Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

32

The panic descended when Mhera saw the gate close behind her. The guards were still talking. How could they not have noticed her? How could they not have seen that something was wrong? Such deception was easy in stories, but this was her life. In real life, fugitives did not escape guarded palaces.

In real life, she would have screamed and begged for help. In real life, she would have been able to run.

Perhaps this was not real life, after all.

The cart trundled down a cobblestone road leading away from the palace. Mhera stared as the gates, the soaring white walls and the rising turrets receded behind them. Her breath came in thin gasps. She clutched the side of the cart.

"Breathe, Sister Mhera," said Matei.

"Take me back. Take me back."

"Calm yourself. We will be safe soon." Though Matei's voice was gentle, a hint of warning had entered his tone. Mhera closed her eyes and tried to draw deep, steady breaths; she tried to put her mind into the calm, reflective state she used for meditation, but she had limited success.

The empty street near the palace soon turned into a busier thoroughfare, with streams of people crossing to and fro in front of and on either side of the cart. There were noblemen on horses, workers with wheelbarrows, women with baskets precariously balanced on their shoulders, and men toting bundles as large as themselves. The crowd became denser the farther they went, until it became very difficult for them to continue with the horse and cart.

Mhera had no idea where the vintner's warehouse might be, but she guessed Matei had no intention of finding it. The sun was high in the sky by now; it was already midday. They would have made quicker progress afoot. The cart was slowing them down, making it impossible to weave through the thickening crowd. It had slowed them down so much, in fact, that when trumpets began to sound for the second time that day in sharp, brassy reports from the palace, Mhera could hear them—even though she could see nothing now but the highest turrets.

Her heart stopped. Could it be they had discovered she was gone?

Matei turned and looked back. He was not the only one; many in the crowd turned their faces in the direction of the palace, but no one stopped. The palace was a world away to these folk.

The cart rumbled to a stop. Matei had tried to edge it to the side of the narrow road. Foot traffic continued to mill around the vehicle. Mhera turned in the bed of the cart to look at Matei, wondering if they had reached their destination, but he had not moved from the bench. He sat looking troubled, staring up the crowded street.

The horse, seeming not to be bothered by the press of people, stretched out her long neck to sniff at a basket of apples a woman nearby was holding under her arm. The horse's lips quivered as she delicately began a covert attempt to extract one of the tempting fruits.

The peasant sensed something rooting around near her side. Perhaps suspecting a pickpocket, she turned, but the horse was muzzle-deep in the apples; as the woman turned, her basket stayed where it was and the contents spilled. Within the space of a breath, the precious cargo rolled this way and that, some of the fruits trampled underfoot by passersby.

"Miss! Goddess above, I am so sorry," Matei said, leaping down from the cart.

"That's my penny for the day, you rotten horse! You've ruined the lot of 'em!" cried the distraught woman. She crouched and began grabbing for any apples still within reach, but there was nothing edible there. "Oh, Sweet Mother above, there ain't a one of 'em I can save."

"She's such a trouble!" Matei exclaimed, bending down to help the woman. "Let me—ugh, they're in terrible shape. I am so sorry—so sorry!"

"Save your words! Sorry doesn't feed my little one, does it? Nasty horse." The woman stood up again, just a few bruised and dirty apples in her basket now.