A man with a staunch scowl set against weathered skin brings his mare to a stop so that the animal’s breath of heat and hay puffs across my face. I stifle a cough and keep my spine tree-trunk straight. The man must be the leader since he has the most stripes on his shoulder. Five in total.
“Britta Flannery.” Not a question. “Where have you been?”
“On a walk.” My eyes remain forward despite how badly I wish to check the leaves beside the road.
“Is that so?”
His doubt makes me ill. I never know what to say. My usual awkwardness feels like a death sentence as I fumble for a believable answer.
“Perhaps you could explain what that is.” His chin jerks to the side where a guard pulls my bag from hiding. No! Fear jolts through me.
I stamp the urge to grab the pack and run, and feign indifference. “I—I don’t know.”
“The bag’s marked with your father’s emblem.” The leader’s mouth purses behind a tidy graying beard.
If they see the meat, they’ll have evidence I was poaching. “Are you here for my land?” I ask in diversion. Better to give up my home than my life.
“Watch it, scrant,” a guard sneers, “that’s the captain yer talking to.”
Captain of the guard? The condescending tone and crusty expression make sense now. He reports directly to the king. Why didn’t they send the lower guards?
On the captain’s command, a guard dumps the bag’s contents on the road, and strips of meat tumble out with my bow and dagger. I blanch, staring in horror at the elk pieces.
“We came for your father’s property. But it appears you’ve been poaching on the king’s land.” The captain’s voice is cool and eerily calm. His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword for a prolonged moment before his lip curls. “Seize her.”
Boorish hands come at me, grasping my shirt and ripping the sleeve as I jerk away. The dagger is all I can think about through a frenzy of elbows and fists. Mine, his, all so I can get Papa’s blade. Somehow I free myself of the guards. Maneuver to the pile of meat and weapons on the ground. Push aside the wrapped strips of elk. My fingers find the familiar curve of ivory and—
I’m slammed to the ground. Dirt and rock mash against my mouth.
My arms are wrenched behind me, followed by a kick that knocks the wind from my lungs. I cough and wheeze, spitting blood and saliva and dust, until the air comes back. The captain plucks my dagger off the ground.
“No!”
The captain grabs my braid and twists my head. “Stop. Or I’ll end you here and now. It’s my duty to ensure lawbreakers get their due punishment. Poached meat warrants a hanging.”
I know he means every word, because sickening warmth spreads in my gut.
I’m boneless as a hulking young guard, maybe a couple years my senior, forces manacles on my wrists and throws me on a horse before climbing behind me and wrapping my waist in an iron grip. Now that the guards have come—now that poaching has made my situation infinitely worse—defeat turns me wooden as the group gallops toward the castle. They’ve torn the last piece of Papa from me. They’ve taken my weapons, my bounty, and my father’s land. All that remains is my life. Considering the crime, there is no doubt the king’s guard will soon have that as well.
CHAPTER 3
AN HOUR AFTER THE GUARDS SNATCHED ME, we come into full view of Castle Neart. She’s a beastly goliath perched in the mountains overlooking Brentyn. Six arms of spires and rust-peaked turrets grab for the sky. Legs of arcading corridors hide behind a ten-man-tall stone skirt trimmed in parapet. In spite of having seen Castle Neart before alongside Papa, the daunting view shreds my courage. I am an ant about to be squashed.
The castle’s bridge arcs over a deep, jagged gulch. A dozen rock pillars support wood planks that groan beneath us, a reminder of sheer death below as we cross. It’d be a relief to reach the bridge’s end if not for the awaiting reek of excrement. The moat’s stench smacks us in the face, only fading after we pass the guardhouse and enter the yard.
Once we’re inside the castle grounds, my companion’s grip cinches around me, locking me against his body, the bludger. As if I could escape while manacled and weaponless. He pulls the reins to stop beside the others in the yard. Dust curls around the horses’ hooves. Only then does the brute guard give me a knuckle’s space of breathing room.
The stables are busy. Grooms tend to carriages and muscled steeds, the kind used for heavy cavalry. The guard dismounts and tugs me down alongside him, where I tumble to my knees. Pain zings through my legs, then his thick paws are under my arms, hefting me up. He mutters something that sounds like Sorry but couldn’t be. A king’s guard would never apologize. Especially not to me.
The captain barks an order, and a groom appears to lead the horses away. Red coats flank my sides. Another pushes me forward, farther from the gate, farther from escape, to shuffle over dirt and bits of manure.
Heat pours from the blacksmith’s shop, licking at our faces, as we march toward another wall and another entryway—a stone arch over wooden doors. I’ve never been past this point. Not many are allowed beyond the inner wall. Never imagined it would happen by the escort of guards.
The heat from the smithy dries my throat. Am I marching to my death? With that much evidence, they’ll surely hang me. My feet move like they’re shod in iron boots.
The archway door groans open into the heart of the keep. I search around in confusion, taking in the crowd of high nobility gathered in the courtyard. There are so many people. Lords and ladies in striking furs and silks, pointed-toe shoes, mushroom hats for men, lace-trimmed veils for women. So unlike my filthy raggedness. Why would the captain bring me here? The guards shove me along the back of the open area, to a passage tucked under carved stone arcading. I still have a view of the gathering as we march under the shadowed arches.