Into the Shadows by Linda K Hopkins
Chapter 19
They headed out of Riverton, taking a road that led across the river and through the commercial district. They rounded a corner, then paused when they saw a unit of the Crimson Guard heading towards them, the horses’ hooves muffled against the dirt road. Lark’s heart began to race at the thought of being discovered, and the Drameara cast her a thoughtful glance. All around, shoppers were stepping back from the street, their eyes fearful as they watched the Guardsmen. A woman hurried nervously across the street where her friend stood waiting, passing a few feet from one rider, causing his horse to stamp and toss its head. In a moment, the Guardsman, who was no more than twenty years old by Lark’s reckoning, drew his sword and pointed it at the woman.
“You scared my horse, bitch,” he snarled. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, while beside her a mother dragged her young child to her skirts, shushing him when he began to cry. The Guardsman beside him sniggered, but the others barely gave the scene a passing glance as their eyes swept with evident disdain over the people as they pressed themselves against the walls. A few slipped down the side streets, eager to escape the potential danger.
“Avoid eye contact and keep silent,” the Drameara murmured. “One wrong move could lead to innocent people losing their lives.” One of the Guard turned to look at them, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the Drameara. He nudged his horse closer, coming to a stop before them.
“That’s an awful lot of weapons you’re carrying,” he said.
“With all the unrest, a man can’t be too careful these days,” the Drameara replied.
“And tell me, boy, who exactly do you think you need to protect yourself from?”
“Anyone who attempts violence against me.”
The Guardsman frowned, and his gaze moved on to Lark. She felt exposed, and wished she still had the cap she had bartered from the boy. “Who’s this? What’s she doing with you?”
“She’s a half-breed.”
“A half-breed, eh? She looks pure Cambrian to me. Perhaps she’d better come with us.”
The Guardsman leaned down, his hand reaching for Lark, but the Drameara blocked him with his arm. “I don’t think so.”
“And who are you to say what happens to her, boy?”
“Her husband.”
“Her husband?” The Guardsman looked back at Lark. “Is that right, girl? He’s your husband?”
Lark felt a warning hand land on her back, and she nodded. “Yes.”
“Relations between Cambrians and Rhymers are forbidden,” the Guardsman said.
She swallowed hard. “You could tell that to my parents, but they’re already dead. But I’m not Cambrian or Rhymer.”
The Guard leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “You look definitely Cambrian to me. Never seen a half-breed so fair before.”
“She may look Cambrian, but she’s as wild and wanton as any Rhymer,” the Drameara said.
Color flared in Lark’s cheeks at the insinuation, and she dropped her gaze to the ground, biting her lip. Their exchange had caught the attention of the rest of the unit, who gathered around to listen. One of them stepped closer. “What’s going on, Chester?”
“This girl says she’s a half-breed, but it’s the boy that caught my attention. He strikes me as a Red Lion, Captain.”
The captain nodded. “I have to agree. No civilian walks around with that many weapons.”
“He does if he feels he needs the protection,” the Drameara retorted.
The captain glanced at him. “Who asked you, boy? You’ll come with us until we can determine if you’re a Red Lion.”
The Drameara nodded. “Very well, but she comes with me.”
“You want your woman with you?” The captain gave a dry laugh. “Fine. I hope you don’t live to regret it. Now start walking.” He pointed down the road to the north, and the Drameara began to walk, pushing Lark along with him.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“We first need to get clear of the town.” He reached into his bag and withdrew his clay jar and drank some of the contents.
“Is that how you call the Shadow Warrior?”
He returned the jar to his bag. “Sometimes.”
“Did you call him to help you when you were injured?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means, princess, that this conversation is over.”
She fell silent as they walked through the streets, the Guard at their back. They passed the last buildings and then were out of the town, heading along a dirt road. They continued walking for another hour, as people heading into the town fell to the side, anxious to get out of the way of the approaching Guardsmen. The stream of travelers began to slow, until there were only a few lone pedestrians.
“I need to get behind,” the Drameara murmured. “Follow me.” He placed his hand on her back and led her to the side of the road.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” the captain called.
“My wife needs to stop for a moment,” the Drameara replied.
The captain stared at him for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Very well. Chester and Vale, watch them.”
The captain waved his hand and the rest of the unit continued along the road, while Chester and another man drew to a stop. Chester glared down at her. “Well, get on with it. I’ll give you one minute.”
Lark glanced at the Drameara, who gave a slight nod, and she headed around a tree where she leaned against the trunk. She had no idea what the Drameara had planned, but whatever it was, it could not be good. She took a few deep breaths and stepped back into the open, then stared in horror when she saw the two Guardsmen lying in the dust.
“What have you done?”
“They tried to relieve me of my weapons.”
“So you killed them?”
“Relax, princess, they’re both alive. They’ll have a hell of a headache when they come around, though.”
“You left them alive?” Relief washed over her. Chester had not been pleasant, but he had not deserved death.
“I don’t want the Guard retaliating against Riverton. Now let’s go.” He strode off into the trees, leaving the two men at the side of the road, their horses grazing nearby. “You did well back there.”
“You said it was a matter of life and death.”
“Yes, it was.”
They walked the rest of the day, staying away from any beaten paths, and at nightfall, they stopped to make camp.
Once again, the Drameara took the jar from his bag and swallowed a small mouthful. “What is that?” she asked. He returned it to his bag without replying and began to walk over to a small bush a few yards away. “Is it magic?” He gathered a few small twigs and returned to where she sat.
“I’ve told you before, princess, there is no magic.”
“If there’s no magic, then what is there?”
“Blood,” he said.
She stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘blood’?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say. Figure it out, princess.”
“Very well.” She thought for a moment. “There’s blood in the jar,” she said slowly, “you’re drinking blood.” She looked up to see he was watching her closely. “Whose?”
He dropped his gaze to the fire he was trying to start, and she suppressed a slight shudder at the thought of drinking blood – especially considering it was probably old and stale. She pushed the thought aside.
“What about the cuffs?”
“The metal had been mixed with a few drops of blood.”
“There was blood in the cuffs, the same blood as in the jar?”
“That – and yours.”
“Mine?” She stared at him aghast. “How do you know it had mine?”
He shook his head. “Too many questions, princess.” He rose. “I’m going to find us some supper. Don’t let the fire burn out.”
He strode away, not waiting for her to respond, and she dropped down to stir the flames. He had told her more in a few short minutes than he had any time before. But whose blood was it that he drank from the jar? She glanced around to check that he was nowhere in sight, then reached into his bag. Her hand touched something fabric, and she drew it out, her eyes widening at the sight of the pants that she had bought. She pulled them out and opened the bag wider to see all her new garments neatly folded within, along with the hat she had bartered for, the old pair of boots, and the blouse she had been wearing. She stared at them in shock, then reached into the bag once more. The cuffs lay at the bottom, while nestled within her shorn braid was the stone jar. She withdrew it and pulling out the stopper, brought it to her nose. It smelled stale, with a hint of smoke, and she frowned. It was not a particularly pleasant smell, but it wasn’t ghastly, either. She replaced the stopper and placed the jar back in the bag, but kept her garments out, neatly folded on a stone.
She returned to tending the fire, her nerves jumping at every sound as she waited for the Drameara to return.
When he did return, he was so silent that she did not realize he was back until he was just a few feet away. She jumped guiltily and looked up to see him watching her with eyebrows raised.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, glancing at the pile on the rock.
She dropped the stick she was using to stir the fire and quickly rose. “You have my clothes,” she said, her tone heavy with accusation.
“And you were going through my bag.”
She flushed. “Were you going to tell me?”
“Were you going to tell me?” he demanded in return.
She pointed to the pile. “I did.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, I suppose you did.”
He dropped to a log and pulled out a dagger, cutting off the head of the pheasant he had killed. She watched him thoughtfully. Just now he had sounded more Rhymish than she had heard him before.
“There’s a pool a short distance away,” he said. “You might want to wash up after we eat.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that. And perhaps change my clothes.”
“Hmph,” he grunted.
It did not take long for the pheasant to cook, and she was soon licking her fingers as she washed down the food with some water. Taking a blouse and some pants, she headed in the direction he had pointed out. The pond was small, with reeds along the banks, and she stepped behind a tree as she stripped off her gown. It was already ripped along the hem, and the skirt was streaked with dirt. The water was cool, and she swam with pleasure. As a child she had been a strong swimmer, beating Iron at races across the palace pool until his muscles gave him added strength. She swam the full length of the pond now with long, broad strokes. She could feel strength coursing through her body, more than she ever remembered feeling.
She headed back to the camp where the Drameara sat against his bag, waiting for her return, and a few minutes later he left to do his own bathing. She sat down with her back against a small stone. Her eyes were heavy, despite the fact that light still lingered in the sky, and she scooted down to use the stone as a headrest and let her eyes drift closed. She could hear finches twittering in the bushes, and in the distance the call of a dove. A breeze rustled through the grass, stirring her damp hair around her face.
A slight movement caused her to open her eyes, and she saw that the Drameara had returned. His feet were bare and his shirt hung loosely in his hand. He was watching her, his dark eyes fixed on her face. His eyes met hers, holding them as they stared at each other in silence. Her lips parted and his gaze dropped. His mouth was open, his tongue touching his lower lip, and her breathing hitched slightly. Dropping her gaze downward, her eyes ranged over his bare chest. The black dragon tattoo slid across his torso, shimmering slightly as though it was alive, while the silver dragons around each breast glimmered in the light. He made a small movement, and her eyes flew up to meet his once more; but he turned away, dragging on his shirt. She let out a long, slow breath and lay her head back on the rock, but the peace of the moment had vanished. Turning from the rock, she used the gown she had removed as a pillow and lay down on the ground, but the sleep that was so close before had been chased away, and all she could see was a pair of black eyes boring holes into her.
The Drameara was already up and ready to go when Lark opened her eyes the following morning. She pulled on her boots as he waited, his back turned to her. She tucked her hair into the hat, grimacing at the stains she had not noticed before, and set off after him as he headed down the road. She studied his back as he walked; he had multiple weapons strapped to his back and sides, but she could still see the muscles rippling beneath his shirt.
“Why do you fight with the Rhymers?” she asked as they walked.
“We have a common enemy.”
“Cambrians.”
“Descendants of Valor.”
“But you fight all Cambrians.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Have you seen me fight all Cambrians, princess?”
“The Crimson Guard, then. Why?”
“Because they deserve to die for their treatment of the Rhymers.”
“So you fight for the Rhymers?”
“I serve my mistress. For now, our purposes are aligned.”
“And what is your aligned purpose?”
“Valor’s descendants believe themselves to be invincible. We’re proving them wrong.”
She was silent as she considered his words. The Shadow Warriors were not so much supporting the Rhymers as using them.
“Where is your Shadow Warrior?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Close.”
“Is he attacking Cambrians right now?”
He was silent.
“How many Shadow Warriors are there?”
“Enough to bring the king and your father to their knees.”
“Whose blood do you drink?”
Silence.
“Is it the Shadow Warrior’s?”
He stopped and stalked back to where she stood. “Enough questions, princess.”
“Why, are you afraid to answer them?” she taunted.
“I will not give you anything you can take back to the commander.”
“Does that mean I am going to see the commander again?” she asked. He frowned. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
His gaze met hers as he stepped up close. “If you don’t stop these questions, I will kill you now.”
“No, you won’t.”
He glared at her, their gazes clashing and the air between them pulsing with tension. His lips parted and his tongue flicked his bottom lip, and her breath stopped as she dropped her gaze to his mouth. He moved a fraction closer, and she could feel the heat from his body as she leaned in, drawn like a magnet. She wanted to move, to turn away, but she was rooted to the ground, held by a force that was too great to escape. His gaze was on her mouth, and she knew he was about to kiss her, when suddenly he whirled around and stalked away – and she felt herself sag in relief as a shuddering breath escaped her lungs. If he had kissed her, she would not have fought him, and now that he was no longer in front of her, this knowledge was a bitter pill to swallow. She could not deny that she was drawn to him, even as her mind rebelled at the thought. The Drameara was her captor, and he was out to destroy her and her people.
She took a deep breath; she could not allow him to get so close again. After a moment she began to follow after him, her step much slower than his. She should have killed him while she had the chance, she thought ruefully, instead of leaving him for dead on the rock. If another opportunity presented itself, she would not hesitate to take it.