The Shadow Throne
“Then I’ll be strong enough for all of us,” Harlowe said.
When the guards returned an hour later, we were back in our places, chained to the wall. Or rather, the chains were around our wrists, but not locked.
As soon as they entered, I asked Terrowic, “Did you find your keys?”
He scrunched up one side of his face and moved farther into the cell. “Why?”
“Because if a prisoner found them, you’d be in a lot of trouble.”
Then he understood. He lunged for me, but I rolled away and he hit the wall. From where he had been hiding behind the door, Tobias leapt forward and swung the chains he had worn at the vigil’s head. With a large cracking sound, Terrowic tumbled to the ground, unconscious.
“Did you see that?” Tobias asked. “I did that!”
Harlowe quickly helped Tobias remove the man’s livery, and Tobias slipped it on over his clothes.
We started for the door, but footsteps pounded down toward us from other vigils who had heard the commotion. We were trapped.
Vigils began filling my dungeon room. I started into the center of them, but Harlowe pressed me back. Then, from up higher on the stairs, we heard bodies thump to the ground. Caught by surprise, the men who had entered the cell were easy prey for Harlowe, holding Terrowic’s sword. Moments later, Mott darted through the door with a baselard in one hand and longsword in the other. He had on the same helmet as the other Avenian soldiers, and was dressed in the same black and red coat as I wore, though his wasn’t belted.
He saw Tobias first and raised his brows in surprise. But then he saw me and frowned. “What have they done to you?” Before I could answer, he remembered his business and said, “We won’t have long. Let’s go.”
Tobias and I leaned down and grabbed the helmets and daggers from two men who had fallen. We had no time to disguise Harlowe, but I hoped with our uniforms and weapons it would appear that we were vigils escorting him as a prisoner.
Once outside the dungeon, Mott helped me onto a horse he had tethered nearby, then climbed up in front of me and told me to keep my head down. He had a second horse for Harlowe, who leapt into the saddle with more agility than I’d ever have guessed he was capable of. Tobias rode behind him, and even put his dagger out to make it appear as if Harlowe was his captive. Amazingly, almost without the notice of other soldiers in the area, we rode away.
Mott wasn’t taking us toward the main entrance of the camp, but rather, toward the swamp. We passed several tents, but fewer soldiers than I’d have expected. Then somewhere behind us the camp suddenly burst into activity and I knew our absence had been discovered. Mott only rode faster, trying to stay ahead of the alarm to search for me without drawing any attention our way.
We stopped in a quiet area near the swamp where the ground was already mucky and where cattails and duckweed grew thick and dense. Mott jumped off the horse, then pulled me into his arms. I insisted that I could walk but he continued carrying me deeper into the water and dropped me into a small boat hidden there. Harlowe and Tobias climbed in behind us and the coxswain immediately ordered the two rowers into action. I noticed one of them used his oar to bat away at something before we moved. If we were lucky, it was only a snake.
They folded a thick blanket over my shoulders and Harlowe directed me to a seat at the center of the boat while we silently backed away from the shore. Kneeling before me in the boat, he slid wool socks and leather boots onto my feet and asked if I had any injuries requiring immediate attention. When I shook my head, Harlowe handed me a flask and told me to drink slowly. The hot tea was like a balm to the little energy still flowing within me. The liquid took on the bitter smell of the sulphur rising in vapors from the swamp, but I didn’t care. I drank it gratefully while Harlowe sat quietly beside me. Tobias was somewhere behind us, watching for anyone who had followed.
Night came faster within the swamp, or at least it seemed that way. The plants atop the water were so thick in places that they often forced us to back up in search of clearer routes. The foul odors were nauseating, held in by the tall trees that crowded the shorelines. When we were far enough north of Vargan’s camp, the coxswain ordered lamps to be placed in the front of the boat, but they only made the shadows more menacing and the black water look deeper. I turned away from it and buried myself deeper into the blanket.
“I’m fine. Nothing more is needed.” When he met my eyes, I added, “Thank you, for what you did back there.”
“Thank Mott. This was his idea.”
I turned around to look at Mott, who was already watching me. I nodded at him, a weak attempt to communicate the gratitude I felt. His smile back at me was grim.
“Two men helped me get inside the camp,” I murmured. “Both were archers —”
“They didn’t get out,” Mott said. “I’m sorry, Jaron.”
So Vargan had told me the truth about their fate. Hearing the news again didn’t lessen the sorrow I felt for their loss, or my regret that I didn’t achieve more for the price of their lives.
It was impossible now to see anything beyond the light of the lanterns, but I suspected there was little here worth seeing. I tried to ignore the creaks and moans that gave life to this swamp and drank more of the tea. I’d gone so long without any substantial amount of food, my stomach was having trouble with the liquid. But it was giving me much needed warmth inside, so I continued to draw from the flask.
“I wish you could see this place in the sunlight,” Harlowe said. “Perhaps you’d tell me whether it’s as ugly as I’ve always thought it is.”
A corner of my mouth turned up. I hadn’t seen much of the swamp, but I’d smelled more of it than I cared to. I could already give him my opinion.
“My family has always lived here,” Harlowe continued, “but as soon as I was grown, I wanted to leave, to make my home as far from this ugly place as possible. I did leave for a while, and years ago on my travels met a lovely girl named Havanila. She felt that Libeth needed us, and insisted there was beauty in the swamp. That’s the way she was — someone who only saw beauty around her.”
“Havanila. I’ve never heard that name before.”
“It’s where my granddaughter’s name comes from.” Harlowe returned to his thoughts again, and then said, “I lost my dear Havanila a year ago, far too soon.”
I took another sip of the tea. It was clear from the tone of his voice how much he had loved her. How much he still loved her. I wondered which was worse: to love someone who passes too early. Or to never love at all.
“How did she die?” Beyond my curiosity, the question was meant to distract my own thoughts.
The creases in Harlowe’s face deepened as he considered his answer. Finally he said, “I believe it was sadness. You see, there have been three losses in my family. You know of the death of my oldest son, Mathis, a few months ago. Perhaps I’ve never told you, but you remind me a little of him. There are some slight physical similarities, but the likeness is really in your character. Like you, he was stubborn and willful, and hard to discipline. Despite his challenges, I loved him dearly.”
I thought of my own father, the endless battles over his attempts to control me, mold me, and make me see the world through his eyes. And me, resisting all of that, every time. I wanted to believe that despite the troubles I had caused my father, he had loved me just as dearly as Harlowe loved his son.