not responded to my efforts to roust him. The innkeeper had followed Lord Golden out into the yard, remonstrating that we would find no other inn tonight, but the noble was adamant. He mounted, and without a word to us, stirred Malta to a walk. Laurel and I followed.
For a time, we kept our sedate pace. The moon had risen, but the crowding houses thwarted her light, and the occasional lamplight leaking through shutters made more shadows than illumination for us. Lord Golden’s voice carried softly to both of us. ‘I heard the gossip in the taproom and judged it best we leave immediately. They fled on the road.’
‘By going in the dark, we take a large chance on missing their trail,’ I pointed out.
‘I know. But by waiting, we might arrive too late to do anything but bury him. Besides, none of us could sleep, and this way we go ahead of those who will ride out tomorrow.’
Nighteyes ghosted up to join us. I quested towards him, and as we joined, the night seemed lighter around us. He snorted at our dust, then trotted up to lead the way. Linked by the Wit, he could not hide from me the effort that cost him. I winced but accepted his decision. I nudged Myblack to keep pace with him.
‘Our saddle packs seem bulkier than when we first arrived,’ I observed to the night as Myblack came abreast of Malta.
Lord Golden lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘Blankets. Candles. Anything else that I thought might prove useful to us. I ghosted the kitchens, once I knew that we’d have to be on the road swiftly, so there is bread in that sack as well. And apples. If I’d taken much more than that, it would have been noticed. Try not to crush the loaves.’
‘One would think you two had done this sort of thing before, Lord Golden.’ There was an edge to Laurel’s tone, and just enough query on the honorific to sober us both. When neither of us came up with words, she added, ‘I don’t think it quite fair that I share the risks of this venture, but still go blindfolded between you.’
Lord Golden spoke in his best aristocratic tone. ‘You’re right, Huntswoman. It is not fair, yet that is how it must remain for a time. For unless I am mistaken, we need to put on some speed. As our prince left this town at a gallop, so shall we.’
He acted as he spoke, setting his heels to Malta, who sprang forwards joyously to challenge Myblack for the lead. Laurel was at his side in an instant. Later, my brother. I felt Nighteyes part himself from me, both mentally and physically. He knew he could not keep up with the running horses. He would follow at his own pace and on his own path. That sundering wrenched me, even as I knew it was his choice and the wisest course of action. Naked of him, stripped of his night vision, I rode on, letting Myblack choose her path as we cantered three abreast past the huddled houses.
The village was small. We reached the outskirts swiftly. The moon’s light spilled down the ribbon of road. Malta broke into a gallop, and both the other horses sprang forwards to keep up with her. We passed farmsteads, and fields both harvested and standing. I tried to keep watch for the tracks of running horses leaving the road, but saw nothing. We let the horses run until they wanted to slow down and breathe. As soon as Malta tugged at her bit, Lord Golden let her have her head and we were off again. The two were more of one mind than I had realized. It was his complete trust that gave her such cheeky confidence. We rode through what remained of the night, and Lord Golden set our pace.
As dawn greyed the skies, Laurel spoke my thoughts aloud. ‘At least we have a good start on those who intended to ride out at dawn to see what luck their fellows had in hunting Piebalds. And clearer heads.’
She left unspoken a fear I knew we all shared; that we had lost the Prince’s trail in our haste to follow him. As the strengthening day hid the moon from us, we rode on. Sometimes one has to trust to luck, or to believe in fate as the Fool did.
There are techniques a man can use to deal with torture. One is to learn to divorce the mind from the body. Half the anguish that a skilled torturer inflicts is not the physical pain, but the victim’s knowledge of the level of damage done. The torturer must walk a fine line if he wishes his victim to talk. If he takes his destruction past what the victim knows can heal, then the victim loses all incentive to talk. He but wishes to plunge more swiftly into death. But if he can hold the torment short of that line, then the torturer can make the victim an accomplice in his own torment. Suspended in pain, the anguish for the victim is wondering how long he can maintain his silence without pushing his tormentor over the line into irrevocable damage. As long as the victim refuses to talk, then the torturer proceeds, venturing closer, ever closer to damage the body cannot repair.
Once a man has been broken by pain, he remains forever a victim. He cannot ever forget that place he has visited, the moment when he decided that he would surrender everything rather than endure more pain. It is a shame no man ever completely recovers from. Some try to drown it by becoming the perpetrator of similar pain, and creating a new victim to bear for them that shame. Cruelty is a skill taught not only by example but by experience of it.
– from the scroll Versaay’s Uses of Pain
As the sun rose, we rode on. Farmsteads, cultivated fields and pastures became less common, and then vanished to be replaced by rocky hillsides and open forest. My anxiety was divided between fear for my wolf and for my young prince. All in all, I had greater faith in my four-legged companion’s ability to take care of himself than I did Dutiful. With a resolution Nighteyes would have approved, I set him out of my thoughts and concentrated on the road beside me. The increasing heat of the day was exacerbated by the thickness of the air. I could feel a storm brewing. A heavy rainfall might take all trace of their trail from the road. Tension chewed at me.
Without speaking of it, Laurel rode close to the left-hand side of the road and I the right. We looked for any sign of horses leaving the road; specifically, we looked for sign of at least three horses, galloping in flight. I knew that if I were fleeing mounted pursuers my first thought would have been to get off the road and take to the woods where there was a better chance of losing them. I assumed the Prince and his companions would do the same.
My fears that we had missed their trail in the dark built, but suddenly Laurel cried out that she had them. I no sooner looked at the marks than I was sure she was right. Here were a plenitude of shod hooves leaving the road, and all in haste. The wide tracks of the great warhorse were unmistakable. I was certain we had discovered where the Prince had left the road with his companions, and where the mob had pursued them.
As the others left the road and followed, I paused and dismounted briefly on the pretence of securing our baggage better to Myblack’s saddle. I used the opportunity to relieve myself at the side of the road, knowing Nighteyes would be seeking sign of my passage.
Mounted again, I swiftly caught up with the others. A darkness gathered at the far horizon. We heard several long rumbling threats of thunder in the distance. The trampled path of the pursuit was easy to follow, and we urged our weary beasts to a canter as we followed it. Over two open hills of grass and scrub we followed them. As we ascended the third hill, a forest of oak and alder came down to meet us. There we caught up with the pursuers. There were half a dozen of them, sprawled in the tall grass in the shadows of the trees.
Their ambushers had killed their mounts and the dogs as well. It was a wise thing to do; riderless horses returning to the village would have brought out the pursuit much sooner. Yet the act sickened me, the more so because it had been done by those of Old Blood. It seemed ruthless in a way that frightened me. The horses had done nothing to deserve death. What sort of folk were these that the Prince
