Panic rose in Neala's chest, and she urgently grabbed Elspeth's hands. "Morag is in the dungeon," she whispered urgently. "Ann too. Ann is sick, or hurt, or both. It looks bad. Yemustfind a way tae free them. Ann will die if ye dinnae."
"What?" Elspeth demanded, her surprise so evident that she forgot to whisper, and several heads turned their way.
"They will torture Morag, drag whatever information from her they can. Ye must get word tae Laura about what's happenin' here, and about the prisoners. Yemust."
Alarmed, Elspeth said, "What do ye mean? We'll do it together. Ye'll calm down and explain?—"
The guard reached them and roughly pulled Neala away by the shoulder, wrenching the women's hands apart. "Ye will come with me," he commanded sharply. "The prince has requested ye as a personal servant. Ye will join him now."
Heart pounding, Neala stammered, "I dinnae have any of me things. Me clothes, me?—"
"Ye need nothin'," the guard replied. "Our prince is nae a patient man. Come. Now."
Time was up. Knowing she had no choice but to obey, Neala gave Elspeth one more meaningful nod, then obediently followed the guard, the image of the older Sparrow's shocked expression etched into her mind.
She was led to Ansel's side as the prince stepped down from the platform. He spared her only a glance, then beckoned for herto follow. They reached the remaining horses, and he pointed to one.
"Ye ken how tae ride?" he demanded.
"I do," Neala replied.
Ansel's eyes flicked to her again with that same burning intensity that made her stomach churn. A small humorless smile flickered on his face. "Ye ken how tae play chess. Ye ken how tae ride a horse. Ye're an uncommon servant, Abby. Ye must tell me more about yerself one day."
Neala hastily lowered her eyes, adopting the modesty of a maid and cursing herself for her foolishness. She did not respond, and a moment later, Ansel turned his back on her. He mounted his own horse, and with the guard's urging, Neala clambered upon the back of the one which Ansel had indicated for her.
The prince rode off without a word, and Neala followed.
Her path, it seemed, had been set. And she had no way to anticipate where it would lead.
14
If they didn't find help soon, Eoin was going to die. That thought was all-consuming for Breana as she desperately rode as fast as she could, the horses practically flying through the hills and valleys of the Highland north that usually seemed so beautiful but now felt oppressive. They had not passed any civilization in some time, not even a lone farmer's hold that might have provided some respite. Breana cursed herself over and over for not simply taking Eoin back to the inn and damn the risk—she didn't care anymore about the convent, about the mission, about the risk of being captured. None of it mattered if Eoin didn't live through this.
"Dinnae sleep," she urged him for what felt like the millionth time. "Dinnae ye sleep. Ye havenae finished tellin' me about yer dreams. Tell me about the wee home and the bairns and the lifetime we'll have tae get tae ken and tae love one another."
"I'm… tired…" Eoin mumbled, his words a slur. Even in the darkest depths of the night, lit only by the moon and stars, she could see the wan pallor of his face. Her hands, clinging tight to him, were soaked with the blood that was seeping from the wound in spite of the knife still plugging it and the makeshift dressings that Breana had made. "So tired… so cold…"
"Tell me about yer sister," Breana insisted desperately. She could not allow him to stop talking. She could not allow him to rest, because if he did, he may never talk again. "Tell me about how things were when ye and Mary were young and more free. Tell me about how yer own daughters will flourish in her memory."
"So… warm… so…kind…" he whispered in a strained voice, but whether he meant the late Mary or Breana herself or someone else entirely, Breana could not know.
They reached another treeline and rode directly into the forest, never slowing. The horses seemed to feel Breana's urgency, racing ahead without pause, the wind whistling by, the rain now pelting them cold as ice. Breana wished Patty were here or one of the other rebel healers. She wished Maeve, who always knew what to do, were here. She wished anyone were here at all, anyone who could help her, anyone who could save him. She would even be relieved to see the False King's soldiers again—she would gladly give her own life in the bargain if it meant they would save Eoin now. She didn't know where she was, or how far she had to go, or if there was any way they could possibly make it, but all she could do was keep going.
"Breana…" Eoin breathed. "Bre?—"
Her heart ached and she clung to him more tightly. "Hold on," she urged him. "Hold on."
He spoke again, but his words were so slurred that she could no longer understand, his breaths long and shallow, and Breana understood that it was too late. He may have a little time left, but without help, it would not be enough. He was going to die in her arms.
Despair threatened to drown her, but she would not let it. She had lost so much already. She'd believed that her beloved sister was dead until Maeve had found her again. Her mother and father had never truly loved her, and they'd both diedbefore she could find any solace. Her childhood home had been ripped away from her when she'd been forced into a marriage she did not want. Her youngest sister had been warped beyond recognition by her father's evil.
Breana had lost so much and allowed life to take it from her.
She would not allow it to take Eoin from her too.
Common sense told her to stop, to rest, but her heart told her to race on. And so she leaned forward, urging the horses with her knees to keep their pace, to keep going until they found a miracle, to?—
The horse being led let out a panicked scream and reared up, pulling their mount back in the process and jolting them in the saddle. A second later, something cut through the air right in front of her eyes, narrowly missing Breana's head, and athudandtwangsounded from the tree just to her left. She spun her head around to see an arrow quivering there in the bark—an arrow that had only been a breath away from ending her life.
