UNMARKED

15: Bite Your Tongue

Mourning shrouds one's view of the world in drab, and colorless attire. The Capital of Emares, which had at once been the epitome of bright color and liveliness, was now somber and grey, And the colorful stalls of the Market District now seemed muted to Blayre, like something bled of the vibrancy of life.

    Rorrick had set an even more urgent pace back to Emares City at the news of King Barton's death. Illness meant there had been time. Death meant that preparations needed to be made. The death of the King meant that Rorrick was now the next heir to the Crown, and that his whereabouts and safety were more important now than they had been before.

    The stakes had never been higher. Every nerve in Blayre's body screamed, Danger! Danger! Danger! As she followed her duke through the winding city streets. This felt eerily similar to a time once before when she and Rorrick had galloped full speed through the city streets. She honed her Sense, feeling for something - any type of magical current that could be a threat. People scurried out of their way, or simply stared forlornly.

    "Rory!" She called ahead to him. Many were likely to recognize his mess of red curls as they bounced to and fro with the gait of his horse, but it was best to keep as many in the dark on the subject of his identity as possible. Dove was falling behind Rorrick's gelding, and Blayre felt that it would make more sense for her to ride ahead to choose the paths they took through the city.

    She threw a glance behind. The others had all but disappeared, though she could feel Caval and Ripley's presence not far behind her. "Rory! If you do not stop now!" She did not have enough breath in her to finish the sentence. But apparently he had taken heed of her words, or else logic had finally stopped eluding him. She saw his gelding slow, saw the change in his posture, but he didn't turn, didn't look at her until she rode up beside him, panting. "Rorrick for your safety, you need to let me choose the way. Recklessness is not going to help anyone - least of all you."

    He said nothing. Just stared, wordlessly past her as Ripley and Caval caught up.

    "Where have Lady Alessa and Lord Durrighan gone?" Blayre inquired, wiping the windblown hair away from her face, and taking a swig of her water skein. Her stomach growled as the smell of fresh bread wafted to her from somewhere nearby. She longed for the food in the mess hall. They were so close.

    "They decided to take a more - dignified - route to the castle." Fletcher answered. She hadn't notice him and Ainslee as they rode up. "Nuala and a couple of the soldiers are with them."

    "Alright. Let's get going," They were taking up too much space in the street, and the people forced to go around them were giving less than appreciative glances. Blayre urged Dove to turn around, but with the bodies now pressing around them, rather than fumbling to get out of the way as they had when two riders had been racing at a breakneck speed toward the palace.

    Blayre wondered how quickly the palace had been transformed from a symbol of brightness and fortune to one of mournful silence. A funereal quiet hung over the courtyard like a suffocating mask, as the group dismounted and Rorrick was ushered quickly into the building, face creased with emotion. She watched his form disappear through the archway and into the building, shoulders sloped in a slouch, Ripley on his heels.

    With a pinched breath through her nose, Blayre turned to her horse, whom she began to lead to the stables near the barracks. She could feel the presence of her friends around her, and for a moment, a weight suppressed her shoulders. When they finally reached Dove's stall, the familiar musky scents of horse and fresh straw filled her nose and inflated her lungs. Blayre began to brush the gray mare, methodically rubbing the curry comb in circular motions with the grain of Dove's coat.