6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Evrard pulled them off the little-traveled road only when the sun began to fall behind the trees. Rory's stomach was growling; he and Gray had each chewed a little dried beef and a small piece of hard cheese during the day, but he was ravenous for real food. Something fresh and hot; he already missed Acadia's ability to make a delicious meal out of just about anything. Rory dismounted on shaky legs, stretching his muscles as he glanced around. Evrard had pulled them quite a bit off the road, deeper into the forest, where travelers on the road might not see their fire.

Of course, it wasn't likely that anyone would even be traveling this road, because they'd only seen a handful of people during the entire day. Rory had kept his eyes averted and his head tucked into his cloak, and as far as he knew, none of the few farmers they'd passed had even glanced their direction. Rory wasn't used to being quite so invisible and he wasn't sure he liked it.

On the other hand, traveling by wrapping his arms around Gray's firmly muscled midsection was definitely a positive. His legs were sore and definitely stiff, but the journey from Beaulieu to the valley had gone some distance to getting him used to long, tough days of riding.

"Shall I gather wood for the fire?" Rory asked. He wasn't much help setting up a campsite, as his guard had teasingly reminded him more than one evening on the road, but anyone could gather sticks and branches, and that was often the job he gave himself.

"What fire?" Gray asked blankly.

Rory was confused. "The fire. Aren't we stopping for the night? Having an evening meal?"

Gray dismounted, and reaching back into one of the saddlebags, rustled around for something, and then tossed it, without ceremony, in Rory's direction. He caught it, barely, and stared, more dismayed than he wanted to let on, at the piece of dried meat in his hands.

"We can't risk being seen," Gray said. "I'm sorry if your princely sensibilities can't live without a fire. Or a hot meal."

He was pathetic and spoiled. That was what Gray was truly saying, and Rory had to admit that he probably wasn't wrong.

"No," Rory stumbled, "it's fine. I was just . . ."

"Expecting something different," Gray finished, and while the words were sympathetic, his delivery was flat. "Expect it from now on. Your life is no longer as it was; it's changed." He turned and walked away, deeper into the forest, perhaps to relieve himself, or maybe just because after spending all day on Evrard with Rory, he needed some space.

Rory turned to Evrard. "Do you need anything?" he asked. After all, Evrard had been doing the lion's share of the work today. All Rory had had to do was hang on.

"Your Highness," Evrard said, "shouldn't it be I asking that question?"

"I really wish you would call me Rory," he pointed out. If Gray had been present, no doubt he would've said the request was pointless, but Evrard's constant deference was off-putting.

Perhaps because while he'd always known he was a prince; Rory had never seen himself as particularly prince-like. An impression no doubt encouraged by his perfidious aunt.

"Perhaps in time, when we get to know each other better," Evrard said. Rory had just spent the last twelve hours plastered over his backside, so he definitely felt like that statement could have been better phrased as never.

"Did you know those men who came to the valley?" Rory asked.

"Not personally, no," Evrard said, his voice careful, "but their purpose was well known to me. Her purpose has not changed since I rescued Gray fifteen years before."

"Why would someone want him?" Rory asked, resentment leaking into his voice.

Naturally, Gray would choose to re-emerge into the tiny clearing at the worst possible time. He was scowling, no doubt at Rory's words, and at the impression that he and Evrard had just been talking about him behind his back.

"There's a stream a little distance away," Gray said shortly. "You should drink some water."

"In time, yes, I will," Evrard said. Rory wished he could emulate the unicorn's abundant dignity—but perhaps without his smug condescension.

"It's a long journey to the Karloffs," Gray said, and Rory wasn't sure if the comment was directed at him or Evrard. "You should get some rest."

"Our young prince was asking important questions," Evrard said, much to Rory's surprise.

"He was?" Gray too seemed surprised, but Rory had a feeling that his astonishment had nothing to do with Evrard and everything to do with his seemingly unfavorable opinion of Rory.

"The woman you know as your aunt," Evrard said, looking at Rory, "who is currently the Regent Queen of Fontaine, is the same woman who sought to capture you many years ago, Gray."

Rory realized then that he had never seen Gray truly angry, he'd only ever been passingly annoyed. The expression on his face now was truly murderous—hard and taut, his features carved white in the setting sun. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded of Evrard.

Rory would have cowered if it had been him, but Evrard merely glanced up from the patch of clover he was chewing on. "It was not the right time."

"You let her take over another kingdom?" Gray challenged. "After what she did to Ardglass?"

Rory was shocked to discover that Gray was Ardglassian. Though in retrospect, he supposed he should have known. He had the big build, and the same dark hair that was so common in that country. Now that Rory was looking, he could see the similarities Gray shared with Anya, who had been a member of his guard.

Was still, he hoped, though he didn't have much faith that any of them had survived the soldiers who had descended upon the valley.

"I could not stop her," Evrard said. "It was not my responsibility and it was not the right time. But now Prince Emory, with your valuable aid, can begin to move against her."

"What did my aunt do to Ardglass?" Rory thought it safe to ask the question because Gray's face had softened, and he no longer looked like he wanted to choke the life out of Evrard.

"She was an advisor to the King," Gray said shortly. "And she conspired to control him by seducing him with power and drink."

"She is very good at getting what she wants," Rory said despondently.

"She needs to be stopped," Gray said. "I should slip into Beaulieu and gut her with my dagger."

"No," Evrard said firmly. "We will find the artifact that we seek in the Karloff Mountains and then, and only then, will we attempt to remove Sabrina from the throne of Fontaine. Things must be done a certain way. Now, I will find this stream and have a nice cool drink."

As Evrard departed into the woods, to Rory's astonishment, Gray shot him a commiserating glance. "There is no use asking why things must be done a certain way," Gray said with a sigh. "Because he will not tell you. It's infuriating."

"If you had known my aunt was behind the suffering in your country, would that have been enough to convince you to guide us?" Rory asked. It was one of the very first thoughts he'd had, when he'd realized the importance of what the unicorn had told them. Here was a perfect reason for Gray to agree—he would be able to enact his revenge on the woman who had conspired to destroy the kingdom of his birth.

But Gray shook his head slowly. "No," he finally said. "No, it wouldn't have been. In fact, I might have stayed further away. I might not have agreed at all."

Rory could not believe it. "But here was an opportunity to destroy the woman who tried to kill you!"

Gray only shrugged. "What's the point? There is always some noble who wants power and to control the people. What does it matter if it's Sabrina or some other bitch? It doesn't matter to me. All I wanted was my valley, and to be left alone in it. I don't want to be involved."

"And yet you're here," Rory said, mystified.

"I'm here because you convinced me with a logical argument," Gray said flatly. "That's all."

And Rory might have believed him before, but there was a flash of something in Gray's eyes when he talked of killing Sabrina, of marching into Beaulieu and gutting her. He might wish to be jaded and bitter and beyond thoughts of vengeance, but perhaps Evrard was right after all; there was still some unknown quantity left, hidden deep inside Gray.

"You should get some rest," Gray repeated again after a long silence.

And Rory supposed he was right; after all, even if some speck of honor remained in Gray, he could not possibly reach it tonight, and tomorrow would be another awfully long day. He sat down against a downed log and took his ugly brown cloak, wrapping it around himself. It might be hideous, but at least it was warm.

To Rory's surprise, he found his eyes growing heavy. Gray was right, their journey was long, and he would need all the sleep he could get, when he could get it. Rory closed his eyes and nodded off almost immediately.

He woke with a start, and even though the forest was quiet, the silence was eerie and wrong.

Rory's own breath was harsh in his ears, and he tried to muffle it against a fold of his cloak. He realized then that he couldn't hear even the rustling noises that Evrard generally made, or even Gray's short, compact breaths. Was he alone? Had they left him here, all by himself, in a strange, unknown forest?

A hand clamped down around his mouth before he could pant any louder, the fear and panic overtaking him. "Shhhh." Gray's voice was a harsh whisper in his ear as he struggled futilely against the much bigger, much stronger body holding him.

It was slightly less terrifying that it was Gray holding him, and Rory stilled. The night air continued to be motionless and tense, even as his heartbeat slowed back to normal.

"We're surrounded," Gray whispered so quietly that Rory barely heard him. "I don't know who it is. It might be the soldiers who attacked us in the valley."

If it was the soldiers from before, Rory knew they were dead. They'd been armed and mounted, and while he and Gray were currently accompanied by a magical unicorn, they had almost no weapons, or the experience to wield them. Gray was strong, but he'd spent his entire life on the farm. And Rory had stupidly eschewed the lessons that might have saved their lives tonight.

"Do you have your sword?" Gray asked, his voice impossibly dropping even lower. "I only have my dagger, and it'll be no use against fully armed soldiers."

Exactly the problem, Rory thought hopelessly. But he did have it, it was currently strapped to his waist and he nudged Gray's left arm. Rory felt him shift the position of his fingers, searching for the hilt. One moment, he was looking, and the next he'd clearly found exactly what he'd sought, because he was thrusting Rory away from him as he drew the sword, all in one smooth, coordinated movement. The sword glinted in the moonlight, silver shining along the blade. It was Marthe's job as captain of the Prince's guard to maintain the sword, with its two lion heads wrought in gold and their ruby and topaz eyes, and the blade looked impossibly sharp. Lion's Breath was the ancestral sword of Fontaine, and would no doubt announce Rory's presence to anyone who recognized it, but he knew Gray hadn't had a choice. He couldn't be expected to fight off multiple attackers with a little dagger.

Of course, it would be nearly impossible to fight off multiple attackers even with Lion's Breath, if Gray hadn't had any training in swordsmanship.

But to Rory's surprise, Gray held the blade confidently, with the assurance he knew how to use it, and called out, "Come out, and I will not kill you all."

A man, not dressed in the same unrelenting black as the soldiers from the valley, but instead in various patchwork fabrics—lush red velvet, bright green silk, and swirling orange and bright blue patterns—emerged from the trees beyond the clearing. He had long hair, even longer than Gray's, and it was almost as dark. "That sword," he said pointedly to Gray, "is not yours."

Gray swung it once, and then twice, the arcs graceful, his grip confident. Despite most of his brain occupied by frantically searching for a peaceful exit strategy, Rory had a stray thought. He cannot be just a farm boy. Not when he moves like that, not when he swings a sword like he was born to do it.

"It will kill just as easily as if it were mine," Gray said. "Tell your men to come out or I will return you to them in pieces."

It must have been an epic boast, a feint designed to possibly save their lives without having any of the skill to back up his words. Rory could come up with no other explanation. But, he supposed, he should participate as well, not just continue cowering next to a fallen log. He stood, pulling his own dagger, and wondered, not for the first time, where Evrard had disappeared to.

The man in front of Gray started to laugh. "You hold something of great value, my friend. Something we would like."

Gray took a single, menacing step closer. "The sword may not be mine, but it is not yours either."

"And the Autumn Prince? Is he yours as well?"

Panic closed off Rory's throat. They'd recognized him somehow. No doubt Lion's Breath had helped in his assessment of the situation, but somehow his hood had fallen, and his hair was embarrassingly distinctive. Maybe he should have ignored Gray and cut it off after all.

"This whore?" Gray said negligently, gesturing towards Rory with the sword. "You must not have seen the Autumn Prince up close if you think this cheap fake looks anything like the original."

Rory schooled his expression to take on the bored, indifferent look of someone who wouldn't care that he'd just been called a cheap fake. There was very little chance they could pull this off, but it was far better than any of the ideas Rory had come up with.

"You've seen the Autumn Prince?" The man took a step closer. Rory wished, belatedly, that he'd listened to Gray and rubbed some dirt on himself or something to obscure his features at least partially. There was nothing to be done about the hair, not now, but the rest? Rory knew he'd been too sure that nobody would ever recognize him.

"A real looker," Gray said. "Way more attractive than this one, for sure."

"And the sword?" A frown had appeared on the other man's face, like he was no longer quite sure. "That a fake too?"

"Real gold. Real silver. Real rubies, but," Gray swung the sword almost carelessly, "not the actual Lion's Breath. Like we'd have a priceless ancestral sword out here in the middle of nowhere." The last bit was muttered under Gray's breath, and Rory knew it was directed entirely at him.

"Still worth a pretty penny." The man crept forward half a step.

The sword stopped mid-swing, and suddenly pointed straight at the man's exposed throat. "That's close enough," Gray said, his voice growing hard.

"There's twenty of us and one of you. Two of you if you count your little prince for the night," the man said, and suddenly he was not smiling. Or laughing. Or joking. He was all seriousness, and Rory realized that they'd both been posturing, but the man had had the upper hand all along.

"This is his fake sword. He's a master," Gray tried bluffing, but the man shoved aside the words like he hadn't even said them.

"You're not unattractive," the man said, "and the ‘prince' is exceedingly so, even if he's a fake. Good money there. And the sword? That can be melted down." He smiled again. "You're coming with us, either easily and quietly or with twenty arrows in your back."

The clearing grew brighter as the clouds covering the moon gradually moved away and gold glinted on the man's hands as he pushed his hair back with a clearly studied nonchalance.

Rings, Rory realized. He's wearing gold rings on every single finger.

It was a risk, but everything had felt like some form of a risk since he'd left Beaulieu. He knew if he didn't do something to diffuse the situation, they could be carted out of here with half a dozen arrows each. Rory took one careful step forward and then another, watching the lines of Gray's back tense as he heard the leaves crunch underfoot.

"Gray," Rory called out clearly, hoping he wouldn't get shot, "it's fine. We'll be fine. Put the sword down."

Gray risked a look over his shoulder, his glare washing over Rory. "Put the sword down," Rory repeated, and then remembering the story Gray had attempted to weave, affected an imperious whine. "You're creating a scene and it doesn't matter who pays me as long as I get paid."

The man leered. "You'll get paid all right," he said reassuringly, and Rory had a feeling payment wasn't all he was promising. And that was, Rory considered, not all bad. He'd need to figure out how to get the man alone, anyway. Or at least as alone as their culture generally permitted.

From the way Gray had yet to lower his sword, Rory did not think he'd guessed who the man was, or considering how he'd grown up, it was possible that Gray had never encountered this particular nomadic tribe before. Gray didn't know how to deal with them, Rory realized, and he did.

"Gray," Rory repeated insistently, "please trust me." His words didn't really fit in with their act, but without them, he didn't think Gray would ever give up his weapon.

Rory watched as he re-gripped the pommel and then, finally, lowered the edge of the sword to the ground. The man snapped his fingers, and suddenly, an arrowhead dug into the side of Rory's neck. He glanced to the side and around the clearing, men and women dressed similarly, all with rings decorating every single one of their fingers and marching up their ear lobes in graduated sizes, materialized with arrows drawn on Gray and Rory.

Of course, there were far more trained on Gray than on Rory. That wasn't much of a surprise. Rory knew he didn't look like much of a physical threat, but he could use that to their advantage.

"Rory," Gray hissed as the newcomers approached him and took away his sword and Rory's dagger, tying their hands together in front of them with rough ropes. Rory looked closer and realized they were made of woven-together scraps of colorful cloth, some with gold thread and other bits with embroidery, all rubbing uncomfortably against his wrists.

"Can you get your knot loose?" Gray hissed under his breath as they were forcibly put together and marched deeper into the forest, surrounded by so many bows there was no possible way to escape. I hope Gray realizes he'd be shot in seconds, Rory thought.

"No, and I'm not going to try," Rory hissed back.

Gray stared at him incredulously, but didn't immediately go back to wriggling, trying to loosen his bonds.

They walked for what felt like hours. They walked for so long that Rory had to wonder how the tribe had even known they'd been there—surely the clearing had been so far from their encampment, they couldn't have known. And yet, Rory knew he must be wrong, because he and Gray were currently in their hands.

"Where did Evrard go?" Rory asked under his breath, when the first rays of dawn were beginning to creep across the forest. "Was he hiding?"

Gray shot him a look that Rory didn't quite understand. "He went to get water and didn't come back," he finally admitted. "It wouldn't surprise me if he knew this was coming."

"And what," Rory asked, his voice rising despite trying to prevent it, "he wanted us to get kidnapped?"

Shrugging, Gray turned away.

Even though there were very few other options available to him, Rory—not for the first time—contemplated whether it had been the smartest choice to select a farm boy who clearly wasn't who he seemed and a snobby, elitist unicorn to help him take back his kingdom.

Unfortunately, considering his hands were currently tied, they were being marched god knew where, and Evrard was missing, there wasn't much to do about changing plans now. Rory straightened his shoulders and dove deeply into his memory, because their fates probably depended entirely on his ability to remember everything he'd ever read.

A few minutes later, they came into another clearing, this time full of tents, all constructed of the same brightly colored patchwork as their captors' clothing and the ropes that were currently binding their hands together. A few smoldering fires dotted the ground, and horses grazed off on the other side of the tents. It was exactly as Rory had expected, and he set into motion the first part of his plan.

They were taken to the largest tent, but instead of being ushered inside, the man holding Rory's hands stopped him directly in front. Rory took a breath and gathered himself for the challenge to come.

He could feel Gray right next to him, bristling with indignity, straining at his bonds, and he prayed this would work, because surely any moment now Gray would attempt to escape, and would no doubt be killed in the process.

He cast his eyes downward, and then fell to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, head bent, all adding to the subservient vibe he was attempting to communicate.

"What are you doing?" Gray demanded, as their captors murmured to themselves, no doubt astonished that a stranger would know even one of their customs.

"On your knees," Rory hissed at his companion. "Don't look and for god's sake, don't say anything."

There was a long, drawn-out moment where Rory's heart sat in his throat and Gray did not move. Rory didn't know if this would work if he followed the proper etiquette and Gray did not. Truthfully, he didn't want to find out the hard way.

Finally, Gray dropped to his knees beside him. "This better work," he muttered under his breath.

Rory couldn't speak, because everyone was watching him, and one of the books he'd read had stated very specifically that once the ceremony began, the Seeker could not utter a single word before the Giver did.

But he did think that maybe if he managed to get them out of this mess, Gray might begin to find him a little less useless.

Rustling sounds emanated from the tent, and after a few moments, an older woman with long, dark hair streaked with silver, and braided with tiny silver bells, emerged from between the flaps. She took in Rory's position, and then Gray's.

And then she too fell to her knees.

We're on, Rory thought with determination, and began to speak.