9. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
D ays blurred by in a rush. And while the animosity and tension between us dissipated, we only spoke as much as necessary. I struggled to maintain my anger at the man who, no matter what I threw at him, still cared about me. No matter how often I ran away, or spit in the face of his efforts, he always found me.
He was nothing if not loyal… even if only to his own cause.
I curbed my tongue, resigned to the fact that there was no escape this time. When we weren’t riding his tired horse, we were walking at a brisk pace. His attention and focus no longer wavered between me and his men. We met others on the road, but only managed a nod or glance in acknowledgment. No one cared who we were or where we came from.
The further north we ventured, the colder the air grew, its chill pierced like tiny needles. Sainte offered his cloak, which warded off the worst of the bite, but it still seeped through, nipping at my skin. The extra layer concealed the soup stain on my back, masking the scent that inevitably blended with my unwashed state. Even Sainte carried an odor, one that was far from pleasant.
The wind howled across the vast plains, stirring the weathered grass as a city’s silhouette emerged in the distance. Encased in towering walls, it stood as a fortress against the outside world. Two wagons halted at the gate, the guards mere specs from my vantage point. I squinted, trying to make out their movements as they inspected the cargo.
A gust tore my hood back, and my short black hair danced about. I grumbled, pulling it over my head. With aching fingers, I clutched the fabric, holding it in place against the frigid breeze.
“Tell me we’re stopping,” I groaned.
“No.”
Our relentless hunger worsened with each passing mile, for which I was probably to blame. Sainte shared his meager rations, though they amounted to little more than crumbs at this point. The horse trembled beneath our weight, its gaunt frame a testament to our journey’s hardship. Exhaustion slackened our shoulders and slowed our progress, and we probably looked as bad as we felt.
“I would kill for a hot bowl of soup.”
Sainte pulled off the road, into the sparse woodland. “There will be time for food later.”
“That doesn’t help my belly now. ”
When he dismounted, I sighed, assuming he meant to relieve himself before we made the trek across the plains. Instead, he rummaged through his pack, retrieving his rope.
“What’s that for?” I asked, eyeing it with disdain.
I understood his need for it at night, but we shared the saddle now. Escape seemed impossible with his chest against my back, and his strong arms around me.
Not that I took special note of how strong they were.
Without a word, he pulled my left hand down, motioning for my right.
“Really, Sainte? I won’t run, I swear.”
“You’ve said that before,” he sighed. “These men can’t perceive you as a threat to the throne.”
My heart thudded hard with anxiety. How many days had we traveled again? Was there still a chance to get out of this?
“Are we that close to Wynterborne?” I glanced at the city, extending my right hand without thought .
He tied the rope loosely about my wrists. I looked down at him and frowned, wiggling my fingers.
“Two day’s hard ride,” he said. “We’ll make it in one.”
The weight of it all crashed into me, as if the air grew heavy. A shudder snaked down my spine, coiling in my gut.
“I can’t do it,” I whispered to myself.
“You can.” He mounted behind me, urging the stallion back toward the road. “You will.”
The shiver rattling in my bones had nothing to do with the cold as I yanked the hood lower over my face. There was no shirking this now. No escaping. I was doomed to whatever fate had in store for me.
“Easy.”
It might have been my imagination, but I swore his arms squeezed me tighter. Not caring if that was the case, I burrowed against his chest and tugged at the rope securing my wrists.
“Make those look tighter than they are. And keep your head down.”
“Else someone might murder me on the street?” I muttered.
“It’s a possibility.”
I hoped to detect a hint of humor… but there was none.
At a brisk trot, we arrived at the city gates quickly, Sainte shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.
“Halt!”
He pulled back on the reins, and I immediately hated having the hood so low that I couldn’t see the guards’ faces. How would I know if one wanted to remove my head from my shoulders?
“Hail, gatekeeper.”
“Ah, ‘Sainte the Great,’” someone mocked. “How are your bastards in the south?”
“Passing through to Wynterborne,” he replied, ignoring the comment.
Is that what men thought? That he had a mistress and bastards? I resisted the urge to rub my sweaty palms on my trousers.
“Always, always.”
The mocking tone grew curious, and I squirmed as footsteps against the cobblestones signaled his approach.
“Thief tried to rob me in the dead of night,” Sainte said. “Managed to throw some dirt in their eyes. Ended up cutting them to bits—”
I frowned, squinting at my hands. Why was that important to our ruse?
“—can’t see a thing now,” he added.
I can’t? I immediately obeyed his silent order and scrunched my eyes shut.
“Ah, serves them right, then,” the guard commented .
My head snapped back as something hard struck me. A whimper escaped my lips, and I clutched the horse’s mane as my hood tore away.
“Take care, gatekeeper,” Sainte warned. “I’ve saved this one for the dungeons. I’d hate for them to meet their end this close to Wynterborne.”
“Such a shame it would be. Looks like they’ll still make for a decent plaything if anyone wants a round with them.” The footsteps receded. “Go on, then.”
“Good day.”
Sainte tensed, nudging his mount onward. I held my breath, loathing my inner turmoil. While I hoped for safe passage, I dreaded the idea that every step drew us closer to Wynterborne’s grasp.
“Breathe,” he whispered, pressing his mouth close to my head.
“Can I look?”
“Wait till we dismount.”
Bound and unable to survey our surroundings, my frustration welled. I trusted him, but that was a lot of vulnerability to ask of any street rat. Every muscle tensed, wary of potentially being recognized. Who would recognize me, though? It had been fifteen years since Sainte tore through this city with me curled to his chest.
His solid warmth at my back served as a steady assurance that everything would be fine. I might have known Landing’s End and Port Siren, but in a sense, this was his world.
After an eternity, we came to a halt. Panic thrummed through me as he dismounted, taking the security of his presence with him. He yanked me from the saddle in a show of force.
“Stable him, feed him well. Ready another horse within the hour, then send mine to Wynterborne in three days.”
Sainte spoke with curt precision to who, I assumed, was a stableboy. His fingers dug into my shoulders as he spun me toward him. When he reached past my cheeks to pull my hood up, I opened my eyes, catching his reassuring gaze for a split moment before he gave the slightest nod, then tugged it in place.
At the inn, he paid for an hour-long stay, eliciting a disturbing chuckle from the innkeeper. He led me up the stairs with a firm grip on my arm, strong but not bruising, then shut the door behind us.
I raised my tied hands, letting the hood fall back to take in the space. It was simple, small and sparse, exactly what a weary traveler needed. A place to rest, a basin, a polished brass square on the wall for reflection, and a window covered by a thin tanned hide.
“Wash up,” Sainte grunted, shoving the bed in front of the door. He collapsed onto it, muddy boots and all, groaning as his body slowly relaxed.
He went still for so long, I thought he had fallen asleep.
“Time’s wasting,” he said, voice raspy with fatigue. “This is your only chance to bathe before tomorrow.”
Tomorrow—when he presented me at the palace, to my brother, to the high court.
At the brass mirror, I worked my hands free of the rope. Growing up in the slums left little opportunity to study my reflection.
Despite the lack of familiarity, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the person staring back at me. Deep circles hung over sunken cheeks, a sharp contrast to the dark lashes framing my peridot-green irises. Short black hair, matted and oily, stuck out at odd angles. My features, though plain, were a bit more striking than others I’d seen on the road. Aside from my eyes, I resembled nothing close to a princess.
Heaving a sigh, I shed the cloak and dipped my hands in the basin, grimacing when the crisp water immediately darkened. I washed up as best I could, submerging my hair and swishing it around to rid it of grime. With a nearby rag, I scrubbed the sweat and dirt from my skin, mindful of the male presence in the room.
As soon as I finished, Sainte took a deep breath, drawing my attention. His features scrunched into a grimace before he threw his legs over the bedside. Without glancing my way, he traded places with me.
I cringed as he reached for that nasty, used rag. “Oh—that water is vile.”
He paused, peering into the basin where dirt and particles of who knows what floated within. “Aye, it is.”
As he dunked the rag and dragged it over his face and neck, my nose wrinkled. That water would make a decent fertilizer.
He patted dry with the front of his tunic, then faced me. “Ready?”
“Not at all.”
I pushed to my feet as he shoved at the bed, moving it back into place.
“You would’ve had more time…” The accusation fell away with a one-armed shrug, then he reached for my wrist, rope in hand.
“If only I hadn’t tried for my freedom.” Sarcasm drenched my tone.
He snorted, shaking his head as if he found it somewhat amusing. “If only.”
He tied my wrists gently, his calloused fingers brushing along my skin in a way that made my heart pump too fast.
Curse the blasted organ.
He kept the rope loose, granting me just enough slack to slip it off if necessary. I watched his blue eyes, hoping for a hint, a fraction of reprieve. I hoped against hope that he’d change his mind, take back everything he said thus far and tell me I was free to go.
When his gaze caught mine, he hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line and his jaw worked, his silent remorse evident .
Please , don’t make me do this.
He jerked my hood up, pulling the brim low enough to cut off our contact. Brushing past, he grabbed my arm and hauled me out–
To the fresh gray horse.
To Wynterborne.
He pushed the sturdy gelding at a horrible speed. We leaned over the horse’s sweat-soaked neck, Sainte pressed against my back. Everything ached because of the position. My arse felt as if it was one enormous bruise and my stomach rumbled, but there was no rest for either of us.
As morning broke, the horse stumbled, barely catching itself as it panted and snorted. Sainte blew out a hiss of impatience, then pulled into an alley. The beast trembled as he dismounted and helped me down. I bit out a curse as my knees gave out, and he grunted, holding me up. I clutched onto the front of his armor, forcing my legs to take my weight.
“When we mount again, we will not stop until we reach the castle.”
“You’ll kill the horse.” There was no accusation in my tone, just a flat statement.
“What is a single horse for a kingdom’s future?” he asked. His voice was rough with lack of sleep and several days of fast travel. His lips were pressed together in a frown as his blue eyes danced over my face.
Even though I found my balance, he still held me against his chest. My teeth ground together, dreading what was to come. I closed my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see the fear there. He knew I didn’t want to go. He didn’t need to know I was terrified.
“Do not speak until we breach the throne room, when we–”
“The throne room? Right away?!” I cut in, pulling back. “I’ll have no time to prepare myself? To bathe?”
“You sacrificed that when you ran. Again.” His gloved hand pushed my dark hair from my face. “You will say, ‘I, Elspeth, Second Born of Veiled King Vardis, challenge Prince Regent Adastrus to the Rites of the Gods.’ You must speak those words exactly.”
“Sainte, I don’t even know what that means! No one’s told–”
“Repeat it.”
“No! Tell me what I’m agreeing to first!” It was too late to turn back. I was too close to the castle to get away. But I needed to understand what I was walking into.
“Say it. ”
“I, Elspeth, challenge–”
“Say it right. ”
“Sainte!”
I slammed my forehead against his armor. He remained obstinate, failing to grasp my plea for gentleness. I craved his protection, his assurance of safety and guidance.
I was scared.
And I needed him.
His warm hand cradled the nape of my neck, letting me have a moment as I fought my panic. My breaths came in quick gasps. I was an adult, a princess, for gods’ sake. I could do this. Right?
I had to.
“I, Elspeth, Second Born of Veiled King Vardis, challenge Prince Regent Adastrus to the Rites of the Gods,” I whispered, voice catching.
Sainte lifted my chin to force my gaze to his. Fear, iced and acrid, shivered through my being. We were about to get back on that horse and not stop until I was truly and utterly snared as a Princess of Wynterborne.
“ Killip Gheten , Elspeth.”
Happy Birthday.