“That’s Sir Asshole.”
Jeremy mounted his horse and it danced a circle.
“Let’s go. Sun’s about to set.”
With a barely suppressed cry of pain, Rafe mounted his horse again. Rafe and Sparrowhawk took up the rear, racing down the road that led to the Moonstone Palace, named, he assumed, as it rose white as the moon in the distance.
The red sun fell hard and fast, and the horses and their riders cast long shadows across the fields. The golden light of the setting sun and the brilliant blue of the sky turned the meadows and hills into a van Gogh painting. He couldn’t help but slow his horse to a walk just to take it all in. The other riders raced on, and for a moment he was alone with his wonder.
“I was a prince here,” he said to himself as he gazed at this new old world of his. “I am a prince here.”
“More fun bein’ a king.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, a smirking sneering evil voice.
A small gray cloud like a dust devil twirled in front of his horse, and poor Sparrowhawk reared up and tried to kick it, but there was nothing to kick.
Then the dust cloud solidified and took the form of a boy of about fifteen or sixteen.
At once, Rafe knew what Jeremy had meant when he said the Bright Boys look just like boys, except you know immediately they aren’t for no reason you could name. The boy or whatever it was wore dirty gray rags wrapped around him like a mummy. His pale face was sickly looking, and when he—it—grinned, the teeth were too many and too sharp.
“Remember me?” the thing said. “Ah, no you don’t. Still don’t have your brain back. That’s all right. Never needed one m’self. Name’s Ripper.”
“What do you want?” Rafe demanded. “Tell me now.”
The Bright Boy feigned shock and dismay, putting his hand over his mouth and batting his eyelashes.
“Ain’t you a tyrant,” he said. “I don’t work for you, remember? Just here to deliver a little message. My king wants you to come pay ’im a visit over in the Ghost Town. Sooner better than later. Much better. Your knight’ll survive the night better, if you know what I mean.” The creature mimed unslinging a bow from his shoulder, nocking an arrow, and shooting it toward the riders in the distance.
“Who’s your king?” Rafe asked. “What does he want with me?”
“Just wants ya. I don’t ask questions. But, uh…hurry up, little prince. He said if I get you before tomorrow night, he’ll let me try on your crown.”
The gray thing turned to smoke and then was gone.
Chapter Twenty
No trees. No unicorns. When Emilie opened her eyes again, she saw the sun setting over distant hills. She lay on her side in a patch of silver-gray wildflowers. Slowly, she sat up, trying to get her bearings. Before her, only a few yards away, a blue river wound slowly toward those hills. She’d never seen a blue river before. Blue like a tropical ocean.
It seemed she was alone now. Alone and sitting on the bank of a blue river, the sun overhead sinking toward the horizon, and behind her, a full moon rose, white as snow and far too large.
A red crow landed on a rock a few feet from her. It preened its breast feathers and then looked placidly at her with its large black yet eerily wise eyes.
“Hello,” Emilie said. “Where am I?” The crow said nothing.
“The Bluestone River,” came a voice from behind. “We’ll camp here for the night.”
The red crow took off in a flutter of red wings, and Emilie spun around at the sound of the voice.
A woman with long blond hair pulled back in a braid stood about twenty feet behind her. She wore a loose white tunic, brown leather vest, brown riding pants, and boots. A bow was slung over her shoulder, and a quiver too. In her hands, she carried a brown felt hat, upside down, like she was about to pull a rabbit out of it.
“Dinner,” the woman said. “Nuts and berries. I’ll catch a few fish, too, if you’re hungry. Even if you’re not, I am.”
The woman walked toward her. Emilie could only stare as she came closer and set the hat down on the ground in front of her. She didn’t look at the hat, only at the woman’s face and not even her face. Her eyes.
The woman ignored her staring and walked to the bank of the river, then waded in up to her knees.
“Stay quiet,” she said as if Emilie were at all capable of speech.
Emilie watched the woman take an arrow from her quiver, and with careful aim, she stabbed at the water. When she brought the arrow up, a foot-long fish with shimmering blue and silver scales hung on the tip.
“You know how to start a fire?” the woman asked her.
She brought the fish over and laid it on the rock.
Finally, Emilie spoke. “No.”
“No?” The woman arched one eyebrow.
“I’ve had an easy life,” Emilie said.
“No shame in that. I’d rather you have an easy life than a hard one,” she said as she squatted down by a pile of twigs in the center of a ring of stones.
“Skya.”
No question mark. Emilie knew who she was. She’d known the very moment she looked into her eyes. They had the same eyes. Mourning dove gray. Maybe she was thirty-three now and not thirteen like the pictures, not a teenager like Rafe’s carving in his sculpture garden, but Emilie did know her sister when she saw her.
“Emilie, right? I heard my knight call you that.”
