marks of bootheels in the dirt? Three men were unable to walk by the time this was over.”
“Or two of them and Prince Rohan,” Feylin said, shivering.
“Did he wear spurs? These three did.”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Trained by his father and mounted by Lord Chaynal on a horse like that? No spur ever touched that stallion—nor any other Prince Rohan ever rode.”
She knuckled her eyes and said, “Darfir, put our lord on his horse. We’ll take him back home.”
“We follow the tracks as far as we can,” Lhoys growled.
“There’s no more light,” Darfir protested.
Lhoys cursed and spat, and set off anyway. Feylin caught up with him. “What if we find them? Four of us against however many of them? And with a sword at the prince’s throat? And what about the boy?”
“Small enough to carry, of course. I thought you were careful about observing things.”
“And I thought you were a goldsmith.”
Lhoys snorted. “Only after I had my bellyful of guiding other people’s riches through the mountains, girl. There are less dangerous livings.”
Twilight guided them to a rocky outcropping. Lhoys shook her head in defeat. “Six horses, by the scars on the bushes where they tied the reins. They took the harder path from here. Not even I could find them now.”
“Lhoys, look over here.” Feylin picked up a small, shiny object that had caught her eye. “It’s a coin—no, a medallion.”
He took it from her, ran a finger over both surfaces. “Minted back when the Merida held Stronghold. They had a legendary goldsmith then. I recognize the work.” He spat again. “Merida—damn them!” As they went back to the others, he asked, “Did you ever see his princess?”
“No. All the times they’ve visited, I’ve been out chasing dragons.”
“Fire in her hair and called to her hand when she pleases—but nothing compared to the Fire that will kindle around the Merida when she learns of this. She’ll lead whole armies to get him back.”
“They’ll kill him if she tries!”
Lhoys’ eyes glittered in the dimness. “You’ve never seen the princess,” he said.
Beliaev rubbed at the ritual scar on his chin and glared at the shy slivers of the moons just visible between the jagged mountains. In only a few days they would rise full and provide light enough to ride by. As it was, he was in constant danger of slipping on treacherous rock or missing an essential landmark. The timing had been all wrong, he complained to himself as he rode, and the bitch princess was not going to be pleased. Well, that was her problem, Beliaev thought, and cursed as his gelding’s forelegs skidded on loose stones. How could he have known that fool of a prince would go out sightseeing dragons so soon? How could he have anticipated that Rohan would ride through the very hills where Beliaev and his men were scouting suitable ambush?
They had arrived only yesterday. That meager stand of brush would not have been Beliaev’s choice for cover, but he supposed things had worked out profitably despite the haste of the arrangements. He tugged the lead rein and indulged himself by spitting on the prince’s blond head. Rohan was slung across the saddle like a sack of grain. Rope tying his wrists and ankles passed tight beneath the horse’s belly. Beside him was one of Beliaev’s dead, with a heavy cloth wrapped around his nearly severed arm so dripping blood would not provide a trail. The royal sword responsible for that death and yet another was now in Beliaev’s possession, along with the prince’s knives—he’d been warned about those—and the sleeveless golden robe. He rubbed his cheek to his shoulder, smooth silk and prickly silver embroidery luxurious against his skin. A pity the garment had been ruined by rips and blood, but perhaps the princess’ women could mend and clean it. Now that they’d finished their hellish dragon tapestries, they had nothing better to do.
His mount’s hooves skittered again, and Beliaev yelped a warning to the men behind him. Two of them were wounded, two of them dead and tied across saddles, and one was holding the bound and gagged squire in front of him. It had cost precious time to secure the casualties, and the going was slow with three horses on leading reins. But leaving the men behind was unthinkable. They were Ianthe’s and identifiable as such by their clothes—and that damned arrow it had taken so long to find in the dirt. The prince’s people must believe that the Merida alone