Taking her reins and saddle horn, she threw her leg over the black gelding, glancing at Milena. “I know where to go.”
“Thank heavens,” she sighed, her tense shoulders relaxing. “Nelanta just spreads on and on in all directions.”
“It helps that we came in on Main Street, I think. It’s this way.” She motioned straight ahead.
“What about Leif?”
“I’m coming,” he grumbled, trotting up behind them on a glossy chestnut mare.
Following the vendor’s directions, they easily found the lovely spot at the end of a row of grand old houses that had survived the bombs, storms, lootings, and raids, still standing as testaments to a bygone era. Flowering magnolias and sprawling live oaks, wider than her outstretched arms, lent charm and a sense of permanence to the place, as did the resilient rock known as Stone Mountain, the largest such chunk of granite in the world. Lark couldn’t see the fabled relief of Civil War soldiers carved into one side from this vantage point, but she’d seen a photograph in one of Mr. Hayes’ old books. Shecouldsee the life-size stone sculpture erected in the circle of what used to be a cul-de-sac. On a grassy knoll behind a two-foot stone wall, surrounded by meticulously nurtured red and white rose bushes, stood the image of Queen Frost’s brother—the man who would have been king had he not died in battle. He appeared to be around Lark’s age, posed heroically with one boot on a stone and a heavy military rifle in his hands.
“Thalen Frost, Crown Prince of Verdancia, 2077-2099,” Leif read from the bronze plaque. “In duty, valor. In death, legacy.”
“He was Queen Frost’s brother,” Milena said in reverence. “I was just a baby when he died.”
Lark thought,Me too,as she studied the noble representation of the war hero.
“I wasn’t even born yet,” Leif added.
Spotting a hitching post, Lark and the others dismounted and tied off their horses. “I guess they’ll be safe,” she said. “There are soldiers around, guarding the place.”
“Should be.” Leif shrugged.
Milena looked nervous. Worried. Scared. Lark moved around her tethered horse to her friend’s side and whispered, “Are you OK?”
She took Lark’s hands, interlaced their fingers, and peered at her in trepidation. “Butterflies the size of bats. What if they say no?”
Lark’s gaze bore into Milena’s, and she squeezed her hands. “I won’t let them turn us down. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got this, honey.”
Releasing her hands, Milena wrapped her arms around Lark in a fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I thought we were in a hurry,” Leif grumbled. Lark and Milena eased apart, amused and slightly embarrassed. “I think that’s the right building.” He pointed to a brick mansion with white columns and broad concrete steps. Two men in uniforms stood guard.
“All right. Let’s do this,” Lark declared. She led the way past the memorial, across the roundabout, and up the steps to the expansive covered porch. The flag gently waving displayed a yellow-gold tree of life atop a sword and laurel on a sea of deep green. The round seal affixed over the entrance mirrored the flag and bore the motto, “From Root, Resilience.” Though the grandeur of the place might daunt a backwoods girl, Lark wore confidence like a shield, determination like a sword.
“We’re here to see the queen,” she stated, raising her chin as if she were somebody important. The guards glanced at her like she was an insect.
“Queen Frost isn’t entertaining subjects today,” answered a brown-bearded, burly man holding a pike. Lark noticed the holstered pistol on his belt and wondered if it held bullets or was just for show.
With Leif on her left and Milena on her right, both on the step below her, Lark squared her shoulders. “I’m not here to be entertained. We’re from Saltmarsh Reach and need medical supplies. We haven’t had a shipment in years, and it’s our turn.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The second soldier stepped in front of the tall oak door. “Supplies are low and reserved for military use. Queen’s orders.”
“Our dad is in the army.” Leif stepped up beside Lark, a plea in his voice. “Sergeant Roy Sutter, stationed at Marchland.”
“That’s admirable, son,” answered the big fellow with the beard. “But we still can’t give out medicine to you all. Some merchants in town sell folk remedies, cannabis. Maybe you could try—”
“No.” Lark felt the first pangs of panic grip her chest like a vise. This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t have come all this way for nothing. “We’ve tried all the folk remedies, all the herbs and treatments. The Reach was attacked by a gang of raiders with mutants mixed in, and our friend was bitten. He’s got a terrible fever and needs antibiotics, or he’ll die.”
The leaner man blocking her path shook his head. “No such thing. Mutants don’t work with people. You’re making that up.”
“I’m not making it up!” Lark’s temper flared, hands curling into fists at her sides. Her bow and quiver were back on her saddle. She had an old knife strapped to her leg—but she wasn’t about to pull it on two Verdancian soldiers. Still, she had to get past these buffoons.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Milena said, “but it’s true. They mounted a joint assault, and over a dozen residents were injured, two killed. Please.” Her hands clasped together in front of her as if in prayer. “Please. Let us present our case to Queen Frost—I know she’ll help. I don’t want my fiancé to die. He was helping protect us all, just like Prince Thalen all those years ago. The queen will understand.”
“Hey, miss, I’m sorry about your man,” the bearded guard replied, pity softening his tone. “Getting mutant bit is a nasty way to go, but I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Maybe you should be lookin’ for a minister instead.”
Milena turned tearful eyes to Lark, and something inside her broke. She couldn’t go home empty-handed to watch Tommy suffer and die, to share Milena’s grief and anguish. But what else could she do?
