“You’ll live. There’s no infection and the stitching is holding. You won’t chew for a while, though.” He forced Lynan’s head back and held up a flask. Water splashed over the prince’s mouth, some of it spilling down his throat. He coughed and spluttered and his jaw felt as if it was splitting open, but Prado grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back again, forcing him to drink more.
Bazik came over and tapped Prado on the shoulder. “Captain, you should see this.”
Prado followed Bazik to the edge of the copse. They peered westward, back the way they had come. They talked urgently among themselves. Prado gave a command and returned to Lynan, forcing him to his feet with a kick to his back. Bazik and Aesor lifted him to Prado’s horse and tied his hands to the pommel again. The horses were tired and needed a rest, but Prado started off at a hard canter, heading straight east.
Lynan tried desperately to match the horse’s rhythm, but found he was bound so tightly to the pommel he could not lift above the saddle. He was being jolted with every fall of a hoof and the agony was too much for him to bear. He cried out, but was ignored. He tried to focus on the horizon. The valley seemed as far away as ever. He cried out again, and Prado cursed. Lynan heard a sword being lifted from its scabbard. Before he could react, Prado brought down the hilt of the sword against the back of Lynan’s head, and he fell into a black pit.
Kumul kept the lead, able to maintain his mount at a brisk trot and at the same time keep his eye on the road. The others followed behind, Ager deep in thought and Jenrosa doing her best to stay in the saddle. She knew how to ride but had not had much experience of it since living in Kendra.
They rode for three hours before Kumul called a halt. “I’ve lost the trail,” he told them. “The ground is drying and I can no longer tell the old tracks from the new.” He slapped his thigh angrily.
“We should keep on, anyway,” Ager said stoically.
“What if you’re wrong?” Kumul asked. “What if Prado doubled back and is now heading south for Kendra?”
Ager shrugged. “There is nothing we can do about that. We must continue and hope to pick up some sign.”
Kumul looked up and saw Jenrosa dismounting. “What are you doing? We can’t rest yet—”
“Have you anything of Lynan’s?”
“What the hell has that to do—” Kumul started angrily, but Ager waved him quiet.
“I have his sword and the coat the forester gave him,” Ager said.
“Cut me a piece from the coat.”
Ager unwrapped Lynan’s coat from his roll and did as instructed. He handed Jenrosa a strip of cloth. Kumul opened his mouth to demand what they thought they were doing, but again Ager waved him still.
“If she is doing what I think she is doing, my friend, we will soon know in which direction Lynan is being taken.”
Kumul closed his mouth and watched on impatiently.
Jenrosa squatted near the road’s edge and gathered a handful of damp grass which she rubbed vigorously between her hands to dry. She then made a small mound from the grass and the cloth and withdrew a small glass from her pocket, using it to focus the sun’s light onto the mound. For a long time nothing happened, and Kumul became increasingly fidgety. His horse felt his frustration and started pulling on the reins.
“The grass is still too damp,” Ager said, but even as he uttered the words a thin stream of smoke started from the mound. Jenrosa chanted something under her breath and suddenly the mound was afire and blazing merrily.
“Bloody wonderful,” Kumul fumed. “Now we can all roast chestnuts.”
Jenrosa and Ager ignored him. When the fire burned out, she gathered the ashes in her hand and stood up. She chanted something once more and threw the ashes into the wind, carefully watching which way they scattered before settling to the ground. Jenrosa pointed east. “That way,” she said.
“This is mumbo-jumbo,” Kumul declared to Ager. “She is only a student magicker—”
“Kumul, which way is the wind blowing?” Ager asked him.
“From the north. What has that to do…” His question died in his mouth.
“And the ashes blew east,” Ager finished. “There was a trail about two leagues back.”
“I remember it,” Kumul said, “but there were no recent tracks on it.”
“Prado would have cut across from the road to the trail,” Ager said. “I think that is the way we must go.”
“North and then east?” Kumul asked. “Where is Prado going?”
Ager shrugged. “We must follow, whichever way he goes.”
Kumul nodded stiffly. Jenrosa remounted and they rode back until they reached the trail. They had only followed it for a short while before it started to climb out of the valley, and they entered the beginnings of a wood.
Kumul pointed to the ground. “It is still wet here, and there are tracks of three horses, one set deeper than the others.” He looked up at Jenrosa and offered a smile. “You were right.”
“I’m glad I’m useful for something,” she said without humor, but was surprised to find Kumul’s words made her feel better.
“You forget you saved Lynan from Silona,” Ager told her. “You may have saved him again.”
“Not yet,” she replied grimly.
The slope forced them to a slow walk, and Kumul ordered them to dismount and lead the horses to give them at least some respite from carrying their weight. Less than an hour later he stopped suddenly and studied the ground beside the trail. “They stopped here. Someone was lying on the grass. There is some blood.”
“God,” Ager muttered weakly. “They have wounded him.”
“We must go faster,” Kumul said, and mounted. He patted his horse’s neck. “I am sorry, but we need your strength,” he said to the mare.
The trail was still slippery from the night’s rain and the going was hard, but the thought of Lynan being wounded spurred them on, and their mounts seemed to sense their eagerness. They reached the eastern lip of the valley an hour before noon and risked a ten-minute rest to give the horses a break, then went on, their pace picking up as the slope became easier and finally leveled out. By the time the sun was at its highest point they had broken through the woods and looked out over a great plain.
“That is the Barda River in the distance,” Ager said. “I have sailed along it many times when working for merchants. They use barges to carry goods from Sparro to Daavis.”
“Well, that answers Kumul’s question,” Jenrosa said.
The two men looked at her. “What question?” Kumul asked.
“Prado is heading for the river,” Jenrosa said. “Ager said he must be meeting someone. What if the rendezvous is far from here, like in Hume? He can’t ride the whole distance and hope to stay ahead of pursuit—he’s carrying royal baggage, remember?”
Ager’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Prado is going to use the river. He’ll make much greater time! If Jenrosa hadn’t set us on the right trail, we would never have found out. Lynan could have been lost to us forever.”
“But what rendezvous?” Kumul asked. “This is making less and less sense to me. Why risk taking Lynan if not to return him to Kendra? Who could Prado possibly be meeting? Lynan’s not worth anything as hostage. Areava would pay to have him killed, not rescued.”
“He might not be worth anything as a hostage,” Ager said lowly, “but he’s worth something as a symbol.”
“What are you getting at?”
Ager shook his head. “I’m not sure yet—”
“Look!” Jenrosa cried, pointing. Kumul and Ager peered out across the plain but saw nothing. “Under those trees,” she said, almost shouting.