Page 52

“Mmm! Roast dumplings and onions.”

Tressalara inhaled deeply. After failing to obtain a horse and taking many detours to avoid Lector’s troops, she had needed five days’ to reach the edge of the Mystic Forest. She was cold and tired and hungry.

She hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon, when she’d tumbled into a stream and lost her last morsel of bread and cheese, and her empty stomach grumbled.

To make matters worse, her boots were still not dry.

The glowing lights of the tavern at the edge of the woods, and the tantalizing smells emanating from it, drew her closer than was wise. The forest was ancient, and little sun penetrated through the thick leaves, but there was scarcely any vegetation to camouflage her movements here.

The tavern was filled with men in leather vests and worn clothing.

Their prominent cheekbones and light eyes marked them as strangers to Amelonia.

Highlanders from the border, if she was any judge.

Dangerous men, like the outlawed Cador of Kildore, who raided the borderlands and whose name was used to frighten mischievous children.

Tressalara hugged her arms to herself against the chill.

Toward morning she might double back to the castle’s stableyard through one of the secret ways.

Old Philbin would surely outfit her with a cloak and blanket, saddle and tack and one of her own horses.

Meanwhile, she had to find a safe place to sleep for a few hours and some food to warm her belly.

She had thought that she might find shelter in a farmhouse, exchanging chores for a night’s food and snug lodging in the hayloft. Instead she was turned away time and again: too skinny, too soft, too young. Of course her dirty and disheveled appearance didn’t help the situation.

But those were not the true reasons, she knew. Lector’s spies were everywhere, and strangers were suspect in these unsettled times. It was not so much the doors slamming shut in her face that had wounded Tressalara to the quick, but seeing the fear and suspicion in her subjects’ faces.

Amelonia was not the happy kingdom she had always thought it to be.

She realized that her people’s troubles had not grown in only five days.

As her father had aged and withdrawn into his personal spiritual quest, Lector had abused his authority.

Now that he had usurped control of the kingdom, fear of his retribution had placed a stranglehold upon the land.

Tressalara ground her teeth. She would do everything in her power to vanquish him, even at the cost of her own life.

If only she could have reached the Andun Stone before she’d had to flee!

With it she would be invincible—if she could only learn the secrets of its powers.

Unskilled attempts to use them would result in a terrible death.

One of her first objectives would be to get the magic crystal into her possession before Lector found its hiding place.

Tressalara’s determination was strengthened by her discoveries of his wickedness.

She had gleaned enough information from the various bits and pieces she’d overheard to know that a ragged group of rebels lived in the Mystic Forest, and that their numbers were growing.

If she could reach them, all her immediate problems would be solved.

But if she meant to gather a true army to lead against the usurper, she must first see to herself. That meant food now and shelter later.

Taking a deep breath, she crept through the trees toward the tavern.

Inside the Crown and Acorn the air was dim and smoky from the torches and cookfires.

Frequented by merchants and travelers, as well as people from the nearby farms, the tavern was always busy.

Tonight it was as full as it could hold.

Several men with the look of highlanders sat near an open window.

Their leader, a lean, hawk-faced man with tousled hair like spun gold, sat slightly apart from the rest. Rough clothing hid his hard warrior’s body but could not disguise his air of command.

At the moment all his attention seemed focused on his trencher of food. He tore off a tasty bit of roast fowl. “Have an eye to the fellow in the russet cloak, Brand. Chain mail hidden beneath his padded tunic.”

His older companion, a husky fellow with a soldier’s build disguised by simple woodcutter’s garb, lifted his tankard for a quaff of ale. “Aye, I’ve been watching him, Cador. King’s man.”

“No. Lector’s man.” Cador leaned forward casually and lowered his voice.

“I have an informant inside the castle walls. He says that King Varro is not ill, but dead at Lord Lector’s own hand.

The usurper intended to marry the princess and claim the throne in his own right.

Now, my man reports, the princess is missing.

Rumor says that she changed herself into a bird and flew away. ”

Brand made a surreptitious sign to ward off the evil eye. “By Saint Ethelred’s toes, I cannot fathom why you want to mix in our business.”

Cador’s face hardened to stone. “Do you not?” His vision dimmed, clouded by memories of returning to his lands to find most of his family slain in one of Lector’s border raids.

Before his companion could reply, Cador gestured for silence.

He lounged back against the wall beside the window frame, seemingly at ease, But his light blue eyes held a glint that Brand recognized.

His own hand moved instinctively to the sword hidden beneath his patched cape. Cador had some trick up his sleeve.

The window was so close that Tressalara could almost touch it.

Her mouth watered at the sight of the trencher just inside.

Succulent roasted meat dripped hot juices into the thick slab of bread beneath.

It was too tempting to resist. Quick as a flash of light, she reached out and stabbed a large chunk of meat with the tip of her knife.

Quicker even than that, an arm shot out, and a strong hand clamped around her wrist like an iron band.

It jerked her forward, and another hand grasped her other wrist. As she fought to squirm free she was inexorably drawn across the windowsill to sprawl on the trestle table inside.

Brand relaxed. No danger was likely to come from this hungry little knave.

Cador inspected the dirty urchin with peeling, sun-reddened skin and stained clothing. He smiled wryly. “Well, well, what a scrawny little fish I have reeled in.”

Tressalara uttered a curse she hadn’t realized she’d even known and struggled upright. “Unhand me!” Her wrist ached, but she could not pull free from her captor.

Her tone of defiance surprised Cador. He hadn’t expected it from such a young and slightly built boy. Grabbing Tressalara by the shoulders, he forced her up against the wall. “Do you know what the penalty for petty thievery is, lad?”

Although she sensed the danger in him, she glared back defiantly. “Aye. Ten lashes with a knotted whip.”

He frowned. “Your information is long out of date, stripling. It is the loss of the offending hand.”

Tressalara opened her mouth to protest. Then she read the truth in his eyes. How had matters deteriorated so desperately? “ Lector again,” she spat.

Instantly Cador’s hard hand covered her mouth. “Watch your tongue, lad, or they’ll have that, too!”

Tressalara was unable to move. It wasn’t fear or even the strength of her captor that held her in thrall, but his aura of masculine presence.

Her heart banged against her ribs, and her knees felt wobbly.

It took her breath away. She had never experienced anything like it before.

Her helplessness transformed itself into anger.

He pushed her toward the bench. “You interest me. Sit down and tell me your name…and why a healthy if somewhat spindly youth has to steal his supper rather than work for it. If I like the answer I will buy you a meal.”

All Tressalara’s desire for food was momentarily forgotten.

She bit her lip, trying to obliterate the tingling memory of his firm and calloused palm against her mouth.

By the saints, the man was strong! She took in a breath and let it out in a rush.

“My name is Trev. I tried to find work. None would hire me for fear I was a spy.”

At Cador’s signal, a tavern wench came over, bearing another trencher overflowing with meat and dumplings. She set it before Tressalara. “Looks like ‘e could use some fattening up.”

The enticing smell of the food almost brought tears to Tressalara’s eyes. Her stomach rumbled so loud the others heard it. She was mortified. Cador leaned down, a flicker of laughter in his eyes.

“Hungry? Help yourself. Oh, but one little question first.”

Turning his back to the room, Cador picked up her fallen dagger and stuck it into the table. It quivered in the wood, light reflecting from the golden hilt and the cabochon amethysts engraved with dragons.

“An interesting bauble for a starving lad. And rather inappropriate under the circumstances. I imagine it is worth a good deal.”

The tension was thick. Tressalara had no choice but to tell the truth once more and hope she was believed. “It belonged to my mother,” she said with quiet dignity. “A gift from the king.”

Cador tipped back his head and laughed. “An unlikely story, yet I somehow believe you.”

Brand rubbed his chin. “And I. Though who would have thought it of Varro. The man appeared too devout a husband to keep a doxy on the side. He seemed besotted with his lovely queen.”

Tears of rage and loss sprang to Tressalara’s eyes. She coughed, pretending it was the smoke of the hearth fire. She dared not defend her innocent father’s reputation, though, or it might make them question her identity further. Cador clapped her on the back, far harder than she deemed necessary.