I look at the former scullery maid. “Aren’t you coming with us? We were all supposed to escape.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve no home to go to, and I’m needed here. There are too many pilgrims who need help right now.”
The king’s wrath has been felt by too many of his subjects.
While I want to take her with us, I know it would only put her in more peril. She’s safe here at the temple, for now. “Thank you for everything,” I say with a sob in my throat as I pull her in for a close hug.
“No, thankyoufor getting me out of the castle,” she says. “Be safe.” To Dietan, she bows and says, “Sirona keep you, Your Highness, and may Loegria prevail against the Usurper.”
…
We don’t have much to pack.
I still have the satchel from the night of our escape. I give Dietan his royal knife back. The only things I brought from the castle are a change of clothes and a skillet I stole from the kitchen to replace my own. I ask Siena to replenish the casket of herbs Namreth took from me when I arrived. She does so happily.
She stuffs my satchel with dried meats and fruit while Dietan and I change out of our plain tunics into temple acolytes’ robes, with hoods that hide half our faces when pulled up.
Siena leads us out the back, where a covered wagon waits. Dietan and I climb in to find that it’s stacked to the canvas top with provisions. We squeeze between large woven baskets of grain, nestling beside two of the tallest. I hope they’re big enough to hide us if the wagon gets stopped.
“It’s going to make its usual rounds, but you should be in the safe house before nightfall,” Siena says. “Here’s a map. The wagon will drop you off a few streets away from the safe house. Good luck, and may Sirona heal your troubles.” She hands us a scroll.
“May the Harvest Mother bless your bounty,” I reply.
“As the gods will,” says Dietan, who takes the map, and then we’re off.
The sun beats down on the tarp, and the wagon shakes and rattles each time it finds some little divot in the road. Dietan jumps whenever we hit a rocky patch, his head bashing against the wooden frame holding up the tarp. “I thought you were used to riding in the back of carriages,” I tease.
“Most definitely, but never with the produce.” He draws an apple out of the nearest basket and takes a bite as the cart lurches to a halt.
“I think we’re here,” I say.
The driver opens the flap on the tarp. “Hurry. I can’t stop long.”
Dietan tosses the apple and lifts me out of the wagon, and then we scramble into the nearest alley. Without a goodbye, the driver is back at the reins. The wagon trundles down the street, leaving us with the crude map and only the slightest notion of how to find the safe house.
“Come on,” says Dietan, squinting at the piece of paper. “I think it’s this way.”
In our hooded temple robes, we walk at a measured pace, trying not to look desperate and afraid.
“No—wait, it’s this way,” he says with a curse. “Sorry, I think I had it upside down.”
I look over his shoulder at the scroll, searching for the landmarks as we walk through the city streets. I try to compare the crude charcoal lines to the actual streets of stone and brick.
“I think that’s it,” he says, stopping across from a building.
The safe house is an unassuming, cramped three-story structure, squeezed between two larger ones on either side. Dietan makes us circle the block once to make sure no one’s following us before we walk up to the door.
He knocks, and the heavy door gives just a little. “It’s unlocked,” he whispers. Perhaps, like the temple, the safe house is open to all who need sanctuary. He pushes harder, and the door groans on its hinges as it swings open. We slip into a dark and windowless hallway, and once inside, without warning, someone slams the door shut behind us.
Before Dietan can reach into his robes for his knife, there’s a flash of silver. Dietan launches himself toward the hooded man and slams him against the door. The stranger grunts at the impact, and the pair jostle for control of the knife, each gripping the pommel, but Dietan has the upper hand, forcing the blade slowly toward the man’s throat.
The sharp edge nicks the stranger’s skin. “Move a fucking inch, and I’ll slice your throat,” Dietan growls, and I’ve no doubt he means it.
I wrap my fingers around the handle of the skillet in my satchel.
“Please don’t kill me…Your Highness,” the stranger says.
Dietan hesitates.
