Page 12 of Chained Knight

Strange reddish daylight mounted as she fell into a thin troubled doze. Her breathing lengthened, her eyelashes fluttered, and around her the forest stretched and grew, bursting with fresh vitality. The light slanting through forest canopy changed its angle, stabbed straight downward, and shifted again. Birds sang; a long-legged creature with large golden eyes and velvety ears stepped cautiously through the undergrowth, disappearing into deep shade, paying no attention to a sleeping woman.

Her fingers twitched. Ari woke in stages, swimming upward through layers of restful darkness, and was finally jolted into stinging awareness.

She heard voices.

10

ROBUST THEORY

Quiet conversation,a mutter of laughter. Ari rubbed at her eyes; the wind was up, soughing through treetops. It was a lovely sound, but a tinge of woodsmoke added itself to the minty grass and damp dirt, the vast freshness of outside. That was another strangeness—no breath of petroleum exhaust, discernible even in the most remote camping locations. It smelled like this place had never known an internal combustion engine.

But that was nuts. Certifiable. Of course, so was the rest of this bullshit.

Her neck was slightly stiff, but other than that Ari felt fine. No hunger, no thirst, though she wouldn’t have minded more of that clear cool pondwater. Her past self had managed a good decision on that count.

Still, the voices were… concerning. They were male. And plural. Cops, looking for her? Or people from the castle, maybe searching for the chained man?

A nap hadn’t returned the world to its usual dimensions, just given her more to worry about.

Ari pushed herself upright, slowly and very quietly. She listened hard, and decided the woodsmoke was most likely a campfire. So, maybe campers? Or castle people—the chained man’s warning could have been a bit of psychological fakeout to gain her help, and they might be perfectly nice.

Or not. And if they found out she’d set him loose…

Was she wandering around in a psychotic daze, unable to feel her body’s demands? Should she take a look at the speakers, make herself known? They might be able to help her, true.

But they also might have entirely different ideas. Ari hugged her knees, staring at the jeans’ denim nap. Faint grass stains showed; the chained man’s magical laundry service was great, but apparently only a one-time deal. She lifted her head, blinking and shaking away dark curls.

Jesus, I’m a mess.

The same long glossy leaves on the shrubs, the same moss and grass, the same smooth grey trees with fanlike leaves. Now there were fallen trunks too, heavy with moss, providing shelter for small bushes and other flora. The birdsong was different once more, shadows lengthening. The light was still odd, reddish and falling in slants through openings in the canopy, dust and small winged things fluttering in columns of what had to be sunshine. It was sunset glow but at strange angles, and oil pastels would probably be best for capturing the view.

Maybe she could teach art classes or practice painting in prison, if Earl and Wanda Lee didn’t pay someone to shank her in the shower.

Go ahead, Ari. Go to the cops. See what happens.

Even now she couldn’t get Mike’s hateful sneering out of her head. Maybe she should give herself up? But even if she was wandering around in a delusional, hypothermic daze, it was better than rotting in a cell waiting for the Hardisons to strike.

Or so it appeared to her at the moment. Which could be another symptom of hypothermia or insanity.

A short, crisp branch-break snap brought her head up with a jerk. Ari stared, and the man stared back.

He was dressed in green and brown, like a Hildebrandt illustration of Robin Hood—jerkin, blousy shirt, trousers, a long shape poking over his shoulder she decided had to be a bow, supple leather boots. But no illustration had hair so vivid Kool-Aid blue tucked under a dashing, broad-brimmed buckle-your-swash hat with a small black feather in its band, nor could it show the creases and folds of hard use on every piece of clothing.

Hazel eyes narrowed, and not only did his eyebrows match his hair but his lashes were tipped with cerulean as well. He was clean-shaven, lean and rangy; the glittering knob at his hip was a filigreed hilt, his fingers resting easily upon it, the rest of a sheathed rapier jutting behind him.

Ari considered screaming. Hauling herself upright to run away was another attractive option, even if the mere thought tired her out all over again. So she simply hugged her knees, hunched her shoulders, and watched him steadily, waiting for some indication of whether he was a cop, a hunter, a hiker, or whatever-the-fuck.

It seemed to take forever, but she had nowhere to be and maybe if she seemed harmless he’d leave her alone?

But that wasn’t how the world ever worked. The blue-haired man turned his head slightly, pursed his lips, and gave a shrill whistle. The voices fell silent, and Ari decided she’d better be on her feet. She rose, slowly, not quite creaking in every joint but certainly a little stiff.

The man spread his hands, holding them up in the classic stance of peaceful intent. “Easy, my lady.” He had a nice even tenor, and Ari’s pulse jolted into overdrive.

Because he spoke in the same rolling near-Spanish language as the chained man, and apparently it hit the same invisible translator just as it entered her ears. There was an infinitesimal delay; the lag between what he said and the meaning arriving was like tiny differences in flooring between the rooms of an old house, tripping up even long-time inhabitants.

Talk or run?Ari couldn’t decide, and in any case she was now surrounded. More shapes faded out of the forest, half a dozen men total, all in green and brown. One had flaming red hair—not auburn but actual crimson. Another was brunet, and two were platinum, nearly white-blond. Another fellow had bronze hair and deeply tanned skin to match; one of the blonds was pale and the other ebon-skinned. There was a vague similarity in their cheekbones and the shape of their eyesockets, and they all wore rapiers. Two had no bows though they carried quivers of dark-fletched arrows, and each regarded her solemnly.

At least they weren’t shouting for her to put her hands up or get on the ground. But the silence was uncanny, and she kept finding new details that shoutedthis is real, this is not a dream. The tiny hits were cumulative, and who knew what would happen once she reached the end of her ability to absorb them?

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