Chapter 5
Too swiftly, the morning arrived when Soren was to depart D’anna with Princess Cion, to journey further into the rugged Eastern Peaks that made up an enormous portion of their district.
Deep in the mountains sat the dragon’s keep, where the eggs were laid and kept until they hatched. Nearby, the Sisters of Arcane kept their council in a sacred temple said to be a place closest to the gods.
Soren was given thick, warm riding clothes and sturdy leather boots. She dressed early, before the princess awoke, counting her breaths as she braided her hair and laced up her boots.
When she was finished and there was nothing to further delay her leaving, she cast one last glance around the room that had been anything but a home these last thirteen years.
She was a woman now at twenty and two, and if she was not a servant, she would likely be marrying soon.
But a different life had been thrust upon her.
She picked up the light pack containing all her things: clothes, a pair of worn sandals, her jewelry repair kit, a set of needle and thread, and a small, time-worn river rock.
It was her only memento from home; the rock had been in her pocket the day she watched her mother’s head leave her body; the day her father’s blood had stained the soil a shade too dark; the day Kelshie had screamed at her to run, but she had simply stood there, frozen, her feet digging into the forest mud.
Shaking off the fractured memories, she stepped into the hallway bustling with servants off to attend to their early morning chores.
Standing amidst the chaos, she let herself wonder what exactly she and the princess would be facing in the war camps.
She wasn’t a fool to think these were going to be a pleasant three years, but at least it was not this hallway, full of fear and waning hope, kneeling on already-bruised knees.
She would not be free out there, but perhaps she could pretend to be.
When Soren arrived at the princess’ chambers, Mona, Thelia, and Jasmen were already there, packing the last of her things into an ornate trunk and braiding her hair.
As soon as Soren stepped inside, Princess Cion twisted in the vanity seat and said, “Good morning, Soren. Are you ready to depart?”
Soren bowed her head. “Indeed, my princess.”
Princess Cion nodded curtly, but Soren could see the burst of bright excitement sparking in her eyes despite the events of the last few days.
“Good. Prepare yourself; this journey is sure to be quite taxing physically, especially since you have not ridden much on horseback before.”
Soren gave the princess a small smile, veiling any nerves that threatened to appear on her features.
Princess Cion turned away, facing the mirror once more, Thelia and Jasmen attending to her as Mona stood by if needed.
Soren’s attention drew downwards, to where Mona’s fist was clenched at her side, just slightly tucked behind her wrap skirt.
Soren tried not to read too much into it. She knew she carried the fire for each and every Misean slave in the palace as she traveled with the princess—she could either snuff out the flame of rebellion or feed it.
Both were terrifying prospects.
Princes Cion stood, looking at herself once more in the mirror before turning. “It’s time.”
Soren bowed her head, a strand of hair falling into her eyes. “Yes, my princess.”
The princess walked forward and lifted Soren’s chin with a finger, tucking the hair behind her ear. “I am glad you will be with me, Soren.”
“I am glad to hear it, my princess.”
Cion smiled and made for the door. The four of them fell into step behind her, heads bowed and eyes trained on the floor as they followed her into the hall, past the empty chambers where the princess’ brother had often tormented servant and slave girls.
Through the arch that signaled they were entering the king’s hall, where his and the queen’s chambers lay.
Down the long corridor that separated the royal wing from the rest of the palace, steep cliffs on either side of the breezy, open arches.
And finally, descending a set of sweeping marble stairs that led to the grand entrance.
Each step felt monumental to Soren, and she had the odd sense she might never walk them again. It could very well be true. She and the princess were about to enter dangerous territory.
The smell of jicaba tree blossoms wafted in on a cool mountain breeze, and harsh, early morning sunlight illuminated the airy space. The king and queen awaited them, along with a party of knights clad in thick leather armor, yellow bands on their left arms signaling their station.
“They will accompany us,” Cion said quietly to Soren.
Soren nodded. “I see, my princess.”
Cion walked slowly to her parents and then bowed low in front of her father. Soren followed her motion, a few paces behind.
“Rise, both of you.”
Soren ignored the unease in her belly. The king was addressing her too now, and he met her eyes as she straightened. She did not dare look away, not this time. Instead, she merely murmured, “Your Majesty,” keeping her voice soft and reverent.
The king tilted his head, examining her before turning his attention back to Cion. “A Misean servant. Interesting choice, daughter.”
Cion kept her back straight and her voice firm. “She is the most loyal and capable of all my handmaidens.”
The king’s brow rose. “Let us hope she remains that way.”
Soren bowed her head submissively, and the queen laughed softly. “Do not worry, my dear. I have observed all her handmaidens with scrutiny over the years, having picked them myself. This one will fare well serving our daughter on this long journey.”
The king merely grunted, but Soren could feel his gaze still upon her. It made her feel as if she had done something wrong, but she had no idea what.
“Sometimes, special people are used for bad things.”
Soren shut her eyes ever so briefly, banishing her dead mother’s voice from her mind. It was amongst a handful that were not permitted residence in her thoughts. Not anymore.
The king’s attention finally shifted.
Soren uncurled her fist, ignoring the bite of pain from how hard she’d dug her nails into her palm, and praying no one saw the single droplet of blood that fell to the shining floor.
No one paid her, or the blood, any further mind.
Cion led her out the familiar sweeping, gold-painted arch, a door that had only ever been an entrance and never an exit. Soren had to crush the fledgling cry of victory in her chest as she stepped onto the wide, packed road surrounded by mountain greenery and wildflowers.
The queen stepped forward, and Cion stiffened as she pulled her daughter close, kissing her brow then murmuring in her ear, words Soren could not catch.
Cion stepped away quickly, her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched.
The queen’s thin smile remained, but Cion’s composure had fallen.
Soren wondered if the display of affection had merely been a way to mask a threat.
As always, the king watched them closely.
Not wanting him to catch on to the princess’ sudden anger, Soren took a step towards the princess and quietly said, “My princess, the horses await.”
Soren’s words snapped Princess Cion out of whatever shock had overcome her moments before. She lifted her chin, tightening her trembling lips, and walked to the two horses as the knights followed suit to mount their steeds, one approaching Soren.
“My name is Lanor,” the knight said, his kohl-painted eyes bright. “I will be assisting you with your horse. Our princess tells me you have not ridden much prior to today.”
Soren bowed her head. “No, sir. Just once or twice, as a child.”
Lanor nodded. “I’ll help you mount her, and then I’ll ride beside you so you may learn the basics as we go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lanor chuckled, offering her a hand. It was half-gloved in rough, worn leather, open at the fingers so she could see the many callouses adorning his flesh.
“So formal. What is your name?”
She hesitated before taking his hand, and he gave her a gentle smile. “I won’t bite, I promise. Just take my hand and stick your foot in that part there, hanging off the side, then swing your other leg over. Easy enough.”
Soren swallowed thickly, looking at the enormous black mare above her, kicking the dust up with her hooves.
“Yes, sir,” she finally relented, taking Lanor’s hand.
He nodded. “Step on my other hand with your foot. One, two…”
Soren froze.
“One, two—”
No.
Not that memory.
Not today.
But she was helpless as the image of her mother’s death assaulted her. The soldier, the one who called himself Jadis, had counted down so casually before his companion had swung his blade. Kelshie had screamed, the sound mingling with the wet smack of their mother’s head hitting the forest floor…
She sucked in a breath, banishing the memory, and hopped up on Lanor’s outstretched hand, hauling herself clumsily onto the mare. Lanor and a few of the other knights laughed before Cion shot them a dark look.
“Apologies, princess,” they all murmured.
Lanor hopped onto his white-speckled horse easily, just as a processional hymn began to play loudly behind them. Traditional send-off music, local to Aren; the same song Soren sometimes heard playing in the streets as soldiers marched off to battle.
The beating of the drums lined up with the wild thumping of her heart.
“One, two…” she whispered, her eyes on the horizon.
A trumpet cried out.
“Ahead!” a knight at the front of the party cried.
“What was that?” Lanor asked, that easy half-grin still on his face.
Soren glanced at him. “Nothing, sir.”
He laughed again, something he seemed to do quite a lot. Soren couldn’t decide if it bothered her or not. She couldn’t decide anything about the knight, not yet, which unsettled her. People were generally easy for her to read, but this knight…
He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with typical features of a man born in Aren: short black hair, pale skin, brown, upturned eyes, a tall stature.
He boasted many scars, an honor for a knight or warrior, and he was muscular under the armor, but he needed to shave.
There were dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps these knights were not treated as well as they appeared at first glance.
“Take hold of the reins.” His voice startled her out of her observation. “Pinch your legs slightly and lean forward.”
She followed his instructions and held back a yelp as the horse moved. It was an odd feeling, being up this high and not in control. She wasn’t sure if she hated or loved it.
“Good,” Lanor said, smiling. “Get comfortable. We have a long journey ahead.”
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
Lanor laughed. “So she can make a joke, and so soon into our journey together.”
Soren looked away, facing ahead toward the streets of cheering people quickly approaching. Of course, King Johannas would make a spectacle of the princess leaving. Another celebration to add to the appearance of glory surrounding the war.
Still, even with the cheering faces and pumping fists, Soren saw it in their hollow cheeks and desperate eyes: these people were hungry.
Some for food, some for a savior, many for both.
They thought perhaps Princess Cion would be their champion, but Soren knew that wasn’t true.
The princess was here for entirely selfish reasons.
A few caught sight of Soren and spit curses her way. When a pebble collided with her cheek, Lanor intercepted it, angling his horse in front of her and shouting, “Enough! She is with the princess!”
“Misean whore!” a woman screeched.
“Another pup?”
“Barely.”
She shuddered at the memory. Perhaps the woman was not wrong. Soren was powerless against these people; she had heard many stories of servant girls being taken advantage of against their will…
In dark rooms.
Alone.
With no one to hear their cries.
That was how hope died.
“Ignore them,” Lanor called over the shouts. “They don’t know what they’re saying.”
Soren lowered her gaze. “They do, sir. But it’s alright. They’re just looking for someone to blame.”
“You are…” she looked up as Lanor trailed off then continued, “oddly observant and well-spoken for a slave.”
She gave him a practiced smile. “I was brought up as a handmaiden for the princess my whole life. It required me to have certain skills others might lack.”
“Of course,” Lanor said, dipping his head her way.
She hated that she still could not decipher his intentions.