Into the Shadows by Linda K Hopkins
Chapter 25
They arrived at Clearview around mid-afternoon, and the Drameara led the way to an inn, where a stable boy hurried forward to tend to Blackie. In the distance, the mountains loomed on the horizon, towering heights of rocks.
“Go inside and have a drink,” he said, flipping her a coin. “I’ll return shortly.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have some business here. You can order a drink for yourself, can you not?”
The question did not deserve an answer, and she spun on her heel and stalked inside. The room was low and dark, and a fire against the wall made it hot and stuffy. The weather had been growing cooler as they approached the mountains, and at night Lark wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders to keep in the warmth, but still, a roaring blaze was hardly necessary. She picked out a table as far away from the fire as she could and sat down, waiting for the waitress to notice her presence. The woman glanced in her direction but seemed in no hurry to serve the new arrival, and Lark was tapping her fingers on the table in annoyance by the time she finally sauntered up.
“What can I get you, luv?”
“A glass of wine.”
“Wine, eh? I’ll see what I can do.”
She walked off, stopping at a table to laugh at some man’s joke before disappearing into the kitchen. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, she returned to the room, but did not come near Lark’s table. Lark waved in her direction, then frowned in frustration when the woman ignored her.
“How in the world will you manage when I’m dead if you can’t even get a drink for yourself?” said a voice in her ear before the Drameara slipped into the seat across from her. He nodded at the woman, who had turned at his entrance, and she hurried back to the table, her eyes on him.
“What can I get for you, luv?” she asked, a sultry purr in her voice.
“A plate of the dinner on offer, and a tankard of ale.”
“Coming right up,” she said before walking away.
“Hey,” Lark called out after her, “and my wine!” The woman waved her hand without turning around and disappeared back into the kitchen.
From the corner of her eye Lark saw the Drameara smirk, and she clenched her hands beneath the table. The woman returned a few minutes later with a large tankard and a plate of food that she slid across the table to the Drameara. Leaning forward, Lark quickly pulled it over to her side and dug in her fork, meeting the woman’s outraged expression with raised eyebrows.
“I really couldn’t care what you do with him,” Lark said, waving a fork in the Drameara’s direction. “In fact, if you stick a knife through his heart you will be doing me a favor. But there’s no reason to be rude to me because I happen to be forced into his company.” She smiled sweetly. “Now, please bring me that glass of wine, and you can go back to thinking about how to get him into your bed.”
She put a forkful of food in her mouth and gave a contented sigh. “If I were you, I’d choose this over him, because he really is a bastard!”
The woman turned to the Drameara, who gave her a deprecating look.
She smiled. “I think I’d choose you, handsome. I know what the food here is like.”
“Indeed?” He ran his finger over her hand. “Perhaps you can see if there’s a room available?”
Lark frowned in disgust but remained silent as the woman smiled. “Of course, luv.”
“And maybe another plate of food?”
“Of course.”
“A bastard, princess?” he said as the woman sauntered away. “Such foul language for one so highly born as yourself.”
“What should I say? You seem to have a woman in every town, so the name seems to suit.”
“You think I want to sleep with her?”
“Am I wrong?”
“You are.” He watched her as she ate a mouthful of food.
“Then why did you ask for a room?”
“We have to sleep somewhere tonight. Do you prefer to be under the stars? It looks like it might rain.”
She paused in her chewing, before swallowing the mouthful. “Was your business successful?”
“Partly. I was able to secure more blood, since it appears that I used more than I realized. The other item I sought was not available.”
“You got more blood?”
He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers. “There are stocks in every Rhymer town. It wouldn’t do for a Drameara to run out far from the mountains, now would it?”
She quickly looked away. “Er, no.”
“So even if this one disappears just as fast, I can get more.”
“That’s, er, good.” She quickly rose to her feet. “I need to use the privy,” she said, hurrying from the room. She could feel despair and desperation churning in her stomach and she struggled to hold back the tears of frustration. It was only when she was alone that she allowed them to spill out as she hit her hands against the wall. Was there no way to be rid of the fate that loomed over her? She slumped down the wall and covered her face with her hands as the tears ran between her fingers.
She was still there when the Drameara thumped on the door ten minutes later. “Did you drown, princess? We have some training to do.”
She rubbed her face, and rising to her feet, snatched open the door. All she wanted to learn was how to kill the Drameara.
She was exhausted when they returned to the inn a few hours after dark. The Drameara had made her run around the town, and while he had run beside her, his stride was easy and effortless, while she was hot and panting. She could have refused, of course, but thinking of his sneer if she did was enough to keep her going.
She ignored the glares she received from the waitress as she crossed the main room of the inn, the Drameara a pace behind her, and fell down on the bed as soon as they entered the chamber. She tensed a moment later when he lay down beside her, staring up at the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Do you think you’re the only one who should sleep on the bed?”
“Urgh!” She rolled over, turning away from him, and eventually fell into a restless sleep.
They left the inn early the following morning. Mist hung low on the ground, while up ahead the mountains loomed, growing ever nearer.
The next few days passed in a blur of riding and training as Lark grew more desperate to find a way to escape her fate. As the mountains grew closer, though, she came more and more to the realization that there was no escaping what lay in store for her. The only other option was death, and her mind rebelled at the very idea. Where there was life, there was hope, however faint it might be.
The road after the last town had petered into little more than a foot track, and each village they passed was no more than a cluster of buildings, gathered around a central hall. Lark knew from her school days that there were Cambrian towns that lay to the east of the mountains, but she saw no sign of them.
It was late one afternoon when the Drameara came to a stop, and as she rode up beside him, she saw that they were at the edge of an escarpment. A steep cliff fell away before them, while beyond lay a wide stretch of bleak wilderness, the Ysrand Desert. At the far edge of the desert rose the Obsidian Mountains, and Lark felt her fate tightening like a noose around her neck.
“Odell’s Lookout,” he said. “We’ll sleep here tonight and make our descent in the morning. You need to say goodbye to Blackie. It’s too steep for him to make it down.”
She gazed out across the desert to the mountains beyond. Across the barren flatness rose small hills, a single mound in an otherwise flat landscape. Low bushes clung to their sides and stunted trees stood around each base.
She slipped from the saddle and led the horse to a patch of grass, where she slid off the reins and removed the saddle.
“You’ve been a good horse,” she said, rubbing his neck. He tossed his head and gave a little nicker, and she smiled. “I’ll miss you, too.”
The Drameara disappeared a short while later in search of their supper, while Lark wandered to the edge of the cliff and sat down, dangling her legs over the sheer face. She leaned over and looked down between her legs; she could not see the ground, it was so far away. Instead, the cliff and the ground blurred together into an endless stretch of brown. The fact that the Drameara had brought her this way instead of taking an easier route across the desert spoke of his eagerness to reach their destination. The end that she had been dreading for so long was now just around the corner.
She had no idea how she was to get down the next day, but she trusted that the Drameara had a plan. Either that, or she would fall to her death, which had the benefit of saving her from the dragon. She lifted her gaze to the distant mountain range. A few small clouds hung over them, and she imagined that one was the dragon, circling above the cliffs. She knew very little about the Obsidian Mountains, apart from the fact that they had once been inhabited by the Ancients. Citadel had lain to the east of the range, in a fertile valley where, it was said, anything could be grown. In the center of the city a tall monolith had risen, built of white marble and reaching to the heavens. It could be seen from miles away, a gleaming monument to Citadel’s great power. There was nothing left of the monolith, of course. The ruins created by the Ancients had been ransacked and the smallest pieces of rock carried away to be used to build houses and pave roads.
As she sat, she considered the little she had learned from the Drameara. She was caught in a web of revenge for events that had happened hundreds of years before, of which she knew only the barest details.
She heard a sound behind her and turned to see that the Drameara had returned and was starting to build a fire.
“Why does the Ancient hate Valor’s descendants so much?” she asked.
He glanced at her, then returned his attention to the kindling he was carefully piling. “She was betrayed.”
“By the war?”
“By Valor’s son.”
She frowned. “But she never met Valor’s son. He was born after the war.”
“Are you sure of that?”
She thought back, trying to recall her lessons from school.
“Valor’s son – your ancestor – was already a young man by the time of the war. He knew my mistress.”
“How do you know?”
“Her blood carries her memories.”
“You know her memories from her blood?”
“Yes. Her memories become mine.”
“You know them all?” Her tone was shocked.
“No. But the more of her blood I drink, the more I learn. Which is why I know that it was not the Ancients that started the war, but Valor.”
She turned back to look out over the desert. Was he telling the truth? As well as he knew it, she was sure. But the Ancient was shrewd and devious, and Lark had no doubt that she could twist the Drameara’s mind if it suited her to do so. She thought back to her meeting with Clem; he had spent years pouring over the ancient records to discover what had happened. Surely if Valor had caused the war, someone would have written about it. She gave her head a mental shake. Even if she could not recite all the facts and figures, she had no doubt that the Ancients had been the aggressors.
She turned to face him. “What are we having for supper tonight?”