Chương 2

The black ribbon disappeared behind them. The King's Road bent right at the saint, continuing over the rise in a broad sweep of compacted stone. Voss drew the reins left. The horses entered the narrower road without hesitation. The coach wheels left the firm surface and struck a pair of muddy ruts. The entire vehicle lurched hard enough to drive John's shoulder against the rear panel. A curtain snapped open inside.

"Master Voss." The voice belonged to Mirelle. Voss did not look around.

"Mistress?"

"Why have we left the King's Road?"

"Bridge inspection."

"Which bridge?"

"Lowwater. It's been closed for inspection."

"The Concord roadmaster said nothing of an inspection."

"Notice came after. Rider from Asterhall." Mirelle's silence conveyed precisely what she thought of that answer. John looked past the coach toward the road they had abandoned. There had been no rider from Asterhall. Mirelle pushed the curtain farther aside. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, dressed in severe grey beneath a dark travelling cloak. Her brown hair was pinned tightly at the back of her head, with the first threads of silver visible near her temples.

She carried herself less like a servant than a schoolmistress who had discovered someone cheating poorly.

"Then you will show me the notice."

"Wasn't written."

"Asterhall closed part of the King's Road on a verbal message?" Voss shrugged. Harl smiled without turning around. Mirelle did not.

"You were contracted to take us from Concord Post to the Academy by the approved road."

"And we will."

"By the approved road."

"Unless you'd prefer the bridge collapse under us."

"Turn the coach around." Voss finally looked over his shoulder.

"Road's too narrow here."

"There was room at the junction."

"We've passed the junction."

"Then reverse."

"With two ditches and wet ground?" Voss shook his head.

"There's a turning yard at the old tollhouse. We can discuss it there." John looked ahead. The roof of the tollhouse was not yet visible, but Cal's memory supplied a low stone building beyond the next wooded rise. The factor's men would be somewhere near it. The chaperone was about to reiterate her demands when a second voice came from within the coach.

"That is enough, Mirelle." Elara was younger than the title sounded. Eighteen, according to the admission packet, with brown hair pinned beneath an unadorned travelling veil and a face that might have passed unnoticed in a crowded room. Her features were even rather than striking. Her grey-blue eyes changed that. They were cool, vivid and quite eye-catching.

"How far is the tollhouse?" the young lady asked.

"Less than two miles, my lady."

"You will turn there if the bridge closure cannot be confirmed." Voss dipped his head.

"Of course." It was a lie offered with the confidence of a man who expected not to answer for it. As expected, the women fell silent afterwards, placated. John watched the wet road. The official arrangement made sense when considered in isolation. Asterhall maintained political neutrality among the noble houses whose children studied there. Household armies, heraldic displays, and substantial armed entourages were stopped at Concord Post.

From there, recognised road companies moved new students through the neutral district under contracts witnessed by the Academy. House Vey's knights had escorted Elara to Concord. Cal's memories contained fragments of the handover: blue cloaks, a waxed packet, a captain warning Voss against unnecessary delay. The captain and his men had then ridden north, supposedly to join a border muster. Voss, Harl, and Cal had carried valid credentials. The roster bore House Vey's seal and an Academy countermark.

To Mirelle, they had been hired guards who had passed through two separate layers of scrutiny. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. It was a reasonable precaution. It also revealed where Elara stood in her father's priorities. Asterhall prohibited companies of household troops. It did not prohibit a student from bringing a sworn retainer or personal guard.

A favoured child of a wealthy house would have arrived at Concord amid banners, dismissed the ceremonial escort, and continued with one or two trusted knights. The seventh of Lord Vey's twelve children had received an unmarked coach, her former governess, and three rented swords. There were practical explanations. The border muster was real. House Vey could not strip its holdings of trained men for a journey hundreds of other students completed safely. Practical explanations did not change the result.

Elara had been sent along a route where everyone responsible for protecting her had been purchased. The coach struck a rut. Something knocked against the interior wall, followed by Mirelle's frustrated sharp intake of breath. Through the narrow gap in the curtain, John saw water suspended in the air. It had spilled from a silver cup but stopped just before reaching Elara's dress. The water hovered in a trembling ribbon above her open hand. With a small motion of her fingers, she guided it back into the cup.

First-Circle Water Magic. That was the affinity listed in her Academy papers. It was not the one that would eventually make the Church tear her life apart. Elara noticed him looking. Her expression closed by another degree, and the curtain fell into place. John turned back to the road. He had spent two days thinking of her as the Demon Queen: a figure standing beneath a black sky, cloaked in living shadow, with armies burning behind her. The woman in the coach was not that person. Not yet, at least.

She was an eighteen-year-old student on her way to school. Her father had sent hired professionals to see her there. She had no reason to know that those professionals had agreed to sell her. The distinction settled what remained of John's hesitation. Waiting for a perfect solution had been reasonable yesterday. Today it was another name for doing nothing. The old road climbed into scattered woodland. Rainwater shone in the wheel ruts.

Charred stumps appeared among the trees, remnants of an old cutting ground, and John caught the faint mineral smell of charcoal beneath the damp leaves. He shifted on the rear bench and studied the terrain. A narrow track entered the woods on the right, perhaps half a mile ahead. It was little more than twin lines through the grass, but it angled east. Voss had traced the local roads on a map during the first night of the journey.

That track belonged to charcoal burners and eventually looped back toward Asterhall's eastern road. It would take longer. It also avoided the tollhouse. John looked at the harness. The broad bay gelding on the near side carried most of the team's pull. Leather traces ran from the horse's collar to the swingletree beneath the driver's box. Each ended in an iron hook secured by a narrow keeper strap. John had repaired enough tack on his family's ranch to understand the arrangement. The materials differed.

The principles did not. Remove one small piece under load, and a machine larger than a man stopped working. He lifted his helm from the peg and set it on his head. Harl heard the buckle click.

"Expecting trouble?"

"Nah," John said as he climbed down from the rear bench while the coach was moving.

"Just stretching my legs. I'm starting to feel a cramp form." Harl stared at him for a moment before shrugging in response.

"Keep up." John landed in the soft verge and walked beside the coach. His side of the vehicle concealed him from Voss. Harl could have looked down and seen what he was doing, but Harl was watching the road ahead now, waiting for the tollhouse. John placed one hand against the coach for balance. With the other, he drew his dagger only far enough to expose the point. The near trace rose and fell with each stride of the bay gelding.

John waited until the coach entered a deeper stretch of ruts, where the wheels and harness made enough noise to cover the scrape of steel against leather. He cut halfway through the keeper strap. One pass. Then another. He returned the dagger to its sheath. The strap held, for now. John continued walking as if nothing had happened. The woods thickened. A charcoal track in the distance that veered off the road drew nearer. He could feel his heartbeat against the inside of the brigandine. Fear was present.

That did not make it useful. His father had once told him that a frightened horse became dangerous when the rider started taking instructions from it. John saw no reason a frightened man should be treated differently. Exhaling the emotion away, he moved closer to the bay. The horse flicked one ear toward him but did not break stride. John set the side of his boot against the weakened keeper and pressed. The leather tore. The gelding took another step.

The trace snapped taut, and the hook jumped from the fitting with a metallic crack. Leather slapped the horse's flank. The swingletree twisted, the team's pull went uneven, and the coach slewed hard toward the ditch. Voss hauled on the reins and stamped the brake. The wheels stopped in the mud. Harl came off the driver's bench with one hand on his sword.

"What broke?"

"Near trace," Voss said. John stood beside the horse, already reaching for the loose leather.

"It appears the hook came free." Voss swore and climbed down. Harl looked along the road. Through the trees ahead, part of the tollhouse roof was visible beyond the rise. Voss followed his gaze.

"Go check the bend." Harl hesitated.

"You need help?"

"I need to know the road's clear. Go." Harl started forward at a quick walk. John watched him pass the entrance to the charcoal track. Harl continued toward the rise until the trees and curve of the road concealed him. Voss crouched beside the bay gelding.

"Hold him." John took the bridle with his left hand. The horse's skin twitched beneath his palm. Voss picked up the trace and examined the broken keeper. John's right hand closed around his dagger. Cal Rook's memories offered a hard certainty whenever Voss moved quickly. The older mercenary was stronger than Harl, more disciplined, and far less inclined to waste motion. If John took Harl first, Voss would kill him. There would be no cleaner opportunity. John released a slow breath. Then he stepped behind Voss.

The dagger came out without a sound. John caught Voss across the upper chest with his left arm, dragged him upright, and drove the blade beneath his left arm. The point struck armour. For one fraction of a second, nothing happened. Then Voss convulsed. His elbow slammed backwards into John's ribs. John's grip slipped, and Voss twisted with a guttural shout strangled beneath John's forearm. The dagger had caught against the lower edge of a plate or the curve of a rib.

John felt steel grinding where it should have entered. Voss seized his wrist. His grip was crushing. John hooked one leg behind the man's knee, pulled him backwards, and put his full weight behind the dagger. The point scraped. Stopped. Then slid inward with a sudden, sickening give. Voss's entire body went rigid. Hot blood ran across John's fingers. He had killed coyotes on the ranch.

He remembered winter mornings, the rifle stock seated against his shoulder, and a distant animal folding into dry grass after the shot. There had been recoil, a flat crack, and a body too far away to possess heat or weight. This was nothing like that. Voss fought in his arms. His boots tore furrows through the mud. His fingers clawed at John's wrist. Every strangled breath vibrated through John's chest. The dagger transmitted each movement from inside the man's body into John's palm. John's stomach clenched.

He did not let go. He forced the blade deeper until the crossguard struck leather. Voss shuddered once. Then his knees gave way, and two hundred pounds of dying man dragged John down into the mud.