Yes. Come. The lynx padded off, along a trail only he could see.
Darcy followed.
Darcy would not have survived the next few days without the lynx, who led him to wild apple trees and abandoned fields where a few turnips still grew, who brought him fish in the evening which he roasted in a fire, and once even a loaf of bread he must have stolen. In his old life, Darcy would have scorned bread that had been carried in a lynx’s mouth. Now it was a precious gift.
Each night his familiar went back and marked the trail they had followed, presumably to deter any scent trackers. No sensible dog would go near to what smelled like a lynx’s den.
He was weary, footsore, and tired of sleeping on the cold ground, but he was making slow uneven progress towards the west, or at least his best guess at that direction from the position of the sun. His map and compass had been in the satchel he had left in the diligence. If he was correct, eventually he would reach the coast. Then the hard part would begin, finding his way to the friends of the sea serpents, in the hope they would find a way to take him across the Channel without turning him in for the reward.
Then one night a squadron of soldiers trotted past the hedgerow where he was sheltering, set up an encampment not two hundred feet away, and began to search the area around him by lanternlight, swearing all the while about the damned Englishman and what they would do to him when they found him.
Darcy tried not to breathe. How could they possibly know he was here? They had no dogs. Could they have smelled the smoke from the fire he had cooked his fish in? Quickly he created an illusion to cover the remaining coals and made another of impenetrable brambles to hide himself. It must have worked well enough, for they did not find him. He sent a message to his familiar, telling him to stay away. Even a wild lynx had no chance against a dozen soldiers.
He would have to take greater care. No more fires. He waited until they were all asleep before he cloaked himself in invisibility and sneaked away. That day he took no rests, trying to make the greatest possible distance. His stomach growled, but he was not quite hungry enough to eat raw fish. By tomorrow, he suspected he might be.
But despite his hunger and fatigue, Darcy was exhilarated by his narrow escape, confident that he had left the soldiers behind. As always, the best moment was at sunset, when the dragon scale came to life and Elizabeth entered his mind, all warmth and pleasure, even when he reported no news. As usual, her message was to stay safe.
He gathered some leaves behind a stone wall to make himself a place to sleep. The lynx curled up next to him, sharing his welcome body warmth. If Darcy ever went on the run again, he was going to make certain to have a blanket with him. And a jug to carry water; the tiny flask in his pocket was not enough to keep him going between the occasional streams he passed.
Then the soldiers came again.
By the fourth night, Darcy was almost expecting them. He had tried everything to throw them off, changing his direction, walking inland instead of making his way to the Channel, retracing his own steps on the path and having the lynx cover his new tracks, and never a trace of fire. Today he had even told the lynx not to follow him, in case somehow the soldiers could sense his magical connection to his familiar. Yet still the squadron came trotting across the field.
He drew back into his makeshift hiding place between an ancient tree and a stone wall.
How did they do it? It was incomprehensible, and incomprehensibility usually meant magic. Could one of them be a mage, tracking him by repulsion? No, for then Darcy would feel it, too. It had to be some kind of unknown Talent, one without repulsion.
Still, whatever they were doing, it worked only to a degree. They kept discovering his general location, yes, but whatever magic they used could not bring them exactly to him. And why did they only come at night?
If only he could understand it, perhaps he could find a way to defeat their uncanny ability. Escaping from them would be harder now, with his belly too hollow to risk creating an illusion. He would keel over from exhausting his reserves. Without his lynx, he had eaten only a few berries all day.
He remembered his mother saying that some magical powers could not cross running water. What if he found a stream and walked through that?He had passed one earlier, not far away. It would mean being in plain sight, though. He would have to travel at night, with all the attendant risks.
It was as good, or as bad, a plan as any. He leaned back against the tree and waited, giving the soldiers several hours to set up the tents and retire for the night. Once the moon was high in the sky, he crept over the stone fence and tiptoed into the woods, wincing at each tiny sound of dry leaves or twigs underfoot.
When he was certain he was safely away, he cut back to the road, retracing his steps from earlier in the day until he reached the stream. He clambered down the bank and stepped into the water. His boots would not keep it out for long, but there was nothing to be done for it. Better wet feet than captured.
He headed downstream, picking his footing carefully to avoid twisting an ankle in the uneven streambed. At least he would be getting away from roads and paths that would be easy to follow.
He trudged on for hours, as the stream met a larger one and eventually widened into what might be called a river. He had to stay in the shallow water near the bank now, his stomach churning with emptiness and his muscles aching. His life as Mr. Darcy of Pemberley seemed like a faintly absurd dream.
Dawn broke, and by good fortune the fields around him were fallow, with no sign of human habitation. Still, it meant taking even greater care to avoid being spotted, and he needed to rest. Desperately. He had walked all day and most of the night.
Finally he found a hollow in the bank where he could hide himself. He collected some branches and brush to cover himself. Then he curled up in the hollow and fell asleep, cold and achingly hungry.
He stayed there until sunset, when the dragon scale grew heavy in his hand. Elizabeth’s presence filled him, replete with love and support.
It was a brief heaven-sent moment of connection, and Darcy longed to luxuriate in it, but he sent his prepared message.Working to get home to you.
Her reply came immediately.Stay safe, no matter what.
Then it ended, no matter how he tried to hug the sensation close to him. Now he was back to being hungry, achy, and filthy. He left his hiding place long enough to forage a handful of berries from nearby brambles. If only he knew more of what he could eat in the wild! If he ever made it back to England, he would learn that first. Starving was highly unpleasant. If he found nothing on his own tomorrow, he would have to call his lynx, even if it meant the soldiers would find him again.
Once it was full dark, he could continue down the river. Sooner or later it would lead to a town where he might be able to steal some food.
Then he heard hoofbeats. Again. Curse them! Quickly he huddled to the ground as they passed him, splashing through the shallows along the river’s edge.
Damnation, how had they found him? He held his breath. Would they keep going?
