The Essence (18 page)

A snapping sound behind him made her reach for the dagger at her belt.
“You weren’t followed were you?”

He held out his hand to stop her, straining to see in the direction he’d just come from.
“No. No. The camp’s sound asleep. Just an animal, I’m sure.”

“So? What about the queen? Is she dead yet?”

She may as well have used her knife to stab him in the chest.

He didn’t want to answer this question. Wasn’t sure how.

“We have a problem. The queen is missing.”

She exhaled loudly, not even trying to keep quiet now, and he could feel her disapproval. Why did he even care after all these years?

When her steel eyes found his through the darkness, their intensity hit him like a blast.
“Find her.”
Was all she said.

But it was enough.

He nodded, knowing he had to make things right. Knowing he had to convince her she could trust him with this, that it hadn’t been a mistake to choose him for this mission.

“There’s a party of ten of the commander’s men riding for the palace,”
he told her
. “You need to intercept them. You need to stop them from getting their message to Maxmillian.”
He wiped his brow, which was covered with a thin sheen of sweat despite the chill in the air.
“We can’t have him sending backup.”

“I’ll take care of my part. You just concentrate on yours.”
She didn’t say another word, just turned on the heavy heel of her boot and, without a sound, blended into the shadows once more.

He waited there a moment longer, waited till his heartbeat settled. He hated that she still had the power to make him feel so . . . so weak. So impotent.

He’d prove otherwise if it was the last thing he did.

He was just turning when he heard the sound again, a snapping, and then a voice. “Who was that?” One of the soldiers asked, revealing himself as he stepped forward.

“I—I . . . what are you talking about? Can’t a guy have a few minutes of privacy?” he stammered, not needing to feign surprise. He hadn’t expected to rouse suspicions.

“Sure you can, if you were actually alone. But I heard you . . . talking to a girl. Who was she, because I know she wasn’t one of ours?” The man just stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

He shook his head, taking an uncertain step forward. “I can explain . . . ,” he started, and then he tripped.

Or pretended to trip.

Instead, he moved with the kind of stealth the soldier never could have expected, not from him.

His knife easily pierced the soldier’s thin tunic and burrowed into the flesh just beneath his rib cage. He shoved the blade farther, driving it in as far as he could. Even in the pale moonlight that found its way through the clouds, he could see the man’s eyes go wide, his mouth opening in shock as he bent forward, his hands reaching for the dagger in his gut. And then he let go of the handle. He lunged at the soldier, throwing one arm around the back of the man’s neck, his fingers already slick with blood as he gripped the soldier’s stubbled chin. At the same time he reached all the way across the man’s chest with his other arm, his fingers digging into the muscular shoulder.

And then he jerked the soldier’s chin. Fast and hard.

So hard that a cracking sound filled the night.

For a moment, the only thing he heard was the beating of his own heart and the blood that rushed past his ears.

As the soldier, his eyes unblinking, crumpled to the ground in front of him, he let go of the body, pulling a kerchief from his back pocket and wiping his hands on it.

He wished she’d been there to see how trustworthy he really was. How far he was willing to go to get the job done.

He stayed there a moment longer, waiting to see if anyone else was coming, if anyone had noticed that he’d slipped away. But there was nothing.

Just silence and darkness.

And then he heard it, nearby. The high-pitched whistle—
her
high-pitched whistle.

Just as the first snowflakes of the season began to fall.

xiii

I watched as hands that should’ve belonged to me reached for a small crystal bottle. My skin was paper thin and covered in brown spots, and even without testing them, I already knew my aged legs were useless. I uncorked the bottle with my crooked fingers and brought it to my nose. The perfume within released a floodgate of memories that I’d thought were long ago suppressed—memories that I knew, even within the confines of this dream, were best forgotten. But it didn’t stop my mind from drifting.

A memory within a dream.

The scent brought back images of blue flowers. So fragrant and lovely. So plentiful, floating atop the water along the riverbank. I’d only been a child then, I thought, a little girl. But even now, the memory was lucid and strong.

How long ago had that been? my dream self wondered.

Too long. Another lifetime.

An older girl—who I knew was my sister—had led me to the shore so she could admire the blossoms. It was blistering. The midday sun had reached its peak in the vast sky, and even children understood the perils of standing too close to the water’s edge.

But the flowers were so beautiful. My favorites, I recalled, and I was certain I could reach one—just one—before harm could find me. I’d watched the waters as the scorching sun traced a path along the sky, as I patiently calculated the shifts in the currents, searching for any sign that a predator might be waiting, just below the water’s surface. My sister waited, too, indulging her youngest sibling, certain I would never find the courage to try to pluck the flower.

But she underestimated her little sister, and I grew bolder, more confident, and soon I was standing right at the river’s edge, water lapping at my bare toes.

“Take care,” my sister called in a language I didn’t even know I still recognized, still not worried for me.

I took another step, and the slippery sediment below the water squished beneath my feet, pluming outward like smoke and making it impossible to see where I stood. But I liked it, the slick feel, and I took another step, kicking up more of the silt.

The flowers were just ahead of me, their fragrance thick around me, and I leaned forward, the water reaching my knees now. My fingertips grazed one of the petals, sending the flower drifting away from my grasp.

I looked at the still surface, trying to decide. I was already deeper than I wanted to be, deeper than I should have gone. But it was right there, one more step and I’d have it, there was no reason to think I couldn’t do it.

I held my breath and lifted my foot out of the muck in the bottom of the river. But when I set it down again, it wasn’t on the same slimy surface on which I’d been standing before. It was on something rigid, something scaly . . .

. . . something
alive.

I’d tried to stay awake for the rest of the night after I’d been roused by the dream, unwilling to let Sabara infuse me with her memories once more. I hated that she’d found a way to get to me, to try to manipulate me, even if I couldn’t be certain it was intentional.

Although with Sabara, everything was intentional.

No matter how hard I’d tried, though, no matter how hard I’d fought it, sleep had eventually claimed me.

We’d awakened that morning to a dusting of snow that coated everything like frost. It didn’t stick, and it no longer fell from the sky, but the chill never left the air. And as we climbed higher—moving farther north—I heard my teeth chattering more and more frequently. My fingers felt like icicles as I clutched the reins.

The horses we’d been provided were sturdier and more muscular than the sleek, long-legged ones I’d trained on at the palace. Even their coats felt thicker beneath my fingertips, as if they were bred for this hostile terrain. Everything they were outfitted in was dark and fashioned from iron and leather, making them look as ferocious as the land they traveled.

By the end of the first day of riding, every bone and every muscle in my body ached, my back most of all. I did my best not to complain, or even to wince, since I knew how important it was that we keep moving. My comfort couldn’t be a consideration.

When we stopped at a trickling glacial stream to let the horses drink, I thought of the dream I’d had. As the day stretched and my mind wandered, I thought of it often, despite my best efforts to push the dead queen from my mind.

As much as I knew the dream hadn’t belonged to me, I couldn’t help wondering if it was really hers. If it was truly a memory or if Sabara was simply toying with me.

Somehow she’d managed to make me feel something other than revulsion.

I’d feared for the child in my dream. My heart had stopped and my skin had puckered with dread for her.

I didn’t want the little girl in the river to be Sabara.

And I didn’t want to waste any more of my time thinking about her.

Zafir kept his gaze on me, almost as often as he watched the new riders who’d joined us. I think he trusted those who accompanied us even less than he trusted Florence and his son, Jeremiah, never turning his back to them.

Avonlea had come along too, although whether it was by her choice or by Florence’s order, I didn’t know. She hadn’t been given her own mount, and was forced to ride with Jeremiah. It was a tight fit in the saddle, but she didn’t seem to mind, and whenever Florence wasn’t watching the two of them, I caught her turning in her seat so she could talk to Jeremiah. She sang to him, and told him stories. I still didn’t know how they were related, if at all.

As we stopped to make camp for the evening, I slid from the mare I’d been loaned and staggered toward a sapling tree, the only solid thing in sight I could cling to for support. I bent over, my back deformed like an old woman’s, and I refused to release the tree lest I collapse.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I asked Zafir beneath my breath. But when it crystallized, becoming a cloud of fog before my face, I knew the question was unnecessary. We were most definitely heading north.

“We should be at the ferry by nightfall tomorrow,” he answered, a wry smile on his lips. “Since the rest of our party was presumably on that train, they’ll likely arrive at the summit ahead of us.” He didn’t voice the part I worried about—the part about a turncoat in their midst.

I still couldn’t imagine who that person might be, especially considering that Brooklynn knew each and every one of those we’d traveled with, that she’d hand-chosen each of them specifically for this task because she trusted them. And her instincts were nearly as infallible as Angelina’s.

“You two doing a’right?” A voice interrupted us, and I jumped in spite of myself.

“Florence,” I gasped, pushing myself to stand straighter.

“Floss,”
he insisted for the hundredth time that day.

“Floss,” I repeated, trying the name out. “You surprised me.”

“Just checkin’ on you to make sure we’re not ridin’ too fast.” He eyed me suspiciously. “You seem a little . . . How do I put this?
Wobbly
in the saddle.”

I nearly choked on his generous description of my riding abilities. I knew how I must look to these men, seasoned riders as they were. Wobbly was putting it kindly. I glanced uneasily at Zafir. “We’re managing just fine. Aren’t we, Zafir?”

Zafir regarded me apathetically. “If you say so, Your Majesty.”

Florence’s—or
Floss’s
, rather—eyes went wide and he flapped his hands wildly in front of Zafir’s face, shushing him insistently. “Stop with the ‘Your Majestys’ already, and keep your face covered,” he insisted, pointing at my hood which had slipped down, leaving my cheeks exposed. “They already suspect she’s important. . . .” He tossed his head in the direction of the three riders escorting us—two men and a woman. Each of them looked as if they’d been carved out of the granite hills themselves. “They just don’t know why, exactly.”

My admiration for Floss just kicked up a notch. I’d been wishing everyone would stop bowing and calling me Your Majesty from day one. I was happy to be plain old Charlie once more.

The corner of my lips ticked up as I turned to Zafir, goading him with this new bit of information. “Hear that, Zafir?
Charlie.
You can call me Charlie.”

“Oh, yeah . . .” Floss agreed, his eyes going theatrically wide, and then he winked at me. “I get it. Charlie’s a boy’s name. No one’ll ever suspect.”

I frowned at him, surprised he wasn’t faster at making the connection between my given name and my childhood nickname. “Really,
Florence
?” I drawled, dragging out
his
name. “I should think you, at least, might be more . . . flexible when it comes to that particular distinction.”

Floss’s face fell and he frowned back at me. “Fine. Charlie it is. Charlie’s a perfectly good girl’s name, I suppose.” And then he changed the subject. “We got a fire going, and Jeremiah’s gone after some rabbit, or whatever else he can snare, so we’ll have the girl . . .” He paused as my eyebrows rose in warning, and his jaw clenched at the unspoken reminder. He lifted his fist to his lips and cleared his throat. “I mean,
Avonlea
’ll cook us up some dinner. We’ll camp here for the night, and be on our way again at daybreak. If that’s a’right with you . . . Charlie.”