must leave this area immediately and never return.”
Chapter Two
Luke stared at the woman, unable to understand. Perhaps his grasp of the Illyrian language wasn’t all he thought it to be, or maybe the woman hadn’t realized what she was saying. But he still had hold of her hand. “Leave?”
“When you were wounded, they wanted you alive for bargaining. King Garren thinks you’re dead. If he learns otherwise, he’ll capture you again.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
“But there’s a peace accord—”
“A highly resented peace accord.” The woman pulled her hand free of his. “Which King Garren would get out of if he could. He wants these borderlands back—he speaks of little else. If he had a hostage of rank, he could bargain again. I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re important to them—”
“You don’t know who I am?” Luke felt a ripple of surprise. Surely the woman had only attended to his injuries out of deference to his position. His brother had said as much—his wound was a mortal one; any healer worth anything wouldn’t have wasted time on one past saving. This woman had stood in the gap between life and death and fought for him tirelessly. Why would she do that if she didn’t know who he was?
“I don’t,” she repeated, then kept on with her insistence. “But if the king thinks he can use you to regain some of what he’s lost, they’ll take you prisoner—”
“How do you know this?”
“King Garren is in residence at the fortress of Fier.”
So, despite more comfortable holdings farther inland, Garren chose to reside near the Lydian border. Why? Garren had tried to trick the Lydians before. Luke wouldn’t put it past the man to try something again. Especially if what the woman said was true. “He resents the peace accords?”
“He lost a great deal of land and some degree of standing—”
“But he’s gained peace. Isn’t that worth the sacrifice of some bear-infested woods?” He looked back at the furry carcass, which lay still in the sunlight. The woods were dangerous and unproductive, save for berries, roots and lumber. The hunting was fair, but few ventured this deep into the forest to hunt when fine stags could be gotten much closer to the villages. Lumber grew there in abundance, more than either kingdom needed. What use could King Garren possibly have for the land?
“I—” The woman stopped, her lips pursed, open slightly, lovely as any flower in bloom. “I think peace is worth sacrifice, but King Garren is a greedy and prideful man.”
Luke wished he still had hold of the lovely woman’s hand. She valued peace? Of course she did; women often did. But to speak openly against the Illyrian king, and to a stranger...she must be a woman of courage. But then, any woman who’d venture into these treacherous woods had to be brave. Or desperate.
She looked up. “The sun grows higher in the sky. I must be getting back.” She stepped away from him.
He stepped after her. “I will accompany you.”
“No.”
“There are dangerous bears—”
“Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Flee from this place if you value your freedom, and do not return.” She continued past him, ducking through the brambles toward the path.
Luke bent low to follow her. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“It doesn’t matter. You shan’t ever see me again.”
“But I must. I owe you for my life.” He reached for her hand, but she was too quick for him. Already she’d navigated the brambles and reached the path, scurrying away.
“You asked me to make a request, and I have. If you value your life, you’ll leave these woods at once.” She broke into a full run, darting under branches, vaulting fallen logs, her basket swinging in one hand as she held her patched skirt with the other.
Luke hesitated. She seemed distressed by the late hour. If she was a slave, she might be punished for returning late to her work. He would do her no service by detaining her further.
He needed to ponder his next move.
Besides, he had already learned much. He knew the pale-haired woman was real, that she lived within the local Illyrian fortress of Fier. The stronghold was perched high among the mountains, its rocky walls gray as the rocks from which it sprang, draped in clouds for much of the year, a harsh place where many wars had been plotted.
He knew she cared enough about him to warn him away, though she did not know who he was.
Intriguing.
As a prince, second in line to the Lydian throne, he wasn’t used to anonymity, not even in these woods, where he dressed to blend in. All his men knew him. The Lydian villagers knew him.
But the pale-haired woman didn’t know him, and yet she’d saved his life. She’d warned him away from this place, though she might have profited greatly by turning him in. Indeed, she seemed more concerned about keeping him safe than pleasing her master.
Why?
* * *
Evelyn ran, stopping frequently to look behind her. There was no sign of the man, but she knew he was stealthy. He’d snuck up on her so quietly that morning, it was almost as though he’d been waiting for her there. But why would he do that?
The thought slowed her steps, as did the memory of his face, the touch of his hand, the smile that had played at his lips as he’d spoken. Truly, she’d been drawn to him while he’d lain at death’s door, bloody and grimy from battle. To see him standing at his full height, his cheeks flush with health, sweet words on his lips...her heart might burst.
He was alive!
That alone was enough to lighten her steps, no matter what other burdens she still carried. True, she worked as a lowly servant in the household of her grandfather, the king. And yes, King Garren had sworn she’d labor in his household until she’d worked off all of her deceased father’s debt—which meant she’d be bound to this place for the rest of her life and still die indebted.
But the soldier she’d tended to had lived after all. God had answered that prayer. Perhaps God would free her from her servitude or give her little brother, Bertie, an opportunity to escape this place he so despised and return to their homeland in the Holy Roman Empire.
Evelyn arrived at the kitchen exhausted and found the room abandoned. Of course the cook would have snuck off again, probably to drink or to go back to bed after rising early to make breakfast. From the looks of the washbasins, she hadn’t begun cleanup.
Grabbing a wooden tub, Evelyn hurried to the dining hall, where flies had found the remains of the meal. Embers in the fireplace burned low, and Evelyn hurried to stoke them. The breakfast cleanup could wait. If she let the fire burn out, they’d task her with getting another started in the drafty hearth—she’d done that and come away with a blackened face enough times to know she didn’t want to struggle with the smoke
