Plight of an Empire

Chapter Twenty One: Runa

Yellowseed, Hermuna

A murdering horse thief.  All her crimes were punishable by death.  She would be killed twice had she been caught.  But Runa would be dead any way she looked at it, whether she committed these crimes or not.  She would be dead by her mother’s hand eventually or by the grimy hand of the man who tried to rape her or by the axe of the headsman.  She was a dead woman walking, walking on borrowed time.

The snorting of the horse walking beneath her was a steady reminder of her crimes.  Leather straps smacked the hide of the horse with every rhythmic step of the beast.  A single bird’s song played in the darkened trees around her—a lullaby to her heavy lids.  The setting sun, an orange ball of glowing light, was sinking into the horizon.  Paints of pink and orange and violet smeared the sky, as an artist smears paint on a canvas.  A light wind, uncharacteristic for the dead of winter, whistled by, prickling the hairs of her bare skin.  Her time spent in the Black Room and on the streets of Elis Rock had toughened her skin.  The cold hardly fazed her anymore.

The sun sank below the horizon, plunging the world into icy darkness.  With no light of the moon to guide her, she prayed that the stolen horse would guide her to Thebis without any aid from her.  The setting of the sun marked for fourth night since she had been contacted in her dream.  It had been four nights and she was nowhere close to the gates of Thebis.  She had until dawn to reach the North Gate.

She spurred the chestnut mare into a trot.  “A giant juicy apple for you when we get there,” she promised.  The bouncing from the trot kept her awake.  Another sleepless night would pass, but it would all be worth it.  She would be at her new home soon enough.

As the horse trotted on, bringing her closer to her destination, but further from her sister, her thoughts turned to Delphina.  She wondered whether she and Father missed her.  Though Father probably hated her for killing her mother—his wife.  He always turned a blind eye to the beatings and the bruises.  She thought he had a fear of Maelys too.  None of it mattered though.  She would never see her family again.

She saw dark brown curls shining auburn in the golden rays of the sun.  They streamed behind Delphina as she ran through the meadow behind their house.  Laughter rang in the summer air, from both Delphina and Runa.  She chased her little sister through the green grass and sweet scented flowers of yellow, pink, and purple.  Delphina was picking all the purples, her favorite, leaving Runa to gather the assortment of yellows and pinks.

She had turned around for a moment—just a moment—but it was enough.  Laughter turned to screams.  Runa dropped her bouquet and ran, ran as fast as her little legs could run.  She found little Delphina near the creek’s edge, where the purples grew in plenty, clutching her bloody and broken leg.  Her leg was bent so unnaturally and there was so much blood.  Runa ran.  She ran all the way back to her house, screaming for someone to help her.  A stableboy came outside, a frown on his face.  He could barely understand her between the sobs, but when he finally did, he jumped on the nearest horse and pulled Runa up next to him.  “Take me there!” he told her.  And so she did, but it was all a blur.  She only remembered watching him scoop her Delphina’s silent body, ever so carefully, and laying her in his lap.  She remembered the whiteness of her face and the blank look in her teary eyes.

That night, after Delphina had been taken to the Matron, her mother paid Runa a visit.  Her eyes were wide, the whites contrasting against her flushed skin.  Before she could utter a single word, a sharp pain stung her cheek.  She clutched her cheek with tears in her eyes.  It was the first slap.

Her eyes shot open, a sting resonating in her cheek.  Groggy and confused, she looked around the dark road.  Light had not yet risen, but the stars in the sky were growing dim.  Where am I?  The horse snorted as if to answer her question in its horse language.  It’s nearly dawn.  Her breath caught in her throat.  She felt dizzy, struggling to hang on to the reigns of her stolen horse.  “It’s nearly dawn,” she whispered.  She kicked the sides of the horse, urging it to gallop.  But the poor beast gave protest.  Now she wished she had stayed just a few hours at the inn in Sparthens.  The horse was weary with exhaustion, as was she.  But she had to press on.  She just had to.  “Please,” she begged the horse, praying that it could understand her.  “Please help me.”  When she spurred it this time, it jolted into a canter.  Looking up at the ever lightening sky, she saw that the race had begun.