Page 12 of Disillusioned
Lilac couldn’t help it. “Permission granted, sir,” she laughed, his pleasant mood probably just what she needed to abate her building nerves.
She peeked through the curtains. Guards were lighting the bailey, starting with the torches lining the massive double doors before them. Stations were closing; sentries were changing the evening shift.
Finally, the carriage lurched, and she dug her nails into her palms as they rolled toward the open gateway.
Lilac was free. Free to leave her fortress, both in daylight and in a carriage. Free to travel to one of her towns at a moment’s notice, so long as the main roads remained accessible and the weather, fair.
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the slow rocking of the carriage as they burst into the glow of summer evening.
They embarkedwith the company of a light breeze, as well as the crickets, emerging with the drier season and whose faint song quieted her nerves. Working against that was Giles, as her coachman had introduced himself with an eager shout. He spent the first few moments of their trip loudly telling the guard riding slightly ahead of them—no royal livery visible, to Lilac’s relief—about a recent rodent influx in the stables and how he’d enlisted the help of a spoiled barn cat to deal with the matter.
She should’ve been grateful for any distraction, but she was too nervous, watching and listening out the window. Garin had told her to organize the carriage and that he would take care of the rest. He hadn’t lingered long enough to clarify what that entailed.
Giles must have greeted half a dozen carts traveling in the opposite direction over their first hour. Despite her instruction on history and the economy, she was still shocked to find the road that cut through Broceliande so…occupied. It was the turn of the season when crops increased, and with that came an influx of trade. Travelers on horseback and those with produce-filled carts and yawning drivers rode by, possibly with goods for the castle. Or perhaps they’d veer north to Mauron, south toward the riverside estates of Campeneac, or continue west until they hit the sea. The Chateau de Trécesson—and Paimpont by extension—sat at an agricultural crossroads from the growing coastal cities, so the roads were bound to be busy.
It wasn’t until they reached a point where the trees bunched together and a dense fog settled in, so thick that the sunlight struggled to reachanything past the road, that travelers grew scarcer, and the false feeling of reassurance from these passersby dwindled.
The road was empty for several minutes when, without warning, the carriage slowed. Giles had stopped talking some minutes ago. At first, she thought they might be allowing a faster carriage to pass, but when she peeked out the back window, she didn’t see anything beyond the red-tinged fog of the sunset and dark masses of trees close on either side.
The guard suddenly shouted something unintelligible.
Gravel crunched under the wheels as they came to a rumbling stop. Lilac was already fumbling with the latch of the door when the guard’s voice rang out once more, clearer this time.
“I said halt!”
She slipped through the carriage door and squinted into the haze. Nothing could be seen through the mist. She pressed herself into the shadows as her guard shouted again, and a form became visible—an advancing specter. It was obvious they were not interested in halting.
A cloaked figure sat atop an onyx horse with a obsidian mane, its hood obscuring any discernible features. The animal was not sleek like her Camargues or stout like the horses in town or the ones servicing her carriage and guard. The horse and its rider both towered, hulking toward them at a leisurely gait, right down the center of the path.
“We are traveling on official business,” her guard shouted. “I command you to move out of our way!”
The figure pulled on the reins and came to a stop in the middle of the road, still blocking their course. Before she could move from her hiding spot beside the wheel, a sharp whistle cut through the air. There was a grunt—a male’s voice—and then the mystery rider toppled forward off the horse.
The scream that ripped from Lilac’s throat left her lungs raw. She hadn’t seen the guard draw his bow; she should have stopped any further interaction before it began. She should have told them she was expecting company.
She darted toward the figure, despite the shouts of the guard and Giles, and dropped to her knees before him. She slid her arm under his neck, cradling him even as he groaned. The horse whinnied and shuffled back afew steps. Then, the man sat up as if there was a kink in his muscle and not a long shaft of wood sticking out of his shoulder.
“I agree to help retrieve your entourage, and this is what I get?”
That voice.
She yelped and shuffled back, dropping the hooded figure. With an irritated sigh, he righted himself and his hood fell back. Dark hazel-green eyes beneath cool blond brows sneered up at her.
The last time she’d looked into those eyes, they’d been red, and she’d been slapped in the face and nearly eaten. She watched from the floor, horrified, as Bastion gingerly straightened, gave her a half-hearted bow and extracted the arrow from his joint with a sickening squelch. He rolled his eyes and extended a calloused hand to her, but she refused, already back to watching the guard. The lad struggled with his bow and another arrow—which weren’t made of hawthorn, based on Bastion’s recovery.
Lilac shouted for him to stand down—for his own sake—when he raised it again.
It seemed either the boy hadn’t heard her order, or he was too afraid for his life to follow. Another bow was shakily fired—but not in their direction this time. It whizzed over them.
“Come now,” came a familiar voice, laced with dark amusement.
He was stalking toward them, hands in his pockets, seemingly materializing from the fog. She rose to her feet as he passed her and Bastion, walking toward the guard with a clean arrow in his hand.
Garin motioned hither to the guard. “Try again,” he said quietly.Encouragingly. “One more time. Try me, I won’t kill you. I’ll stand still.”
Giles gave a supportive clap and holler from the driver’s box as the horses secured to the carriage and the one under the guard stomped nervously. All the blood drained from the poor fellow’s face. His fate had been sealed the moment he’d been assigned to her journey.
Next to her, Bastion ran a hand over his face. “He is so dramatic.”
