Chapter 10
Kidnapped
Aleksi woke face down in the dirt, every bone
and muscle in his body cold, stiff, and sore. He rolled over onto
his back with a body-wracking groan and tried to lick his
desiccated lips, but his tongue was twice its normal size and as
dry as salted meat. His head pounded against his skull, his neck
was cricked sideways, and his belly was roiling. He peered out from
beneath swollen lids into a blue sky thick with white clouds and
lifted a heavy arm against the glare of the late morning sun. The
last thing he remembered of the night before was sitting on his
bedroll, talking with Sahar and drinking his wineskin empty.
Sahar.
He rolled over onto his side, the side she
should have been to, and saw nothing but an impression in the
ground where her bedroll had been. He heaved himself up onto his
hands and knees and when his vision finally stopped swimming he sat
on his heels and looked around. The entire camp was deserted except
for Zolotoy, who grazed near the streams bank, his tie-line
dangling loose from his neck.
Aleksi dropped his chin and slowly turned his
head from one side to the other as every muscle and sinew from his
neck to his hips resisted and pulled. He sat back and rubbed his
face with his hands until the blood returned to his cheeks and his
brain. He had never in his life been so drunk that he had passed
out before, or woken up the next day in this bad of shape. He
supposed the combination of three days and nights of hard riding,
little sleep, meager food, and the cold, wet, river crossing and
its harrowing aftermath could have made the half skin of wine he
drank affect him more than usual. Sahar had drunk as much, and had
been slurring her words even more than he had been, and yet it
looked as if she had managed to waken and resume the race.
He grabbed his empty wineskin and stood on
unsteady legs, surveying the vacant campsite. By the gods, not one
person in the entire camp of riders thought to rouse him from his
drunken slumber. Would he have woken a fellow competitor, or would
he have laughed at their folly and let them sleep it off? He liked
to think he would have chosen to be the better man, but he knew
otherwise. He surely would never have even considered rousing Yago
or Taweel. But he would’ve woken Sahar. So why hadn’t she woken
him?
“I am bad luck. Stay away from me, far,
far away from me.”
Those were the last words he remembered her
speaking to him. Apparently, drunk or not, she’d meant them. He
hobbled over to the stream and dunked his head in the water, the
chill chasing away the dull ache with merciless efficiency.
Drinking his fill of the cool, refreshing water, he filled the
empty wineskin with river water and packed his saddle bags, keeping
out a piece of salted meat to chew on. Now was not the time to
brood over last night, or how she’d called him Aleksi, twice. Now
was the time to get back on Zolotoy, catch up to that tricky
tigress, and win the damned race.
It was high noon before he caught up to the
first straggler.
“Prince Saqr,” he called, slowing Zolotoy to
a walk beside the prince, who led his stallion on foot, both of
them limping.
“Aleksandr.”
“Is there anything I can do for you or your
horse?”
“No, thank you,” the prince said. “Our
injuries are only serious enough to take us out of the race, but
nothing debilitating.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Aleksi took a swig of
his water skin and capped it. “Did you happen to see Princess Sahar
leave camp this morning?”
The prince shook his head. “No,” he said. “I
didn’t. But I wasn’t the first out of camp this morn. Several
riders had already left by the time I woke.”
Aleksi nodded, neither of them mentioning the
fact that he’d been left sleeping. It was, after all, every man, or
woman, for themselves.
“I will tell the aide post to expect you,” he
said.
He came upon two more riders leading lame
horses, neither of whom recalled seeing Sahar that morning either.
A nagging dread took hold in his belly and would not let go. He
pushed Zolotoy as hard as he dared, cursing her for riding out
early and alone, cursing himself more for letting her.
He passed another rider on his horse, and
then one more as he made the aide post. At least he was not the
furthest behind. It was mid-afternoon, so he would be able to make
the night’s camp in time, barring any other mishaps or foolish
mistakes on his part.
“When did Princess Sahar ride through?” he
asked.
The two guards manning the post looked at
each other and shook their heads. “She hasn’t,” the older one said.
“Not yet.”
“Are you certain?” The nagging dread in
Aleksi’s belly began to stir.
“We haven’t seen her,” the same guard said.
“We wouldn’t miss her.”
“Or forget,” the younger guard added with a
grin.
“She’d never cheat and bypass this post,”
Aleksi said, more to himself than to the guards. “I was the last to
leave camp this morning, and I haven’t passed her on the road.” The
pit in his belly grew. Unless she was hurt or hiding somewhere. He
rounded on the guards. “Who else hasn’t checked in?”
The guards recited their list. Yago, Taweel,
and the Jackal weren’t on it.
“One of you needs to ride to the palace,”
Aleksi ordered. “Now.”
“Swallow.”
Sahar spit the wine mixed with the oil of
dream flower back at Yago, and was rewarded with the sting of his
backhand across her cheek. At least he slapped her on the left
cheek this time. The sinister Wolf had slapped her on her right
cheek so many times throughout the day that the swelling was
beginning to hinder her sight out of that eye.
“I said swallow, bitch.”
Yago grabbed her by the hank of her braid and
yanked her head back, knocking it against the trunk of the tree she
was tied to, forcing her mouth open. Sneering down at her with
cruel anticipation, he held the skin of tainted wine over her mouth
and poured it down her throat until she was forced to swallow, or
drown.
She choked down what she could as the rest
spilled down her neck, soaking into the growing stain on her
wine-soured tunic. She knew it would be a short time before her
vision began to blur and her mind to wander, but at least it would
numb the tender bruising on her face and the stinging pain where
her wrist ties rubbed her bruised and chafed skin raw.
She’d woken a little before dawn, gagged and
tied and strapped into her saddle astride Lasair, who was being led
by a tie-line to Tor, Yago’s black stallion. As her vision and her
mind cleared, she saw that Taweel and the Jackal also traveled with
Yago, one riding ahead of them and the other behind. Her body ached
almost as much as her head, but every time she was beginning to see
and think more clearly, Yago would drug her, which made it
impossible for her to get her bearings. The day’s journey had been
a hazy memory of blurring trees, Lasair’s bobbing head, and Yago’s
stinging slaps. It was night now, and she was able to make out the
bear constellation rising to the north as she watched her captors
make camp, concentrating on anything and everything the three
princes said or did.
“Smart,” she said, taking advantage of the
fact that they had not replaced her mouth gag, and that her words
still came to her for now. “No fire for those coming after me to
see. Weasels and curs are known for their slyness.”
“Who do you think will be coming after you?”
Yago said with a sneer worthy of his namesake.
“Aleksandr,” she said without hesitation,
without doubt. “Aleksandr will come for me.”
Yago laughed, low and sinister. “That bastard
will not be coming after anybody ever again,” he said. “We dosed
his wine with enough dream flower to kill a horse.”
“No.” It was all she could think, all she
could say, and if it were not for the tree she was tied to, she
would’ve sunken onto the hard, damp ground in a hollowed, boneless
heap. “No.”
“Oh yes.” Yago was practically preening. “We
dosed both of your skins with dream flower, and several of the
other riders’ as well. They all slept like babes in their cradles
while we took you and made it look like you left on your own. Even
if the bastard survived, which is unlikely, he would’ve been
chasing after you in the opposite direction, thinking you still in
the race. He won’t realize anything’s amiss until he makes the
night’s camp. If he makes the night’s camp. With Aleksandr and
Munir gone, thanks to me—”
“What do you mean, thanks to you?”
“That log did not come loose of its own
accord.”
“You murderous pollution of a cur,” she
hissed.
“Save your breath.” Yago knelt down and
cinched the rope tighter around her, grinning as it bit into her
skin. “There is no one left to come after you, not in time to save
you. The other riders will not worry themselves over your absence,
and it’ll be three days at least before they make the palace, and
another three days to pick up our trail from last night’s camp, if
they’re able to find it. By then you will be well on your way.”
“To where?”
“To my father’s palace.”
So, she was to be a hostage. “They’ll realize
that you and your slavish dogs are responsible for my
disappearance.”
Yago’s thin lips pulled back into a slow,
smug, self-satisfied smile. “We are counting on it,” he said. He
leaned in close to her. “By then, it will be too late for you, as
it is too late for your Aleksandr.”
“You’re a liar,” she swore. “A worm, exactly
as Aleksandr named you. I don’t believe he’s dead. A worm such as
you could never kill a man such as he.”
“Yet, here I stand, not him.”
“Aleksandr will come.” She couldn’t let
herself think him dead. She wouldn’t, or all was lost. She was
lost. “If he does not kill you, my father will.”
“The Black Mane will try,” Yago said, the
sharp lines of his face beginning to blur. “Why else do you think
we have gone to all this trouble? If you had let me court you and
marry you and poison you on our wedding night, my parents’ revenge
would have been quick and sweet. But since you were not agreeable
to my wooing, you’ve forced us to improvise.”
She shook her head and closed her eyes tight
as her vision swam. When she opened them again, Yago was watching