“She is wiser than she looks,” he murmured. “You sent for the Aldermaston?”
Lia nodded.
“Well done. Ah, he is coming now.”
Pareigis’ eyes lifted, looking past Lia’s shoulder. There were at least thirty riders, a wall of black behind her. The horse stamped and snorted impatiently. Scowls met her on every face. Lia glanced through the crowd until her eyes met Scarseth’s. He stared at her coldly, his eyes glowing silver.
The Aldermaston approached slowly, awkwardly, stiffly. She heard it in the way he moved, the pain whistling in sharp puffs through clenched teeth. Her mind filled with anger and she clenched the bow. It was the Queen Dowager who caused the Aldermaston such pain. It was she who had come and stripped away the loyal people from Muirwood. Better that she was the dead one at Winterrowd instead of her husband. The thought struck her forcefully – it would be over so fast. A quick arrow, through the gate bars and into the Queen’s breast. Her other hand twitched towards the quiver, but she clenched it shut, realizing the feelings were not her own. She shoved at the hate, the loathing. The temptation to kill was powerful. It was not her own.
Pareigis’ voice was void of any accent. “You are abandoned, Aldermaston. Open the gate.”
“I think not,” he replied solemnly. “I will not invite you willingly.”
A smirk twisted the corner of her mouth. “Then release the girl as you promised. Demont’s niece rides with me to Comoros.”
“I am afraid that is impossible,” came the simple reply.
Her eyes narrowed. “You think you can save her from me? I came here to fetch her, and I will not leave without her in my custody.”
The Aldermaston’s voice was humorless. “Then enjoy your stay in the village, my Queen. She is not here to give to you. The earls left at sunset, certain I would betray them to you. They escaped during the confusion of the dance.”
Her face hardened, her mouth drawing back into a simmering frown. “Where did you send them?”
“You misunderstand me, my Queen. They left on their own accord. I do not know where they went.”
“You let them out a porter door!” she accused, rising higher in the stirrups. Her stallion shied and snorted, its tail thrashing.
“I did not,” he replied. “The exterior grounds are confined by the Bearden Muir. It is a difficult and treacherous wilderness, made even more so by the untimely rains. They may be lost. I do not know where they are.”
“You lied to me!” she seethed.
“You may believe whatever you will,” he answered back.
“You are my enemy,” she returned. “You are responsible for the murder…”
The Aldermaston’s voice erupted like thunder. “Shall we end this tiresome game, your Highness? Your words and accusation mean nothing to me. I care only for the life of the learners and the villagers of Muirwood, not my own. I have the earl’s sworn word about their safe conduct, so any massacre this morning will end with his hands bloodied, not mine. They are fled. The earls have a great lead on you, but they do not have horses for we do not have any to spare, even if I were so inclined. Their fate and destiny is in their own hands now. I care not whether you kill me or let me live. I do not care!”
Her face was livid with fury. She was so beautiful – so dark, yet so beautiful. “You will care, Aldermaston,” she answered softly. “There are deaths even you would shrink from. When I see you next, expect my vengeance in full.” She straightened in the saddle. “Ten thousand marks for whoever brings me Demont’s niece by sundown!”
The fleet of horses surged and then stampeded. It was a ruckus of hooves and shouts and whistles. The hunt had begun.
The riders all cleared away, save one. The Earl of Dieyre stared at Lia, his eyes inscrutable. The Aldermaston turned to shuffle away, stifling his groans again as he walked. Lia stared at Dieyre for a moment and then turned to follow.
“Wait,” he called after her.
She turned back to the gate and approached. He slid off the saddle, landing gracefully in the muck.
“Lia, is it not?” he asked her.
She nodded. “You are not riding with the rest?”
“I do not need ten thousand marks,” he replied in a sallow voice. He fingered the cold iron bar gently. “So that is it? Your great Abbey’s defenses? I must confess I was looking for something a bit more…dramatic. The fog turning into fire. Or the Abbey shattering us into salt.” He fingers squeeked against the iron. “Maybe an infestation of weevils at least.”