“Because we do accept your destiny, and our role in it. If it is your decision to follow the horsemen, we will abide by your decision.” Her eyes became more intense. “I could have drugged your wine,” she said. “Artore could have simply taken you home. But a queen who cannot make her own decisions is a poor queen indeed.”
Anne rubbed her head. “I hate it,” she snarled. “I hate it all.”
“They may be dead already,” Osne pointed out. “If the horsemen believe they have lost you, I can’t think of any reason they would keep your friends alive—except perhaps as bait, in the hopes you will follow.”
Anne felt tears on her face. She remembered Cazio, when she first met him, brash and teasing and full of life. To think of him dead hollowed her out.
But her father was dead. Elseny was dead. Fastia was dead.
“I will go to Eslen,” she said, and a great sob tore from her chest. Osne came around the table and took her in her arms, and Anne let her hold her like that, even though she hardly knew the woman. She wept, and Osne rocked her as night eased through the window and into her heart.
Anne and Austra were given lodging in a windowless room. By lantern light, the plaster looked dark yellow. It was simply furnished with a bed, a basin of water and towel on a wooden stand, and a night pan beneath the bed. Away from the hearth it was cold, and Anne slipped quickly into the nightgown Osne had given her, then beneath the thick woolen comforters. Austra was already there, asleep, but she woke when Anne settled in beside her.
“That was a long talk,” Austra said. “What was it about?”
Anne took a deep breath. Her chest ached from crying.
“Osne was at the coven Saint Cer, many years ago,” she explained. “She knows who we are because the countess Orchaevia sent word along the roads to look for us and keep us safe.”
“The countess? How odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Anne said. “The countess was a member of the coven, too.”
“That’s even odder, in a way, but it makes some sense. The countess must have known who you were, to go to so much trouble.”
“I’m supposed to be queen, Austra.”
Austra started a laugh that never quite finished. “How do you mean?” she asked.
“Father, you remember. He had the Comven legitimize Fastia, Elseny, and me to succeed him. Fastia and Elseny are gone, and only I remain.”
“But Charles is still alive,” Austra said. “The cuveitur said nothing about his death.”
“Our enemies don’t care about Charles,” Anne said. “They do not want a queen in Eslen. They fear a queen.”
“Why?”
Anne explained then, about everything. About the Faiths, about the dark man in the forest, about her dreams. When she finished, Austra’s eyes were round with wonder.
“Why couldn’t you have told me all of this before?” she asked.
“Because I didn’t believe it myself,” Anne said. “Because I thought it might somehow put you in more danger. But now I know I have to tell you.”
“Why? Because I’ve been to where the Faiths are?”
“No, because tomorrow Artore and his sons are going to sneak us across the river and take us to Eslen.”
“But that’s wonderful,” Austra said, then started, and her voice dropped in tone. “You mean after we rescue Cazio.”
Anne shook her head. “No, Austra. We can’t go after them. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand. With Artore we can save them.”
“Artore and his boys are no match for those knights,” Anne said.
“You don’t know that, Anne, you—”
“I can’t risk it, don’t you understand?”
“No! How can you even imagine leaving them to die?”
“Austra, I know how you feel about Cazio, but—”
“No! No you don’t—you can’t.” She was crying now. “We can’t just give up.”
“We’ve no choice,” Anne replied.
“We do!”
“You have to listen to me,” Anne said. “This is hard for me. Do you think I want to do this? But if we go after them, and it’s a trap—which it probably is—then not only do Cazio and z’Acatto die anyway, but so do Artore and his sons, and so do we.”
“I never thought you a coward,” Austra said.
“If it was just our lives I was risking, I would be following them this instant,” Anne said. “If it was just these few men, I would still do it. But if I am to believe the Faiths, and Osne—and Sister Secula, for that matter—then I cannot risk my life here. I must return straightaway to Eslen.”
“And why do you believe them? Why should I believe you? You, a queen who can save the world from destruction. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
“I do. But I’m starting to believe it.”
“Of course you do! You’re to be queen and savior of all that’s good. Your head is as swollen as a melon!”
“Austra—”
“Oh, no,” Austra said. “Don’t try. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ever talk to me again.”
She turned her back, sobbing again, and Anne’s own tears returned, albeit silently this time. She lay awake for a very long time before exhaustion finally claimed her.
When she woke the next morning, Austra was gone.
“It looks like she took a weather-cloak and some bread,” Osne said. “But no one saw her leave.”
“Austra is no thief,” Anne said.
“I know that. I’m sure she feels as if her need outweighed everything, and equally sure she intends to return the cloak. It isn’t of any consequence—I would have given her those things anyway.”
“Well, she can’t have gone far,” Anne said. “If we hurry, we’ll find her.” She knew she was going against everything she had said the night before, but this was Austra, and besides, she wouldn’t have caught up with the horsemen yet. It should be safe.
“We’ll have to go that direction for a few leagues anyway,” Artore said. “And we’d best get started now.”
“The horses are ready, Atte,” Cotmar, the second eldest boy, said. “And Jarne has seen to the supplies.”
“Osne, get the princess outfitted, and we’ll be on our way.”
Osne dressed her in one of the boys’ clothes—riding breeches tucked into leather boots, a cotton shirt and heavy woolen overshirt, weather cloak and battered, broad-brimmed hat. They rode out before the next bell.
“That’s her mark there, Atte,” Cotmar said, pointing to something on the path that Anne couldn’t see at all.
“Te, somebody told her about the upper crossing,” Artore mused. “She must have stopped and asked Vimsel. Smart girl.”
“Well, we knew better than to try to cross the bridge at Teremene,” Anne said. She patted her horse’s mane. “What’s his name?” she asked.
“Tare,” he told her.
“Tarry,” Anne repeated. “I hope he’s faster than his name.” Artore gave her an odd look, but didn’t say anything. They continued along, with the road following close to the river, until they reached a rickety-looking rope bridge. The chasm was even deeper at this point than it had been at Teremene, and Anne tried hard not to look down as she swayed across its span. They picked up Austra’s trail on the other side, where it intersected a way that was broad enough for wagons.
The chalky road led them higher into the hills, wandering along ridge-tops when it could and reluctantly dipping into valleys when it couldn’t. The hills themselves were slumped and worn, virtually treeless. Gray and white sheep grazed on the slopes, along with the occasional goat or horse. They saw scatterings of houses built mostly of undressed stone with thatched roofs.
“Te, there’s the horsemen, I’ll wager,” Artore said, after a time.
“How can you tell?” Anne asked. This time she could see the marks of horses, at least.