No, her instincts screamed. She sensed nothing good would come of an association with this group. But for Tarran they felt rough, the worst of Tethian’s followers, and few had been good to start with. Outlaws, bandits, vagrants, villains, they had joined him for food and shelter, mostly, and had never shared his vision. Now they hope for the same from me, she thought. They hope I will have food to give them, valuables perhaps. But there was something worse here too. Something she did not want to consider.
“A delay’s always telling, Tarran,” said a heavy-voiced man, the one who hadn’t yet spoken. He was bigger than the others, broad-chested and barrel-bellied once before, though his stomach had shrunk since last Talasha had seen him. She remembered him as well. One of Ashun Klo’s brutes. Not Grumlo or Kartheck or Rackar, no, they were all killed by Lythian and Pagaloth and Neyruu. But another of them, another crude thug. Humghor, the princess remembered. That one cannot be trusted. And if one can’t, none can.
Tarran gave Talasha another moment to answer. When she said nothing, he stepped down the muddy bank and up to the water’s edge. “Who are you here with, my lady? You said you returned only days ago. Do you have an honour guard with you?”
Another cackle from the washerwoman. “Course she doesn’t. You think they’d let her come down here all alone, in the dark?”
Tarran considered that a moment. “Who, then? You must understand my concerns, Princess. If that Varin Knight of yours is waiting up the hill. Or the dragonknight, Sir Pagaloth…”
“Neither are with me, I assure you.”
“Then who is? You said you are not alone.”
“My handmaid,” she decided to admit. “Cevi. You might remember her.”
“I do. You had two, that I recall.”
“Mirella. She…died.”
The man lowered his chin. “Sad to hear, my lady. Was it…that night?”
“No, some days after. Though by an injury she sustained that night. So yes, in a fashion.”
“Too many died that night,” grunted the big man. “Lost my brothers. And my commander. And we all lost our prince.”
“We have a princess now,” Tarran said to that. The way he said it, the way he looked at her…
“What is it you want from me?” she asked him. The blood was rushing through her veins, heart pumping hard, preparing.
“Pardons,” Tarran replied. “For our…associations.”
Talasha frowned. The others behind Tarran nodded and murmured, understanding his intent.
“We heard that some of the old company tried to make it down to Loriath,” Tarran explained to her. “They were taken as traitors and outlaws when they arrived in the city, and burned. That is why we’re still lingering here, in these woods, scraping a living off the land. But with you…”
She understood. They expect me to clear their names, award them amnesty. They have no idea what’s happening out there. She took a step away from him, right to the very edge of her rock. Only a few short metres separated them, river water rushing in between. “I will not be going to Loriath,” she said, firmly. They could not know what she had done, or been through. If they take me to Loriath, I’ll be captured, returned to Eldurath. And him. “I am your princess. You will obey my commands.”
Laughter barked from the others. A loud snort from Humghor.
“At another time, my lady, I would agree,” said Tarran. “But that time is not now.” His mouth hardened. “You’ll be going where I say. It’s the best thing for all of us.” He looked at her, something dark catching in his eyes. “Now come, or else I will ask Humghor to fetch you. I assure you, he will not be so gentle as me.”
She saw the big man smile at the top of the bank, black gaps where several teeth should be, the rest of them yellow-brown and rotten. The other outlaws were there as well, up the muddy slope. Only Tarran stood at her level, slippery stones and rushing water between them.
They are hungry, tired, weak. If I run…
“Princess. You are not making this easy on yourself.” Tarran paused a moment, then twisted his neck backward, growing impatient. “Humghor. Come fetch Her Highness.” He looked forward again. “It is for your own good, my…”
But she was already gone, turning, driving hard with her back foot, leaping across to the other side of the river, landing with a splash where the water met the dirt. She began scrambling up the bank.
“After her!” Tarran bellowed.
She could hear grunts, curses, as the men gave chase, hear Tarran wading into the water. One of them slipped on the slope, it sounded, crashing down onto the stony shore. She glanced back, saw Humghor struggling to his feet, the taller man and squat man thrashing through the river. The washerwoman seemed disinterested in the hunt, casually following. Tarran was right behind her, closing.
The princess reached the top, raced into the trees, fish-spear in her grasp, waterskin left behind on her rock. It was a precious item, but she could not think of that now. She burst past boles of spruce and cedar, hurdling thorn bushes and spouts of sedge. Roots reached up, trying to trip her, but she hurdled those too, fleet-footed and nimble.
Darkness closed in. The river had been relatively bright, the sky open above it, but here the branches were thick as a fortress wall. All moonlight was blotted, only shadows and shapes before her. The trunks of trees she could see easily enough, and the tangles of brush on the forest floor, but smaller perils were hidden from her eyes. Her back foot caught a jut of stone, poking from the earth, and she tripped forward, arms waving, trying to restore control, and failed. The ground rushed up to greet her, the air punched from her lungs. Wheezing, she scrambled back to her feet, glanced back, saw Tarran still on her heels.
“Princess, stop! Stop, it’s for your own good!”
You don’t know what’s good for me, she might have roared back, but there was no air in her lungs for that.
Her heart was thumping. Neyruu, she thought, trying to reach her. Neyruu, hear me. She rounded a large tree trunk, saw a clatter of boulders and rocks broken from a nearby cliff face blocking the way. She reached the rocks, saw no way through but over, and began climbing.
“Stop…you’ll only hurt yourself!” Tarran was still there, the taller man fast catching. She could hear the huff and puff of Humghor crashing through the undergrowth. “Princess…stop! We’re not going to hurt you!”
I can’t be taken. I can’t be taken. Loriath was a death sentence for her. Eldur would have sent out agents to find her, spread the word of her betrayals. He will make an example of me. He’ll put me in the belly of the iron dragon, and have Neyruu be the one to blow on it…
She had watched men tortured inside that dragon before. Her uncle Dulian had used it for traitors and rebels, those found guilty of sedition, among others. Particular crimes were worthy of a slow death, he had proclaimed. Sometimes he would require the great and good of Eldurath to stand witness, watching as the dragons blew their flame upon their iron brother, listen to the dull hollow screams of the men and women inside, as the metal grew so hot it scorched their skin, as they were slowly roasted alive.
Talasha had always feared it. Always imagined how awful it would be. He will know, she thought. He will look into my heart, and know.
She would not let that happen. Not to her. Not to Cevi.
There was a great deal of shouting behind her now, though she wasn’t listening to the words. She needed to draw them away, then she could circle back up the slope to Cevi. She continued climbing, clambering, searching for hand and footholds, pulling herself up to the top. She cut her hand on a sharp snag, felt a stab of pain, grit her teeth and kept on going, leaving blood smears on the stone. The summit was flat for a half dozen paces. She surged across to the far side, looked down, saw the rocks rolled out before her, planned a route down and began jumping from rock to rock, each lower than the last. Her ankles were strong, her legs springy, and she reached the ground without injury.
Then she kept on running.
Her breath came in pants now, in, out, in, out, lungs burning. She dared another look back and saw that Tarran and the tall man had navigated the rocks safely. Humghor was at the top, head swinging side to side, frown on his beetled brow, searching for a way down, the squat man coming up behind him. The washerwoman was nowhere to be seen.
