CHAPTER 4 #2
I scanned the crowd but couldn’t differentiate one man from another.
I let out a strangled wail of frustration.
He could be any one of them. Finally, I spotted the dane leading several warriors toward his tent.
Just before they disappeared through the flap, he clapped his arm around one of them, but all I could see from this vantage was the trail of a blond braid, indistinguishable from the rest.
A sharp jerk at my wrist refocused me. Gerta yanked me toward the dane’s tent.
“Gerta, stop!”
But she did not. In moments, she had dragged me in front of two guards blocking the entrance. Both had dark skin and blond braids and looked enough alike to be brothers.
“This is your future princess, Lady Serae of Cavendaffe,” Gerta demanded in a voice far more confident than I felt. “She is here to see her future husband, Eldreth, son of Auldren. Let us pass.”
The guards cracked identical smirks but did not respond.
“You would do well to—”
Whatever Gerta had been about to threaten was lost as the dane himself stepped through the entryway. He barked something in Rihtlondish to the brother-guards, who moved at once to flank us.
“There’s trouble,” he said without ceremony. “Back to your tent, and do not move if you value your lives. Bracht!”
The same honey-blond man who served us our breakfast appeared behind the dane.
“Go with them.”
“Yes, Dane.” He hurried to our side.
The dane turned and retreated again. As the tent flap parted, I glanced through the gap and locked eyes with a man standing in front of a large table at the center of the room.
He was handsome and well-built, with the straight back and steely gaze of a general.
His sharp jawline, broad chest, and intense eyes rooted me to the spot.
His gaze was clear and piercing as it met mine.
A wave of his contempt crashed over me a second before the dane drew his attention away.
I gasped. The turn of his head revealed copper hair tied back in a knot.
The flap fell, and the guards stepped forward.
“Red,” I whispered, unable to move my feet.
“This way, my ladies,” Bracht said, as if there were nothing wrong in the world.
We walked briskly back to the center of the encampment, the two guards urging us on. My mind whirred.
“Why is there danger?” I asked the guard at my right. “Are we not still in Cavendaffe?”
He did not answer.
Bracht, ahead of us, turned as he walked. “Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about.”
This was meant to be a sanctioned trip between new allies.
I had studied the alliances of Inra at length—processions were common practice for foreign betrothals.
In fact, if Father were a prince, or if Cavendaffe were a larger and more influential province, we might have paraded through Inra, announcing the betrothal before heading north.
What could pose a threat less than a day into our journey?
That beautiful, hateful general popped into my mind.
He was standing over a war table. What could they have been planning?
At our tent, one of the brothers ushered us inside with a gruff, “Do not leave.” Bracht shot us a smile that was more of a grimace before the flap was closed.
The guards settled to their posts outside, blocking all exit or entry.
The thick, dark canvas muffled the light of the sun, so Gerta set about lighting the lamps.
Within minutes, with no airflow and the summer heat beating through the cloth, our space became a small furnace.
I flopped onto my bed with a huff and every intention to sleep.
Instead, my mind cataloged every comfort, every familiarity, and every bit of joy back home that I had lost.
“IT’S TIME to move.”
The same gruff voice from earlier boomed through the tent flap, jolting me awake. The space was empty of everything except the furniture and one tray of food on the table. I didn’t recall falling asleep.
“Eat quickly,” Gerta hissed as she scurried over with the tray.
“What’s going on?” I croaked. My throat was dry and scratchy.
“There’s plenty of time for asking questions later. Our things have already been taken to the horses. We’re riding this night.”
“Martyrs above, what time is it? Have you slept at all?”
“Well enough. Now eat.”
I scarfed down the plate of greens and root vegetables in a brown sauce—surprisingly more satisfying than it looked.
Within minutes, we were atop our horses and ringed by guards, back in our place in the procession.
This time, I looked for the women. Everyone, skirts or no, rode astride like me—even Gerta.
The path was dimly lit with lanterns, and the horses were alert despite the hour.
“Can you train a horse to be nocturnal?” I asked Gerta.
She shrugged.
The gruff-voiced guard at my left stifled a laugh, and I shot him a dirty look.
“It’s a valid question,” I shot back.
He nodded, a smirk plastered on his face. I shot Gerta a frown. Was this the sort of treatment I could expect from these Rihtlonders? Given what I knew of them, I shouldn’t be surprised.
Soon, the line was moving, and I had to fight to keep my mare steady, unlike the ride during the daytime. No more than a quarter hour had passed before Dane Auldren’s horse broke the guard ring and fell in beside mine.
“Have you been on the water before?” he asked.
“Do you think the Cavendaffes have no boats?” I scoffed.
“That’s all well and grand, but have you ever been at sea?”
“I—No,” I admitted, gripping the reins tighter. Something told me that the open sea might be different from the wide river journeys I was used to—and not in a good way.
“Take this.” The dane held out a pouch. “It’s rubra bark. For chewing.”
“Rubra?” I took the pouch and peered inside.
The reddish bark had been crushed into small chunks.
The scent reminded me of cinnamon—good for nausea and indigestion.
I looked back at the dane as he trotted off, back relaxed and braid swaying.
He paused at each group along the line, exchanging a few words.
Less time passed than I expected when the procession pulled to a halt. The air was thick with the tang of salt and seaweed, the lapping waves a constant, muffled roar.
“We were this close?” Gerta asked at my side.
I shrugged, glad I wasn’t the only one in the dark. Still, it begged the question, why the camp at all?
The line began to move slowly, and the trees parted to reveal a dozen masts set against the moonlit sky.
I had expected to board a ship, but I could never have imagined the sight before me.
A full-scale fleet of vessels waited, each carved with a dragon at the helm.
The nearest dragons spewed wooden fire from the head of the craft while massive wings surrounded the hull.
“Do they think dragons still exist?” Gerta whispered, eyeing the next-nearest boat with similar carvings.
I could only shake my head, enraptured by the display.
“They do,” came a gravelly voice beside us. The owner was the other dark-skinned, blond brother—tight-faced and bulging with muscles—who made up half of Dane Auldren’s personal guard duo. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is blind.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to hide my disbelief. Everyone knew the legends of the Creator, the last immortal dragon who saved humanity from evil, but even he vanished from Jaeda more than a thousand years ago.
He nodded, then jumped off his steed and motioned us to dismount.
A young woman in a green tunic and trousers darted forward to collect the horses.
There must have been room on these vessels to carry the people, the horses—one for every woman and man—and all the furniture and tents.
The scope of it was astonishing. We climbed the gangplank and entered a small cabin that already held our chests.
I looked to Gerta, who shrugged. We sat on our respective cots and waited.
I looked out the porthole while Gerta tapped out a little tattoo with her foot.
When the vessel finally lurched out to sea, it took my stomach with it.
I locked eyes with Gerta, then we both reached for Dane’s pouch.
TWO EVENTLESS days at sea passed, surrounded by nothing but waves.
The pace was slow and anything but steady.
Sometimes, the water was rough, and sometimes, it was rougher.
When it was what the captain called steady, we were permitted to walk around the ship, provided we could stay out of the crew’s way.
We both had to cling to the railing or risk falling over, and, more than once, I ended up leaning over the side to offer my latest meal to the sea.
It was a miracle I didn’t lose my glasses to the waves as well.
When I wasn’t heaving, I used the time on deck to track our general direction for my father, based on the position of the sun.
Aside from those delightful strolls, we were expected to stay in our quarters.
In one tiny room, we slept, ate meals, and relieved ourselves—thankfully in a small closet-sized privy.
Most of our time was spent taking turns yawning, lounging in our small cots, and saying, “Martyrs, this is dull.” I spent some time adding the first entry to my journal—a rudimentary map of our ship and a count of the other vessels around us.
That third blissful morning, I awoke to find the Rihtlond shore stretching across the horizon instead of the endless White Sea.
I no longer cared which land it was, so long as it was solid under my feet.
My stomach emptied itself one last time, even though the waters had calmed.
It was still a few hours before Gerta and I were hustled off the ship with our chests and left to wait on the docks.