Into the Shadows by Linda K Hopkins
Chapter 13
The next few days passed much as the previous had done, with endless walking beneath the beating sun, at a punishing pace that Lark struggled to keep up with. Meals consisted of bread and water, and occasionally meat that the Drameara hunted. He drank from the jar in his pack every morning and evening, and Lark wondered what kind of spirits it contained.
Sometimes they walked along well-worn roads, joining other travelers, but usually they kept to quieter paths and tracks that wound through the countryside. She had hidden the knife beneath the sole of the shoe while the Drameara was attending to his needs, and although the lump beneath her feet was uncomfortable, it was better than the endless scraping of the blade against her shin. He had not re-bound her wrists, but she knew that he would not hesitate to do so if she made one false move. The skin beneath the cuffs itched continuously, and along the edges had turned to an angry red. The Drameara had left the jar of salve on a rock beside her one evening before leaving to fill the water canteen, and she had slathered it on gratefully, using a flat strip of wood to slide it beneath the cuffs. The following night he did the same, leaving the salve on a rock without a word, and she accepted the gesture gratefully.
They passed no towns the first day, and slept under the stars once again that night, exhaustion causing Lark to fall asleep the moment she lay down. They were up early the following morning, the sun not fully risen as they began another day of traveling.
They had been walking for a few hours when Lark saw a lake glittering in the distance. A steep hill rose a short distance away from the water, and as they drew closer, Lark could see a town nestled between the hill and the lake. More buildings were clustered at the top of the hill, but the Drameara led them onto a path running alongside the lake, and shortly after noon they entered the lower part of the town. Like Springdale’s, the streets were winding and narrow, following the lakeshore, and the buildings were painted every imaginable hue. Small skiffs were tied along the edge of the water, and a pair of fishermen stood in the shallow water, their rods cast into the dark depths of the lake. Lark followed the Drameara down a side street, and before long they arrived at an open square backing onto the side of the cliff, where vendors had set up stalls to display their goods. Brightly colored fabrics were displayed besides baskets of eggs and squawking chickens, while a variety of vegetables were placed alongside hanging cuts of meat. Pausing at one of the stalls, the Drameara selected a few pieces of fruit, which he placed in his bag, while at another he bought a loaf of bread.
His shopping done, he led Lark back towards the lake where a tavern sat overhanging the water. Large windows ran around the perimeter, letting in lake breezes. Lark followed the Drameara as he entered the building and nodded at a table in the corner.
“Go wait there,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“Just do as I say,” he said before turning and heading to the bar, where the barman stood leaning over the counter, watching them. The barman said something in a low voice, nodding in Lark’s direction as the Drameara glanced at her. The Drameara turned back to him and they began a low conversation. Lark strained to hear what they were saying, but she was too far away to hear anything but murmurs. Reaching beneath the counter, the innkeeper pulled out a wooden box, which he unlocked with a key from his pocket. He retrieved something wrapped in a piece of white cloth which he handed to the Drameara. Opening one corner, the Drameara peeked into the package before stowing it in his bag.
Lark was so intent on watching them she did not notice the man approaching her table until he slid into the seat across from her, and she recoiled in horror as she took in his face. Although one half looked normal, the other looked as though the skin had begun to melt from his face, while where his eye should be was a large, gaping hole.
“Well, lookee ’ere,” he said. “A Cambrian, right in the middle of Rhyton.” As he reached over and touched her hair she jerked away, but he grabbed her jaw. Two of his fingers were missing, but his grip was still strong. “You know what ’appens to Cambrians in Rhyton? We kill ’em. But I think I’ll fuck you first.”
“Get your hands off me,” she hissed.
“Or what? Going to call for the Guard? Look, bitch, no-one ’ere going to ’elp you. They’ll be cheering me on!” Still holding her jaw, he rose, grabbed her arm, and dragged her to her feet. She struggled against his grip, but it was tight and she could not break free. Lifting her boot, she stomped down on his foot, then spat in his face as his hold slackened. Breaking free, she stumbled back a few steps and turned to run, but he grabbed her hair, pulling her to a stop as she slammed back into him. His hand wrapped around her arm as another voice reached her ear.
“Let her go.”
“I saw her first, bastard,” the man said, releasing her hair but still gripping her arm as he turned around, pulling her around with him. “Find someone else.”
A man in his early thirties stood a short distance away, his arms relaxed at his sides. His black hair and tan skin identified him as Rhymer, and his dark eyes flashed to her for a moment before returning to her accoster.
“You idiot,” he said pleasantly. “She belongs to him.” He tossed his head over his shoulder towards the Drameara. “Do you really think you could beat him in a fight?”
Her attacker’s eye darted to the Drameara, and his hold slackened slightly. “’E left ’er alone, didn’t ’e? Shouldn’ave done that if ’e didn’t want nuffin to ’appen to ’er.” He lifted his chin, but his eye darting back to the Drameara revealed his failing bravado.
The other man took a step closer. “I think you should go now.” He gave a slight smile, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lark’s accoster dropped her arm with a mumbled curse and turned away.
Lark turned to look at her rescuer warily. “Are you alright?” he asked. His eyes dropped to the cuffs around her forearms, before returning to her face.
“Why did you do that?”
“Should I have left him to do what he wanted with you?”
“No, but I’m Cambrian, and I have the distinct impression that all Rhymers want us dead.”
“Most only bear a grudge against the Guard. But Acton holds a grudge against all Cambrians because of his personal injuries.”
“What happened to him?”
He gestured for her to resume her seat. “His son was part of a raid against Fontina, a Cambrian town a few miles east. When the Guard came to arrest him, Acton intervened. He was pushed aside and fell into an open fire.”
“That’s horrible!”
“Yes, it is. But I am going to assume that you are not personally responsible for his injuries.”
Lark smiled. “Thank you …?”
“Alron, I’m the mayor of this town. I’m afraid you’ve not had a good first introduction to Rhyton.”
“It is a very pretty town, built right on the lake.”
“Well, we certainly like to think so. The lake is the heartbeat of our town. We even used to build boats here in Rhyton.”
“But not anymore?”
Alron looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It was decided that Lenora was better suited to boat building.”
“Is it?”
“It’s closer to the coast.” He forced a smile. “I gave you my name, but you haven’t given me yours.”
“My apologies. It’s –”
“Let’s go.” A heavy hand wrapped around her upper arm, pulling her to her feet. Lark glanced at the mayor as the Drameara began to drag her out of the tavern. She shook herself free and turned to face Alron. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled, then turned and followed the Drameara out into the street.
“If it wasn’t for that man I would have been dragged from the tavern, raped, and killed!” she said when she caught up with him.
“Yes.”
“Yes? That’s all you have to say?”
“Yes.”
“People like that would rape and kill every Cambrian, given the chance,” she said.
He turned around to face her. “Is that any different to what the Crimson Guard do? Besides, Cambrians have a lot to answer for in the way they treat Rhymers.”
“What does that mean?”
“You considered all Rhymers to be thieving louts –”
“Which they are!”
“Like that mayor back there?” She was silent. “You Cambrians deny the Rhymers all opportunity to advance and better themselves. You even steal away their livelihoods. Is it any wonder that they turn to thieving?”
“We don’t steal their livelihoods! And they can better themselves!”
“They’re not allowed to open businesses in your cities or study in your schools. The Rhytonians built boats for generations, until the king decided to take that away from them. And when they do manage to earn an income, he takes it away in the form of taxes.”
“That’s not true! The mayor said that Lenora is better suited to building boats because it’s closer to the coast!”
“Is that so? Did he tell you that the Guard ensure that no boats are built here?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t know much for a future queen, do you?”
“He also said that the man’s son was a thief.”
“True. He was about to be arrested and hung. But the boy was only seventeen years old. Tell me what would happen if a Cambrian boy that age was found guilty of theft?”
“How do you know he was seventeen?”
“I know because I listen to people. I pay attention to what’s going on! Unlike you, moping in your palace because you must marry a prince. You don’t care what’s happening in your own country!”
“You know nothing,” she snarled.
“You Cambrians have been the same for hundreds of years, looking only to your own interests. Your ancestor was one of the worst, seeking to destroy the Ancients.”
“They attacked first!”
He laughed dryly. “The Cambrians took what they wanted from the Ancients and then set about destroying them.”
“What could the Ancients possibly have that the Cambrians would want? They were little more than beasts, with the intelligence of a Rhymer.”
He looked at her incredulously. “You’re more ignorant than I thought. Where do you think Cambrians gained the knowledge to build beautiful cities? From whom did they gain the power that made them excel in almost everything they did?”
“Not the Ancients!”
“Then why is Lenora such a poor replica of Citadel? Why have you not achieved the same heights of greatness that you attained before the war?”
“Because the magic was destroyed!”
“Magic?” he snorted. “I told you before, there’s no such thing as magic!”
“Then tell me, since you know so much, how Citadel was built?”
“With the power of the Ancients.”
“They had no power! That’s why they wanted us destroyed!”
He pointed a finger in her face. “You are determined to believe these fabrications, but know this – you’ll pay for the sins of your ancestor.”
“The Ancient wants revenge.”
“My mistress seeks justice.”
Lark lifted her eyebrows incredulously. “Do you believe everything she tells you?”
“She did not tell me but showed me. And I know it to be true.”
“I refuse to believe your wicked lies.”
“Believe what you will, Cambrian. The truth is all around you, but you must be willing to open your eyes to see it. Now let’s go.”
He began striding down the road, and after a moment, Lark followed. It was clear that the Drameara believed what he said, but Master Clem’s confirmation just a few days before her kidnapping provided ample evidence that the Drameara was wrong in his beliefs.
They made camp beside the lake that night, on a sandy strip of beach, and Lark fell asleep to the sound of gently lapping water; but her dreams were restless as she ran in fear from one place to the next, only to be accosted at each location. The faces of her attackers shifted and changed: the man from the tavern, the men in the first village, Val, the Drameara. When she woke, exhausted, the Drameara gave her a long look before turning away, and she frowned. Had she been talking in her sleep, and if so, what had she said?
The days began to merge together as they walked endless miles towards the mountains. She could feel her strength increasing day by day, and her trousers were no longer tight around her waist and thighs. As her exhaustion receded, she began to be more vigilant to the possibility of escape. The bulge in her shoe was a constant reminder that she needed to remain attentive, as she might miss the perfect opportunity to kill her guard. Even so, he was constantly alert and on the move. He frequently stopped at the Rhymer villages and towns, talking to various people, although Lark never heard the conversations.
Once, they were passed on the road by a unit of Crimson Guards. They had still been a long way off when the Drameara turned to look at her and, with a look of resignation, dragged her from the road. They remained hidden in the trees as the Guard rode by, unaware of their audience, and Lark wondered what the Drameara would have done if she had not been there. Would he have alerted the Shadow Warrior of their presence? Despite the weapons that bristled all about him, he would have been completely outnumbered if he had attacked on his own. As they passed by, Lark searched the members of the unit longingly, hoping for sight of Crag or Iron, but she saw no sign of them.
A few evenings later, the Drameara dropped his pack beneath a copse of trees. Throughout the day, the terrain had been changing; the hills were less rolling and more rocky, while thick clumps of bushes lined the road where they walked. Large boulders lay strewn across the landscape, and the grass on the hills often gave way to layers of dark rock. He caught a rabbit and Lark watched as he cooked it over a fire, turning it on the spit he had made from a branch. Reaching into his pack he withdrew the clay jar that he carried and swallowed some of the contents, as he did every night. He sat easily on a fallen log, his hands dangling over his knees as he watched the rabbit cooking. As usual, he paid her no attention, and they sat in silence as she watched him. No, he was not handsome in the suave way that Val was handsome, but he was striking, and Lark knew from experience that both men and women always stopped to stare at him as he passed by. His hair was too short to be fashionable, and his eyes were too dark to be comfortable; his jaw was well defined, while his body was that of a warrior, strong and virile, and his skin was a dark, golden tan, so unlike her own pale features.
As weariness once again tugged at her, she closed her eyes and leaned her back against a tree. She wondered about Pip, and how Mother was coping with her health. Had news of her daughter’s death made her health deteriorate? The thought of her family mourning her was like a thorn in her heart, and once again she felt the anger rising against the man sitting across from her; he might not have been the one to take her from the river, but he had been her jailer ever since. She looked away, but not before she saw his eyes flick to her, his gaze narrowed.
As she did every night, Lark fell asleep almost at once, the exertion of the day leaving her exhausted. She woke with a start during the night, her heart pounding as she opened her eyes and stared up at the stars. Something had awoken her – an owl perhaps, or a predator lurking nearby – but the night was still and silent as she listened. Across from her lay the Drameara, his head propped against his backpack and his hands folded across his chest, which rose and fell evenly, and Lark realized that for the first time, she was seeing him asleep. She watched him for a moment, before cautiously raising herself on her elbow to study him. Even in sleep, his strength was evident, his body tightly honed. He slept bare chested, and she stared for a moment at the silver dragons that circled each breast.
Holding her breath, she raised herself to a sitting position, then watched for another moment before reaching for her boot where her knife lay hidden. His breath stuttered slightly and she froze, but it evened out a moment later and she brought the boot closer. Reaching inside, she lifted the sole, then wrapped her hand around the handle of the knife, feeling the grain beneath her palm. It was smooth, as though it had been handled many times, and the thought gave her reassurance. It was a reliable weapon, ready to finish the task to which she put it. Placing her hands on the ground, she drew her legs beneath her and slipped onto her knees, her eyes fixed on the Drameara. He did not move, and she began to slowly inch forward, a little at a time. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was surprised it did not waken him, but he slept on, unaware that death was lurking only a short distance away.
It took a while to cover the few feet between them, and her hand was shaking by the time she reached his side. His finger flicked, and she froze, then slowly drew in a breath to stem her trembling nerves. Wrapping both hands around the handle of the knife, she lifted it into the air above his chest, then clenching her muscles, brought the blade down with all the force she could muster. His eyes flew open as his hand shot out, wrapping around hers and stopping the descent of the blade. Yanking the knife from her grip, he flipped her over and covered her with his body, his face twisted in anger as he glared down at her.
“Did you really think you could kill me, princess?” he snarled. “I’ve been waiting for you to make your move.” He bent down lower, bringing his mouth to her ear. “I knew about the knife, you see.” He raised his head to stare down at her, his eyes holding hers as she stared back mutely. It was like looking into a dark pool the depths of which could never be reached, made even darker by the night around them. His body was pressed against hers and she felt the heat of his skin through her trousers as his legs pinned her to the ground. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out and instead she bit her lower lip nervously. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then rose again to meet hers. His gaze was penetrating and the air around them thickened as he pinned her down, until she could bear it no more and squeezed her eyes shut. In the next moment he was off her, and she lay in the dirt, drawing in shaky breaths as she waited for him to retrieve his sword and kill her.
There was no movement, however, and she opened an eye to see that he was standing at her feet, watching her intently; as soon as her gaze met his he leaned down and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet and manhandling her back to the tree where she had been sleeping. He pushed her to the ground, then grabbing a rope from his pack, wrapped it around her waist and tied her to the tree. Turning away, he picked something off the ground, and she saw it was her knife. He snapped the blade in two with his fingers, then into halves again, and flung the pieces into the bushes as she watched in shock. Without another glance in her direction, he turned and walked into the trees, disappearing into the darkness. Lark slumped against the trunk; she had lost her one chance of escape, and she doubted there would be another.
She closed her eyes, and his face rose in her mind, his black eyes staring down at her. She could still feel his heat against her skin, and the brush of his breath against her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she frowned angrily into the darkness. He thought he had bested her. But her failure just made her more determined to find a means of escape. He would lower his guard and she would be ready to take advantage of whatever fate brought her way. And in doing so, she would also bring about his destruction.