Free Web NovelChapter 1193: The ford(1)
The road to the capital wrought like a grey ribbon around the base of the hill before stretching out across the blooming plains, a long, straight stroke of stone against the vibrant green of the basin.
He had reached he Magna Strata half a week ago, and from there, the track had become easier, the terrain surrendering to his frantic pace. He had ridden three horses into a state of lathered exhaustion, skipping through two relay stations and pushing the third beast until its breath came in wet, whistling sobs.
Yesterday, it had snowed, a light, brief dusting that settled over the earth like a widow’s veil. It was a freak occurrence; in Yarzat, the sky was known for its warmth and its seas during winter for storms, never for its ice.
He had taken the white blanket as a cold, gloomy omen. But now, as his horse thundered down the final stretch, the gloom melted away just as the snow had, leaving only mud in tracks.Though not on the road, the stone was too hard for the mud.
He wasn’t happy, nor was he sad; he couldn’t bother, he just had to ride.
His left leg throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening heat where it pressed against the saddle. During the slaughter at the Ford, a mace had found its way through the press and slammed into his thigh. It hurt like a dog in heat, a dull roar of pain that pulsed with every hoofbeat, but the surgeon had poked and prodded the wound with a silver probe and assured him the bone remained whole.
You can ride, the man had said before passing to the next. And so, he had.And he indeed could, only that it hurt.
When the call went out for a messenger to carry the word back to the heart of the principality, he had volunteered before the words had even left the Legate’s mouth.
What a honor that was!To deliver victory to all that would ear.
The gates loomed larger now, rising from the earth like the jaw of a titan. His horse’s hooves no longer raised the dust of the plains; they hammered instead against the firm, new stone of the city’s approach.
Most of the ride had been a fever-dream of motion. He had ridden through the purple dawns and the lightless midnights, stopping only for the briefest slivers of sleep before mounting another beast and disappearing into the horizon. If not for the horse stations, he would have ridden his own mount, old Smoker, to his grave, and then he would have had invoked black magic to raise the beast’s bones just to ride the skeleton to a second death.
As if a fog were lifting from his mind, the city he had missed for so long finally came into focus. He barely recalled the exchange with the gate guards, only the sharp, metallic clatter of the portcullis rising and the wide, eager smiles of men.
He slowed his horse to a walk, taking a moment to breathe in the capital. He was young, not yet twenty winters, and yet the city of his childhood felt like a ghost compared to the rising gem he surveyed now. Great buildings of dressed stone and sturdy timber climbed away from the main thoroughfares. The air was surprisingly clean; he knew that if he turned toward the Great Market, he would be greeted by the heady scent of Azanian spices and the savory smoke of the street-venders.
Banners of fine wool hung from the windows, the Falcon of Yarzat and the black-and-white of the Legions snapping in the breeze,the same colors that were caked in dust and dried salt upon his own breastplate. ƒrēewebnovel.com
Passersby began to stall in their tracks, their attention drawn to the lone rider. He was a sight to behold: a man of the Legions, caked in the grime of a hundred miles, a ribbon of silk fluttering from his arm like a battle-standard. Even in the height of peace, a soldier of his stature would be owed a dozen stars and a path of respect.
He began to laugh.
The sound started as a dry rattle in his throat and erupted into a thunderous roar that echoed off the stone facades. He laughed at the sheer absurdity of his survival. He laughed because he had walked through the madness of the Ford, where better men had been turned into meat, and he had come out the other side. He laughed at the realization that they had stared into the Maw of a war that promised fated doom, and yet, against every law of the gods, they were still standing.
He laughed at his leg, which pulsed with every breath. He laughed at the children who crowded the road near his horse, looking up at him with the wide, curious eyes that only the young possess when they see a man of the Crown laughing like a madman at the sky.
He laughed because the sun was warm, the wind was fresh, and he was the bearer of the only news that mattered.
-----------------------------
She plopped down into her seat with a heavy, jagged sigh. Sebastian, dear old Sebastian, hovered nearby, tilting a silver carafe until the dark wine pooled into her cup. Her pale hand rose to knead the side of her face, fingers weaving through the air until they pressed firmly against the skin beneath her temple.
She only ever did this in one specific circumstance.
Which meant that the princess of Yarzat was irritated.
And no doubt the Kakunian delegation currently quartered in her halls was the flint that had struck the spark.
"Are you quite all right?" a soft voice drifted across the table.
It came from the far side of the garden, where they sat nestled amidst the walnut trees. It was an unnervingly beautiful day for winter, the sun outshone the chill, a stark contrast to the freak snow that had blanketed the earth a week prior. It had started on such a pleasant note that it felt like a petty crime for her mood to be so thoroughly clouded.
Jasmine turned her head toward her younger sister, Lysandra. The girl shared the same sharp contours of the face, though her lighter brows and large ears,which she tucked self-consciously behind hair the color of the first Ruling Princess, which gave her a softer, more inquisitive air.
"Does it look as though I am?" Jasmine snapped, her eyes narrowing.
"I recall that when you invited us this morning, the note was a great deal happier," another voice interjected.
This time it wasn’t her sister, but her... sister-in-law? Not by blood, perhaps, but Alpheo regarded his Legates as brothers, which by extension made their wives family. Jasmine rarely had patience for the courtly flock, but for Maraya, the wife of her husband’s right hand, she held a genuine soft spot.
Maraya was well-spoken but never subservient, embodying the sharp, untamed spirit of the Voghondai. Initially, Jasmine had kept her close for the sheer novelty of her presence; she never expected a true friendship to take root in such rocky soil.
"Events occurred," Jasmine muttered, "and my mood soured as a consequence." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
"I suppose your recent company is to blame?" Maraya’s full, pink lips molded around the rim of her cup as she took a slow sip.
Yarzat culture preached that women should be meek and soft-spoken. Maraya was neither. She was prone to vulgarity and more than eager to use her fists when a noblewoman threw a slight her way. Jasmine still remembered the headache of the letter she’d had to write to Lord Eurenis after Maraya had headbutted his niece after a slight spoken behind a smile and a cup of wine. The poor doe had cried for hours.
It had cost the crown a three-year tax cut to smooth that over, yet Jasmine found she didn’t regret the expense.
That one hoovered too closely to Basil. She overlived him of nine years and too many times she had found her wandering the gardens like a lost pup, what she was trying to do?Fucking groom him?That bitch....
At least after that she had an excuse to keep her away.Though the number of suitor for the heir of Yarzat did not diminish.
"You suppose correctly," Jasmine scoffed. "The gall of them! To come into my hall throwing accusations of supporting rebels while they send an army to hunt my husband like a beast. They lost their host to a half-baked rebel uprising, and now they try to save face by barking at us.Dog-blooded filths. Ought to clean after themselves than go pissing at other’s halls. Eh, a mighty tree. They ought to sew themselves a worm-ridden trunk than firm oak."
"But... didn’t we?You know..support them?" Lysandra asked in a tiny, tentative voice.
"We did," Jasmine said flatly, "but fuck them for noticing all the same."
Maraya leaned forward, a rough edge entering her soft voice. "If the source of your bile is that particular group, perhaps something can be done? There are dozens upon dozens of men who, for a favor to my husband or my brother, would be more than eager to be of service. To a Princess? Those dozens become hundreds."
She offered a slow, wolfish smile.
"For every ten men I find, two can make it so a traveler simply... vanishes along the road. The other eight would be happy to tell you exactly how they screamed and make them a fine example to all passerby. Shall we send a message, dear? I assure you, all ten are more than qualified to deliver it."
"In Yarzat, messengers are not to be harmed," Lysandra whispered, nearly chiding the legate’s wife, before looking at Jasmine with wide, worried eyes. "Isn’t that right, sister?"
Jasmine didn’t reply. She stared into the dark depths of her wine, the silence stretching long and thin.
"Sister!"
"Fine..." Jasmine finally exhaled, her fingers trailing away from her temple. "It was just an innocent thought. A beautiful, fleeting thought.I am a princess, can’t I even have that to myself?A small wicked thought to warm my lonely night?"
