe the dirt as I think back to Charlin Darrow, who I once considered a father.
A soft snow falls on the Mistlemas tree by the convent’s gate. I’ve been sitting here for hours, by the road, my little muscles stiff. A bundle at my side filled with the meager Mistlemas presents I’ve been able to craft in my evenings: A bookmark made out of bark for my father. A candle made from leftover beeswax for the servants. Kitchen scraps for our barn’s animals.
The snow grows heavier.
I wait all day, but my father doesn’t come to pick me up.
“He isn’t coming.” Matron White jerks her head for me to come back inside. “Probably hit the bottle too hard. In any case, myself and the Sisters can’t delay our trip to Old Coros for the holiday. You weren’t supposed to still be here.”
“I—I’m sorry, Matron White.” A tear rolls down my cheek, landing in the snow.
She mutters under her breath, “Can’t leave you to traipse around the place on your own, eh? Have you poking around through all our things? Pilfering the kitchen?”
As my teardrops fall, I realize the sky has stilled. I look up, marveling. “The snow—look! It stopped! That means Father will be here at any moment!”
She scowls up at the calm sky, darting a suspicious glance at me as though I had something to do with it. Briefly, she confers with the Sisters, who have their wagon loaded and are throwing impatient looks at the rising moon.
“Too late. Snow or not, we have to leave. Come with me.” Matron White returns to grab my ear, dragging me to the cellar beneath the apple barn, where the trap door is open. “Down.”
I climb down the ladder, and the Sisters drag it up after me. Matron White throws down a blanket. “You have a water barrel in there and apples. We’ll be back in a fortnight.”
She slams the trap door. I’m alone—again.
“Highness? Come with me.”
I snap back to the present to find Iyre standing behind me with an empty chalice in hand. Both the cup’s rim and her lips are stained in a dark red liquid that looks too thick to be wine.
My stomach tightens with a bad feeling.
She passes the empty cup to one of the field cooks.
I realize my hands are so tightly balled that my fingernails have carved into my palms. As my anger simmers, I turn back to the campfire. “I’ll pass.”
“It wasn’t a request. We can talk in my carriage.” Iyre clicks her long red nails together, and I sigh heavily before pushing to my feet—she always holds the threat of stealing my memories of Basten away from me if I don’t behave.
I toss Tati the rest of my bread as I follow Iyre to her carriage, which rests on the ground now while Six, the goldenclaw who carries it, snores softly beside it. I ruffle his metallic fur as Iyre opens the carriage door.
She snaps, “Paz. Out.”
A handsome soldier with dark brown skin slinks out, buttoning his open shirt hastily. “Yes, Lady Iyre.” He presses a kiss to Iyre’s waiting hand before grabbing up his baldric belt and sword and heading off toward the infantry tents.
I crane my neck at Iyre. “Patron goddess of chastity, huh?”
“I don’t fuck Paz, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s useful in other ways.” She smiles wolfishly. “Now get in.”
I have to hoist myself up to enter. Giant coiled springs on the underside of the carriage keep it from being thrown too violently from side to side when it’s mounted on Six, and make it rock slightly now.
Inside, the carriage smells of rich, spiced pipe herb. It’s a small space—I have to stoop when standing—with two narrow benches cushioned in velvet facing one another .
Iyre climbs in behind me and flops onto one of the benches. Though a lantern swings from the ceiling, her glowing fey lines provide all the lighting the small space needs.
She shifts her knee an inch—all the accommodation she’ll make for me.
“Sit,” she says. “Let us share a drink.”
I settle awkwardly on the narrow bench opposite her, such close quarters that our knees brush. My fingernails curl so tightly on the seat cushion that they nearly rip the fabric.
My insides churn as I glower. “A drink? Do you mean that same wine that was in your chalice? It was wine, right?”
She tips her head back and laughs devilishly. “I have something better suited for you than what I was drinking.”
She opens a compartment that reveals several glass bottles of different sizes and colors. My eyes latch onto a small, round, yellow bottle—the same one she had in her hand in the forest.
She finds a standard wine bottle and two stemmed glasses.
To my relief, she pours what looks like regular wine as she asks, “Did you know you have a tic when you’re remembering something painful? You press your fingernails into your palms. Show me your hands.”
Reluctantly, I hold my hands palm up to reveal half-moon calluses caused by my nails.
"See?" She clicks her tongue. “I’ve seen you do it a few times now. You’re trying to force unpleasant memories away. Substitute one kind of pain with another.”
“So?” I ask quietly, keeping my eyes on the bottle compartment.
She passes me a wine glass. “Though you’re determined to believe I’m the enemy, I assure you, I’m not. I asked you to my carriage so we could get to know one another. I can help you.”
I take the glass but don’t drink. “The same way you helped Basten?”
She peers at me curiously. “The man in the forest? Don’t worry about him and his memories, Lady Sabine. You have a much greater fate ahead of you than being with that peasant.”
My eye twitches. I shift on the bench, unable to get comfortable. My skin feels itchy in places I can’t scratch.
I dart a glance at the round yellow bottle in the compartment. “You don’t have any idea who he is.”
She tuts and leans back in the seat, sipping her own wine. “I know that man hasn’t prayed to the gods a day in his life.”
“So, you cursed him?”
“A curse? Little princess, what I did was a blessing. For you both. It’s better that he forgets you and moves on. That man’s destiny is bound to Astagnon. As yours is to Volkany.” She continues quietly, “Basten Bowborn isn’t right for you.”
I lean forward, clutching my glass hard. “So you do know who he is. Can’t your fae wisdom see that he carries the blood of a king?”
“The blood of one, perhaps,” Iyre says with a yawn, swirling her wine. “But not the will of one. There are better matches for you. Men with ambition in their veins and armies at their call.”
I sip my wine slowly, keeping my eyes on the bottle compartment. According to the Tale of Iyre’s Memory Bottles, Iyre keeps her stolen memories bottled up in a secret, high room of Drahallen Hall’s Aurora Tower, the door locked with magic. Inaccessible.
Unless someone could fly.
As though reading my mind, Iyre runs her fingers lightly over the bottle assortment. Her voice takes on a strange tone as she says, “You’ll simply adore Drahallen Hall. My chamber is in the Aurora Tower to the southwest. Security is exceptional. Protected with wards. Only those with fae blood can enter my tower’s doors and windows.”
The message couldn’t be clearer: None of my winged friends are getting into her tower.
“I thank you for the wine,” I say tightly. “But I’m not interested in your help. I’ll take my leave.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
A knot tightens in my stomach as I grip the door handle, peering through the wooden window lattice. Tati is pasturing Three and Four for the night, petting their thick metallic fur as she secures their iron collars to chains attached to the ground.
Suddenly, a streak of silver floats out from behind a leafy branch. When it spots me looking, it ducks back down.
The cloudfox.
We’ve traveled at least ten miles from the border wall. Is it following us?
Uneasy, I open the door and slip out into the fresh night air. There’s no sign of the cloudfox now, but the uneasy feeling in my gut tightens.
It feels like the strange magic of this kingdom has only begun to toy with me.