The Road Before Dawn
The night did not end.
It stretched on, cold and dark and endless, as if the sun had decided never to rise again. Rhaena sat on a stone bench near the brazier, her hands wrapped around a fresh cup of tea that Elara had pressed into her palms, her eyes fixed on the dying embers.
The tea was bitter. She drank it anyway.
Around her, the circle had dispersed. The farmers and merchants and laborers had melted back into the shadows of the temple, returning to their homes, their families, their desperate lives. Only Elara, Corin, and Theron remained.
Theron sat across from her, his ruined face hidden beneath his hood, his hands clasped between his knees. He had not spoken since she forgave him. She wondered if he had any words left.
“You should rest,” Elara said.
“I cannot rest.”
“You must. The journey to Ironhold is long and dangerous. You will need your strength.”
“My strength is not in my body. It is in my will.”
“Then will yourself to sleep.”
Rhaena almost smiled. Almost.
“I have not slept soundly in twenty years. I do not expect to start tonight.”
Corin stood by the temple doors, his gray eyes fixed on the darkness beyond. His hand rested on his sword.
“The patrols will be searching for us by now,” he said. “The night boy who saw you leave. The cook who will notice your absence. The guards who will find your empty room.”
“They will not find her room,” Elara said. “I sent someone to make it appear occupied. A dummy in the bed. A fire in the hearth. A pair of boots by the door.”
“Clever.”
“I am not clever. I am desperate. Desperate people learn to be clever.”
Theron stirred.
“The north road is the safest. It passes through the old forest, where Malrik’s patrols rarely venture.”
“Why rarely?” Rhaena asked.
Theron’s good eye flickered.
“Because the forest is haunted. Or so the soldiers believe. They say the ghosts of the old kings walk among the trees, hunting those who serve the usurper.”
“Do you believe that?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“I have seen things in that forest. Things I cannot explain. Shadows that moved without bodies. Voices that spoke without mouths. Eyes that watched from the dark.”
“And you survived.”
“I survived because I did not stay long. I survived because I ran.”
“We will not run.”
“Then you may not survive.”
Elara refilled Rhaena’s cup.
“The horses are ready. Saddlebags packed with food and water and blankets. Weapons for those who can use them.”
“I cannot use a weapon.”
“You can learn.”
“I do not have time to learn.”
“Then you will learn on the road.”
Rhaena looked at her hands. At the calluses on her palms. At the flour still caught beneath her fingernails.
“These hands have kneaded bread and scrubbed floors and emptied chamber pots. They have never held a sword.”
“Your father’s hands were the same. He was not born a warrior. He became one.”
“My father is dead.”
“Yes. And you are alive.”
Corin walked toward them, his boots echoing on the cold stone.
“The sky is growing lighter. We must leave now if we want to reach the forest before dawn patrols.”
“Dawn patrols?”
“Malrik’s riders sweep the north road every morning at first light. They look for smugglers, rebels, anyone fleeing the city. If they find us, they will kill us.”
“Then we will not let them find us.”
Rhaena stood.
Her legs were weak. Her hands were steady. Her heart was calm.
“I am ready.”
The horses were waiting in the alley behind the temple.
Three of them — sturdy beasts with dark coats and patient eyes. Elara had saddled them herself, had packed the saddlebags with her own hands, had checked the straps and buckles three times.
“The gray is for you, Your Grace. He is gentle, sure-footed, and does not spook easily.”
Rhaena approached the gray.
The horse lowered its head and snorted.
She placed her hand on its neck.
The fur was warm.
“I have not ridden in twenty years.”
“The horse remembers. You will remember. It is like swimming. Or crying.”
“I have not cried in twenty years either.”
“Then you are overdue.”
Theron mounted his horse with difficulty, his burned hands struggling with the reins, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood.
Corin checked his sword and saddle.
Elara stood in the doorway of the temple, her green eyes bright in the growing light.
“Come back to us, Your Grace.”
“I will.”
“The people need you.”
“The people need food and shelter and peace. Not a queen.”
“The queen is the first step toward food and shelter and peace.”
Rhaena looked at the temple. At the ancient stones. At the forgotten gods.
“Who are you, Elara? Really?”
Elara smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“I am the daughter of the woman who hid you in the kitchen twenty years ago. I am the sister of the boy who threw salt into the flames. I am the friend of the people who have been waiting for you.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Because you were not ready to hear it. Because you were still hiding. Because you were still hoping that no one would find you.”
“I am not hiding anymore.”
“No. You are not.”
Rhaena mounted the gray.
The horse shifted beneath her, adjusting to her weight, her balance, her fear.
She took the reins.
“I will return, Elara. I swear it.”
“I know you will, Your Grace. I have been waiting twenty years. I can wait a little longer.”
Rhaena turned the horse.
She looked at Corin.
He nodded.
She looked at Theron.
He did not meet her eyes.
“Let us go,” she said.
The three riders moved into the dawn.
Behind them, the temple grew small.
Behind them, the city grew small.
Behind them, the life she had known for twenty years grew small.
Ahead, the forest waited.
Ahead, the north road waited.
Ahead, the throne waited.