Hours earlier that afternoon, the same pair of riders hastened through the trees with far less urgency.
"This is a fool's errand," Beatriz growled in Bazeran. Rain slicked off her cloak as she rode, hastening through the damp forest.
"A lover's errand," Nisha corrected. "You can thank me later."
"Frederico will–"
"Frederico will never know," Nisha interrupted, slicing a sharp look at her best friend. "Did he honestly expect you to sit up in your window, pining like some storybook maiden?" She scoffed. "Men."
Beatriz' pressed her lips into a line. If she were being honest, it hadn't taken much coaxing from her best friend – she'd been sketching a plan before Nisha had burst into her room. Not even the miserable rain had given her pause. It had approached in shimmering curtains as the riders disappeared into the pass and had not relented even as the two women snuck out to the stabled horses.
She hadn't wanted to let him go. She hadn't wanted to release him from how she'd twined her limbs with his as she'd slept. She ached, all over, both from injuries and the dread that she might never see him again.
"He's a heartbreaker, of that I'm certain," Genevieve had whispered, when they'd huddled together in her bed, before he'd come back from Nisha's tent. "But he's also very much in love with you, cherie."
A blush heated Beatriz' cheeks at the mere thought of it. Of him leaning down to peer up through the curtain of her hair, towards her face. Of the feel of his forehead pressed against hers.
I think I'm too far gone to turn back now...
All of it had come to this. To the decision her best friend had offered. To sneak out of her brother's safehouse and follow the foreign prince. Nisha had offered because she didn't trust a charming man farther than she could throw them. But Beatriz had agreed because it had felt too much like goodbye. With the storm swirling outside, something had prickled along the skin of her neck as she'd kissed him goodbye. She didn't like the ominous sense of foreboding that had settled on her shoulders as he'd ridden away without looking back.
That wouldn't be their last kiss. Not if she had anything to say about it.
But now, after a half day's hard riding through the rain, the urgency had waned. She was slowly feeling more and more of a fool. Perhaps he regretted all of his words, or perhaps he valued his freedom and safety back in Pretania more than any of the promises he'd made her. Perhaps he would be different, surrounded by his own countryfolk. Perhaps he'd smirk and swagger at her, and tell her it had all been a game...
"Stop it," Nisha barked. Her dark eyes had fastened onto Beatriz' face. "He's not Ammar."
The sound of that rotten egg of a man's name on Nisha's lips had Beatriz bristling. But she reined in her horse nonetheless. "Which is precisely why we should turn back."
Nisha kept riding, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "I passed your prince up once, Bea. I don't think I'll be able to resist the temptation of a warm bed and a warm man after today's ride."
"That stopped being funny when you nearly chopped my hand off." Beatriz called after her.
"I mean it this time. I'm starving and I'm freezing and I want to go back to where the sun blazes hot all day and the only weather I have to worry about is a sandstorm. In the meantime, I think a Pretanian prince's bed will be a pleasant place to–"
Beatriz' horse thundered to a stop in front of Nisha's. A smirk played across the smaller woman's face.
"Enough," Beatriz snapped, her brother's tone in her voice.
"As you wish, princess." Nisha bowed in her saddle. The smirk hadn't left her face. "But you're not turning back now, not when I plan to tease you both about this for the rest of your lives." She returned to Beatriz' side when the princess wheeled her horse back around. Nisha shook some of the rain from her cloak. "I'll take great pleasure reminiscing about the time I snuck you away so you could bid your lover goodbye in the best of ways, while I sat by a fire bemoaning the fact that Rafael was not among his guards. This infernal rain will be a nice touch. It really emphasizes my devotion to your happily ever after."
"You're insufferable," Beatriz muttered.
"And yet you didn't turn around and run back to Frederico."
The words stung, but Beatriz lifted her chin nonetheless. She didn't like talking about why she'd fled from Bazera to Vareinne, back to her brother's home while he studied there. She told herself it was because she'd learned as much as she could at Shahnaz' elbow. In reality, she'd been running from a broken heart and a mortifying mistake, and she'd left her best friend with barely a goodbye.
Night was falling, quicker thanks to the rainclouds overhead, when they emerged into the town. Nisha, relieved by the promise of fire and food, hastened her horse onward. But something lifted the hairs on Beatriz' arms. An assembly of men were saddling horses.
It was too late, and too rainy, for a nighttime ride.
"Nisha," Beatriz called, reining in her horse.
But her friend had noticed them too.
"Those look an awful lot like Pretanians," Nisha said, pushing back the hood of her cloak to better peer through the rain.
Beatriz didn't like the bloom of dread deep in her belly. Nor did she like the way it summoned memories of betrayal. Of broken promises and callous laughter. Of someone else turning away from her and chortling with glee that he'd duped her. She couldn't move. She couldn't urge her horse onward, for fear that the next rider to emerge from the stables would be him, taunting and jovial and eager to get on the road. Eager to leave. Eager to break his promise.
"Keep moving," Nisha muttered as she tugged her cloak back up. "Let's not draw their attention until we figure out..."
She trailed off as a horse emerged from the stables with a thrashing bundle tied across its back. One of the men backhanded the cloak-covered lump and it stilled.
Beatriz went rigid. The dread roiling in her stomach congealed into a solid knot. The Pretanians were leaving, but whoever was tied to that horse definitely didn't want to. All at once, relief and rage raced through her veins. Relief that he hadn't sauntered out of the stables and swung up into his saddle without a backwards glance. Rage at the stillness of the thrashing bundle, at the hand that had dared to strike him.
Nisha glanced over at her. Beatriz' hand had drifted to the hilt of her sword.
"Go get Frederico's men. I'll follow them," Nisha said.
Beatriz' sword hummed against her sheath as she began to tug it free. "No."
"Stop this!" Nisha hissed. "For the love of all that's holy, put your sword away! We are not going after them alone. Do you see all that steel?" Nisha's eyes blazed when Beatriz finally tore hers away from the Pretanians to glare. Nisha went on, undeterred, "Neither of us is fit for battle. Go get your brother's men, if you want to have any hope of getting him back."
She did not wait for an answer before she broke away, steering her horse into the shadows between two houses, to better wait and follow unnoticed. It took all of Beatriz' willpower to slam her sword back into her sheath. Every ounce of her concentration went into walking her horse slowly towards the inn, resisting the urge to pepper the group of pale, fearsome-looking men with arrows.
Her blood raced, ready for battle. Her senses sharpened, keenly attuned to the group of men surrounding what she suspected to be her prince. Two more emerged from the stables and she tensed. She could have taken four of them – maybe even six, if her arm and thigh weren't throbbing – but not eight. Especially not when chainmail glinted beneath their cloaks,
Four of them noticed her approach and settled into a subtle ring around the horse with the bundle atop its back. She kept her eyes down and away, despite her hammering heart. Her fingers itched for action, unwise as it was. Her blades begged for blood, despite the unfavourable odds.
But rather than engage them, she rode to the stables and dismounted instead, careful to appear weary. As her boots squelched in the mud, nearly a half dozen more men appeared from somewhere around the back. The face of the oldest tugged at her memory before he drew his hood up and jumped astride the horse with the bundle.
Two of the men had turned towards her, hands on their sword pommels. She'd dallied too long. She looped her horse's reins around a post and trudged towards the inn, careful to give them a wide enough berth.
Nisha will follow them. Nisha will leave me a trail, she reminded herself, as she pushed open the inn door. But she couldn't help but look back, just to be sure of their direction.
One of the men who'd eyed her earlier had yet to mount up. He said something to his fellow, who glanced her way before he fell in behind the others. When the first took a few steps towards her, she ducked into the inn.
There, amongst the locals, three more pale skinned Pretanians sat. They portrayed a picture of ease, but their eyes betrayed them. They fastened on her the moment she walked in, lingering when she didn't drop the hood of her cloak. Across the room, Frederico's guard captain eyed the three Pretanians, a still-full mug of ale before him.
There were so many watching eyes, growing more and more curious the longer she stood there. But she was no fool – the Pretanians in the corner were not enjoying a leisurely meal. They were sentries. They were distractions for the guards Thomas had – like a true idiot of a prince – left.
But there was no use bemoaning that now. Her sword hung, a reassuring weight at her hip. She made towards the bar at the back and snagged her toe on one of Frederico's men's chairs. She paused, as if she'd stubbed it, and leaned down to massage her boot.
"Carlos," she hissed to the captain, seated two men away from her. "The Pretanians have taken the prince. Kill them."
The men at the table froze as she straightened, turning to face them and pushing the hood of her cloak back. Upon recognizing her, Carlos' eyes flicked to the three men in the corner.
That must have been the signal they were waiting for. The room erupted.
Chair legs scraped and swords rang free of sheaths as the Pretanians stood, as one. Carlos and his men followed. Nible as a cat, Beatriz sprinted for the door as the first screams erupted from the patrons. She couldn't protect them now. She had someone else to protect.
"Ride west! Quickly!" Beatriz shouted over her shoulder at Carlos.
When she tore open the door, she barely dodged the sword that was thrust through the doorway, right where her stomach would have been if she hadn't moved fast enough. The man who'd not mounted his horse awaited her, an axe in his other hand. It swung down to meet her sword and its hooked blade tore it from her fingers.
But not the knife in her boot. That met the man's throat before she kicked him into the mud with a scream of fury. She chased her sword, too infuriated to swipe it clean before she slammed it back into its sheath, and vaulted atop her horse.
Three of Carlos' men poured out of the inn, with the stream of locals fleeing the clanging swords within.
"To the west!" Beatriz shouted again, before she urged her horse into a gallop.
She came upon Nisha quickly, who hung back out of sight and earshot of the dangerous group ahead.
"A dozen men," Nisha said quietly. "Arrows first?"
"They have chainmail," Beatriz replied. "Aim for their heads and pray that Carlos and his men ride quickly."
Nisha tested her bow. "That scrawny group? I didn't like the look of them before and I don't like their odds now, but I'll take all the help we can get. Those Pretanians are well-trained warriors on well-trained warhorses." She glanced at Beatriz. "Are you ready?"
Beatriz called up her wrath. But, unlike the last time she'd summoned it to fight, this time it was tinged with something deadlier. The memory of the big brute striking the struggling, cloak-covered prince was enough to set her blood ablaze.
"Yes," Beatriz said, and their horses took off into the fading light.