The Sapphire Broach

Chapter 3 (rough draft)

Ivy moaned and rolled onto her back. Something had stirred her from her deep sleep, but her heavy eyelids refused to open to see what it had been. Every muscle in her body ached, her head pounded, and her stomach felt rather ill.

"How foolish of you to light a fire," a voice spoke above her.

She opened her eyes and found a sword pointed at her nose. Orange firelight reflected sharply off of the steel. A fire? Where was she? Fuzzy images tried to rise in her brain to answer her questions, but they hadn't time to properly form.

"Ah, she awakes," the voice continued. "Now get up!" The weapon pulled back far enough to allow her to comply.

She clambered to her feet, her limbs numb and probably not from the cold. Her blanket slid from her, revealing her white underdress, and she suddenly remembered it all—soldiers at Aunt Maurie's home, a frantic run through the forest, a tumble down a steep embankment, a plummet into a freezing lake, and the panic of water filling her lungs instead of air. She hadn't drowned, though, for there she stood. Someone had saved her. Someone . . . a man with dark brown eyes and stubble on his chin.

He had saved her, drawn her from the water and pulled her to safety. He had cursed her father's throne, but he had saved her. Where was he? Who was he?

She looked around, but did not recognize the man. Instead, the four soldiers who had chased her from her home stared at her beside a fire—a blazing beacon that led directly to her—that burned in a stone pit. She would have cursed if she had been the type.

"You are under arrest." The soldier raised his sword again.

Ivy looked at the blade and felt a sudden strength that she imagined came from her deceased parents. She straightened to her full height, a good height for a woman, but quite a bit shorter than the soldier. "For what cause?" she asked in a resounding voice.

The soldier matched her strength. "For treason to the crown."

At least it was a crime she could be proud of. "I have never defied the true crown."

"King Rymond bears the true crown. Believing otherwise is treason."

Anger flared within her as images of Rymond filled her mind. She had only been ten, but she would never forget a moment of that day. His gray eyes had been as cold as the steel of the soldier's blade. He had ambushed her father's carriage with traitorous guards. He had locked them inside, then winked at her with a wicked, mocking eye. Then he sent the horses toward a cliff. Before they fell, her father, King George, had broken out a hole just large enough for her small body, handed her the sapphire broach, and pushed her through. Then the carriage fell. Her parent's bodies had been found in the ravine weeks later, but no one knew what had become of her—the Missing Child.

"King Rymond is a murderer," she said. "He killed the rightful ki—"

"Silence!" The soldier thrust his sword until it nearly touched her chest.

Ivy held her tongue.

"Captain, stand down!" A voice called from the shadows outside the rim of firelight. "Leave this woman alone."

The soldier's sword lowered and he squinted into the darkness. "Who goes there?"

"I do." A man with dark eyes, light brown hair, and a scruffy chin jumped from the bushes, sword in hand. He ran at the captain and pushed Ivy out of the way. His blade connected violently with the soldier's. "Run!" he yelled at her.

She glanced around and saw the other soldier's advance. Two moved toward her and one moved toward the man who had now rescued her twice.

Though the cool air nipped at her, she fled the light and warmth of the fire. The quarter-moon gave little glow to guide her, but she raced on anyway, staying in the open path to better see her way. The men's steps pounded nearer, and she knew she could not remain out in the open where they could easily see her.

She ducked into the deeper shadow of the pine trees, but found herself nearly blinded by the darkness within. She worked her way forward. Her bare feet felt every stick and rock on the ground.

Hadn't she just escaped this nightmare? She had hidden from the soldiers and lost them before she fell. Why had her rescuer so foolishly started a fire? It had warmed her, yes, but it had brought the soldiers directly to her in a dark and unfamiliar place.

A shiver stole up her body and she wished for the warmth of that ridiculous fire. Her underdress offered little protection against the cold. Her dress. She stopped moving. The broach! In all the excitement she hadn't even thought of it. Where was her dress? She could not lose the broach! It was the only proof she had of Rymond's deceitful reign.

She nearly turned back, but the lumbering of the two soldiers reminded her of her peril. With no other choice, she hurried forward again and ignored the ache in her feet until her toes slammed against a rock. She cried out and fell to her knees. Pain and terror brought her nearly to tears. Exhaustion kept her on the ground longer than she should have stayed. She rubbed her throbbing foot a moment longer, then scrambled upright and limped on, unable to quiet her steps.

The men continued to gain on her and their swords thrashed through the trees.

"We have to find her!" one soldier cried. "Split up."

The sound of pursuit divided. One continued toward her, the other angled off to the side.

She took another step. A sharp stick poked straight up on the ball of her foot and broke through the skin. She tried to hold back her cry, but a whimper escaped her lips.

The footsteps behind her stopped as though the man paused to listen for her. She dared not move or even breathe.

A twig snapped.

The man charged toward her, his boots tromping everything in his path.

Then a hand covered her mouth and a strong arm encircled her stomach and pulled her to the ground.