The Princess Will Save You, page 18
All three shook their heads.
“Does the stableboy?”
All three shook their heads.
He leaned into his brother’s ear, a whisper on his lips. “You and I will speak later, Tai.”
Then, without hesitation, Renard drew his own sword, the bejeweled hilt twinkling in the unforgiving sun, and stabbed Serville right through his side. Under the rib cage, astride the man’s chest plate, pinning the edge of the captain’s cloak as he ran him through.
Serville gasped, blood immediately soaking his elegant garnet-and-gold uniform. Renard had to yank with both hands to remove the sword. When he did, Serville fell from his horse.
Bile surged at the prince’s throat. Still, he forced himself to watch the lifeblood drain from the Ardenian onto the cinnamon sand.
His first kill.
When it was done, Renard looked to his men, who all sat atop their horses with mouths open in surprise. This was the type of uncertainty that rooted both fear and respect. It had to be done. Still, Renard swallowed again to ensure he wouldn’t vomit his breakfast into his horse’s snowy-white mane. “Strip him of his things, bury him, and give his horse to one of these three. They’re going to help us find the princess.”
“And then we’ll get paid?” the blond boy prodded. He was either overconfident or completely stupid; the prince wasn’t sure which. Renard was sure, though, of his growing annoyance. This boy’s temperament might not be worth his knowledge. The prince set his sights on the boy and made his voice as icy as possible.
“If we find her, you’ll get to keep your life. How’s that for payment?”
The blond boy said nothing and the guards went to work.
CHAPTER
31
AMARANDE pushed Mira to the limits of what she could run.
The sun was in the early hours of its long summer descent and the princess had set a course for a place she knew people would likely be in the vast space of the Torrent: the watering hole.
Before they’d begun to sprint again, the princess administered the only snakebite treatment she knew to work: removing Luca’s boot in case of swelling and covering the wound in a loose bit of cloth—another long scrap torn from her dress.
And that was it. That was all she could do.
Sucking the venom out was a myth. Cutting away at the infected skin, too—that didn’t halt necrosis any more than a pleasant bath. Over Mira’s hoofbeats and the rush of the wind, she could hear Medikua Aritza’s gravelly voice now, the old woman’s sharp eyes fixed on the princess’s face to make sure she was listening and not daydreaming about crossing swords in the yard.
Time spent is tissue lost—get anti-venom as quickly as possible.
Keep the person still—movement spreads venom.
The wound should be kept below the heart.
The first two instructions were an issue. Time was not on their side and keeping Luca still was an impossibility while thundering on horseback across the Torrent’s rivers of sandy earth.
Luca hung on to Amarande’s waist with renewed strength. And he made it a point to talk more than he did before, just so that she wouldn’t worry he’d fallen asleep or passed out or simply died on the back of her horse.
The stub of the watering hole loomed by midafternoon, and Amarande breathed a sigh of relief. They’d somehow managed to avoid the kidnappers, the inn and its keeper, and anyone else who would slow them down. Mira was running hot, her steps imprecise; she needed the break. Even in the state he was in, Luca was watching her vitals, paying close attention to the horse’s breathing and gait, making sure she wasn’t harmed from the hard ride. Whenever they had to slow to navigate a rocky path or tight, prickly brush, Amarande caught him detaching one hand from his hold on her and running it across the horse’s side, checking the rise and fall of her lungs.
Amarande dismounted and walked Mira toward the first of the trees shading the Cardenas Scar. Luca began to swing a leg off, too, but Amarande’s rebuke was immediate.
“No, no, no—walking will get your blood pumping, and that’s the last thing we need.”
Luca didn’t argue. “What’s the plan?”
“Find the anti-venom, pay for it, administer it, and then deliver you to Medikua Aritza before I alert the council to my return.”
“And if we don’t find someone with access to anti-venom?”
“We skip to the final two steps of the plan and hope I don’t have to amputate before we achieve them.”
Luca chewed on that. “What are you paying with? I didn’t see gold in the saddlebags.”
Apparently the fact that she was in a ball gown wasn’t the only thing he’d missed in those early minutes when they’d paused after their escape—perhaps that inattention was the poison already at work. The princess grinned softly and plucked the pouch from her dress. She tugged it open and tipped it his way; the diamonds’ facets shimmered in the light, dancing across Luca’s face. “Leaving right after dinner didn’t simply mean riding away in a dress. Until very recently, this was a necklace from the Itspi’s collection.”
Luca’s eyes settled on the sparkling gems. “Oh, Ama…”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Luca,” was all she said. Tagging on something like you’re worth it would only make it worse. That thing that had sat between them their whole lives reared its head again. He was worth these jewels and more in any situation; but as she was the princess of the sometimes-called Kingdom of Diamonds, the gems weren’t especially precious to her. All she would have to do was say the word on their return to the Itspi, and five other necklaces of greater value would be brought for her inspection.
And so she didn’t add to her sentence either. She wouldn’t cheapen what he was worth to her. He was worth literally everything she’d been through thus far, plus what was to come, and more—diamonds, battle, the political ramifications. Everything.
The princess stowed the jewels and guided their party carefully toward the trickling stream. She was after human interaction, but she stayed cautious, gauging the lay of the land before they made their presence fully known.
The banks were calm, everyone minding their own business—nothing unsavory or violent in progress. Amarande tied Mira to the stump of a tree at the water’s edge and helped Luca off the horse. Careful not to move too much, he sat immediately and began filling the waterskins. Amarande fished out some dried meat from one of the bags, handed some to Luca, and surveyed her choices as she chewed a piece herself.
There were four clusters of travelers—none she’d seen before. A pair of young men made old before their years by the brutal sun. Two women cradling babes in slings across their chests, traveling with a single man and a boy of six or seven. And three men who at first glance sent a chill up Amarande’s spine, because they looked far too much like the men who’d robbed her. They weren’t—their clothes and hair were all wrong, and none of them bore the injuries she’d dealt, but just the sight of three men like that traveling in a pack was enough to give her pause.
She decided upon the family. Amarande wasn’t comfortable around women with children, mostly because they made her think of the mother she never knew. She wasn’t much older than these babes were now when Queen Geneva decided her freedom was more important than her daughter. The tendril of a thought nagged at Amarande then—that when this was all over she should visit the Warlord and put a truth to what her mind wanted her to see a night ago.
Amarande had to cross the stream to get to them. Leaving her sword with Luca, she hiked up what was left of her shredded skirt, took off her boots and stockings, and carried them across. Her knife was hidden in one of the boots, ready should she need it as she waded across the water to negotiate. The women were crouched at the bank, swirling clothes in the waters, cleaning with only the anemic creek’s agitation.
Both women stopped what they were doing and straightened as she approached. One of the babies in a sling watched, too, the other child asleep. The man and boy didn’t join them, busy filling waterskins.
“Arritxu,” she began, addressing the women in ancient Torrentian as ladies—it was something Abene and Maialen had always told her was preferred here—“please, if you’d help me. My companion is in need of anti-venom for a bite from a Harea Asp. I have items for trade and can pay very well.”
The women said nothing at first. The one on the left—young with hazel eyes and freckled brown skin—swung her gaze over to the other woman before finally speaking. “That was no Harea Asp or your friend would be dead, not drinking water from the banks.”
Amarande’s smile dropped. “I assure you he came in contact with a Harea Asp. You are correct that the snake didn’t get a full bite—its fangs grazed his skin. Not a full shot of venom, but he’s feeling its effects.”
The other woman spoke—she was slightly older, with a few strands of silver sparkling in her dark hair. “I know of a healer who is very gifted. What will you give us to lead you to her?”
Here, Amarande needed to be careful. They didn’t have the antidote, so they would get no diamonds. The princess licked her lips, waiting for the right words to come.
“We have oats.” Luca was sloshing through the water now, holding out what was left of the small sack that had been the spark she needed to track him. He smiled at them, kind as always, then pulled out a few oats to prove the contents. “For your horses—or for your babies.”
Genius, Amarande thought. Diamonds were valuable here only for what they could purchase—multipurpose or hard-to-get items were at the top of that list. Oats satisfied both of those criteria, and Luca was cutting out the middleman.
The women eyed the oats and then each other. Finally, the second woman spoke again.
“For the whole bag, we can lead you to the Isilean Caravan, the home of the healer—gifted, very gifted—and her apprentice.”
The princess hesitated. Amarande didn’t want to waste time trying to find a nomadic city. That might take them in the wrong direction. And if they didn’t find the anti-venom there, it could be too late to get to Medikua Aritza at the Itspi.
And then of course there was her last run-in with a caravan. Which had not been pleasant.
But Luca was worth anything and everything.
Any decision she made from here on out would feel wrong, mostly because his life and her heart were riding on it.
The princess swallowed, unsure how to track a meandering city. Locating a caravan, let alone the correct caravan, wasn’t something Koldo or Sendoa had ever covered in her lessons. “How far is this caravan?”
“A couple of hours in the correct direction,” the younger woman said. “It is coming our way. We’re to meet it at the Hand, where it will settle for the night.”
Her best estimate was that there were still about fifteen hours of hard riding between them and the castle.
This was their best bet.
“Can you lead us there the shortest way possible? Please?” Amarande asked quietly, trying very hard to keep the hot desperation out of her voice, afraid it might scare them. Scare Luca. She wrapped a hand around his arm. “For him?”
The women looked to Luca, holding the oats out in front of his body while balancing on one leg. The golden color of his face had gone sallow, a clammy sweat cold over his brow.
The older one nodded. “We will lead you.”
CHAPTER
32
THE couple of hours to the caravan turned out to be a much shorter distance than Amarande expected because of one thing—the women and babes rode, while the man and boy walked alongside. They couldn’t run, only trot slowly.
Frustration built within the princess as Luca’s fever raged further. After twenty minutes, she was nearly at her wits’ end. “Can one of you please ride ahead with us? I’d like to get my friend to your healer as quickly as possible,” she pressed the ladies, who turned out to be sisters.
Amarande hadn’t asked their names, but Luca had. Of course he had. She didn’t trust them enough to use them. Until the anti-venom was in hand, they hadn’t earned her trust. “We’re almost there,” was all one of the women said. No description of where the caravan was supposed to be. No general idea of timing. No nothing.
Luca placed a hand on the princess’s shoulder. She tilted her head and he leaned into her ear. “I’m fine, Ama. Let’s not test their goodwill.”
She didn’t believe him. His palm was clammy against her shoulder—its cool dampness seeping through the overheated lace where her neckline and sleeves met. His grip on her waist had loosened, too, and if there was a single reason she was okay with the pace, it was because she was afraid he’d fall off. He’d also vomited up some—if not all—of the water and dried meat he’d had at their stop. This did not quell her serious concerns about dehydration. Every alarm bell she had was a-clang.
Ten minutes more and a disturbance in the sand fuzzed across the distance. The princess squinted and leaned against Mira’s neck for a closer look.
The caravan.
It stretched the full length of the horizon before them, snaking across the burnt earth in a southwesterly pattern. It was an entire city laid out in a line. Shops, taverns, service providers, vendors of all stripes, with you wherever you went. Like this, it was a much different creature than what she’d experienced the night before.
The princess pressed a securing hand against Luca’s weak grip at her waist and then dug her heels into Mira’s side. The horse shot out, a cannonball fired from the bow of a ship. Luca’s grip suddenly tightened and his body lurched forward into hers, his face pressed into her hair. He didn’t ask what she was doing—but their guides reacted.
“Hey! Wait!” That was from the man, who began running with his wife’s horse.
The younger of the sisters sped up to them, one arm lashing her baby’s sling tight against her chest. The child was miraculously asleep but wouldn’t be for long. Not with how his mother had to yell to be heard over the thumping of hooves and the blast of wind. “You can’t approach alone. This caravan doesn’t take well to strangers charging in and demanding things.”
“Then charge in with us,” Amarande shouted.
“Please,” added Luca for his princess.
The woman didn’t answer but maintained her speed.
Old Zuzen had taught the castle children that Torrent caravans came in two types—the kind that slowed at the approach of riders and the kind that kept going. Supposedly, the caravan that held the Warlord, the one she’d seen for those few short hours, was one that never slowed. This one was in that same camp, and Amarande’s blood prickled with something like fear as their escort and her babe pulled in parallel to the caravan. The woman was greeted by every person they passed, and the sideways looks tossed at Amarande and Luca turned into nothing more thanks to her presence.
The princess bit back a lick of regret that she’d been so impatient.
But … then the woman halted her chestnut steed, and Amarande had to yank hard on the reins to avoid flying past her. With the sudden lack of motion, her baby jolted awake and let out a cry.
“What—why are we stopping?” the princess asked, working very hard not to sound as frustrated as she felt.
The woman took her time in answering, first caressing her baby’s downy head. “The healer is at the back. The caravan will bring her to us.”
More waiting. The woman swayed in her saddle, and the child hushed—movement was clearly something he craved. No surprise considering his mother’s life.
Meanwhile, Amarande was ready to scream; watching the caravan crawl past was excruciating. By the time the woman said, “Ah, there she is,” the rest of her family had joined them, sour faced and breathing hard. The princess’s guilt grew alongside her frustration and worry.
The healer’s carriage was sunrise pink with a large illustration of a tincture bottle rendered in a bright cobalt on the side. The woman began to trot alongside. She pulled aside the fabric lining the windows. “Naiara, we have a snakebite victim for you. They can pay.”
At the last three words, the coach came to a stop and pulled off. Amarande breathed a sigh of relief and made to dismount her horse, but the woman held up a hand.
“A moment.” She entered the carriage and pulled the door shut.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Amarande muttered to Luca.
“Edurne hasn’t let us down yet,” he said, referring to the woman escorting them.
After the longest minute of her life, Amarande exhaled as the door opened. The woman popped her head out. “Enter, both of you.”
Amarande immediately dismounted, unlaced the saddlebags, and then held a hand up for Luca, helping him get off without putting too much weight on the leg. It’d begun to swell a few hours ago, and Amarande hadn’t been brave enough to check the snake wound at the watering hole, too afraid of what damage she might see.
The woman held the door open, her baby now wide awake, silent, and watching. Luca made it a point to smile at the child before he entered. Amarande followed him in, her eyes adjusting slower than she liked. The interior of the carriage had been ripped out—no seats, only open floor. Sitting on pillows were two women. One was old enough to be a lost sister of Abene or Maialen, Luca’s Itspi-found family after his mother’s death. The other was younger than either Amarande or Luca.
“Sit, sit. I am Naiara, and this is my apprentice, Señe,” said the old woman, smiling broadly. She still had all her teeth, and Amarande hoped this meant she was actually good at her job. She sighed as Luca sat down, and placed a hand on his face. “Oh, how lovely you are, kidege.”
Little bird. There was nothing little or birdlike about Luca, and something about the way this woman immediately gave him an ancient Torrentian nickname and pointed out his handsomeness made Amarande uncomfortable.
If Luca felt it, too, he did his best not to show it. His dimples flickered and Naiara seemed to enjoy that, catching eyes with Señe.
Amarande barged right past the pleasantries. She had no interest in giving these people her actual name, nor Luca’s. This was a transaction, and then they’d be on their way. But she did try to at least sound respectful. “Medikua Naiara—”
