The Crown Tower

CHAPTER 19

Dawn rose gray over Lake Morgan. Only the lap of water and the honk of geese broke the stillness that, with the rising sun, had replaced the roar of rain. Drifting in the river, the showers made it hard for Royce to see. The splashing surface threw water, making him blink. Most of the time he left his eyes closed. At least he didn’t need to worry about being soaked. They couldn’t get any wetter. He and Hadrian had drifted the remainder of the night, clinging to the box like rats as behind them the peal of bells faded. Both had fallen asleep or passed out-it was hard to tell which. The river had ushered them along at a fine pace, but with the morning light they and their box bobbed in still water amidst a silent world of mist.

“You alive?” Hadrian asked.

“If I were dead, I don’t think there’d be geese.” Royce tilted his head up to catch the arrow of birds heading south. “But maybe they’re evil geese.”

“Evil geese?”

“We have no idea what goes on in the water fowl world. They might have been a gang that stole eggs or something.”

“I’m guessing you have a fever.” Hadrian looked around, and when he spoke he sounded both surprised and happy. “This is Lake Morgan. That tavern we were in is along this bank somewhere.”

“It’s right there.” Royce pointed to the cluster of buildings to their left. The slight movement jolted him with pain.

“All I see is a hazy clump,” Hadrian said, squinting.

“Remind me when we get back and I’ll see if Arcadius will lend you his spectacles. And we can’t go to the tavern, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Dougan will help us.”

“Did you hear the bells last night? The roads will be filled with soldiers, and they’ll be swarming that tavern.”

“We could go to Lord Marbury’s home. He invited me last time. He’d help us. He hates the church.”

“Where’s Marbury’s home?”

“I don’t know … but Dougan would.”

“We can’t go to the tavern.”

“Only for a minute. We just need to ask. Besides, no one will be there at this hour.”

“You’re being stupid again.”

“Like I was when I came back for you? Like when I hauled you down the rope, and when I insisted we jump in the river?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“We need to get dry. I need to wrap your wounds better.”

“Is that your belt squeezing the life out of me?”

“You wouldn’t have lived the night without it.”

“I can barely breathe.”

“Better than bleeding to death.”

Hadrian’s shoulders were covered only by his wool shirt.

“Your cloak?”

“Part of it,” Hadrian replied. “Hey, if we’re going to survive, we need food, dry clothes, and proper bandaging. So we’re going to the tavern, unless you know someplace else we can get those things?”

“Normally I’d steal them, but normally I can walk.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I like being able to walk.”

“Okay, just hang on.” Hadrian began to swim, jerking the box, dragging Royce. Each pull sent bolts of pain through Royce’s stomach. He was thankful for the buoyancy. He let himself hang limp and felt his legs drag and sway as Hadrian splashed and panted.

The village looked dead. The only sounds came from a barnyard where sheep bleated and a goat’s bell clanked with a lonely sound. Hadrian crawled out of the lake along a rocky beach across the street from the tavern. It was daylight, they were in the open, across the way from the village common, and they were conspicuous. Anyone looking from a window, alley, or distant hill would notice them.

“I don’t think I can carry you,” Hadrian said. “So I hope you can walk with some help.” He unhooked the harness that had tied them together and slowly lifted Royce to his feet. The water had been cold, but as soon as he was out of it, the air hit him with a gut-wrenching blast that cut like ice. He shivered, sending dizzying stabs of pain through his body. His head grew hazy again. The darkness crept in, but he managed to hang on to both Hadrian and consciousness. He had little strength in his legs. They refused to work properly so that his toes often dragged. Almost all his weight was on Hadrian, who favored his own left leg as together they scraped across the gravel road toward the door of the pub.

Hadrian pushed on it. “Damn it. Locked.”

“Push me up against the door, and I’ll fix that.”

“No, we’re not breaking in. We’re looking for help.” Hadrian pounded on the wood, his fist making a soft muffled sound. They waited with Hadrian propping Royce against the doorframe. He pounded again. Behind them came the lonesome call of a loon. Hadrian turned to look out at the lake. “I hear they have good fishing.”

Royce lifted his head to look at him. “You’re a very odd man.”

“You were the one talking about evil geese.”

The door opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Dougan, who peered out with squinting eyes.

“Dougan,” Hadrian said, “we need help.”

The bartender took a quick look over their shoulders, then waved them in and closed the door.

“We just need some bandages, a needle and thread, some food, and maybe some dry clothes,” Hadrian said. “I’ll pay for everything.”

Hadrian pulled Royce over to the biggest table in the main room, a nice long maple with four sturdy legs, and laid him on it. While much warmer in the tavern than on the beach, Royce couldn’t stop shivering, and his head was clouding up.

Dougan, who was dressed only in a long wool shirt, wiped his eyes and yawned. “What did you two do this time?”

“Robbed the treasure from the Crown Tower,” Royce said, and caught a stunned look from Hadrian. “But it’s okay-we put everything back.”

Dougan smiled. “Ha! I don’t remember you being so funny.”

“Oh yeah,” Hadrian said, “he’s a hoot once you get to know him.”

Royce felt his cloak being pulled free of his arms. Then he was alone. He could hear Hadrian speaking to Dougan in another room. They were looking for cloth and a sewing needle. Water was dripping nearby as if the roof had a leak; then Royce realized he was the source. He lay like a sponge soaking the table with water … or was that blood?

The room was beginning to spin as Hadrian returned. “Okay, ah … we’re going to take a look now. This might hurt.”

Royce felt Hadrian jerk on the belt wrapped hard around his waist. It was like being stabbed again and for a moment Royce forgot where he was. He thought he might still be in the lake. It felt like he was drowning; then everything grew dark.

Pain.

He’d been out again. He didn’t know how long. He didn’t care. Royce knew he was awake because of the harsh ache that whirled around his body. He was certain that if he moved, the ache would change to something far worse. Lying still, his eyes closed, he heard nothing, smelled nothing. He could be anywhere, at any time. Back in Manzant, the loft in Colnora, the room in Glen Hall, somewhere on the road, in prison, in a coffin-so long as he didn’t open his eyes, no single possibility was any more likely than any other. He lingered in a state of possibilities until he heard the creak of a nearby chair.

“How you feeling?” Hadrian asked.

Royce wondered how he knew, or had he been asking that same question for hours? His breathing pattern had likely changed. Royce didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Like someone tried to kill me by slicing my stomach open, and then someone else tried to finish the job by drowning me in a river. How am I actually?”

“Not as bad as I expected. Not nearly as deep. Just cut through muscle and hit your lower rib, but I don’t think it broke.”

“Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m sure it hurts.”

“You think?”

“Loss of blood is the real danger-and shock to the body. I also put some salt on it. Dries things out and stops the wound from oozing and festering.”

“You a doctor too?”

“In five years of warfare you treat a lot of wounds. Plenty of trial and error. You should be glad you aren’t one of the first I tried to help. You’ll feel a lot better now. Twenty-seven stitches.”

“I’m so pleased you counted. Couldn’t have lived without that.”

Royce knew where he was the instant Hadrian spoke, but the whole picture was still forming. Tardy bits and pieces, slower than the rest, were ushered to their places. He remembered the call of the loon and Hadrian speaking about fishing before remembering that they had been in the lake. Recalling the swim, Royce was surprised to discover he was dry and dressed in a linen tunic. There was a blanket over him, several guessing by the weight.

“I have soup,” Hadrian said. “You should eat.”

Royce opened one eye and found Hadrian was sitting beside him with a steaming tin bowl he held with a towel. “Get that away from me.”

“Nauseous?”

“Ready to vomit.”

“Yeah, that happens. And you don’t want to do that or you’ll rip my stitches.”

Royce opened both eyes to properly glare. “Oh yeah, that’s exactly the reason I’m against it. I don’t want to ruin all your work.”

“Only trying to help.”

And doing a lousy job of it! Royce opened his mouth to say it but stopped. It wasn’t true. Truth was he’d be dead three times over if Hadrian hadn’t risked his life to save him. In some dark corner of his mind he found he was as upset about that as he was about the hole in his side-maybe more so. It didn’t make sense and was as disorienting as the pain. Why’d he do it? The question had been in his head ever since he saw Hadrian wearing the harness. Stupid didn’t cut it anymore. No one was that dumb. And Hadrian had the brains to bandage him, get them down the tower, and all the way to Iberton. Hadrian wasn’t stupid-crazy maybe, but not stupid. Had Arcadius put him up to this? Was this planned? Can all this have been-

No.

Even in his most diabolical, far-stretched, conspiracy-born theoretic imagination, Royce couldn’t nail this calamity to the wall of premeditation. They both had almost died. They still might. No one ever gives a damn about plans or loyalties when their life is teetering on the brink, and Royce could still see Hadrian’s swords snapping, the blade flying over the parapet. He remembered him slipping on blood and falling, getting a blade to his thigh. This hadn’t been an act.

So why, then?

Royce didn’t have an answer. They barely knew each other. They didn’t like each other. Royce would go so far as to say they hated each other, and yet … it didn’t make any sense. The one thing Royce did know, the one thing he was positive of was that he should be dead.

“Thanks.”

Hadrian looked up. “What?”

Royce scowled. “You heard me.”

“Maybe the struggle to get that word out is what was making you nauseous.”

Royce sneered, but wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it. He had only ever said thank you twice before. This made three. Far from being appreciative, he hated each time. The words were always bitter and came after weakness. “How’s your leg?”

Hadrian looked down at the bands of linen peeking through his torn trouser leg. “Not too bad.”

They weren’t in the bar anymore. Royce was lying on a bed in a small room with simple furniture. “We at that Lord Marbury’s place?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Dougan’s bedroom. He’s been very accommodating.”

“We going to Marbury’s?”

“Dougan says he was arrested.”

“When?”

“Couple days ago.”

“Where’s Dougan?”

“Went to fetch water.”

“Are you sure? How long does it take to walk across the street and back?”

“The well is in the village.”

“Well?”

“That’s what he said,” Hadrian replied.

“We need to leave-now.”

“Now?” Hadrian looked stunned. “Can you walk?”

“Push me up, and we’ll find out.”

Hadrian scowled and helped him to his feet.

The pain was sharp but tolerable-so much better than … was it the day before? Royce pushed off the bed as if he were a boat launching itself and stood hovering vertical. “See, I’m better,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“Dougan’s betraying us. Probably sending word to the nearest patrol, or maybe he’s standing on the highway trying to flag one down.”

“How do you know?”

“Who do you think got Lord Marbury arrested?”

“Why Dougan?”

“See anyone else here you remember? They covered for you, and now all of them-except Dougan-are gone.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Dougan lives here. The others were customers.”

“Uh-huh, and the last time we were here, Dougan told you everyone drew their water from the lake. Just walk out with a bucket and scoop it up, crystal clear he said. This village doesn’t even have a well, remember?”

“I’ll get our things.”

Hadrian left the bedroom, and Royce could hear him shuffling about the bar. Gingerly Royce followed, testing himself. He walked slowly using his hands, going from bedpost to doorframe to support post to corridor wall. Hadrian appeared with a bundle under his arm and his sword on his back. Giving an arm for support, they limped outside.

The sun was high, and in the distance Royce could hear villagers: the bang of doors, laughter, and the squeak of a wheel. Mostly he listened to the pounding of his heart in his head. His body wasn’t pleased. It had liked the idea of lying down on a soft mattress under layers of blankets and didn’t mind shouting that it wasn’t up to any more.

Progress was incredibly slow. They shuffled instead of walked as Hadrian drew him along like an anchor. They moved up the road but swung around the south side of the lake before reaching the highway. Houses clustered around the water’s edge. The only way to get free of people was to head southwest, uphill, into the heather.

They walked for what Royce guessed to be hours, a slow but steady pace into the hills of bristling grass and thorny bushes. Eventually Royce did vomit. He fell on his hands and knees and retched for several minutes, groaning in agony.

“What do you say we camp here?” Hadrian asked.

Royce was still on his hands and knees, staring at the grass and spitting. “Sounds good.” He crawled a few feet away and then collapsed onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky. Hadrian dropped to the grass beside him and the two lay shoulder to shoulder, panting for air, moaning in pain.

Royce wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Where’s that pitch-coated canvas you were going to make for me?”

“I forgot.”

“Can’t count on you for anything.”

“Nope. I’ll abandon you at the first sign of trouble.”

Royce turned his head to face him and waited until Hadrian looked back. “You know I would have,” he confessed. “I would have left you to die. Tried to, in fact.”

“I know.”

Royce stared dumbfounded. “And still you came back?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I’m stupid, remember?”

Royce rolled to his side, spit, and lay back down. “No, really-why?”

Hadrian looked up at the sky. “You’re my partner.”

Royce laughed and then cried out, “Don’t do that-it hurts!” He carefully sucked in air, taking several minutes to get his wind back. “Are you … you’re serious?”

Hadrian didn’t reply, and the two lay beneath the night sky just breathing as the first stars appeared overhead.

Merrick had tried to teach the constellations to Royce long ago. He only remembered the Great King, a series of stars in the north that were supposed to resemble a man on a throne, wearing a crown. People also called it Novron after the first emperor, claiming that having been part god, he had ascended into the heavens. Royce spotted the first of the familiar crown stars winking out of the twilight.

Merrick had taught him almost everything he knew-reading, writing, numbers, the stars-but if he’d been on that tower with him, Merrick would have let him die.

“You realize the moment you dropped that book, we stopped being partners,” Royce said.

“Oh yeah-you’re right. Huh. I should have left you for dead after all.”

“What’s the real reason? Just before we started up, you said that you were going to kill me after the job. You were going to show me how you use that big sword.”

“I did. Weren’t you watching?”

“Yes, I was, but you were going to use it to kill me.”

“Damn it-you’re right. I forgot.” Hadrian reached up weakly to touch the pommel of his sword. “Can we do that later? I’m pretty comfortable right now.” He let his arm slap back on the grass.

“Why’d you come back? Why didn’t you just leave?”

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

Hadrian shifted his legs and grunted, then took a breath and let out a long sigh. “I came back because that’s who I am.” He paused, then added, “You probably can’t understand that, can you?”

“It’s not a reason.”

“Okay, look, try this-I ran away from home, ran away from Avryn, ran away from Calis. And all I ever did was kill. I’m tired of it.”

“Killing?”

“Everything-you name it-I’m tired of it. Right now I’m even tired of breathing. Call it frustration if you want. I just got tired of running away. Mostly I’m tired of leaving people to die.”

“That kid? Pickles? The one I got killed?”

“You didn’t get him killed. Maybe I didn’t either, but it just seems whenever I run away, people I leave behind die. So if you’re looking for a reason, maybe it’s that simple. I was just too tired to run again.”

They both lay for a moment, panting against the hillside; then Royce shifted and grunted with the pain. “You realize we can’t go back to Sheridan.”

“I know.”

“Have to keep heading southwest now, and I don’t know anything about the area. We’ll probably get lost or walk into a road and a patrol.”

“Well”-Hadrian looked down at Royce’s side-“you’re bleeding again, and I think I am, too, so the good news is we’ll likely die before morning. Still, I suppose it could be worse.”

“How?”

“They could have caught us at the tavern, or we could have drowned in that river.”

“Either way we’d be dead. At this point I’m inclined to see that as better off.”

“Anything can always be worse,” Hadrian assured him.

They lay staring up at the sky and watching clouds blot out the stars. Royce heard it before he felt it. A distant patter on the blades of grass along the hillside. He turned once more to Hadrian. “I’m really starting to hate you.”

Burrowed into his cloak, Royce woke to the same roar and drumming of rain that he’d fallen asleep to, but the cold and wet had forced him to abandon any further efforts at sleep. With a shiver and grunt, he carefully inched himself up to his elbows and peered out of his hood. A thick curtain of rain muted everything, leaving the world as colorless as a corpse. Water flushed down the hillside, and because he was in a cleft, a rivulet had formed beneath him. His body acting like a dam left Royce sitting in a patch of water.

They were on the slope of a grassy hill scarred with rock and littered with bristling thistle and juniper bushes, everything prickly, a sea of burrs and nettles. Below, like rows of teeth, were stone walls bleached white and overgrown with moss and ivy. The mountains of Trent-if they were there-were lost to the rain. Royce had no idea where they were. He remembered little from their flight the night before and the opaque sky made it impossible to tell direction. He could see roads-nothing familiar, but the thin gray lines slicing through the hills below them were alive with riders. Men in pairs raced with cloaks flapping. There were larger groups, men on foot walking in formal lines. He also heard bells. At first he thought it might be a trick of the rain or his own tortured mind, but the sound came from every direction. It wasn’t until he managed to separate out different rates and pitches that he understood. Every village and town for miles was ringing the alarm.

Hadrian had bent himself upright as well. Pale and gray as the day, they both appeared as risen cadavers bewildered and surprised to find themselves still tethered to the world.

“What do we have for food?” Now that his stomach had settled, Royce was famished.

Hadrian looked about the slope. “Some of these look like berry bushes.”

“I meant, what did you get from the tavern?”

“I didn’t get anything. I never had time to ask Dougan for any.”

“Ask?” Royce was in the treacherous process of hoisting himself out of his tiny lake when he paused. “Why didn’t you just grab something? I thought that’s what you were doing behind the bar.”

“I was grabbing our clothes. I had them drying there.”

Royce looked down at himself. “Thank Maribor you dried the clothes.”

“What did you want me to do, steal from Dougan?”

Royce nodded dramatically.

“I’m not a thief.”

“Yes, you are, and you’d better get used to it.”

“You have to steal something to be a thief. I put the book back.”

“Tell them that when they catch us. I’m sure it will help.”

Royce flinched and winced his way to higher ground. Muscles stiff and sore, his abdomen burned, and he suffered bolts of pain when moving. He felt worse than before, not surprising after spending the night soaked in a cold puddle. Shaking with the chill and his waterlogged skin, just lifting his arms was exhausting.

“Do you hear bells?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes.”

“Those can’t be the ones from Ervanon still.”

“They aren’t.”

“You think it might be a religious holiday?”

“Nope.”

“This is bad.” Hadrian turned his head left and right, peering out through the rain.

His hair plastered to his head, his face pasty white, he looked beaten. Royce knew that stare; he knew those eyes. He’d seen them every day on the streets where he grew up. They were like the windows along Herald Street after the Sickness.

The fevers came every year to the city of Ratibor where Royce grew up, usually in winter, but once when Royce was young the Sickness invaded the city in midsummer. Unprecedented, they called it an ill omen. Everyone knew that was bad-it turned out to be worse than bad. Herald Street was one of the nice neighborhoods, one of the few in Ratibor. Royce liked to walk there when he was troubled, just to look at the pretty homes. It was how he dreamed, when he couldn’t anymore. That summer the houses looked different. It was hot and dry. The windows should all have been open trying to catch any breeze, but they were all shut, the curtains drawn. Pale lace that behind the dirty glass took on a particular color of gray-the washed-out hue of hopelessness, a sort of pallid vacancy that came with having time to dwell on tragedy. Hadrian’s eyes looked like the windows of Herald Street. They had the same color, the same closed-off emptiness, the same look of surrender.

“How’s your side?” There was hesitancy in Hadrian’s voice, a tinge of fear.

“A little better than yesterday,” Royce lied. He wasn’t sure why. What difference did it make? “So are those berries edible?”

Hadrian hesitated a moment, then turned to the bushes as if it had taken that long for the words to reach him. He stood up, slow like an old man, and Royce heard a sharp intake of breath when he put weight on his left leg. Walking over to the bushes, Hadrian stood there as if he’d forgotten what he was doing.

Royce watched. If it was going to happen, it would happen now.

Having lived through worse, Royce knew it could be done. He had never felt the gods had singled him out for punishment. That would presume he was important enough to be noticed. He was just one more overlooked life that should have ended early. He was just too stubborn to lie still and over the years had grown too mean to give in. But he knew nothing about Hadrian. He was a soldier, but what did that mean? Had he spent his few adult years riding on a fine horse with plenty of food, slaughtering unarmored footmen while he remained safe in a steel suit? Had he ever been alone, abandoned, and facing death?

If he was going to break, this would be the time. Few ever lost it in the heat of the moment. It was always afterward, once they had time to think. Then the windows were shut and the lace curtains drawn. Royce watched silently. The day before he might have taunted him, tried to push Hadrian over the edge. Instead, he just waited. He felt no sympathy-no one ever had for him. The moment stretched as Hadrian stood in the rain, looking out across the valley, not seeing, just staring.

Then he bent over and plucked a berry.

In a few minutes he returned with a cupped hand. “Blueberries,” he said, sitting down beside him. Royce tried one. Tart. He realized that while his stomach was better it wasn’t perfect.

“So what’s your story?” Hadrian asked.

“My what?”

“Your story-your history.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Do you know who your parents were?”

“No. My earliest memory”-Royce paused to recall-“was fighting a dog for food.”

“How old?”

He shrugged. “I don’t even know how old I am now. I was at a workhouse-a place for orphans. I escaped. I was five or maybe six by then. Stole my food after that, ate a lot better as a result. Got in trouble pretty quick.”

“City watch?”

“Wolves.”

Hadrian stared at him, confused. “What is this about wolves?”

Royce tried a second berry. Sweeter. “A kids’ gang. Finest group of pickpockets under the age of twelve. There are a lot of orphans in Ratibor. Competition is fierce. Must have been fifteen rival groups fighting for hunting rights. And there I was going it alone-oblivious. I didn’t stand a chance. Still, I was better at stealing. The Wolves saw me. I was in their area and they didn’t like it, so they offered me a deal. I could be drowned in the cistern, leave the city entirely-which was a death sentence at my age-or join them.”

“How were they?”

“Like anyone-only more so. Nice until you have something they want. They kept me alive.” He plucked another berry from Hadrian’s palm. “How about you? How’d you learn to fight like that?”

“My father. He started training me almost from the day I was born. Day and night, no days off, not even Wintertide. Not that there was much else to do in Hintindar, but he was fanatical. Combat was like a religion to him. I figured there was a purpose, a reason behind it. I expected he was grooming me for military service, thought he would send me to the manor to start as a guardsman, thinking I would work my way up to sergeant at arms maybe. If I was lucky, Lord Baldwin would be called to service and I’d go along. If I was really lucky, I’d do something heroic on the field and King Urith would knight me. That’s what I thought my father was thinking anyway.”

“What was he thinking?”

Hadrian shook his head slowly as he looked out at the lake far below. “I don’t know. But when I was fifteen, I asked when I would apply to the manor. Most boys started as pages much younger-fifteen was the age to sign up to be a squire if you were noble, or man-at-arms if you weren’t. My father said I wasn’t ever going to the manor. I wasn’t going to Aquesta either. I wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted me to replace him as the town blacksmith when he got too old to swing the hammer.”

“Then why’d he train you like that?”

“He never told me.” Hadrian popped the last of the berries into his mouth and chewed.

“So that’s when you left.”

“No. I was in love with a girl in the village-maybe not love, but as close as I’ve ever been, I suppose. I was going to marry her.”

“What stopped you?”

“I got in a fight with my rival-nearly killed him.”

“So?”

“He was also my best friend. We were both in love with her. Hintindar is a small place and didn’t have a future for me. I figured everyone would be better off if I left-me included. So I hiked out and joined the army. Been fighting ever since.”

Far below, two perhaps three miles away, Royce noticed a dozen men moving along the road. One was on horseback wearing black plate armor and a red cloak. The rest were footmen, some with pikes and some with bows. Out in front was a pack of hounds.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“They’ve got dogs-I hate dogs.”

“Who does?”

“That patrol.” Royce gestured down toward the valley.

Hadrian peered out. “What patrol?”

“The huge patrol down there.”

Hadrian squinted and shrugged.

“Trust me, there’s a dozen or so footmen and a knight wearing black armor, so he might even be the seret you met at the tavern. You didn’t leave anything at the tavern, did you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you dressed my wound, what did you do with the part of your cloak that was around me? Did you leave it behind?”

“Didn’t see any point in bringing a bloody rag.”

“Damn.”

“What? They have hounds?” Hadrian asked. “The dogs are hounds?”

“Yep.”

“But dogs can’t scent in the rain, right?”

“No … of course not.” Royce didn’t really know but he wanted it to be true.

“What are they doing?”

“Just walking.”

“Where?”

“Right below us.”

As Royce watched, the dogs veered off the road into the brush on their side. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

Royce lost sight of them as they disappeared under the heather. A moment later he heard them bay.

“Did I hear something?” Hadrian asked.

“They have us.” Royce pushed himself up, feeling dizzy the moment he did.

“I thought hounds couldn’t scent in the rain.”

“These can.”

Royce staggered up the slope, feeling like someone was sticking a hot blade in his stomach.

“We can’t outrun them, can we?” Hadrian asked, catching up.

“Not even if we were healthy.”

Behind them, the baying of the hounds blended into the rain and the sound of ringing bells.

Hadrian reached the crest of the hill first. “A farm!”

“Horses?”

“Not even a mule.”

Royce looked back and saw the patrol rushing up the hillside. The knight was out in front just behind the dogs. He didn’t think they could see them yet, but they would soon.

“Maybe we can hide in the farm?”

“Farm? What’s their crop? Rocks?” Royce asked.

“Better than getting caught in the open.”

The land wasn’t rocky so much as filled with rocks, which lay scattered on the grass like the remains of a stony hailstorm gathering mostly in gullies and at the bottoms of hills. They worked as effective obstacles, preventing anything close to sure footing as the two blundered down the slope.

Not surprisingly, the farmhouse, the barn, and even the silo were built of stacked stone. A rambling wall corralled a small flock of sheep, and there were a half-dozen chickens wandering the space between the house and the barn where numerous puddles formed in the mud to either side of a stony path.

Smoke rose from the chimney that poked out of the thatch roof, and both men made for the front door. Hadrian paused to knock. Royce walked in. An elderly man seated at a weathered table and a woman working near the hearth started at his appearance.

“Don’t move or you’ll die,” Royce said, struggling to stand upright and gritting his teeth to manage it. That was fine, clenched teeth just made him more menacing.

Hadrian followed him in. “Sorry about the intrusion.”

A boy around the age of ten trotted from one of the back rooms and halted, wide-eyed. The old man grabbed his wrist and jerked him to his side. White-haired and balding, the man moved quicker than Royce might have expected. He wasn’t as old as he looked.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the man asked.

“Just do as you’re told,” Royce snapped.

“My name’s Hadrian, he’s Royce, and we just need a place to get out of the rain for a bit.” Hadrian’s tone was gentle, and he was smiling-not sinisterly, not malevolently, or crazy-dangerous-like, just cheerful. If he were a dog, he’d be wagging his tail.

“You’re wounded,” the old man said. “Both of you-you’re the two thieves they’re looking for.”

Royce drew his dagger and let it catch the light from the hearth. That always had an effect. Alverstone’s blade looked like no other. “We’re also armed, dangerous, and as you might imagine, desperate.” Royce stepped closer, causing the man to stand up and move his son behind him where the boy tilted his head to see. “In a little while a knight leading a patrol of soldiers will arrive here. They will ask if you’ve seen two strangers-wounded men. You’re going to say you haven’t. You’re going to convince them we aren’t here and make sure they leave without entering this house.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because we’ll be in the back room with your wife and boy.” Royce paused to glance at his son for effect. “And if they come in, or if I hear you whisper-if you try to be tricky or sly-I’ll slit their throats.”

“He will not!” Hadrian said.

“Yes, I will.” Royce glared back over his shoulder with a whose-side-are-you-on look.

“Listen, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Hadrian said. “There was a misunderstanding, and a fight, and we defended ourselves. Now they’re after us, so we’d appreciate it if you could help.”

All three just stared.

Royce shook his head and glared at Hadrian. “They don’t care. All they know is we’re in their home, and they want us out. You can’t reason with these people. Those are their troops coming to protect them. They aren’t going to side with us.”

“Lord Marbury sided with us,” Hadrian said.

“And they arrested him for it, remember?” The house lacked windows, but he could see well enough through the gap between the door and the frame. Through the cracks he had a fine view of the barnyard and the chickens snapping up worms among the puddles. He could also see a bit of the main road. Nothing yet.

Hadrian took a seat, rubbing his leg above the point where he’d tied a strip of his cloak.

“You know Lord Marbury?” the old farmer asked.

Hadrian nodded. “Good guy. Had a drink with him recently.”

“When?”

“Four, five days ago.”

“Where?”

“Iberton, in a little tavern at the edge of the lake.”

The man exchanged looks with his wife, who maintained a scowl.

“Keep quiet,” Royce growled.

“We’re in their house looking for help,” Hadrian said. “The least we can provide is answers.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word least.”

A pot began to bubble.

“See to the pot, woman,” the man said. “No sense letting the meal burn.”

The woman hesitated. “Why not? They’ll just be taking it for themselves.”

“A little food would be nice,” Hadrian admitted. “We haven’t eaten for…” He hesitated.

The man nodded. “Get them each a bowl.”

“You’re a fool,” the woman said. She was plump with baggy cheeks, an extra chin, and pudgy fingers. Royce couldn’t help wonder how she got that way farming rocks.

“We don’t deny food to anyone under this roof.”

“They’re not guests,” she hissed.

“They’re under my roof.” He turned to her. He didn’t look like any farmer Royce had ever known. The body type was wrong, especially for his age. Decades behind a plow had a way of stunting a man, but he was tall, broad shouldered with powerful forearms and a straight back. “I won’t be accused of lacking generosity to strangers.” The voice was odd too-proud. Royce didn’t know too many farmers and had never spoken to one of these northern rock growers, but pride in the face of invasion was unexpected.

“They’re criminals-outlaws on the run with the justice of the church on their heels.”

The old man leveled a harsh look. “Lord Marbury is no criminal, but that didn’t stop him from being arrested. Now dish them each a bowl.”

“These two aren’t Lord Marbury. You shouldn’t help them. It’ll get you in trouble.”

“I’ve been in trouble before.”

“It will get us in trouble too. Think about me. What about your son?”

The man paused only a moment, then pulled the boy around so he could look the lad in the eye. “There’s doing what’s right, and there’s doing what’s safe. Most of the time you do what’s safe because doing different will get you dead for no good reason, but there are times when doing what’s safe will kill you too. Only it’ll be a different kind of death. The dying will be slow, the sort that eats from the inside until breathing becomes a curse. Understand?”

The boy nodded, but Royce knew he hadn’t a clue. Probably wasn’t the point, though. The farmer expected that one day the boy would have cause to remember the time thieves had burst into their house. Maybe then everything he was saying would make sense, or more likely it wouldn’t and he’d shake his head thinking what a fool his father had been.

The woman glared, then sighed. Grabbing a stack of wooden bowls, she moved to the hearth.

“What’s your name?” Hadrian asked the farmer.

“Tom. Tom the Feather. This here is my son, Arthur.”

“Good to meet you. And thanks for the hospitality.”

Bowls were set out. Royce ate his near the door, sitting on a bench he managed to drag over. He wanted to keep an eye out but couldn’t keep standing.

The rain pinged the puddles and ran off the thatch roof into a narrow gutter that circled the house as a drain. How can dogs track in the rain? It didn’t seem fair. Dear Maribor, how he hated dogs. Still, the rain must make it harder for the dogs to follow a scent, and there was always a chance that a squirrel or rabbit would ruin the whole affair. If nothing else, the weather would take a toll on the men. A knight used to sitting out storms in warm castles must hate the idea of wandering rocky fields in the wet. When faced with the expansive countryside, might he trade the soggy search for a dry hearth and a hot meal?

The woman handed Royce some lamb stew-a thick gravy rich with generous chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes. He could taste thyme and even salt. Everything was fresh. It was the best meal Royce had eaten in months, which left him puzzled. Royce imagined that the life of a farmer would be miserable, repetitive, filled with backbreaking labor easily destroyed by the fickle nature of weather. Yet, he supposed, when times were good, when the harvest arrived with a smile, they ate like kings.

Yip!

Royce heard the singular faint sound and paused, holding his breath.

Yip! Yip!

Dogs.

He pressed his forehead to the door where it met the jamb, staring out the crack. His sliver of the world revealed the road and movement.

“They’re coming.”