Chapter 3
He was warmer than he ought to have been.
I shouldn’t have noticed that as I clung to the horse’s mane for dear life, locked between the necromancer’s arms, bouncing powerlessly in the saddle as we bolted over the dark, uneven forest paths.
Soldiers and villagers were still shouting behind us.
People knew I was a witch. People knew I was a witch, and even if we managed to outrun them, the horse might trip in the misty darkness and break both our necks in its fall; I shouldn’t have felt anything but panic and pure, undiluted fright.
Instead, I felt that warmth.
Perhaps it was the fire still smouldering within his lithe body.
Perhaps it was just his clothing, because my helpless jolts against his chest revealed that the bastard had come well-prepared for his prison stay: heavy cloak, thick coat, hell knew how many more layers of fur and delicate wool beneath.
I hated him for it in either case, because after eight days with nothing but hay and a ratty blanket to keep me warm, it took every last ounce of willpower to not slump back against him as we galloped wildly through the night – to not take the chance to remind my skin what warmth even felt like.
A hell-cursed Averre murderer.
If Lark had known our escape would come to this …
Sweet hell below, perhaps it was best that he hadn’t known – because he’d have agonised over my safety if he’d had even the slightest notion I’d soon be sharing a saddle and my secrets with a fucking fireborn, and from the misty depths of Niflheim, he wouldn’t even be able to help me stay the hell away.
Already I could imagine the flash of outrage in his blue eyes.
The fury towards my abductor, the hurt on my behalf …
If he came back – when he came back – I should probably just spare him the headache and pretend that none of this had ever happened.
Just a nightmare. A fever dream.
I closed my eyes, breath faltering, and leaned back after all.
The necromancer didn’t shift as my weight sagged against his chest, or as a small, involuntary moan of relief escaped my lips.
His arms didn’t loosen on either side of me, either.
His body was all taut muscle, tense thighs pressing into mine, breath hot on the crown of my head – hands expertly steering his racing horse through a world that was little more than swaying branches and glimpses of moonlight in the dark.
The shouts and roars behind us died away. Still he did not slow down, barrelling through the woods at breakneck speed; the horse’s hooves pummelled the earth beneath us like a frantic heartbeat.
Going south. Farther and farther away from Averre territory.
Against his chest, I struggled to make sense of it.
If he’d died at the hands of his own family …
well, it wasn’t impossible. They said the Averre court was even more devious, even more honourless than Estien – no family love lost between those backhanded schemers.
But if he was nothing but a disgraced mage struggling to stay out of the authorities’ hands, he shouldn’t be breaking into prisons, should he?
He certainly shouldn’t be burning down those prisons to save sentenced runewitches about to die.
Those were the actions of a man with a plan … and if that plan meant I would in any way be opposing Varraulis Averre, the Thrice-Dead King himself, I didn’t think I wanted to be part of it. If you fight back, they’ll hurt you worse – and Varraulis had hurt me plenty already.
Except that Lark was still dead.
Except that I really didn’t have much of a choice.
A shrill laugh escaped my lips, or maybe it was a sob of despair. If I’d known this was what freedom would look like, if I’d known the price I would pay for breathing the sulphur-less air away from Mount Estien—
‘Bad time for hysterics, Thraga,’ the necromancer informed me, his voice soft in my ear, his breath warm on the side of my cheek. His arms were a cage around me. ‘We’re almost there.’
My thoughts faltered.
There.
So he did have a destination in mind? One more specific than “as far from Svein’s Creek as humanly possible”?
I hurriedly sat straighter in the saddle, recovering my balance, squinting to find some clues in the dark world surrounding me.
We’d been riding south for about twenty minutes or so, the moon a constant silvery beacon before us.
But in the last few minutes, we must have swerved a little to the east, and that fact, combined with the observation that we hadn’t left the woods yet, meant—
‘The Silver Horn,’ I breathed out loud, just as the forest receded and the curved, narrow valley opened up before us.
‘Not bad.’ The necromancer’s arms loosened slightly as he finally allowed his horse to slow.
His tall body moved easily with the animal’s trot, a rhythmic, elegant rise and fall against my back and bottom.
In comparison, I felt like a bag of flour thrown into the saddle for its very first riding lesson. ‘So you do know the area.’
I swallowed. ‘As I told you.’
‘You were desperate.’ He spoke the words with chilling indifference. ‘The average drunkard would have been more reliable. Do I need to worry about anyone knowing you in this place?’
‘I’ve only been here once, years ago.’ With Lark. The brightness of the memory was a searing ache. ‘I would be surprised if anyone remembered me.’
They’d have remembered Lark, of course. Everyone always remembered Lark, because he was that sort of person – attracting attention the way magnets attracted iron, a flair so effortless, so very natural, that I’d wondered at times whether he was even aware of it.
By his side, I’d been blissfully colourless.
Safely in the shadows. No one bothered to ask questions about a girl they barely even noticed.
Lark had noticed me, though – Lark had sat down next to me on a cold Surd’s day morning and laughed at my sorry excuses for jokes – and that feeling had been more intoxicating than the rush of the strongest honey mead.
‘Excellent,’ the necromancer muttered against the back of my head. ‘Let’s risk it, then.’
I was starting to get the feeling this man liked risks more than he ought to.
We rode in silence along the river that gave the valley its name – a silvery curve between the steep hills on either side of it, not unlike the shape of a battle horn when seen from the ridges above.
The thundering roar of the waterfall on the far side grew steadily louder.
It was hardly visible in the night, little more than a white sheen where I knew the cliff to be; the small village of Horn’s End, on the other hand, was still well-lit at this ungodly hour, lanterns burning by the door of the town’s only inn.
The Ash and Elm. They hadn’t received us too happily, I recalled with a jolt, dressed in Estien green as we’d been.
Loyalists to the old Seidrinn royals, these people.
A fullblood fire mage at the door would be bad enough, and one this staggeringly infuriating …
that sounded like a recipe for disaster.
‘Are you sure it’s the best idea to—’
‘They’re waiting for me,’ he interrupted, slowing down to walking pace as he led his horse away from the river path and between the handful of longhouses that made up Horn’s End.
A dog barked. No one emerged from the mud-and-moss homes.
‘Don’t mention Bjarte. Actually, don’t mention Svein’s Creek at all. ’
‘What? Why—’
‘Not the time for questions,’ he muttered, cutting me off.
Fucker.
I gave up on getting answers as we rode the rest of the way to the inn.
To my great relief, I managed to get out of the saddle without his help, although the wild ride hadn’t done my hips and legs any good.
I spent a few minutes stretching while the necromancer walked his horse into the stables.
He stayed away for so long that I suspected he was taking it upon himself to unsaddle and brush the animal – surprising, given that he seemed fond enough of handing out orders to let the innkeeper do it for him.
When he returned, that sharp, unusual face hollow in the lantern light, it was with nothing but a curt, ‘Give me your knives.’
I froze.
‘Matter of diplomacy,’ he added impatiently, the expression on my face probably a clear enough impression of my opinions. ‘A haggard girl without any weapons looks like a victim in dire need of saving. A haggard girl with half a dozen blades on her looks like a problem. I somehow need to justify—'
‘No,’ I said hoarsely.
His hand stiffened, half-stretched out.
‘No,’ I repeated, more urgently now, just in case I hadn’t made the point clear enough yet. My feet staggered two steps back, away from that demanding hand. ‘Not a chance. Find another explanation. Or have me sleep in the stables – I don’t care. You’re keeping your hands off these.’
He opened his mouth again, then paused, his gaze dropping from my face to my waist and darting back up again. Something like resignation sank into his good eye – something, quite probably, having to do with the memory of the unlit prison room and my desperate, ill-timed search.
With a muffled curse, he reached for the amethyst brooch by his throat, loosened it, and pulled the cloak from his shoulders. It was even heavier than I’d expected when he pushed it into my arms and said, ‘Hide them in there.’
Still not great. There was no making sure I still had all six knives with me when they were wrapped in layers of sturdy felt.
On the other hand, the inn would be warmer than the frosty night outside, and if I was holed up in the stables, I couldn’t ask my maybe-saviour what in the world he wanted from me.
I gave in. Slowly untied the sheaths from my belt, too aware of his eye on me. Folded the cloak around them, feeling like a child hauling laundry around as I straightened with that heavy bundle in my arms, and met the necromancer’s gaze.
‘Alright,’ he said below his breath. ‘Come.’