I feel only cold. Cold as if I were dead. Perhaps I am. They will bear me away now, to live in their icy halls, bereft of human friends and mortal animals, away from hearth and kindness. And I will never see Haldur again.
I swallow, and Precatore rips the ribbon from our hands roughly – a sign, I think, of how he will treat me. He casts it to the mud below, a look of triumph on his face. He reaches out and before I can gasp, he has plucked me from the back of my horse and set me before him on his snorting unicorn. I am not a heavy woman, but to him, I weigh less than a leaf in the wind.
My gaze swings back to my grim father and his court, still mounted, to Lady Fliad who looks wistful, her eyes fixed on Precatore as though she has seen her first rainbow.
And behind them, pounding across the battlefield, I see a horse with a wild rider on his back, hunched forward, low over the withers. He’s too far away to know who he is.
And yet, I know.
He is alive.
And this is a last gift to me. A last glimpse of him. Maybe I will watch as peace settles over the field, the peace he bought with his heart. I find myself almost smiling even as my eyes prick with tears. I will have this last image of him to hold in my heart.
Our unicorn begins to turn. Precatore grasps my leg with a stone grip, holding me in place. My future awaits.
I’m surprised when he freezes, looks over my shoulder and his face goes dark. His unicorn dances nervously as we turn back to face my father.
“Treachery!” Precatore roars. “Think you to deceiveme?”
23
HALDUR OAKENSEN
My breath saws in my lungs. I have not dared to stop. It came to me while I was fighting – an answer I had not considered.
The horse I borrowed thunders over the ground and my teeth rattle as I ride. I expect him to trip at any moment and send us both careening into the soldiers scattering before us. I should not be riding like this. Who knows who might sprain an ankle trying to get clear of my path, or slice a hand on a sword as they draw back from my rampage? But I dare not stop. I dare not arrive too late.
I grit my teeth and I ride faster.
I can see them up ahead, surrounded by a ring of soldiers as the fighting still rages all around. I maneuver sharply around Sir Gunthard and his vassals, and he shakes his fist at me in censure. If I survive this, I will owe him an apology at the very least.
Both fronts are colliding in the biggest battle I’ve seen in months. Usually, we harry the lines or pitch smaller battles, but for no reason that I can grasp, both armies have surged forward today as if to spill as much blood as possible before peace is forged – or maybe they never believed peace was possible. Maybe, to them, this is a last, desperate charge.
I’m drawing close enough to see individual faces in little glimpses between the world rising and falling under my horse’s rough gait. I catch the merest glimpse of Iva, pale and terrified on Precatore’s horse with him. We dip and rise, and my next glimpse is of Precatore, mouth open wide, eyes furious.
Something has gone wrong.
And I think I know what it is.
My borrowed horse is blowing unhappily, slick with sweat. I’ve treated him hard today. He does not deserve this. But we are almost there. Almost where he can rest, and I can try to save a peace treaty about to fracture into a thousand pieces.
My king gestures emphatically, a claim of innocence, I think. There is confusion in his gesticulating.
They are both posing as innocent parties. But I don’t see either of them calling off the fighting. I don’t see either of them asking for peace.
I pull my gasping horse up short in front of the ring of royal guard surrounding our king. One of them levels his lance at me but I brush the tip impatiently aside and dismount, leaving my poor stallion to huff and gasp and try to catch his breath from our pell-mell ride.
I need to watch my feet. The ground is uneven and there are wounded men stretched out between the nervous horses – a terrible oversight.
I lean in close to the man with the lance, point at his fellow gasping on the ground with an arrow in his thigh, and give him a pointed look. I have no authority here, but leaving their wounded like this is madness, and he should know it.
I’m too angry to care that I have exceeded my authority, but I don’t dare take more time than that.
My eyes are searching. They meet her terrified gaze. Her bridegroom has his hand clenched on either of her shoulders and I see the lines of pain in her face at his rough grip.
Fire flares hot in my chest, but I dare not allow it to lick up to my tongue. If I cannot stay cool, I will make this worse, and it will be her who is dashed upon the rocks I so carefully step around.
“The curse has not lifted as the prophecy said it would!” Precatore snarls. “You’ve sold me a worthless bride.”
