Rika’s room felt swallowed by charcoal shadows, dust motes drifting like ash in the stale air. Golden sparks flickered behind her eyelids, reluctant to let her wake. She buried her cheek into the rough wool of her pillow, then forced her crusted lashes apart, wincing as grit scraped her lids. At the edge of the gloom, a tall figure stood backlit by a single candle, its melting wax forming orange rivulets down the sides.
“Rise. Day’s slipping away.” His voice was cool and relentless, like water wearing down stone.
She blinked twice, the last vestiges of sleep melting from her vision. He stepped aside, and the candlelight revealed every detail: skin taut over high cheekbones, a single braid of glossy black hair looping over one shoulder, a long coat of dark-dyed leather patched at the elbows. He wasn’t old, but the angles of his face and the calluses at his throat spoke of wilderness more than courtly salons. A grin curved his lips, exposing teeth unnaturally white, disturbingly sharp. Then those coal-black eyes caught hers, and her pulse thundered in her ears.
“Get up. The Queen sent me to guide you.” He flung a rough bundle onto her rumpled mattress. “Inside: buckskin breeches, a shirt laced with rawhide, sturdy boots. Dress and come to the hall. We leave at once.” He pivoted on his heel and shut the door with a decisive click.
As the guard’s footsteps receded, memories struck her like a hail of arrows: the Queens’s chamber fragrant with lilacs and violets, King Vardon slamming his jeweled staff against marble columns as lightning flashed through stained-glass windows, Prince Saad’s rough grip on her wrist, the crack of her palm across his cheek and the electric sting that followed. They were exiling her to save her life.
Her fingers trembled as she undid the coarse twine around the bundle. She lifted the stiff breeches, smelling faintly of tannery, then the matching shirt woven tight for travel. Beneath lay boots of supple lambskin, soles thick with stitching. She drew them on, each buckle a small battle. Before she’d straightened the final strap, the door banged open.
“What’s so slow?” His voice rang sharper than a blade’s edge. He stood framed in the doorway; damp light outlined his lean shoulders. “The Queen’s orders are mine too.”
“I….” Her heart thundered as she straightened, cheeks hot.
“Wear these.” He tossed the garments at her, new jerkin, snug leggings, a dark cloak. “Modesty is a luxury. This is only the first change.” He stormed off, leaving her breathless in his wake.
Tears stung her eyes, but she dressed without pause. In the dim corridor she noted with a shock: he and she now wore identical outfits, buckskin dyed black, cloaks clasped at one shoulder, and both their braids lay on the same side. She parted her lips to question him; a rough hand clamped over her mouth, nails grazing her skin.
“No questions until rest. Mirror my steps.” He dropped his hand, voice lowered to a soft growl. “Understand?”
She nodded, swallowing. He slung a canvas satchel over one shoulder and moved ahead with a panther’s grace. She followed him through the great dining hall where long tables sat cold and empty, past a row of kitchens where cooks murmured over steaming cauldrons and the scent of roasting meat clung to the air. He slipped into a narrow, torchlit passage she’d never seen before.
At last a heavy oaken door groaned open to the cool night. He locked it behind them, the key’s metal kiss echoing, then tucked it into his jerkin. They set off northward, skirting the outer wall where ivy and wild blackberry thickets pressed in. Rika stumbled over a deep rut, her boot heel caught, and she pitched onto damp earth, the ground sucking at her cloak.
He paused, turning to offer a gloved hand. His fingers closed around hers, cold and strong, hauling her upright. Without a word he resumed his silent stride into the dark hush of pines and oaks. Each time she faltered, his silhouette loomed at the edge of torchlight, his head tilting as if listening for her breath, then he melted ahead again like a shadow.
Her lungs burned, each step a reminder that she’d never run like this before. Branches clawed at her cloak and cheeks, unseen creatures rustled in underbrush, and the world narrowed to the sound of her ragged breathing and the crunch of leaves underfoot. An hour or more passed, time slipped into one endless ache, until finally they broke into a clearing bathed in pale moonlight.
A ring of blackened standing stones rose from the grass, and rough seats hewn from tree stumps formed a circle around them. The tracker retrieved an earthenware jug from a hollow trunk, lifted it to his lips, and drained half at a pull that rose his sleeves around muscular forearms. Then he motioned her down. Rika sank onto one of the stumps, pressing cool lichen into her ankles.
“We have far to go,” he said at last, voice soft like gravel sliding downhill. He set the jug on a mossy root and fixed her with those burning eyes. “Start with this: who are you, really? Why would the Queen trust you to me while I search for someone else?” One hand hovered over his knee.
Rika squared her spine, feeling the weight in her chest. “I travel as the King’s emissary,” she said, voice trembling but firm, “and I expect the courtesy due my station.” Her chin lifted, recalling the proud tilt her mother once wore.
In an instant his hand flashed, a knife’s flat side pressed to her throat, and the cold steel sank into her pulse point. Blood roared in her ears.
“Wrong tone,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous, as he slid the blade back into its sheath with a dull click. He took another pull from the jug, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “El said, ‘There’s a girl in the inductee wing. Bring her along.’ You were an afterthought.” He set the jug before her. “Drink. You’ll want it soon.” He studied her face. “You seem innocent enough. The Queen’s like a sister to me.”
She forced herself to breathe, summoned what courage remained. “Sir, introduce yourself,” she murmured, twisting the braid at her collarbone. “Perhaps then we’ll understand each other.”
For a heartbeat he recoiled, surprise flickering across his features, before his expression hardened. Rika pressed on. “I am Rika Gresso, the Queen’s maid. And you, master tracker, where are we headed?”
His whole form snapped forward; he gripped her arms with iron strength, yanking her to her feet so that the world tilted. His face loomed, every muscle taut beneath weathered skin; she whimpered, tears brimming. Then his grip slackened, the fire in his gaze cooling.
“I’ll tell you this,” he said quietly, voice almost gentle. “We’ve been sent to bring back Prince Blair.”
Rika’s heart lurched and stilled.
“You truly are just a maid,” he muttered, stepping back into the moonlight. “I thought you were a noble’s ward.” He frowned, as if puzzled by her presence here. “Why send a maid south of the Divisor?”
Color drained from her cheeks and her legs gave way. She sank to the ground again, the night air whipping tears from her eyes as she realized the truth: exile, disgrace, the Queen’s mercy all gone. Sobs broke free, echoing among the silent stones, and she wept for everything she’d lost.
Blair shouldered open the heavy door of Moor's tavern. Sunset spilled across the threshold, stretching his shadow into the smoke-hazed room. Two hooded figures in the corner tensed, hands drifting to hidden weapons. He dropped two coppers on the bar.
"Ale."
The bartender, a mountain of a man with a face carved from granite, slid a tankard toward him without speaking. Blair leaned against the scarred wood, eyes half-lidded but missing nothing. The central fire pit had burned low, casting more smoke than light. Farmers hunched over tables, mud still caking their boots, speaking in low voices about failed crops and rising taxes. A serving girl moved among them, her eyes vacant as if her mind had found safer refuge elsewhere. Near the back wall, two men whispered together, glancing toward the door every few heartbeats.
Blair caught the bartender's eye. "Know Finrod?"
The man's expression darkened. Blair's hand twitched toward his knife before he stilled it.
"Thanks." He carried his ale to a table near the dying fire.
He'd taken one sip when the door opened again. A thin man entered, a crystal pendant catching firelight before disappearing beneath his doublet. The newcomer paused, acknowledged the hooded pair with a nod, then approached Blair.
"Are you Luthor?" His accent shaped the words precisely, like a stonemason's chisel.
Blair looked up. "Finrod?"
"A pleasure." The man smiled thinly. "Join us. My friends would value your company." He reached for Blair's arm.
Blair moved faster than thought, twisting the man's wrist until pain hissed between his teeth. Finrod massaged his arm when released, amusement rather than anger in his eyes.
"No force needed," he said, settling opposite Blair. "We seek passage across the Great Waste to the Dragon Rest mountains."
Blair's heart hammered against his ribs. The Waste. Nine moons of needle-grass that cut like knives, of water holes guarded by things with too many teeth, of nights when the stars themselves seemed hostile.
"My fee will make the royal tax collector weep," he said.
Finrod produced a leather pouch that landed on the table with the unmistakable clink of gold. "Half now. Half upon reaching the mountains. We seek a stone."
"A stone?" Blair leaned forward. "Must be precious indeed."
"Beyond price." Finrod's slender fingers hovered over the pouch. "A thousand gold kings now. The rest when we arrive."
Blair nodded, mind racing with calculations. No stone was worth such payment. Which meant Finrod was lying, or the true prize was something else entirely.
"We leave at first light," Finrod said, rising. "Sleep well, guide."
Three days later, Merric led Rika through the crowded common room of the Wayfarer's Rest. Conversation stuttered to silence as they entered, then resumed with renewed vigor as the patrons decided two more travelers weren't worth their interest.
Rika followed him up a narrow staircase that creaked beneath their weight. At the landing, Merric unlocked a door with a brass key. The room beyond was small but clean, a bed with quilted blankets, a worn leather couch, and in the corner, a private washing area with a porcelain basin.
Merric inspected every inch: under the bed, the window latch, between floorboards. Only when satisfied did he turn to her.
"The bath will be ready soon. Use it, we won't find such luxury again for many days." He tapped the door. "Lock this when I leave. Open for no one."
A soft knock interrupted them. Two young men entered with steaming buckets, poured them into the waiting tub, and left without a word. Merric slid the bolt home and turned to leave.
"Is it safe here?" Rika hated how her voice trembled, betraying the fear she'd fought to hide for days.
Merric paused. For the first time, something softened in his expression. He knelt, bringing his face level with hers.
"Nothing will harm you while I'm here," he said, the gruffness momentarily absent from his voice. "Many would ransom a queen's maid, or worse. Rest. Bathe. I'll bring food and secure our next passage."
After he left, Rika waited until his footsteps faded before stripping away days of grime and fear. The hot water embraced her, steam rising to loosen the knots in her shoulders. She closed her eyes, allowing herself this moment of peace.
When she emerged, toweling her hair dry, she found the room transformed. A small table held a steaming bowl of stew, fresh bread, and a cup of watered wine.
And Merric, seated in the corner, watching her with those unfathomable eyes, as if he'd never left at all.