Heartseeker Read online

  “Gareth!” I shouted above the din. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not to open any of the doors or window ports,” he answered, sounding queasy. “But you needn’t worry. I’m sure they’ll—” He was cut off by a loud thunk against the coach, followed by a bloodcurdling cry. “Make quick work of them,” he finished, not sounding at all sure of himself.

  “Do you know how to use that sword?” I asked as the crash of battle moved closer to the coach.

  Gareth puffed himself up a bit. “Of course I do!”

  A blue haze rippled round his head. “Gareth.”

  His shoulders slumped. “All right, I only know how to use it against a straw man in the training yard.” Gareth threw up a hand. “I can lay a twenty-piece place setting, tell the difference between a fish and oyster fork, and starch a napkin so that you could almost cut your finger on it!”

  “Well, unless you’ve got a whole lot of pointy napkins handy, I reckon the sword’s our best chance!” I shot back. “Maybe they’ll take care of them all before—”

  And at that moment, the privy exploded.

  Splinters of the door that modestly enclosed the moving water closet sprayed into the tiny space as a figure burst through it. The intruder was whip thin, like Master Iordan, but covered in lean muscle I could make out even under his loose gray tunic. His face was mostly covered by a dirty brown cloth, but such an entrance didn’t leave much to the imagination regarding his intentions. Gareth stumbled to his feet and made a clumsy attempt to fell our attacker with the sword’s pommel, but the man dealt him a blow to the cheek that put him right back on the floor. The corners of the villain’s eyes creased in triumph as he spotted me huddled under the bunk.

  “You come on out, then, whelp,” he growled in a voice full of salt and dust.

  The smell of the foul wood he’d just broken through mingled with the stink of a fellow living rough. I shrunk farther back under the bunk, but he was quickly on his knees, one arm thrust into my hiding spot, dirty fingers grasping.

  I’d no other weapons available than the ones the Mother gave me, so I bit down hard on the soft flesh of his palm. The man howled, jerking his hand away, but his next try snagged the collar of my coat, dragging me from my hiding place. I fought with every ounce of vinegar I had. I slapped at him with my hands, tried to stomp on his toes, and nipped at his fingers, but still he dragged me back toward the ruin of the privy. It was only an extremely lucky kick—straight to a part of him where Mama told me I must never ever kick my brothers—that stopped him in his tracks. He fell to his knees, clutching himself and letting loose some especially filthy curses as I clambered up on top of my bunk.

  It took him only a moment to recover and then he was on his feet again, enraged and ready to tear me in two. By that time, Gareth had managed to right himself and grabbed hold of the man’s arm, but was quickly flung aside. There was the ring of metal on wood and the fallen sword was suddenly in the villain’s fist, pointed straight at Gareth.

  “It’ll be a pleasure to put a little blood on the king’s colors!” he snarled, his arm swinging back for a killing blow.

  But it never came. From atop the bunk, I brought my nameday chest down on the back of his head as hard as I could. The good, sturdy oak box Papa built made a cracking sound as it connected with the villain’s skull. The man staggered forward, stunned, then crumpled in a heap on the floor of the coach, the sword skittering into the ruin of the privy.

  From outside, a shout of celebration echoed through the Wood. Gareth and I looked at each other with the same question on our minds.

  Who had won?

  16

  We were answered presently by the pounding of a fist on the side of the coach. “Open in the name of the king!” bellowed Bethan. “In the name of the king, open these doors! Only! Gareth!” There was a note of fear in her voice.

  Gareth was frozen, staring at the man lying crumpled at our feet, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

  “Gareth?” I whispered.

  Gareth didn’t look up. I could only hear the weak thread of his voice repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over. He didn’t even seem to notice the frantic pounding at the door.

  “Gareth!” I shouted. My voice broke the spell, and the young man scrambled like a rabbit to undo the bolts. The door to the compartment flew open so fast, he was knocked backward against the bunks. Bethan, wild haired and covered in blood and dirt, burst in with Master Iordan a step behind. She took in the whole scene in an instant—the destroyed privy and the unconscious villain. “Sweet All! Are either of you hurt?”

  “No, ma’am,” Gareth answered shakily. “Though it was the Mayquin who brought down the fellow on the floor. I . . . I . . .”

  “It seems you’re a young woman of many talents,” Bethan told me as two soldiers reached in to take away the senseless man. She laid a bloody hand on the steward’s shoulder. “I commend you for your honesty, Master Gareth. You’re an excellent steward—it would be foolish to expect a soldier’s showing from you.”

  My heart swelled a bit when I saw the effect of the captain’s words on my new friend. His head rose a little higher, and the flush of shame disappeared from his cheeks.

  The captain took a deep, shuddering breath. “I also commend you for the strength and swiftness you showed getting Only to safety.”

  “A swiftness that would not have been necessary if she had been confined to the coach!” Master Iordan rebuked.

  Bethan rounded on the inquisitor, who stepped back in alarm. “Master, three of my men died defending this caravan, including your miserable hide. I won’t have my actions questioned at a time like this.”

  Three men died? Defending me? The thought was so horrible, I could hardly bear it—three souls gone because of my stupid cunning. I let my head fall to the pillow and gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Even though the inside of the compartment smelled of blood, sweat, and privy wood, I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to face whatever was waiting outside. I squeezed my eyes tight shut.

  “Only?” Bethan looked into the upper bunk and spoke gently, as if I were a horse that might spook. “Only, are you all right?”

  My fingers crept into my pocket. By some good luck, the Jack hadn’t broken. The flame still danced, and I felt my hoofbeat heart begin to slow. Perhaps Lark’s clever magic had been looking out for me after all. I cleared my throat to make sure I had a voice to come out of it. “No, ma’am,” I answered, looking down at her. “But I’m not hurt much.”

  “Come on, come here.” The captain stretched out her arms to me, and I allowed her to pull me from the bunk. I expected she’d set me on the floor, but instead she clutched me to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in my ear. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  Before I could speak, she released me, brushing back the hair at the side of my face that was matted with blood. “There’s a stream nearby. Let’s get you cleaned up and presentable.”

  “Why, ma’am?”

  Bethan’s face was grave. “Because your duties as Mayquin begin now.”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE THE COACH, darkness had fallen and our traveling party had grown tremendously. At least a dozen more cavalry riders and a small battalion of foot soldiers had joined us and now sat, jawing in low voices over fires. More’n a few were being tended by a patchwoman, groaning as bones were reset or stitches needled through their flesh. Others stood on the edge of the fires—burly men with wild hair and thick beards. Whispers told me they were lumbermen from Lake-in-the-Woods who’d followed the second king’s company at the sounds of the battle.

  I was glad of the dark as I followed Bethan back to camp from a clearing not far from the coach. I felt cleaner, but the icy stream water couldn’t wash off the dread I carried. The night hid the blood on the ground and the broken arrows sticking out of the great trees. But far a
way in the woods were the sounds of shovels and pickaxes.

  The clearing was alight and dancing with flames of a great fire. Soldiers were gathered in groups, their faces weary with battle. More warhorses were standing in the shadows, being fed and watered by grooms. But most noticeable was a small group of ragged men at the far end, bound at the hands and guarded closely by soldiers with pikes and axes. The men’s fear was a presence in the Wood—it poured off them like a bad smell. An officer approached Bethan.

  “Captain, it’s nearly done.”

  “You’ve questioned them all individually?”

  The man nodded. “Dahl’s just finishing with the last one now.”

  Bethan introduced me. “Only, this is Captain Reynold. Joss, this is Only Fallow, the king’s Mayquin. I thought she might be of some assistance to us.”

  Reynold gave me a sharp nod. “I’m sorry your journey was interrupted by these scoundrels, Mayquin.” He looked round the clearing grimly. “This is no sight for a young lady.”

  I tugged at Bethan’s sleeve. “Ma’am, may I please ask—who died? In your company?”

  “Farren and Sweets in the first volley of arrows. Emerick took down two before he fell.” The fire deepened the sad lines in her face. “If I’d known he wasn’t long for the world, I’d have let him look his fill at the stream in North Hallow.”

  Mischievous Emerick and playful Sweets, gone in the blink of an eye. Though I didn’t know either of them well, their loss was heavy on my heart. “Would you please tell their families that I’m awfully sorry?”

  Bethan put a hand on my shoulder. “Of course. It’s kind of you to remember them.”

  In my mind, remembering them was the very least I could do. How do you repay someone who died for something you spent your whole life trying to keep a secret? “What did you want me to do, ma’am?”

  “Lieutenant Dahl is questioning one of the men who attacked us. I’d like you to observe. See if we can learn anything.”

  I squinted at the group of prisoners. There was something awful familiar about them. Though they were dirty, bedraggled, and beaten, the sun-kissed skin and green eyes were unmistakable.

  “They’re Ordish!” I gasped.

  Captain Reynold sniffed. “Who else would be bold enough to attack a royal caravan?”

  “Are these the same men who burned the grain store at North Hallow last week?” inquired Bethan.

  “We haven’t questioned them on that point yet,” Reynold replied, “but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “B-but . . . but,” I stammered, “the Ordish don’t attack folk! If anything, it’s the king that—”

  Bethan’s head snapped round, her eyes flashing. “Be silent!” The captain’s command rang loud and harsh in the clearing, turning all heads in our direction. I couldn’t help but shrink backward—any of Bethan’s earlier good will toward me had vanished, leaving harsh correction in every tired, dirt-caked crease of her face. “Your duty is to serve His Majesty now, not question his judgment, is that understood?”

  It was like I’d been bitten by a trusted guard dog. Chastened, I ducked my head so she wouldn’t see my eyes welling up. “Yes’m.”

  Captain Reynold cleared his throat. “We’d be most grateful, Mayquin, if you’d assist us in the interrogations. These fellows call themselves the Woodland Scourge. They say they’ve been making a living thieving from logging camps and the odd traveler on the road while plotting attacks against royal properties.”

  I noticed one fellow at the edge of the bound pack listening close to our conversation with wide, fretful eyes that darted away nervously when I twigged him.

  “Is that true?” I prodded. “What the captain said?”

  “Yes,” he replied roughly, turning away to reveal a bloody gash beside his ear. My heart twanged fiercely—the “scoundrel” was barely a man and looked so like Rowan—a fresh wave of longing for my friends and home crashed over me.

  But man or no, he wasn’t telling the whole story. Green fire lit his dark hair and eyes, dancing with flames of the campfire.

  “Well?” Bethan’s voice was still sharp and pointy.

  I shook my head. “Whatever it is they’re hiding, they’re afraid.”

  Captain Reynold frowned. “Clearly our questioning techniques leave something to be desired. Perhaps we’ll get more out of the last one. Mayquin, this way, if you please.”

  The two captains led the way down a dark path to a smaller clearing not far off, where there was only a meager fire, with three people beside it—one on his knees in the dirt, one looming above him, and Master Iordan watching sullenly from farther off.

  “Dahl,” Bethan called out as we approached.

  The soldier turned. To my surprise, it was another woman, slightly shorter than the captain and thicker of limb. A scar ran down the side of her face from her eye to her chin, making her look every bit as fierce as the men in her unit. “Captain.”

  The thin young man on the ground was in a bad state, bound hand and foot and facedown in the dirt, groaning. Several livid bruises stood out on his neck and bare shoulders. I had a suspicion Lieutenant Dahl put them there.

  “Anything new?” asked Reynold.

  “I’m afraid his story’s the same as the others, Captain,” Iordan drawled, his sneer showing his distaste for the whole ordeal.

  Bethan frowned down at the prisoner. “Attacking a royal caravan is a bit of a step up from petty theft, isn’t it?”

  The man spat on the ground, his face still in deep shadow. “We strike blows against the king when we can,” he grunted. “Didn’t reckon on the second company.”

  A dazzling display covered the prisoner—blues, greens, and reds shattered the darkness of the Wood, lighting up the clearing around him. I had to hold in a gasp of delight at the beauty of it. Men had died. Blood had been shed. I couldn’t delight in villainy at a time like this. But as quickly as it had come, it vanished as the man mentioned the second company.

  The three soldiers looked at me expectantly. Their attention crawled over my skin like bugs. “It’s true they weren’t expecting another regiment, but the rest of it’s a pack of whoppers.”

  Dahl turned on the man with a snarl, her arm raised to deliver another blow. “Do I need to rattle your brains a bit more, wetcollar?” She pointed at me and grabbed the man’s chin to wrench his face upward. “It’s pointless to lie. Do you know who this is?”

  If the Mother herself had thrown back night’s quilt and appeared in all her glory on the spot I was standing, I couldn’t have been struck more speechless than when I found myself staring into the eyes of my brother.

  Jonquin.

  The long tongues of the campfire’s flame licked up into the night, showing me what I couldn’t believe was true. His hair, darkened with coal bark, had grown longer—long enough to cinch in a knot at his neck. His skin was a deep shade of gold from days on the river, but sure as eggs were eggs, it was Jon. I’d never been so happy or so terrified to see someone in all my life.

  His mouth slacked at the sight of me. His lips even began to form my name, but Dahl’s temper was quick, and her fingers bit into his jaw.

  “I said, do you know who this is?” she barked.

  I gave the slightest shake of my head I could manage. Relief ran cool through my veins to see his eyes harden, making him look more like the desperate men in the clearing than a boy from Presston.

  “Some soldier’s whelp? How should I know?” he spat, the falsehood exploding around him in shades of green.

  Dahl’s fist flew in the darkness, and Jon yelped, a fresh trail of blood blooming from his nose. “Don’t!” I shouted, before I could keep it in. My hands flew to cover my mouth, but all the kingsmen in the clearing were staring at me. “I’m sorry,” I said in a small voice. “I’ve . . . just seen enough hurting for one day.” A knock echoed inside my head. I shu
t my eyes to drown it out.

  Iordan drew himself up, trying to look as menacing as the soldiers. “How would a water-dwelling brigand such as yourself have any idea who this child is? Is she the reason you and your fellows attacked this caravan?”

  Jon looked up, but pursed his lips, remaining silent.

  The inquisitor turned to Bethan, his voice low and urgent. “The existence of the Mayquin was only known by members of the king’s council.” Iordan glanced down at Jon. “If these wretches knew about her, it probably goes without saying that we have a problem.”

  Even in the flickering firelight, I could see the blood drain from Bethan’s face. I thought quick on the inquisitor’s words. Only members of the king’s council knew I was coming.

  Bethan knelt down beside Jon. For a moment, I had a wild fear that she’d see it somehow—the same shape of our eyes or the way both our noses turned up just a hair at the end—but she was too full of battle rage to notice.

  Her voice was soft, but with sharp knives in it. “Who told you about the Mayquin?”

  “Captain,” Iordan interrupted, “think carefully before you ask a question whose answer might be dangerous to hear.”

  But Bethan wasn’t listening. “Attacks by your people on royal property have been stepped up recently, but this is madness, even for you. Your weapons?” She drew a sword from her belt, clearly taken from a prisoner. “The Ordish have never fought with blades like these. And the bows you used are finished finer than any Ordish hunting bow. These aren’t your weapons, which means they were given to you by someone else.”

  The inquisitor took a wary step toward them. “Captain, please—”

  “Hold your tongue, master!” barked Bethan, not taking her eyes off Jon. “Who gave you the weapons? And who told you about the Mayquin?”

  The clearing held its breath. My brother, beaten though he was, didn’t shrink beneath the captain’s contempt. He wasn’t the boy who’d been licked by the Bonniways in the orchard anymore. He was a man, staring down something bigger and scarier than him without flinching.