heavy hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her against the cold wall.
Evelyn gasped.
Bertie rolled toward her, his eyes first surprised, then defeated. A rag in his mouth kept him from speaking, but his expression told her he wished she hadn’t come.
Omar chuckled, his rotten breath uncomfortably close to her face. “Figured you’d come looking for him. You know why he’s here, don’t you? You know he helped the prisoner escape.”
“Prisoner?” Evelyn tried to sound confused. Her grandfather hadn’t made it widely known that he’d imprisoned Prince Luke, though even the serving girls had figured out what he’d done.
“Don’t play stupid with me. Now that I’ve got you, we’re going to go wake up the king. He needs to know what you two have been up to.”
Across the room, Bertie’s eyes widened and he made desperate noises with his throat, but his bonds held him tight. He couldn’t help her.
With Omar’s grip digging into her shoulder, Evelyn had no choice but to go back up the stairs as he guided her. King Garren always hated bad news. But more than that, he hated being awakened in the middle of the night.
She was a little surprised that he hadn’t made good on his threat of marrying her to Omar already, though he’d muttered something once about political usefulness, which made her suspect the cunning king hoped to find a match for her that would benefit him more. After all, as the king’s granddaughter, she could technically be considered a princess—but that was only if the king acknowledged her. As always, it would come down to whatever fit his schemes.
But even her grandfather’s craftiness couldn’t compete with his anger.
Evelyn turned at the top of the stairs, headed in the direction in which Omar pointed her. She had no choice but to pray with her eyes wide open, watching for any chance to escape. Even as she did so, she prayed silently that Prince Luke would make haste. If her grandfather sent a party after him on horseback, the Lydian prince would need a solid head start to make good his escape.
Chapter Five
Luke fled hurriedly through the darkness, the new moon adding little light to the starry sky. He paused where the roundabout trail met the main road.
Which route should he choose? If he stuck to the road, he could be spotted and recaptured. Garren would surely take greater measures to prevent him from escaping again—either locking him under heavy guard, injuring him or killing him. Luke wanted none of those options.
Still, the road, rough and rutted though it was, would provide him the fastest route back to Lydia. Given the darkness of the night, Luke could waste valuable time picking his way through the thick forest that filled the borderlands between Lydia and the Illyrian mountains. He needed to alert his brother King John to all that he’d learned on his visit. He risked losing precious hours fighting the underbrush or, worse yet, becoming lost in these unfamiliar woods so close to Fier.
The road ran straight south, skirting the Lydian lands to the east. If Luke stayed on that path, he’d miss the outpost camp where his men were stationed but would arrived more quickly at Sardis, the Lydian walled city that sat at the point where the mainland joined the peninsula of Castlehead. The road would deliver him more quickly to his brother and offer him a hastier escape—provided he avoided detection.
Wary of the silence behind him, Luke stuck to the side of the road, following the path amidst the thick cover of underbrush that ran alongside it. Soon enough, when Fier lay far behind him and no sound of pursuit had met his ears, Luke gave up trying to force his way through the side thicket and ran instead along the road.
He reached a muddy place where the path crossed a small stream. There was no bridge here—the stream was not even deep enough to warrant that. Travelers would simply splash through the shallows or, if they wished to stay dry, pick their way across on the many stones that jutted up from the trickling flow.
Luke paused on one of these rocks and bent to drink. He’d traveled far since drinking the flask of tea Evelyn had brought him. It had been such a thoughtful gift, and one that could have labeled her a traitor if she were to be found out. He wondered at her allegiance. Was it only because of their shared faith that she’d decided to help him? Or did she feel the bond between them that Luke felt so acutely? In stitching closed his wounds, she’d knit the two of them together on a deeper level. He didn’t fully understand it himself, but she was never far from his thoughts, especially now that he’d spent time with her and she’d gone out of her way to help him.
Luke drank deeply. The memory of Evelyn’s kindness warmed his heart even as the sight before him caused his blood to run cold in his veins.
This close to the ground, he could see the surface of the path well in spite of the dim light. To his surprise, the road showed signs of heavy travel.
But why? Who could possibly have passed this way? These lands were Lydian territory now. King Garren’s men would have no cause to travel so far down the road, not since their retreat from the battle at Sardis the previous fall.
And yet as Luke analyzed the prints more closely, he saw they were all of similar size, belonging to grown men, not women or children. These were not the footprints of random villagers, then. No, though it was too dark for Luke to make out much detail, he’d tracked enough Illyrians in the borderlands to recognize the distinctive shape of the boots of the Illyrian soldiers.
And the prints were all pointed in the same direction.
Toward Sardis, Lydia’s great walled city.
His pulse quickened. Luke ran forward along the road, stopping now and then when a break in the trees provided enough light for him to check the path for tracks. Again and again he saw the prints and wondered at the number of them. At least a dozen men must have passed along the road since the last heavy rain— possibly many more than that, even. In places, the path was heavily trampled.
Where were they going? Who had sent them? What were they up to?
Luke ran until a patch of moonlight revealed only smooth dirt. He glanced behind him, but the shadows obscured the road. Somewhere since last he’d paused to check, the Illyrian soldiers had left the road.
But which way had they gone?
They were still a good ways from Sardis. If the soldiers had headed west again, they’d quickly find themselves back at home among the Illyrian mountains, a perfectly innocent place for them to be. Luke supposed, given the difficulty of travel through the dense woods, it was entirely possible they’d used their old road to access their own lands—a relatively benign breach of the peace treaty, one he would not begrudge them.
But if they’d left the road to turn east, they’d be deep in Lydian territory and could sneak up on the city of Sardis itself if they traveled far enough.
Luke panted, tired from his long run through the night. It was too dark for him to try to track the boot prints through the woods, and it would be foolish for him to attempt to hunt down a dozen or more Illyrian soldiers without any men on his side. He needed to alert his brother to King Garren’s activities.
The Illyrian boot prints might be innocent enough—and Luke hoped for the sake of peace that they were. But at the same time, he wasn’t about to forget he’d seen them. He’d dispatch men to scout
