“Dear Isabel, you will know for certain when I want you dead.” She examined the daylight. “Until then, we will take a rest.”
It was a good time for a chat with her Escorts, anyway.
In a small clearing, they left a few guards with the Nadrakens. Vern took the opportunity to fletch arrows while Jerome checked the horses. Ash ran off to hunt. Swords needed oiling, water skins refilling, and before long, it was time for dinner. They could still ride for a couple of hours after the meal.
When Pelios and Vern finished gathering firewood, she patted her mount and joined them. “Tomorrow, we should arrive at the border. We’ll need to–”
“No.” Vern lit the fire without glancing up.
Anais’ frown went unseen. “I could have been suggesting that we visit an outpost. Perhaps even pick up a few guards.”
He raised his head and leveled a flat look at her. The other two kept themselves busy.
At court, even in the Queen's Wing, she would have returned his steely gaze. Something about the wilds made her feel like a child.
Anais crossed her arms. “We can't traipse around the countryside and expect to go unnoticed. We don't know the land half as well as our own, where the locals hunt or gather, or evenif there are new roads, new towns. You would ride alone, without a single guard, Vern. They'll only get in the way.”
He shifted back from the fire, removed a long knife from his belt, and proceeded to sharpen it. “Do not lecture me on stealth, my Queen.”
Fair enough.
Jerome dropped herbs and greens into a pot. “The guards are as necessary as I am, my Queen.”
Even Pelios added, “They make it easier to keep an eye on the duchess. They're good hunters, too.”
She clenched her jaw. “If anyone sees us, we’ll look like a raiding party, and troops will swarm the area. That will not make me safer.”
“No one will see us.”
Her father might be the most irritating man in the world.
She snarled, “Are you willing to gamble my life on that?”
Vern’s smooth strokes of stone against steel went silent. He tilted his head slightly to the side as he glared at her. They were both stubborn. She'd learned it from him, from the angle of her eyebrows matching his disapproval to the set of their shoulders and the widening of her stance. Years of practice cutting down her court with a glance matched against the only man impervious to the Queen’s intimidation. That was where the stubbornness came in. She wasn't backing down.
Ten seconds into their contest of wills, they all went still. The woods were strangely silent. Five seconds ago, the birds had been chirping. Two seconds ago, a leaf had crackled.
A dagger slipped into Anais’ palm. Her eyes scanned the trees behind Vern as he did the same past her. Jerome silently drew his sword.
A cry and the clash of steel broke the silence. The duchess. Anais sprinted past the fire. In front of her was Vern, and Jerome a step behind. Breaking through the trees, they rushedinto the clearing where the duchess was hiding behind two guards. The maid valiantly held off an attacker. Four other people surrounded the guards in a half circle.
They didn't appear to be Nadraken soldiers. The duchess would have shouted for help. Neither were they Drantarian. That was the only assessment Anais made before she let fly her dagger. In the same motion, she drew her sword, snatching another dagger from her belt as she ran.
Vern sliced up a woman on the edge of the circle. His head turned sharply toward Ash’s bark from the trees, and off he darted.
Anais thrust her blade into the back of a man's neck. Another assailant fell on Jerome’s sword. Pelios disarmed the maid’s opponent. Several guards ran after Vern. That left two attackers, now back to back between the duchess’ guards and Anais.
The Queen spun her blade. “Drop your weapons. We will hand you to the nearest Drantarian outpost. You can plead for your lives there.”
An older male spat at her feet. “We just wanted the pretty girl. Sell ‘er to us and we'll go. How's a hundred gold sound?”
Pelios growled.
Anais' blade stopped midair. She examined them again. Rough lengths of rope at their belts. Iron cuffs. Small, blunt cudgels.
Her voice dipped into an almost seductive croon. “Slavers aren't welcome in Drantar.”
The man sneered. “Sure, fine, two hundred and we'll get out of this shithole. We don't want a fight, we just fancy the girl. She's only a servant, right? Plenty more where that came from.”
