Chapter 13: Merredydd

Chapter Thirteen
Merredydd

Farilane rode Trident into the trees on the north side of the field, guiding the horse toward what appeared to be an open corridor—a road or perhaps a trail. Most likely, the gap was but a false inlet that would soon reveal itself to be a dead end and force her to backtrack. Still, it was her best and possibly only option for a quick escape. Behind her, shouts, cries, explosions, and a whole host of indecipherable sounds filled the world.

“Your Highness!” Kile shouted.

She slowed Trident to a walk. Turning, she spotted both Kile and Sheldon galloping at her.

Behind them, neither the monastery of Dibben nor even the meadow was visible, hidden behind the staggered stands of trees. A stab of worry and regret pained Farilane as she thought of Ethan and Enzio. “I thought . . . I didn’t think that they would . . . dammit.”

Kile drew up alongside her. “I don’t think they’re dead, Highness. Teshlors are remarkable that way. And they still have five horses. After they subdue Ruby Finn or she escapes, they’ll go back to the monastery, unload the pack animals, and come after us.”

“Do you really think any of them are still alive?” Sheldon asked.

“Don’t say that!” Farilane snapped.

“What? Why do you care? They were going to tie us up and—”

“They were only going to tie me.”

“To start with, sure. But I doubt that’s where it would have ended.”

“The knights are honorable men,” she insisted.

“Honor to them is serving the empire, and the prince threatened to beat you.”

“He didn’t mean it. Nordyan was frustrated and tired. He gets that way. He’s not a bad person. He would never hurt me.”

Sheldon smirked, and Farilane was shocked at the assertive change in the meek little carpenter from Warica. Less than a week before, he’d been too tongue-tied to speak, but now he considered himself to be an expert on the Teshlor Guild, and he seemed to think he knew her brother better than she.

“Where are we going?” Kile asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Farilane said as she urged Trident to a trot. “Merredydd.”

“Why there?” Sheldon asked.

Farilane slapped the front cover of The Book of Brin that she still carried before her like a baby. “That’s where my great-great-great-grandmother lives . . . I think.”

“You think?” Kile asked, appearing comfortable on Enzio’s horse, Pristine, whose mane was always carefully braided.

“She’s rumored to be a bit of a recluse, and we imperials have never been the sort for family picnics. She would be in her mid-eighteen hundreds, which is late middle age for a Fhrey. But if Proust is right and the life span is diminishing—she’d be pretty old. It’s possible she might be dead.”

“Who exactly are we talking about?” Sheldon asked.

“The Empress Dowager Sephryn, wife of the second emperor, Nolyn.”