Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn Page 11

  “By Mar, Royce.” Hadrian shook his head, amazed. “They saved our lives. You can trust them.”

  By the time Gwen had Royce back in bed, he was bleeding again, and she had to redress the wound in his side. Before they arrived, someone had done such a terrible job of stitching him that the doctor was forced to fix it. When she was done, he caught her hand.

  “If you … if you’re up to something … if you’re trying to…” Royce hesitated, holding her, his arms weak and shaking. She could see him struggling. “Why did you really do it? Why’d you help us?”

  “I told you.”

  His expression didn’t change. He didn’t believe her.

  Gwen smiled.

  Royce smirked. “I don’t get it. Something’s not right, and trust me, I’m not the kind you want to cross. Understand?”

  She nodded, still smiling.

  “Well … good.” He let go of her. “And you should probably be careful, because just about the entire world is looking for us.”

  Royce had never provided details, but Gwen understood the two were wanted and on the run. She was housing criminals, a hanging offense if she was caught.

  Looking back on those months, Gwen saw them as the most intensely lived of her life. She was never more frightened and never so euphoric. She spent her days tracking gossip and trying to squelch any rumors about a man who had cried for help on Wayward Street the week of the big storm. Her nights had been spent feeding, cleaning, and dressing Royce, during which they held short—often cryptic—conversations she never fully understood. Weak as a kitten, he needed her for everything, and she could see it pained him more than his wounds.

  At first he was quiet, but as the days passed they began to discuss such serious things as cooking, sewing, the snow that soon fell, and Wintertide.

  “You probably celebrate the holiday with a feast and decorations,” Royce said. By then he was able to sit up and the two spoke in the light of the single candle. “Lots of family and friends, dancing and songs.”

  Gwen noticed a twinge of sadness, even spite in his voice. She shook her head. “I’ve never celebrated Wintertide. My mother and I were always traveling, usually alone, and we never had money for any feasts. Since she died”—Gwen shrugged—“I’ve been struggling just to survive. It’s hard to celebrate when your choices are starving or being a slave.”

  She remembered he appeared surprised, even suspicious. “You don’t look like you’re hurting for food.”

  “No, not now. I finally decided I didn’t want to be a victim anymore. I got to the point where I was just tired of being afraid.”

  He reached out then and for the first time touched her for no reason. He placed his hand on hers and gave a soft squeeze. The hint of malice she’d seen in his face had been replaced by sympathy—not pity, but understanding, a shared appreciation that nearly made her cry.

  Until then she had always been the loyal daughter, the detested Calian immigrant, the whore. Even the girls, who knew most of her story, viewed her as either some sort of hero or opportunist, depending on their mood. In Royce’s eyes she could see the pain of struggling to survive reflected back. They were the same, two pieces of wood from different worlds but whose grain lined up, and it was then she knew she was falling in love.

  That was the closest either had come to discussing themselves. Gwen had hoped he would volunteer more about himself, but he never did. From his and Hadrian’s comments she guessed the two were bandits, highwaymen perhaps—but who was she to judge after so many had judged her.

  She never did tell him about her gift to tell the future by reading palms or how her saving Royce had been foretold years before. With the touch of his hand and that gentle squeeze, such things became trivial—part of a past that she preferred to let go. She had him finally, and it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done.

  Snow fell outside while inside Royce and Hadrian convalesced. As they grew stronger, they came downstairs to sit with the rest around the fire. They had sung songs and told stories—at least Hadrian had. Royce made a habit of sitting quietly beside her—always beside her. And she couldn’t help noticing the glares he had given Dixon.

  Dixon was quite literally the man of the House, a local carter with a strong back and a soft spot for Gwen. She had employed him to do the heavy lifting in the days when they built Medford House. Since then, Dixon remained as the unofficial guardian of the girls.

  “Listen,” Royce told her, and then hesitated. He did that a lot, as if every sentence suffered a debate in his head. It had been two months after they had arrived and Royce and Gwen were in the bedroom. Outside, snow was falling again as Wintertide neared. “I … ah…” He faltered once more. “You didn’t have to help us. Shouldn’t have, really. Makes no sense. Dangerous and nothing in it for you. You spent money paying that doctor and more feeding us, not to mention all the time you … you … well, you know what you did. So anyway…” He sighed and shook his head. “This doesn’t come easy to me, but … I want to thank you, okay?”

  She waited. Gwen thought he might kiss her then. She hoped he would—hoped he’d throw his arms around her, say he was in love and that he’d stay with her always, but he didn’t. Instead he announced he and Hadrian would be leaving at dawn.

  It felt as if he were taking her heart with him that chilly morning when he and Hadrian had set out. She had kept her teeth tight together for fear she would say more than she should, or worse, start to cry. The prophecy had never promised anything for her. The fantasy of him being her destiny, of them living happily ever after was all Gwen’s doing, but still she had hoped, and she continued to hope as she watched them ride away, leaving two lines of tracks in the newly fallen snow.

  She prayed he would be back.

  But why now? Why now, when I can’t even see him?

  She refused to let Royce see her battered. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe he didn’t really care, but if he did, then he would want to know who did it and like a fool he would want revenge. Men always wanted revenge. Royce would get himself killed trying to protect her, and she wouldn’t let that happen. Better that he thought she didn’t care about him. Better that he never found out the truth. Better that she kept him out of it or he would end up like Dixon—or worse.

  Why now? And where is Rose?

  Gwen heard the front door bang open and her heart fluttered. Loud voices came up though the floorboards but were too muffled to understand. She pushed to her feet. She was unsteady and groped for the bedpost and then the wall as she shuffled toward the door. Keeping herself upright with only one arm was a challenge; seeing clearly was another. Both eyes were swollen, her right entirely closed, and the crying hadn’t helped.

  Reaching the hallway, she could hear better.

  “…we don’t know. That’s all he said.” William the Carpenter’s voice.

  “What about Rose?” Mae asked.

  “Thought she might have returned.” A pause, then William continued. “The high constable has all his sheriffs out looking for her. Even hired on a whole bunch of new deputies.”

  Jollin came up the steps, shocked to see Gwen in the hallway. “It’s okay—just Will.”

  Gwen nodded and Jollin took her arm. Together they shuffled back to the bedroom.

  “You’re supposed to be sleeping.” Jollin pretended to be cross. “Doctor’s orders. Remember?”

  “I should have never let her go,” Gwen said as Jollin laid her back on the mattress.

  “How could you know? It was the castle. Were you going to say no to them? And it was just a surprise party.” Jollin pulled the blanket up, covering Gwen. “Rose is young and stupid. She’s probably whooping it up with some squire who bought her too much wine. Or maybe some baron took her away in a fancy carriage to his country estate for a few days. She’s probably making bags of money while we worry.”

  “I should have realized. I just didn’t think it would be this soon, because Rose hadn’t…”

  “Hadn’t what?�
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  “Fallen in love.”

  Jollin clamped her palm over Gwen’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. I’m going to ask the doctor to come back.”

  “I’m—” Gwen was going to say fine but realized how stupid that sounded. “I don’t have a fever. I’m not out of my head.” Gwen thought how she might explain that she had seen a glimpse of Rose’s future in her palm but didn’t think that would help. “I’m just worried.”

  “We all are. And I’ll go across the street and borrow Grue’s strap to beat her senseless for doing this to us. I can’t believe she can be so insensitive. She has to know we’d be sick to death by now.” She reached up and fluffed Gwen’s pillow with a little too much effort.

  “I think she’s in trouble,” Gwen said. “Serious trouble.”

  Jollin nodded. “I think so too.” She paused. “Maybe we all are. And we don’t even have Dixon to protect us anymore.”

  “Have you checked in on him?”

  “I was about to head over to the doctor’s when I found you dancing in the hallway.”

  “You call that dancing?”

  “I didn’t say you were any good at it.”

  This brought a reluctant smile to Gwen’s lips. “Thank you.”

  Jollin gave her a kiss. “Dixon will be fine. He’s not nearly as bad as Royce and Hadrian were. No stitches even, just a few broken bones—like you—only he’s an ox. Just needs time to rest and when he wakes he’ll eat us into poverty he will.”

  “I just wish I knew what happened to Rose.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE NEW SWORD

  Try it now.”

  Reuben ducked and pulled the heavy chain mail over his head. The steel ring shirt dropped with a jingle. Heavier than he expected. He had watched the king’s soldiers run, jump, and fight as if it weighed nothing. Now he wondered how they did it.

  “Walk around, see how it feels.” The smith watched him carefully. Bastion—sometimes called the Old Bastard by many of the castle guards—always reminded Reuben of a dwarf, like in the fairy tales his aunt used to tell. Short, stocky, and hairy, he had a graying beard and eight stubby fingers. He lost two once upon a time and jested that as long as he still had one finger and a thumb on each hand, he would still be the best smith in Melengar.

  Reuben strode around the yard, circling the anvil. All the weight was on his shoulders, as if he were carrying two sacks of barley. When he turned, the shirt dragged, slowing him down, then the momentum would catch up and push him farther than he wanted to go.

  “What do you think, boy?”

  He thought it was terrible that he was expected to wear something so limiting, but he guessed he would think differently when a sword hit him. He also did not have time to discuss it. Reuben had been on his way to the castle when the smith dragged him over to do the fitting. He couldn’t refuse; he needed the mail that night, and putting him off would have been suspicious.

  “Hard to move.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does. Soon you’ll feel naked without it. And here’s your sword.” The smith handed him the long blade, encased in a sheath complete with belt. Reuben had expected a secondhand falchion, something beat-up and rusted. This one looked new.

  “Wow,” he muttered as he drew the blade. Old Bastion knew how to make swords but this … “It’s beautiful. I didn’t know you—”

  “I didn’t. That’s Delgos steel.” The smith took one of his big gloves off and wiped his forehead with it. “We get most of our metal, and a lot of our swords, from Trent. Lousy chunks of mountain turds. Mostly iron. Ruddy things can’t hold any kind of an edge and will notch if you tap them. Trent smiths don’t care. They’re just meeting quotas. They get paid the same no matter what the quality. But down in Delgos, sword makers can sell to the open market. So it’s worth the extra effort. That blade you’re holding was folded maybe half a dozen times. Harder and sharper than anything I can make. You’ll be able to shave with that when you get enough hair on your face. This here blade was bought special.”

  “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “On account I was told to.”

  “By who?”

  “Prince Alric.”

  “The prince? Did he say why?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ask?”

  Bastion looked at him funny. “You don’t ask a prince nothing, boy. He says give you this sword and I give it. And I wouldn’t say nothing about it to anyone, neither. Best to keep such favor with the great ones to yourself—otherwise people can get jealous, and a sound beating is no way to start your new career. Now be careful with that. When I said it was sharp as a bloody razor, I meant it.”

  Reuben sheathed his sword, appreciating the sound it made. Sharp as a razor. He slipped his burgundy and gold tabard on and, grabbing his cloak and equally new helm, jogged to the castle, jingling as he went. Running was harder than walking. His balance was off, something he’d need to get used to. He entered the great doors to the northern foyer, a wide gallery of polished stone pillars, displayed suits of armor, and hallways that led to sweeping staircases. Reuben never spent much time in the castle. He didn’t feel comfortable there. The only place he really felt comfortable, besides the woodshed, was the stables. No one looked down on him there except the horses. The castle was filled with eyes, judgmental, cruel eyes. It was the den of the squires and their like. Here had been where they learned the kindnesses that they had shown him time and again. Everything was cold stone.

  Almost everything.

  As he made a quick right turn to avoid the large halls, he nearly ran into Arista Essendon. She let out a noise of surprise and staggered backward, her hand to her chest and eyes wide. Reuben’s new outfit had made his ability to stop or veer awkward. It wasn’t much, just a half second off, but enough to make him look, or at least feel, stupid.

  “We keep running into each other, don’t we?” she said, her voice soft and beautiful as bird song.

  “I’m sorry.” He bowed to her and then hastily added, “Your Highness.”

  She glanced at the helm in his arms. “Lunch?”

  He looked down at the apple, cheese, and meat he had stuffed inside. “Ah … yes, sort of.”

  “Have a good day,” she said, but stood still.

  It took a second for Reuben to realize he was blocking her passage, and he stepped aside.

  He felt like a fool as he watched her walk past. Why did he do everything wrong in front of her? His stomach sank and his shoulders drooped as he faced the reality that his clumsiness didn’t matter. She was the princess, and what he wanted could never be. She would marry a prince, duke, or king and then he would watch her leave. She would ride out the gate waving from the carriage window, never to be seen again—at least not by him. He had always known she was beyond his reach. In all his daydreams, he had never once envisioned touching her, except that one moment when their fingers might collide as he handed her the cup of water at the well. The idea of kissing her lips was too absurd even for dreams. All he longed for was to do something right, to have her notice him, to see him as brave, or smart, or good. He wanted her to look back over her shoulder as they parted with an impressed expression that said, If only he were noble. He didn’t think that was too much to ask of the world, a simple moment of acknowledgment, an instant to turn her head and know that for one brief breath of time she saw him the way he saw her. He could suffer in silence the rest of his life knowing she had truly seen him and that maybe she felt the same way toward him that he did toward her.

  Feeling as though he had been stabbed in the heart yet again, he followed the servant corridors the rest of the way. Grabbing a lantern, he went down the stairs and entered the castle dungeons. They were empty. The dungeons rarely housed prisoners, or when they did, it wasn’t for long. Justice was dispensed quickly in Medford. Thieves had any number of fingers or hands cut off. Debtors were beaten. Killers were hanged. Saboteurs were torn limb from limb and traitors quartered. The dungeon w
as merely the waiting place for hangings, and recently the lord high constable was being swift with those. Which made it the perfect place for isolation.

  Reuben walked to the last cell on the last row, which being L-shaped was the perfect choice. In there a prisoner couldn’t be seen from the window. He unlocked the door with the key that normally hung from the peg at the top of the stairs, which he now kept. He had locked the door not to imprison her but to prevent anyone else from entering. As far as he knew, that was the only key. She was still there, huddled in a ball against the far wall, wrapped in the blanket he’d brought her.

  “Morning, Rose, how are you?”

  She opened her eyes and peered up, blinking against the light. This was the first time he had had a good look. She was cute, downright pretty, and he imagined she would be prettier without all the paint, especially since a good deal of it had been smeared by tears. She had a bruise on her cheek and ugly scrapes on her arms and legs from the climb the night before.

  “It’s morning?”

  “Yes.” He knelt down before her. “Are you hungry? I brought food.”

  She sat up to look and took the block of cheese, biting into it. “Thank you,” she said, her words muffled.

  He handed her the little skin of weak wine. She swallowed, then asked, “What’s going on? Is the king alive?”

  “The king is fine. As far as I can tell, nothing at all happened last night. Well, except that everyone is looking for you.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did your father say?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. He was on duty all night and hasn’t returned.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone else, did you?”

  “No.” Reuben shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. How not just anyone can get in that tower. That’s part of the royal residence wing. Only the castle guards and nobles are allowed above the third floor. Whoever you heard either had to be part of the castle’s security or someone important, and I’m afraid of telling the wrong person.”