Page 42 of A Court of Masks and Roses
It’s the sudden silence of the forest that stops me in my tracks an hour later. Not total silence—the wind still rustles the trees and the burbling stream still sings in the distance—butthe animals and birds, those I hear none of now. As if they’ve scattered from something or know better than to approach. My pulse thumps hard, casing off all fatigue.
Stepping silently toward a sturdy tree, I scamper into the branches for a better view. And freeze.
There is aroadhere. A trampled path wide enough to let horses pass and so long that I cannot see its end. My body tenses. The well-worn ground cleared of trees and foliage has as much legitimate business being in the middle of the woods as I do in the Royal Guard. Someone put it here for transport. Of what?
I shimmy back on my branch, concealing myself in the tree while I think. My heart and mind race, weighing and discarding the possibilities like gowns. Not wide enough for a wagon, but worn well. People pass here. In large numbers. And from this point, they are less than a day’s travel to Delta.
A wail, long and pleading, cuts through the forest, followed at once by a crack and a scream of pain.
My limbs tighten around the branch that I lie on. The animals are steering clear not just because the path is here, but because there is someone on it. Someone who isn’t here willingly by the sound of it.
Prisoners.The memory tickles my throat. The prisoners I told Trace about. My jaw tightens. The same bushy foliage that keeps me well concealed is also blocking whatever is happening from my view. Climbing back to the ground, I swim between the trees toward the origin of that wail, each step a careful, silent shuffle along the earth. Speed, stealth, proximity to the mark—a scout can have only two of the three at once, and with the coming darkness, time is not on my side.
Not that I will be sleeping tonight. Once I know who—what—these people are, it will be a long night of travel back to Delta to warn Firehorn of the impending arrival.
I move as quickly as I dare, stopping to listen every twenty paces. When the sounds become a consistent if still distant chatter, I must move farther from the guiding road. A dead scout helps no one. Crouching in the skirt of a wide oak, I try to piece together what I’m hearing.
Moans, pleas. The occasional crack of a whip.
“What do you want me to do, shrink the bloody forest?” The low baritone’s very clear and close demand launches my heart into my throat. Someone is coming my way. Likely a guard patrol sweeping the woods.
“I want you to keep the Messenger’s schedule,” replies a second, nasal voice. “We’ve neither men nor supplies to bed a hundred heathens for the night. March them to the temple abbey while the Holy Guard still holds patrol duty in Delta.”
My mouth dries. So these are the prisoners the roses were expecting, and there are a hundred of them. My back presses hard into the bark and I dare not move a muscle, even as a troop of ants marches across my shin.
“Through the dark?” says Baritone. He and Nasal are no more than ten paces from me now.
Nasal growls. “They are whisperers, aren’t they? Have them tune some crystals. If they want to keep their necks in one piece, they’ll keep the bloody things bright.”
Stars take me. Blood leaves my face, a chill settling deep into my bones. I went out looking for Viva Sylthia terror mongers, and instead I found hired thugs dragging a hundred whisperers to be sacrificed into Bahir’s care. Innocents. Like Leaf.
Another wail, this one too high to be an adult’s. Bile rises in my throat. A child. A precious, rare child. Little wonder Bahir and the Holy Guard do these harvests by night and in secret—seeing this much suffering up close might turn theminds of even the most devout Delta subjects. Better for the whisperers to remain a faceless evil, easy to blame and hate.
The promise of a bright future and the love of a goddess gives hope and purpose to those who have nothing left,Firehorn said.Desperate people need someone to blame. The suffering of a few to give hope and strength to the many is acceptable.
My hand shakes. Even if I turn around and race back to Delta now, the king will do nothing.
“Tune crystals? You see a pack full of living stones somewhere?” Baritone demands, the sound finally moving away from me. “We bed them down and keep watch. Pick one and make an example—that will keep them hobbled. Better one destroyed than several stray. How far do you want to sweep? I think rain is coming.”
“Half mile, no more,” the other replies. The sound of twigs crunching beneath their boots grows fainter until silence reigns again.
Watch and report. Observe. Don’t rush. Don’t interfere. And for stars’ sake, don’t risk exposure. That’s what Lord Gapral would tell me to do. But I can no more obey that than I could let a stable of horses be burned alive.
My body moves without consulting my common sense, taking me closer to the prisoners’ camp with each breath. Moving slyly through the woods is a painfully slow affair, and what would be a twenty-minute hike down a cleared road takes three times as long through untamed wilderness.
An hour. That’s what I think I’ll need to reach the prisoners.
Except I don’t have an hour. The sun is already setting and Baritone was right about the rain, the first drops of which are already pattering the leaves. With the gray skies and no moon tonight, the darkness is coming faster than it should. Another fifteen minutes and the forest will turn pitch black, making itimpossible for me to continue without breaking a leg. A light crystal would help, but it would attract the guards like moths. Which leaves me with two options—do nothing or use the road.
My gut churns at the thought of that exposed path. The guards who stride along it.Speed, stealth, proximity.I can’t have it all. I have to choose. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf bays a song, clear and defiant despite the lack of moon and pack. I am a wolf too. Not some girl Trace protects, but a predator. A force against darkness.
With shaking hands, I unstrap Leaf’s satchel from my thigh and slip it beneath the gnarled roots of a dense fir. If I’m captured, the love stone might lead someone back to Leaf, and I won’t risk that.
My heart races as I slip onto the open road and rush forward, pushing myself as fast as my legs can carry, my knives sliding into my hands. My best—my only—chance now is to beat both the setting sun and the two patrol guards back to the camp. Once there, I’ll have the element of surprise to conjure enough chaos for the prisoners to melt into the imminent darkness. It’s all about timing now. Timing and luck.
My feet pound the path lightly, the drops of cold rain splattering my nose and cheeks.Thump, patter patter.Thump, patter patter. I push myself forward. Faster. Smoother. The prisoners can’t be far now, not with a babe’s mewing cry sounding so heartbreakingly clear in the setting gloom.
I’m coming,I shout to the whisperers in my thoughts.I’m coming.
