Madeline Howard - A Dark Sacrifice

But why this, and why now? she asked. Something that felt like a shard of ice lodged in her throat. Even knowing the thing was impossible without far more magic than they possessed between them, she had hoped against all hope that this change would see her father back in his own shape again.

We have travelled far beyond the usual hunting grounds of the peregrine, he answered. I believe I may be more at home in these lands as a northern sparrowhawk.

There was movement on her left, a soft grunt as the Prince and Aell left their seats on the ground. Ruan glanced down at her with a thin smile and a slight lift of the eyebrows. She nodded, accepted the clasp of Aell’s warm, calloused hand, and allowed the man-at-arms to pull her up from the grass to her feet.

They were four now who had so long been five, because Jago had been lost with the boat, Jago who had been a stalwart, if generally silent, presence throughout the long journey and would be sorely missed.

Sindérian knew that her own grief was trivial compared to what the Prince and Aell must be feeling after all the years and battles they had shared with the tall, taciturn guardsman. If they could mask their grief with a stoic resignation, even use the loss to spur them on rather than weaken them, then so could she.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath, pushed back a strand of dark hair. “I am better for the rest,” she declared. “Let us go swiftly now.”

They set off again at a much brisker pace than they had used before, and the hawk flew circles around them as they went.

By necessity, they travelled very light. When they came to a farm, a village, or a settlement, the people were kind, if inclined to be wary, but in the end the farmers and villagers had little to spare, whether to sell or to give.

“They say they’ve sent great stores of food and other necessities to the capital for the troops that are mustering there,” the Prince reported, after an unsuccessful attempt to buy supplies. And in none of the places where he asked could he find anyone willing to sell him horses to speed their journey—not a shambling old carthorse or a wild, unbroken colt—though he offered all that remained from the sale of the brooch, and his beautiful and costly golden torc besides.

“Between the King’s levies and the stock they need for farming and breeding, they simply haven’t a nag to be spared—and that is that!” muttered Sindérian. “If we mean to reach the capital, we will have to continue on foot.”

And so they did, day after day, pacing out the dusty miles of the roads leading north, gradually making their way from the wide meadows, placid rivers, and reedy lakes of the Autlands into the more densely settled country of the Herzenmark, where vast fields of young wheat and rye rippled in the wind. At night they slept walled around by knee-high grasses; by day they developed blisters and wore out the soles of their boots.

Sometimes a farmwife would offer them fresh curds or buttermilk, and sometimes they were able to buy flat, hard loaves from a village baker. This bread, made with seeds and split peas mixed in with the salt and buckwheat, proved difficult to chew, but it always disappeared before it had a chance to go stale.

Otherwise, eggs, cheese, onions, and an unknown root vegetable that flourished in great abundance were the staples they lived on. All of them except Faolein, who naturally hunted, living on field mice and small, careless birds.

And everything considered, the travellers had a much kinder welcome in Skyrra than any they had received in Arkenfell—which was as surprising as it was convenient. In one place after another, it was easy to see that women and girls were carrying on most of the work of farming and herding, with the help of some grey-bearded ancients, very young boys, and a handful of men who had returned from the wars lamed, blind, missing a hand or an arm. Occasionally, patrols of grim-faced warriors rode by at a brisk pace, proving that the western marches had not been left entirely undefended.

Yet for Sindérian and her travelling companions this was a peaceful and pleasant time, far removed from the dangers that had dogged their footsteps through Mere, Hythe, and Arkenfell. And the days were so long and bright, the skies so enormous in that broad green country, sometimes the travellers felt giddy with light. None of them had ever been so far north, and the northern summer with its short, warm nights was an astonishment.

One night, she sat up late studying the sky for portents, a thing she had not dared to do since her first night in Skyrra. There were signs in plenty of conflict and turmoil, particularly among the Hidden Stars—those mysterious bodies and ever-changing constellations that only the magically gifted can see—signs, too, that events were hastening on to some terrific conclusion. She feared those events were leaving her far behind. With her wizard’s sight she watched as a celestial army charged across the sky: crystal-white warriors blazing with light, mounted on fiery rainbow steeds, but their banners were the colors of blood and smoke. For the space of a heartbeat, she thought she could hear the distant hurly-burly of their progress; then all was silent except for the breeze whispering in the grass.

“What do the heavens tell you?” asked Prince Ruan out of the darkness.

“What do you see?” she countered. Even after all these months, King Réodan’s grandson remained something of a mystery. He was a riddle and a contradiction: half Man, half Faey, and yet paradoxically something else as well that was neither one.

“I see the same stars that you do; I see battles and skirmishes,” he answered. “But not being a wizard, a magus, or an astromancer, I have no idea what they mean.”

“Nor do I,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. It was not much use, after all, to know that great things were happening and not know what or where. “There are days when the Sight is more a burden than a blessing.”

A long time followed during which neither of them said anything. Sindérian shifted her weight on the ground, relieving a cramp in one leg. “Guenloie—” she began at last, then fell silent.

Again came his surprisingly deep and melodious voice out of the night. “What were you going to say?”

“There is no guarantee that Guenloie will believe anything we tell her, no guarantee that she will consent to go back with us. Why should she care for our troubles, when her people are suffering, too?”

The grass rustled as he moved a little closer. Now she could see a pale, moonlight-colored blur where his face was, catch the glint of his odd turquoise eyes. “We are here to persuade her, are we not? And you most of all. Wasn’t that the reason you were chosen?”

And that, she realized, was the very heart of her fear. That she might fail, when others had already suffered and sacrificed so much. How could she bear it, with so much at stake? Except then Sindérian remembered that she was not likely to have to bear anything for very long. She was under Ouriána’s curse, and therefore under sentence of death.

The next day they walked until early evening before setting up a camp. As night deepened and the sky went from dark blue to a fathomless starry black, flames like the tongues of dragons started up in the darkness to the northeast. Sindérian guessed there was a large settlement somewhere up ahead, greater than any they had passed so far, and men were lighting torches up on the walls. Then Faolein swooped down, landing on his accustomed perch on her shoulder, back from a short flight scouting ahead. A few hours’ walk in the morning and you will reach Lückenbörg.

She drew in an unsteady breath, hope and fear warring inside her. In Lückenbörg, she and Guenloie would meet again. A bond had been forged on the first day of the little princess’s life, and all down through the years Sindérian had felt that connection tugging at her, even when everyone said—and she half believed it herself—that the child was dead. “Look to your foster sister. She has need of you,”