For a city built upon impossibly narrow cliffs, Telmar, with all its polished turrets and fortified gates, was doing very well indeed.
From afar, one would think that its walls were melded together with the mountains beneath, so seamlessly connected as they were. Perhaps that is why the citadel has stood for a hundred years, and would continue to stand for a hundred more. The kingdom was an old one, spanned over generations of royal blood, passed down from monarch to monarch. Its people were diligent, and boisterous, and they seemed to lack nothing. They lived behind brick walls that withstood even the harshest of winters, their wells never dried up in the summer, and though their work was a tiresome affair, they never had to worry about the food they ate.
Unfortunately, this was not true for all Telmarines.
In a gloomy dirt alley lit sparsely by moonlight, where ne'er-do-wells lurked and nobles avoided, stood a young, wiry girl whose bronze face was shadowed by an oversized cloak. A large mass of dark curls spilled from her head, their ends coming to rest just above her shoulder. Her outfit of choice was a cotton tunic tucked into belted trousers, both of which were worn with age. Her boots, however, were made from fine leather, a dagger tucked neatly into one. See, it would not do for a thief to have poorly made footwear—they were terrible for running.
And being a thief, Ina had to do a lot of running. Because though Telmar was a wealthy kingdom, there were many who did not share in its riches; Ina was one of them.
She took another swig of her drink now; the liquor traced a fiery path down her throat.
The city was loud tonight—more so than usual. There seemed to be a note of excitement in the people's chatter, as if the nobles were about to throw a ball or celebration of some sort. But Ina knew that couldn't be true. Lord Miraz and the royals were as cruel as they were stingy. A ball for the people would never come to pass.
Still, she couldn't complain about the people's excitement. Their high spirits made it easier for her to slip through unnoticed. Nobody would be paying attention to the small, slender hand darting between pouches—not when they've got a bottle in one hand and a lady in the other.
Ina's pouch was full of coins by the time she returned to Bree, a brown steed who has been her companion for years. He nudged her shoulder in response when she stroked his mane, a silent way of communicating they've developed over the years. Sometimes, Ina wished Bree could talk—but Trufflehunter had told her there was no hope for that. For too long the Telmarines have treated horses like mere animals instead of souls who could think and speak. And so, that is what Bree has become.
Ina's mind drifted to the stories her father used to tell her, about talking animals and giants and centaurs and magic. But that was a long time ago, before he abandoned her.
She mounted Bree quickly, shrugging off the memory of her father.
The crowds have died down now, and the city was silent. But this stillness was not one of slumber. Ina felt as if the town was holding its breath as one, anticipation rising as the stars drew higher in the sky. She had only heard whispers during the day, snatches of conversations not meant for her: "child", "heir", "birth".
Ina did not understand why a mere child's birth was garnering so much attention, but she didn't care, really. And so she coaxed Bree forward towards the drawbridge, eager to get out of the citadel before they shut the gates. She didn't want to sleep in the streets; it was a surefire way to get robbed. As for the tavern where she'd spent the past few nights, the landlady had personally chased her out for starting too many fights. Ina still couldn't see why this was her fault. Of course she'd punch anyone who tried to put a hand down her trousers.
Suddenly, horseshoes thundered against pavement; Ina's head swung to the source.
A black steed was galloping through the streets, its rider well-armed and trained. A soldier, Ina thought, and a trill of fear ran through her bones. She had not committed any crimes worth having a soldier chase after her in the middle of the night, but Ina's record wasn't exactly clean, either. Besides, how would a homeless young woman explain a pouch full of gold without spending a few nights in jail? Ina would not risk it.
And so she fled.
The stranger was right on her tail, a more experienced rider than she is. Ina cursed under her breath, and dug her ankles into Bree's stomach. I'll give you some apples later, she apologised silently. But for now, there would be no slowing down. Not until she reached the woods, where no Telmarine would dare trod.
Well, no Telmarine but her.
A loud boom pealed through the night, and Ina saw the sky light up with red and blue, green and gold. Fireworks. So there was a celebration, after all. She heard the stranger slow down behind her. Pausing to admire the spectacle, perhaps? As much as Ina was puzzled, she kept up her pace. The stranger might not be after her, but she was keen to get out of the citadel. The sooner, the better.
A palace crier's voice cut through the commotion; Ina had to admire his lungs.
"A son! A son! Lady Prunaprismia has given birth to a son!"
So that was the child everyone was talking about, Ina thought as she bolted past the gates, crossing the plains to head for the strip of darkness between sky and land. Normally, she wouldn't have taken such an uncovered path—the watchmen would be sure to see her heading into the woods every night, and found it suspicious. But there were no guards on the fort tonight, and even if there were, their attention would be on the celebration.
To her dismay, she soon heard the stranger galloping after her, not quite near enough for her to glimpse his face, but not far enough for her to lose him. Ina murmured to Bree, and the steed dashed forwards, diving headlong into the abundant woods without hesitation.
But so did the stranger. Surely, no Telmarine has braved the woods ever since—well, ever since Ina could remember. And yet here he was, charging through the trees as if he too, like Ina, had been doing this every day. Fear seized her heart and her palms slicked the reins with sweat. Who was this man who would stop at nothing to get to her? And what had she done besides pocket a few coins?
"Hey!" She heard him yell over the wind whipping in her ears. "HEY!"
Like hell was she going to stop.
The trees did not seem like shelter now. They were large shapes towering over Ina and Bree, as dark and ominous as the sharp spires of the palace. Just as their blackness threatened to close in on her, Bree leaped into the open, where beyond them lay the river. Moonlight washed over Ina, momentarily lifting her fear. But it returned shortly after she heard the stranger's horse hooves beat against gravel.
"STOP!" he shouted again. This time, he sounded further away, and Ina, her steed already wading through the water, craned her neck to look at him.
She expected to see him with a crossbow trained at her, and was about to curse herself for her foolishness—but the man had raised no weapon. "Please!" he cried again.
Well, at least this pursuer was polite, Ina thought. That didn't mean she was going to do as he asked.
Soon, the stranger's horse was wading through the water as well, and Ina had to applaud his determination. She had also begun to worry that she might never lose him. But the thought was cut off by the sound of many horses neighing.
This time, Ina did turn to look.
About a dozen of the royal cavalry were on the opposite riverbank, their horses reeling in fear of the water. The cavalry? Ina thought wildly. Who is this man, and how did he get the king's horsemen to chase after me as well? But she did not pause and wonder. Whatever it was these delusional men wanted with her, it couldn't be good.
The stranger had better luck with his steed; he was already halfway through the shallow river. But Ina knew that the water alone would not slow down the horsemen, and so she charged once again for the forest, hoping that she might reach home before her pursuers were upon her. Home—and weapons. Ina never risked going to town with anything more than a dagger; heavy weaponry on a girl like her was sure to raise questions. But if she were to get caught tonight, she would not go without a fight.
Thankfully, the palace horses were not as used to water as Bree was, and Ina slipped into the woods before any of them were even out of the river. She shook the reins, hard, seizing her chance to lose them in the forest.
After a few minutes of riding, a wide, knobbly tree trunk that she knew well came into sight, and Ina felt her muscles relax slightly. Home—or so she has come to call it. It was not the place where she grew up, but it was the place she could always return to. The only place.
She threw the little door open and ducked into the cottage, careful not to hit her head on the doorframe. The entrance opened into a living room tall enough that she could stand up straight, but only just. The sight that greeted her was familiar—a paltry fire burning in the stone fireplace, copper teapots and cups scattered on a small table, handmade stools and a rickety armchair. Guttering candles winked in their holders on the wooden walls, which were connected seamlessly with the ceiling, forming an entire living space carved out of a large tree trunk.
Or rather, it used to be large when Ina was younger. Now, everything in the house was a bit too small for her.
But not the blades that lay in a corner. Shortswords—they were all the length of Ina's arm. She rushed forward and began rummaging for hers. Soon, the noise she made woke Nikabrik and Trumpkin; dwarves were always such light sleepers.
"Oi! What's this?" Trumpkin hollered, his auburn hair and beard tousled from sleep.
Good to see you, too, Ina would have said—she had not been home for days. But the roiling in her stomach had caused her to lose her wit.
"Someone's after me," she snapped, shortsword already strapped to her back. She reached for a handful of throwing knives and tucked them into her belt. "I would suggest you arm yourselves."
The other dwarf—Nikabrik—was furious. Ina thought he would be, since he was always dour. "And you led them straight here?" he barked. "I didn't let you stay so you could get me killed!"
"Look, I had to get weapons, alright?" Panic sharpened her words. She whipped her blade out for emphasis, then dove past the door, heart racing.
Ina had expected many things to be awaiting her outside: The cavalry aiming their crossbows at her, even the gleam of the stranger's sword as it struck her. But what she did not expect was an armed, cloaked figure lying on the ground, panting as if he had just escaped death.
A branch broke under her footsteps, and the figure swung his head towards her. It was the stranger from before, she realised—except his horse was nowhere to be seen. He clambered up with quick, frightened movements. Ina saw that though a sword hung from his side, his hands were empty.
They both knew she could kill him first.
"Why are you after me?" she asked, amazed at how steady her voice sounded despite her thundering pulse. The stranger took a step forward, and she lifted her arm—an open threat. But he quickly held up his hands, palms out: I mean no harm.
"I wasn't chasing you," the stranger replied, his voice catching her off guard with its youthfulness. A shaft of moonlight fell on his features, and Ina was surprised to see that he was a boy not much older than her. His dark, chin-length hair hung dishevelled around his face, which was smooth and unmarked, not freckled like the village boys who toil under the sun. His vest was made of fine leather, and a jewel glistened in the sword hilt at his waist. This boy is royalty.
Realisation dawned on her. "You're being chased."
He gulped. "Please, you have to—"
A few things happened at once. One, Trumpkin and Nikabrik burst through the door, blades in hand. Two, the loud neighing of horses reached their ears—the cavalry. And three, Trumpkin charged towards the boy, sword raised.
"No," Ina began, "he means no—"
"He's seen us," Nikabrik growled, but Trumpkin had stopped mid-stride. His eyes snagged on a small, white object on the ground beside the boy, an audible gasp leaving his lips.
"How did you—"
A loud whinny tore through the air, cutting Trumpkin off. He turned to Ina, who was watching the scene, stunned.
"Take care of him," he rasped, then ran off in the direction of the guards before she could protest.
Her eyes darted back to the boy now, who was staring at both Ina and Nikabrik, wild-eyed. Then his gaze flew to the white object, and he scrambled for it.
"NO!" Nikabrik yelled. Ina realised too late that the object was a horn.
The boy raised the horn to his lips and blew it. The sound didn't last two seconds before Ina knocked him out cold.