Page 57 of Vilest Things
Calla keeps her ears perked for chatter from the locals. She expects to hear gossip about travel surges beginning. Underground efforts to gather their best adventurers together and head for the borderlands. But the rural dwellers are much better at keeping mum than she expected, because Calla barely hears a peep. The silence can’t be because the provinces have absolutely no interest in intercepting the crown. Perhaps the Dovetail’s influence is widespread out here, and the people are doing their part not to ruin their plans.
Calla wipes sweat off her temple. Their surroundings have started to change from the flat fields of Eigi to the copses of trees farther north. They must be somewhere in the dead center of Leysa now, clattering through a dense forest along the Apian Routes. Though Calla rides near the third carriage and hovers safely at the middle of the delegation, she’s not paying as much attention as she should. They’re going so slowly—it’ll likely be another week before they get to the borderlands, and that’s already generous. In a week under her command, she would have reached Rincun by now. Shedid, in fact, last time she checked.
Her left ear thrums. Calla winces, her shoulder lifting to press against hereardrum. In these two days, her qi has mostly behaved too. She doesn’t know what triggers the outbursts, but there may be more to come given she hasn’t washed the sigil off her chest. She can feel its presence starkly. Not because she’s a little dirty—though she is. The sensation is more akin to a light pulsation, just beneath the skin.
“Highness, a little to the left, please.”
Calla grimaces, pulling her horse into alignment at the guard’s prompt. Underfoot, the gravel has turned rough and sharp. It’s been quite some time since the route was built—before the war, most definitely—yet the stones haven’t worn down. She throws a look over her shoulder, catching the guard’s eye.
“Pan, is it?”
Pan nods. He seems pleased that Calla remembers his name.
She gestures to the carriage beside her. “Not to toss blame, but this keeps gravitating closer and closer to me. What’s going on? Where did we hire these drivers?”
The third carriage driver frowns atop his horse, clearly offended, but he doesn’t say anything.
“It’s not his fault, Highness,” Pan replies. “There are probably eight people piled in there. The carriage is overloaded.”
That doesn’t seem right. Most of the guards are riding in accompaniment, so it is only councilmembers and staff within the carriages. With only eight councilmembers and roughly double the amount of attendants to aid their travel, surely there would be better distribution than that.
As Calla counts the vehicles, Pan must notice where her thoughts are going.
“Oh, the last carriage is empty,” he tacks on. “King August’s orders.”
That last carriage would most certainly not be left empty for a journey like this. What did Anton bring with him?
“You’re leaning again.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Calla grumbles, steering her horse to walk straight.
They ride onward. Overhead, the spindly ends of the tree branches wave in tune to their procession of hooves and wheels. Leysa’s trees will stay green allyear round. Just as San-Er hardly gets too cold—only wet and sweaty—Leysa is always slightly humid, bringing little change between seasons.
Calla remembers the first time she saw the forests. That earliest carriage ride from Rincun into San-Er, she forced herself to clamp down on her awe, craning her neck up and up and up to follow the claws stretching for the clouds.
Rincun doesn’t grow many trees.
Midday turns to afternoon. The skies thicken with quiet gusts of an easterly wind. Along the Apian Routes, there are pockets where the two sides of trees will crowd so closely they block out the daylight, and other pockets where the trees only grow short and straight, letting in plenty of the skies.
Calla feels the disturbance in the forest before she sees anything.
A chill skates along her shoulders. She’s irritated for a moment, suspecting that her qi is acting up again. She gives her left ear a harsh tug. The sting eases the prickle. Then the chill comes again, and her chest pulses hard.
She has no idea what incites her to do what she does next. Instinct tells her to put her index finger on the sharp edge of the saddle and press hard until she draws blood. When the trees rustle again, she hears it ten times as loudly. When the gravel path tremors underfoot, Calla pulls her horse to a sudden stop, listening.
There’s a turn coming ahead. The forest will rise in elevation, and Leysa’s fork of the Apian Routes pivots left on an acute angle to reach Talin’s main river.
“Your Highness,” Pan calls behind her. “Why have you—”
Calla leaps off her horse. “Get ahold of him,” she shouts, gesturing to the reins she abandoned. “Halt! Everybody else, halt, rightnow!”
Her command echoes through the forest with explosive force. She sprints along the line of guards and carriages, hurrying for the front of the delegation line where the Weisannas leading the movement turn to look at her, concerned. Galipei is among them, directing his horse around quickly. By then Calla has already hurtled past him, skidding to a stop.
“Give me a crossbow.”
The instruction doesn’t leave room for argument. Though Galipei looks hesitant, he reaches into the weapons bag hanging off his horse and throws a crossbow at her, then the accompanying bolts. Calla catches the bow with one hand, secures the bag of bolts with the other. Before she’s scarcely steadied her grip, she’s loading the crossbow, aiming forward, and breathing out.
“Princess!”
