“Why would he think that?”
“Because I told the Archon the king-carrier was coming, and that I’d tell her when he arrived.”
“What? Why-?”
“I had to get out of the dungeon, Alton. I couldn’t save my kingdom while dying in a cell.”
The knight glowered, unconvinced, but Therrador didn’t look away. Sir Alton had known this man for decades, and yet as they stared at each other, he felt like he gazed upon a stranger.
“Why should I trust you? The kingdom wouldn’t be in this predicament if not for you.”
“The Archon would have her way whether through me or someone else. It might have been you.”
“Never.”
Sir Alton puffed out his chest but, even as he did, he realized the potential for truth in Therrador’s words. The Archon had manipulated things to turn King Braymon’s most trusted advisor against him, and a loyal servant like Hanh Perdaro into her puppet. How many others? Who else couldn’t be trusted? The thought settled into him like a weight, made his shoulders sag. He slumped back into his chair; Therrador took a step toward him and put his hand on his shoulder.
“I understand your reticence, faithful knight. Were I in your place, I would also have difficulty trusting. But what do we have besides each other? What hope besides the king’s return?”
Sir Alton’s eyes fell away from his king’s, down to his hands resting in his lap. He looked at the age spots on the back of them, the way his flesh looked looser and sagging.
How did so much time pass? Wasn’t it only yesterday I was a young man learning the ways of the sword?
He sighed and looked back up at Therrador. The man’s expression had neither softened with understanding nor become firm with anger. Instead, it showed the steady resolve of a man who’d made up his mind and wouldn’t be swayed. Sir Alton understood his king would make this happen with or without his help. As a knight and the commander of the king’s army, this left Sienhin but one choice. He stood and placed his right fist over his heart.
“I’m with you, my Liege.”
His voice didn’t hold the conviction he’d intended but, if Therrador noticed, he took no issue. Instead, he nodded, then embraced his old friend. Sir Alton hesitantly reached his arm around the king’s shoulders and slapped him on the back. After a few seconds, Therrador released him.
“Come,” he said gesturing for Sir Alton to sit again. “We have much planning to do.”
Chapter Eight
The steady cadence of hoof beats kept Iana sleeping through most of the days, which meant she didn’t sleep much when they stopped for the night. The morning of their eighth day of riding, it took Emeline everything she could muster to drag herself from under the sleeping skins after Iana kept her awake through the night yet again while Lehgan slept like the dead. The bounce of the horse lulled her and Emeline fought to keep her head from lolling forward.
“I need to rest,” she called to her husband riding a few lengths ahead. He didn’t react, so she assumed he hadn’t heard. It had taken three days ride for him to speak to her again, but things were slowly returning to normal between them.
“Lehgan, I need to rest.”
This time he looked back over his shoulder.
“Already? It’s only been an hour since we set out.”
“Yes. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
Lehgan slowed his pace, dropping back to ride beside his wife. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, turned her head toward him and looked into her eyes.
“You do look tired. There’s a town an hour ahead where I planned to stop for supplies. Can you last that long?”
She half-smiled at him and nodded. “I can.”
“Good.”
He took his hand from her chin and took hold of her horse’s bridle, then urged his own to increase the pace. Emeline held the reins tight and concentrated on keeping her seat as Iana snored gently against her chest.
***
Emeline dozed in the saddle, an accomplishment she knew experienced horsemen did regularly, but something she’d never imagined herself doing. Not until her mount halted, the lack of movement jarring her awake, did her eyelids flutter open. A shock of panic grabbed her and she glanced down at the bundle held against her chest. Iana looked back up at her and cooed, the small sound settling her mother. Emeline smiled, touched her babe’s face, then raised her head to ask her husband why they’d stopped.
The question never passed her lips as she saw the column of smoke rising from amidst the group of buildings ahead. It swirled and twisted skyward until its gray-blackness thinned and dispersed high above. The color and thickness of the smoke suggested it wasn’t made by a baker’s oven, a potter’s kiln, or a blacksmith’s forge. The smile Iana had put on Emeline’s lips faded.
“Lehgan…?”
Her husband raised his hand to silence her. He sat like that for a moment, arm raised, his other hand holding the reins tight, before whatever had gripped him loosened enough for him to spur his horse forward. Emeline’s steed, tethered to one side of Lehgan’s saddle as the pack mule was tethered to the other, followed.
They moved slowly, the horses’ hooves scraping the dirt track leading into the town. It looked bigger than their own village of Kandan, but most towns were. They rode past a row of dwellings at the outskirts of the town with thatched roofs and walls sealed with clay, all supported by rough-hewn timbers. This could have been any town in the kingdom.
It could be our village.
At first, they saw no one. Emeline stretched her neck to peer through a door open a crack but saw nothing in the dim interior. They guided their horses between the huts and, as they neared the center of town and the source of the smoke, Emeline saw the first sign of violence.
The hut’s door had been torn free and the beam beside the door splintered as though someone gained entry with an axe. Most of the hut’s contents lay in the doorway or on the ground outside the hut; there was no one inside. Emeline looked away and saw the wall of the house on her left had been charred black.
“What happened here?” she asked.
Lehgan didn’t answer. His gaze stayed straight ahead, his shoulders tight and rigid. Emeline spurred her horse to catch up to her husband and saw the grim expression on his face.
“Lehgan?”
She looked into his eyes, and at the set of his jaw, and realized the expression wasn’t one of intensity. His eyes appeared watery and he didn’t respond except by raising his hand to point farther down the street ahead of them. Emeline looked and saw a man seated in the doorway of a hut leaning noticeably to the right. Lehgan reined his hose up in front of the man.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, but his voice cracked. Lehgan cleared his throat and started again. “Excuse me. What happened here?”
The man sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees; his long, unwashed hair hung across his face. His feet were bare and his breeches frayed at the bottom. He didn’t respond.
“Sir?”
A few more seconds passed before he raised his head. His eyes were wide and a little bit wild, like he’d had a fright and they didn’t return to normal; a trail of dried blood began in his hairline and ran the length of his face. Emeline instinctively covered Iana’s face with her hand. The man’s gaze flickered from Lehgan to Emeline and the look of fear in his eyes became wariness-the presence of a woman with the unarmored man must have convinced him they were no danger. He sniffed deep and spat in the dirt at their horses’ feet.
“Kanosee.”
The word left his mouth like he’d spit out a rotted chunk of meat.
“Kanosee?” Lehgan repeated.
“Aye.” The man nodded toward the center of town where the column of smoke rose skyward. “They did this.”
Emeline followed his gaze and, for the first time since they entered the village, saw other people. An old woman peeked out of the doorway of a hut with a partially caved-in wall. The woman ducked back inside when she saw Emeline looking at her. Farther down the track, others began to emerge: two naked children streaked with dirt, a man walking with a pronounced limp, a woman who’s plain gray shift was torn and hanging down leaving her left breast exposed-she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.