“What?” It was Raisa’s turn to be startled. “Why not? What’s this all about?”
Sloat smiled. “Never you mind, Your Highness. We’re taking you back to Lieutenant Gillen, and he says the queen’ll be no problem.”
“Gillen? Mac Gillen?” That was the greasy- haired, snaggletoothed sergeant of the Queen’s Guard who had tortured prisoners at Southbridge Guardhouse and threatened to put her on the rack. And for that he was made lieutenant?
Raisa’s mind raced. Gillen was in Southbridge, wasn’t he? What could he possibly have to do with . . . Never mind. Gillen was nasty, but he was just the muscle. Somebody else was yanking his strings. Sloat must be convinced he’d never hang for it, or he wouldn’t be telling her this much.
She glanced at Amon, bloody and bound tightly, his arms still pinioned by two of the renegade guardsmen, who no doubt knew his reputation as a fighter. Raisa could tell from his intent and focused expression that he was trying to think of something, any way, to change these impossible odds.
Sloat yanked on his gloves. “All right, let’s get out of here,” he said. “You’ll ride double with me, Your Highness.” Seizing Raisa’s arm, he dragged her toward his horse.
“What about him?” one of the guards gripping Amon asked.
“Take him into the woods and kill him,” Sloat said. “We’ll ride on ahead.”
“You— wouldn’t— dare!” Raisa said, struggling to rip free.
“Well, yes, I would, Your Highness,” Sloat said, grinning, keeping tight hold on one wrist while he swung up onto his horse. “You see, Corporal Byrne went mad with desire and kidnapped the princess he was supposed to protect. When we tried to rescue you, he resisted and was killed. And you’re going to keep your mouth shut because you don’t want word to get out that you was out here carrying on with a soldier.” Looking pleased with the story he’d made up, Sloat leaned down and reached out his other hand, meaning to haul Raisa into the saddle in front of him.
When Sloat’s smug face appeared at eye level, Raisa stiffened her fingers and stabbed them into his eyes, a technique Amon had shown her all those many years ago. Sloat howled, backhanding her across the face with such force that she landed on the ground, the breath exploding from her lungs.
Raisa spat out blood from a split lip. The mounted corporal loomed high over her, rubbing his streaming eyes, his face purple with rage. Then he stiffened, eyes bulging, rage dissolving into surprise. He groped behind his back, flinched again, then toppled off his horse, narrowly missing Raisa. He ended with his head and shoulders on the ground, one foot caught in his stirrup. Two black- fletched arrows bristled his back.
Demonai arrows.
Bedlam ensued. Guards dove for cover, including Amon’s captors, who abandoned him at the center of the field. Horses ripped free of their tethers and plunged into the woods. Spooked by the body dragging at its stirrup, Sloat’s horse screamed and kicked, and Raisa had to roll one way, and then another, to avoid its flying hooves.
Running a zigzag course, Amon charged across the field and shouldered Sloat’s horse so it wouldn’t trample Raisa. “Go!” he shouted, jerking his head toward the trees. “Get under cover!”
He made too good a target standing there holding back the horse with his body. Raisa rolled to her feet and ran in a half-crouch to Amon. Pulling free her belt knife, she cut the cords binding Amon’s hands.
“They’re Demonai,” Raisa gasped into Amon’s ear. “The archers. On our side.”
More Demonai arrows arced over the meadow, and two more guards fell, one with an arrow sticking out of his throat. The attack was all the more frightening because the archers were silent, apparently invisible.
Amon pulled Raisa into the edge of the forest, shoving her up against a tree.
“Stay here,” he growled. Snatching up his quarterstaff, he waded into the meadow, swinging it at the renegades fleeing in all directions.
“Amon!” Raisa called. “Be careful.” She wasn’t at all sure the Demonai would distinguish between Amon and the rest of the guards.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. Amon stood alone in the clearing, breathing hard. All of the guards were down, four felled by Amon and his wicked staff.
Raisa quieted Sloat’s panicked horse and yanked the dead guardsman’s boot free of the stirrup. Shadows in the fringes of the woods coalesced and came forward, some dragging the bodies of the guards who’d fled into the trees. All at once there were a half dozen Demonai in the meadow, clad in their nearly invisible traveling cloaks.
Two of them walked toward Raisa. One, tall and raptor-eyed, she recognized as the warrior Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker. His shoulder- length hair was sectioned off into multiple plaits wrapped in colorful thread. Raisa had met him at Demonai, though he wasn’t in camp much. Only two years older than Raisa, he was already a legend, hotheaded and deadly, the object of much speculation by the girls in the camps.
In fact, he and Raisa had shared a brief romance during her time at Demonai Camp. But she’d found that a romance with Reid was like fighting a series of daily skirmishes in an ongoing war of egos.
The girl beside him looked to be about Raisa’s age, and she moved with an easy, long- legged grace that Raisa envied. Her head of dark curls hung free from thread wrappings. Though dressed in Demonai colors and fully armed, she did not wear the Demonai warrior amulet around her neck.
“Find out if any of them still live,” Reid said to the girl, who broke away to kneel beside the nearest fallen guardsman.
“Princess Raisa, how goes it with you?” Reid asked calmly, as if they were meeting at a harvest feast.
But his eyes gave him away. They glittered with excitement and feral joy. His face and clothing splattered with blue-jacket blood, the Demonai warrior looked elated, exhilarated by the recent battle. Nightwalker was much too fond of bloodshed.
“Did the Vale- dwellers harm you?” he asked, looking her up and down, taking in her cadet uniform. “I saw the guardsman strike you.” He reached out and ran his thumb along the corner of Raisa’s mouth, then wiped her blood on his leggings.
“I am well, Nightwalker,” Raisa said, licking her finger and rubbing her face. “Please accept my thanks for your service to the line.”
Reid inclined his head, accepting his due, his dark eyes riveted on her in a way that most girls found irresistible.
Raisa felt Amon’s presence beside her, and turned. He’d found his shirt and sword belt, and slid them on. Blood already soaked through from his wounded shoulder.
“Corporal Byrne, this is Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker,” Raisa said. “Corporal Byrne is a member of my personal guard,” she said to Reid.
“Son of Edon Byrne?” Reid asked. When Amon nodded, Reid said, “I know your father. An honest Valesman,” he said, as if that were a rare find.
“Do you have a healer with you?” Raisa asked. “Corporal Byrne is wounded.”
“There’s no need, Your Highness,” Amon said, expressionless. “It’s not serious.”
Reid’s gaze flickered from Raisa to Amon. “You fought well, Corporal,” Reid conceded. “Once you were— ah— free.”
The young warrior returned, having finished her survey. “All dead,” she said.
“Too bad,” Reid said. “I would have liked to have saved at least one for questioning.” He tilted his head toward the girl next to him. “This is Digging Bird of Marisa Pines Camp, a warrior apprentice. Her arrows took three of the enemy today.”
The