Into the Shadows by Linda K Hopkins
Chapter 12
Lark’s wrists chafed, from the ropes binding them as well as the cuffs that allowed no way to wipe her skin free of sweat and dirt. In her boot, meanwhile, the knife she had hidden scraped her skin. Above her, the sun was beating down and she could feel her fair skin burning. They had slept the previous night beneath the stars, and she had fallen into a restless sleep as soon as she lay on the ground, dreaming of men dead and dying. They had started walking once more at first light, with the Drameara only pausing long enough to give her a dried-out piece of bread before retying her hands. She glared holes into the Drameara’s back as they walked, thinking about the ways she could use the knife securely tucked in her boot. If her hands weren’t tied, she would whip it out and plunge it right in, she thought vengefully. But the memory of how fast he had moved when she tried to use his knife against him at the hut made her rethink that plan. She could not make an attempt on his life while he was awake.
It was mid-morning when they reached a river, clear water running over a bed of pebbles. Hurrying past him, she knelt down and scooped the water into her mouth, eager to relieve her parched throat. She drank deeply, and only when she finally felt some relief did she sit up and glance around to see the Drameara a short way downstream. His tunic was off, and she could see the dragon tattoo twisting around his torso. Unlike Val with his fine features, he was ruggedly handsome, a man who cared nothing for his appearance and was the better looking for it. His skin was a healthy tan, and his muscles were well defined, without an ounce of fat. She turned away with a blush at her thoughts, determined not to be caught staring. He was her enemy, she reminded herself. The man she would kill as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
She rose and dusted off her pants, then glanced back at the Drameara to see that he was kneeling in the water, his fingers sifting through the mud. He was staring ahead of him, his gaze intent as he sunk his hand deeper into the mire, pushing aside rocks and pebbles. Lark was about to ask him what he was doing when his eyes dropped to the water and he pulled up his hand. He held a muddy object, but as the water washed away the muck clinging to it, she could see that it was a piece of red stone. He stared at it for a moment, then suddenly turned and looked at her, meeting her gaze with a frown. Something in his expression kept her silent, and he turned away, walking back to the bank where he placed the stone in his bag. He hefted the bag and started walking, not bothering to check whether Lark was following him, and with a sigh, she began to follow.
They continued walking as the sun beat down on them, and Lark was grateful for the ugly boots which were much gentler on her feet than her previous footwear. The plain seemed to stretch on endlessly, with only an occasional tree rising from the sea of pale yellow. Larks and other birds rose in the air as they passed by, chirping their annoyance at the disturbance before settling a few feet away. Sweat dripped down Lark’s neck and the chafing of her bound wrists grew. She twisted them painfully, trying to ease the discomfort, but without success.
Partway through the afternoon, the path they were on intersected a road, and they joined the flow of traffic heading north. It was busy, and more than once, Lark had to hurriedly step aside as a carriage raced past them, making the dust rise. Wagons rumbled by, the riders calling out a greeting as they meandered past, while travelers on foot eyed them warily, taking in the multitude of weapons worn by the Drameara and the ropes around Lark’s wrists. Some of the women gave her a sympathetic smile, but most just hurried by, their eyes averted.
They passed the skeleton of a burnt-out house, the walls blackened by smoke and only remnants of the thatch roof remaining. Lark looked at it curiously, wondering what might have happened there, but the Drameara did not spare it a glance as he strode by, not slowing his relentless pace.
It was dusk when Lark saw the first sign of buildings in the distance, and as they grew closer, she saw they were approaching a town. Unlike Cambrian towns, it had no defenses beyond a small lookout tower where a guard watched the road. A small, worn-out sign announced that they had reached Hazel Hollow. As they walked along the packed dirt road, Lark felt curious eyes on her. The people in the street were clearly Rhymer, but mixed amongst them were those with Cambrian features – fair hair, blue eyes, or light skin. But even so, she stood out with her pale features and colorless hair which was hanging messily down her back. Ignoring the pain in her arms, she lifted her chin and stared straight ahead as she walked one pace behind the Drameara. He turned down a narrow street, striding confidently down a rutted road, ignoring the looks sent their way, then turned down another street before coming to a stop outside an inn and pushing open the door. A sign hung above the door: The Red Dragon, it read. The door creaked ominously on its hinges as they stepped inside, and the noise in the room suddenly died away as all eyes turned, first taking him in, then moving on to her. From the corner of her eye, Lark could see people shoving each other with their elbows as they whispered and stared at her. She glanced around quickly, hoping to see a friendly face who might step forward to aid her, but she saw only varying expressions of curiosity and judgment as they took in her bound hands.
Walking up to the long bar, the Drameara beckoned to the boy wiping down the counter with a cloth. “I’m looking for Aranmell.”
The boy slouched away, heading through the door to the back and returning a few moments later with a man on his heels who wore a frown of annoyance. The frown disappeared as soon as Aranmell saw who was asking for him.
“Drameara,” he greeted. He took a glass from a shelf and pulled a drink, which he placed before him. The Drameara took a long sip, then leaned forward on the bar and began to say something, his voice too low for Lark to make out. They continued to converse in soft tones for a few more minutes, and Lark glanced around the room. A man near the window was watching her closely, and when she looked his way, his eyes held hers. He stared at her for another moment before rising and heading over to the bar. As though sensing his approach, the Drameara spun around, and upon seeing the newcomer, he frowned. Like the Drameara, the man was well built, with a myriad of weapons arrayed around his body.
“What kind of a greeting is that?” he asked.
“The kind you deserve,” the Drameara replied, but there was amusement in his voice. “You abandoned me near Lenora.”
“You clearly survived. I see you picked up a traveler.” They both turned to look at Lark. “Is she the one I’ve been hearing about?”
“That depends on what you’ve heard.”
“Why is she not dead?”
The Drameara turned back to the bar. The barman had moved away and was talking to another customer. “You know who she is. For now, she’s more useful alive.”
“Or she might be a liability.”
The Drameara picked up his glass and took a sip. “Aye. She might.” He glanced back at the man. “You’re heading back?”
“Our mistress calls me north.”
“I’ll meet you there shortly.”
“And her?”
“We’ll see.”
The man gave the Drameara a penetrating gaze before raking his glance over Lark one more time, then turned and headed out of the tavern.
“Who’s that?” Lark asked as the Drameara headed past her to a table beside the window.
“No-one that you need concern yourself with.”
“Is he Drameara?”
The Drameara sat down without answering.
Muted conversations had resumed, although from the number of glances cast their way, Lark had no doubt that she and the Drameara were the topic of conversation. The boy who had been wiping the counter carried over a tray with brimming glasses of ale and plates of food. The Drameara pushed a glass over to her. She raised her bound hands with a meaningful look.
He flicked the knot, untying it, and the rope fell to the table. Lifting the glass, Lark took a sniff. Although her brothers frequently imbibed ale, Lark had never tasted the drink. The smell was sharp and she glanced at the Drameara to see he was watching her. Bringing the glass to her lips, she took a sip then screwed her face in distaste. She put it down and quickly took a bite of the pie on the dish before her. Murmured conversations reached her ear, and she dropped her gaze as she strained to listen.
“Lenorian, by the looks of ’er.” From the corner of her eye, Lark could see a pair of men, clad in workmen’s tunics, scowling at her angrily.
“Aye. Got that proud, haughty look.”
“My bet is that it’ll be gone after a few more days with ’im.” There was some coarse laughter, and Lark took another sip of ale. The second mouthful was better than the first. She took another bite of pie, watching as the Drameara did the same.
“Did you ’ear that the Guard torched the remaining store of grain up at Bluewater?”
“They did that at Sweetgrass as well, burning half the houses along with it. What was the reason this time?”
“Since when do the Guard care about bloody reasons? I’m surprised they don’t just line us up and kill us all.”
“True. They’d have a ten percent chance of executing some Red Lions.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” the first man said bitterly. “They’d be ’iding in the ’ills while we all suffer for their actions.”
“Things are changing now, Callum. Guardsmen are starting to fall like flies.”
“That doesn’t ’elp me when they come to town looking for Red Lions and slaughter my goats when they can’t find ’em.”
They fell silent and Lark sneaked a look beneath her lashes at the speakers. A pair of men around her father’s age sat a few tables away. One of them wore a red necktie, reminding her of Avard. He was staring at her, but when her gaze met his, he rose and came over to their table.
“What do you plan to do with the girl?” he asked the Drameara.
The Drameara leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. Through the thin tunic, Lark could see the bulge of his muscular arms. “Why?”
“Seems to me she should die for what ’er people have done to us.”
The Drameara looked at her contemplatively, and Lark felt her pulse begin to race, wondering if this was the moment when the Drameara would kill her. Clearly there were some bad apples amongst the Guard, but that did not mean that they were all that bad, or that she should suffer for their actions. “Maybe,” he said. “But I have other plans for her.” Lark looked at her empty plate as a wave of dizziness washed over her. The food in her stomach turned to stone.
“Plans for her death, I ’ope.”
“My plans do not concern you,” he said, turning away. He drained the last of his ale and rose. “Come,” he said to Lark, and as much as it irked her to do so, she obeyed his command and followed him as he wove between the tables and out of the inn. It was dark outside and she paused to glance up at the sky. She could see the Night Light, the brightest star in the sky. She had often stared at it from her window back home, and it made her wonder what was happening at the palace. Were her family mourning her death? Was Val? She doubted that. He would mourn her as much as she mourned him.
The Drameara was already striding down the street, and she quickened her pace to catch up, unwilling to put too much distance between them in such a hostile town.
“What are the Red Lions?” she asked.
“The band of Rhymers rising against the Crimson Guard.”
“And they called themselves the red lions?” she said with a snort. He sent her a disapproving look. “Where are we going?”
“To find somewhere to sleep.”
“We could have stayed at the inn.”
“It costs money.”
“You have money.”
He gave her an incredulous glance. “I realize that where you come from, money can be thrown about like sand, but not everyone was born with a silver spoon and a crib lined in gold.”
“I was not –”
“And besides, I prefer sleeping beneath the stars.”
She fell silent as he marched his way across the town and beneath the watchtower, where the guards nodded as he passed by. It was even darker beyond the town, but the Drameara did not slow his pace, and unlike Lark’s stumbling walk, his was surefooted and steady. Another hour had passed before the Drameara turned off the path and headed a short distance into the trees, placing his pack on the ground beside a rock.
“We sleep here,” he announced as Lark peered through the darkness. As far as she could see they were in a clearing, and the ground beneath her feet was soft with mulch. Sinking down beside a tree, she pulled off her boots, careful to keep the knife hidden as she slipped it into the sole of the shoe. She resisted the urge to examine the scratches the knife had caused, not wanting to arouse the Drameara’s attention, and instead twisted the cuffs around her wrists, trying to relieve the itch they caused. She looked up to see the Drameara watching her.
“Why haven’t you removed them?” he asked. “They clearly bother you.”
She looked away. “They’re sealed with magic. They can’t be opened.”
She turned back quickly when he gave a dry laugh. “Magic,” he scoffed. “There’s nothing magic about them.”
“Of course there is,” she said sharply. “Do you really think I want to keep these horrible things on me?”
“I bow to your superior knowledge, princess,” he said caustically, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“What do you know about them?”
“I know nothing about magic.”
“But you know something,” she insisted.
“No. Your highness has set me straight.”
“I’m not your highness, and I’m not a princess,” she said irritably.
“Not yet.”
“Not ever! My family already think I’m dead, and since both you and the Shadow Warrior seem intent on killing me, I might as well be. I just wish one of you would get on with it!”
“So impatient to die!”
“Just tired of being dragged around the countryside by an ignorant barbarian.”
She turned away, annoyed, and lay down on the ground as her thoughts went to the knife inside her boot. It would not be easy to kill her tormentor; his senses were always on high alert, and he seemed to miss nothing. He had stopped her from running away with Beauty, although how he had moved so quickly was something she could not fathom. No, she thought, she would have to do it while he slept. The thought was still in her mind as her eyes closed, and the sound of him sharpening his knives was the last thing she heard before falling asleep.