Even as blind and disoriented as Karigan was with her head shrouded in the cloak, she guessed they were climbing into the Teligmar Hills. She had to adjust her center of balance as her mount trod a continuous incline, and she sensed many changes in direction as though following a trail of switchbacks. It made her light-headed, this movement without vision to ground her.
The air burned the raw flesh of her hands, knees, and elbows and sent feverish tingles shivering along her nerves. Would she have a chance to pick the gravel out of her skin? She was lucky not to have been crushed by Falan, if one could call being captured luck. The cutthroats had kicked and hit her into submission, but by the grace of the gods she did not think any of her bones were broken, though everything hurt.
She continued to pray she gave Estora and Fergal time to escape. There’d been too much confusion and pain to know if any of the cutthroats were sent down the road to look for them. At this point she could only guess her own fate, and none of her guesses boded well.
As she rode she felt almost as if she floated and she allowed her mind to wander away from her circumstances. Images of the plains came to her, images that now seemed so distant and out of reach; waking dreams of freedom and a gentler, more pleasant time. But she did not see the Frosts or their herds of horses or Ero the wolfhound. She saw him, the great black stallion walking alongside her with grace beyond that of an ordinary horse. His hooves made no sound on the earth, the breeze feathered his mane and tail little even as it stirred the tips of grasses. Then he knelt on the ground beside her, waiting expectantly for her…for her to mount?
Her horse stumbled and she grabbed at the pommel of the saddle with a cry at the pain that jolted through her. Gone were the images of the plains, lost was the stallion from her mind. Why would she seek comfort in the death god’s steed anyway?
The climb leveled out, and Sarge and his men were challenged by guards, followed by cheerful greetings of welcome. As they progressed, Karigan heard more and more activity around her, a spoon ringing on a pan, more horses whickering in the distance, voices in conversation, a hammer pounding…What was this place?
Amid the activity they came to a halt.
“Welcome back,” someone said.
“What ya got there, Sarge?”
“Get her down,” Sarge ordered.
Rough hands pulled Karigan off her horse and held her steady when she staggered. She concentrated so hard on maintaining her footing that she was surprised when the cloak was unbound and lifted from her. She blinked and squinted in the light until her vision cleared. Many people ringed her, gawking. There was Sarge and his band of cutthroats behind her and ordinary people of all ages before her, male and female, young and old, whole family groups. Sprinkled among them were the harder faces of soldiers, none wearing any device.
Muttering rippled through the crowd as a man shoved his way through, emerging before Karigan, towering over her. She stumbled backward in shock till she bumped into Sarge’s men and could go no farther.
“Immerez,” she whispered.
It was as if he stepped right out of a nightmare, glaring at her with his one green eye. The other was, just as she remembered, covered by a patch, a scar radiating out from beneath it. The waning light of the afternoon gleamed on his bald head.
Karigan shuddered with the memory of him hunting her, hunting her through the northern Green Cloak, his whip snapping behind her. Snagging her around her ankle till she cleaved off the hand that held the whip. She looked down and saw a sharp shining hook where that hand had once been.
If Karigan thought things were bad before…
“We have a problem,” Sarge said.
Immerez glanced at Sarge in incredulity. “A problem?” he asked softly.
Karigan closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering that harsh voice.
Incredibly Immerez threw his head back and laughed. It was an awful rasping sound.
Then he struck like a viper, hooking Sarge’s collar and drawing him close, almost nose to nose. Sarge swallowed hard.
“You’ve brought me a Greenie, not the lady of Coutre.”
“I–I can explain!”
“Release him, Captain.” An elderly woman appeared beside Immerez, a shawl across her shoulders and a basket of yarn over her wrist. She looked to be no one out of the ordinary, a villager or farmwife, someone’s grandmother, but Immerez deferred to her and released Sarge.
Sarge licked his lips. “We…we had the lady, sure enough, all the way to the crossroads. As we waited for your men to come down, somehow she escaped—vanished.” He glanced at Karigan. “A Greenie trick, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Immerez echoed. “Then what happened?”
“We searched and searched the area. It was confusion, but then suddenly Lady Estora comes riding through the woods on her horse and we pursued. When we caught up, she killed three of my men, not to mention Whittle earlier. This one tricked us into thinking she was Lady Estora.”
“Idiot.” Immerez raised his hook as though to slash it across Sarge’s neck. “How could you be fooled so easily?”
“Hold,” the old woman said. “Hold, my friend.”
Immerez’s hook dropped to rest at his side. “Why should I? He failed us. He lost Lady Estora.”
“Did he fail us? Really?” the woman asked. “He got her all the way to the crossroads, and I think it more than adequate.”
Everyone gaped at her like she was mad.
“Our goal,” she continued, “was to distract the king, was it not? To distract the king and those who serve him, to send them on a merry chase. It would have been nice to meet the lady, and to use her captivity to our advantage, but our first intention was to empty the tombs of its guards, yes?”