The group would ride for a while after sunset until Sarge called a halt. Some of their campsites were stocked with supplies, food hanging high in trees. They’d planned her abduction well, not carrying more than they had to so they could travel light and swift. Once they stopped, the horses were tended to first, Sarge assisting Estora off Falan then helping her to sit before her legs buckled beneath her.
She was given no other courtesy, even when it came to relieving herself. Her captors did not allow her far from the campsite, and not entirely out of view. If she was lucky, there’d be a boulder nearby, or dense growth to conceal her in this most private function, but at other times, she had little more than the skirts of her habit to hide what she was doing.
The men did not care, but she always felt the tears fighting to take hold, and she continued to dam them up inside her.
This evening was like all the others that preceded it. The men went about their assigned tasks with nary a word between them. Two cared for the horses, one sparked a small fire that was used for warmth and nothing more, for they did not cook, and the fourth man who rode rear guard had not caught up with them yet.
Estora found a log on which to sit. It smelled of rot and was slimy to the touch, but it did not crumble beneath her weight. As the men worked, she rubbed and stretched her legs, though she noticed they were not feeling so absolutely dreadful as they had, and her back end was not nearly as sore. The top pommel of her sidesaddle, however, chafed continuously at her thigh, rubbing it raw, even through the doeskin breeches she wore beneath her skirts. She resolved once again not to complain. Doing so would only, like tears, reveal weakness.
When the campfire grew to golden life, she did not draw closer to it for warmth. Always she held herself aloof from her captors. The men more or less ignored her, didn’t care if she was freezing or not, except to toss her a rough but heavy blanket for the night. Oh, how she missed her soft feather bed and comforter!
As she sat chewing on the night’s ration of leathery dried meat, she thought of Karigan and realized she now had a much clearer picture of all her friend—former friend?—must have endured during dangerous missions. What a fool Estora was. Hadn’t she once wished for the life of a Green Rider, to ride where she willed?
She almost laughed aloud. As if Green Riders had free will! They rode where and when the king commanded, no matter the peril. It’s just that she hadn’t understood it so completely until now.
The rear guard, Whittle he was called, rode into camp and dismounted. He spoke quietly with Sarge by the fire. Estora could not hear their words. When they finished, Sarge spoke individually to the other men, then came over to her and planted his foot on the log beside her. He towered above her.
“Seems you’ve got a hero following us. Either he’s a lousy tracker and keeps getting lost, or he’s so stealthy Whittle loses all trace of him. Either way, if he comes too close, he’ll be dealt with. If you should try to run off to him or scream, that will be dealt with as well.”
“You’ve done little to harm me thus far,” Estora said, “and I believe whoever you are taking me to has commanded it so.”
Sarge caressed the hilt of his sword. “There is more than one way to deal with prisoners who misbehave. A gag for starters, and our method of tying you down, as well.”
“You’d never—!”
“And I’m not past inflicting a certain amount of injury to accomplish what I must. Nor are my boys.”
Estora’s hand went to her swollen cheek.
“I suggest,” Sarge said, “you behave like the fine, cultured lady you are, and things will continue to go smoothly for you.”
“Who is it you’re taking me to?” she demanded, not for the first time. But as usual, Sarge walked away without answering. What heightened her concern was that whoever ordered her abduction possessed an ability with magic, for the fog that obscured the woods when she was ambushed was no natural phenomenon. Sarge had only smiled knowingly when she asked him about it. Someone had given him a spell, but who?
Before Estora could prevent it, a tear slipped from her swollen eye.
Oh, F’ryan, she thought, was it ever like this for you? Were you ever afraid? If he had been, he’d never revealed his fear to her, and so she’d thought nothing could stop him. Until a pair of arrows had.
Thoughts of her dead lover only made her feel more forlorn and she bent till her forehead nestled in her hands. She considered her situation. She’d not been irreparably harmed, nor had her captors done anything inappropriate to her. They must be under very strict orders to show restraint. Who commanded such discipline from them? Who was it that ordered her abduction? And why? What would they ransom her for? Where were they taking her?
Mirwell Province lay in the west, and beyond, Rhovanny. Now that she thought of it, Sarge’s accent, and that of his men, was of the west, but not of Rhovanny. If they were mercenaries, of course, it didn’t matter where they were from. They could be working for anyone, whether in or outside Sacoridia.
She tried to bolster her spirits by reminding herself that at least someone pursued them, a “hero” Sarge called him. Who could it be? Then her spirits sagged again when she realized he’d probably be killed in his efforts to rescue her.
It all seemed so hopeless. What would Karigan do? she wondered. But she did not know. She hadn’t the kind of courage to figure it out.
Remember honor, Morry had said.
Amberhill beat through the woods after Lady Estora’s captors like a man possessed, until he realized the punishing pace would only kill Goss. Though his quarry wasn’t careful about covering its tracks, his haste had led him astray more than once, wasting more time than if he’d gone at a more measured speed.