Gillian led the party of twenty bandits and twenty stumbling, tied-and-gagged guards and maids along the silent stone-paved hallways and downstairs to the ground floor. Along the way they passed countless guards, slumped against the wall, unconscious. At least, Meya hoped so; those were probably Gillian’s work, not Arinel’s.

Baron Kellis, Baroness Sylvia and Lord Zier were hog-tied and thrown unceremoniously over the bandits’ backs, their heads bouncing up and down to their captors’ heavy gait. Meya was on Dockar’s back, and as she was under orders to feign sleep, she couldn’t twitch a finger.

Or so they thought.

Meya’s crimson silk dress had long, loose sleeves that had elaborate patterns embroidered onto them with minuscule beads and sequins. Hiding one hand from view under another sleeve, Meya pulled off a thread, and allowed the beads to fall soundlessly one-by-one onto the floor.

They walked down another set of stairs then halted. There was silence for about a minute, then Meya heard the sound of a lock clicking in place and a door creaking open on its rusty hinges. Cold wind rushed in and grazed Meya’s behind, and she realized Gillian was using a sally port in the castle wall to sneak out unnoticed.

The group ventured out into the moonlit night in single file, wading across the moat. Actually, there were shallower sections towards the back gate, where the castle raised fish and eels in cordoned locks, but Gillian sought out a neck-deep section for them.

Probably, it was to dilute their scent, so Coris’s hounds wouldn’t be able to track them down and jump them before the ransom drop. Meya still had hundreds of beads to spare, though. Hopefully, they would suffice.

Clear of the moat, they sloshed their way down the hill and across the choppy moorland, the night wind batting against their dripping-wet clothes.

After what must have been half an hour, they approached the Lord’s Forest. Meya felt the shadow of the overhanging canopy shading the moonlight beating down on her eyelids. Under cover of near darkness, she creaked open one eye and craned her neck back to see the front of the line.

Gillian was standing at the woods’ entrance. He turned around and beckoned with his chin for someone in the throng to come forth. Meya couldn’t see who, but she quickly closed her eye and played possum when she felt stomping footsteps walking towards her. The man stopped before Gillian, and the latter spoke.

“This is where we leave you. You are to deliver our ransom demand to Lord Coris.”

“I shall stay with the Lady.” The man spoke through gritted teeth. It was Jerald. The shriek of a sword being unsheathed rose amidst muffled screams from the maids.

“Deliver this to Lord Coris.”

Gillian reiterated, his voice as cold and calm as ever. Jerald did not respond. Nor did he move an inch. The bandit slotted his sword back in its sheath, and the group ventured forth into the gloom with half the number of crunching footsteps.

The faint, dull light of the full moon peeked through murky clouds and tangled canopy. Though the near darkness meant Meya could open her eyes, she still couldn’t move much. Every now and then, her hair snagged on dangling, dying vines, and low-hanging branches poked her behind. She could feel the ups and downs as Dockar stepped over large roots and navigated the uneven terrain. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot whenever he stepped.

Meya wasn’t sure if the beads would work anymore, but for lack of a better idea, she kept on dropping them in clumps of five or so, faster than ever, making sure to lather them with sweat from her feverish hands.

For what seemed like forever they walked, before they emerged into open space.

By the bright moonlight, Meya could see a vast, choppy moorland spreading as far as her eyes could see, dotted with boulders and rapids. Far at the edge of the moor, she thought she could make out the numerous pitch-black peaks of the Neverend Heights, the mountain range which meandered across the north and halfway down the west, serving as the natural border along with the massive Zarel river, which carved its path between the canyons, slicing Latakia apart from Nostra, leaving it looking like a torn shred of parchment barely hanging on to the rest.

Only one more obstacle stood in the Nostran army’s way: Amplevale Fortress. It should be somewhere out there, swallowed by the dark shadow of the mountains. Though thanks to the canyons, the central-west wasn’t the main route for invasions like the low-lying southwest, Amplevale was still heavily manned, supplied with troops and supplies from prosperous Hadrian.

However, Amplevale’s men would be useless in a situation like this. From what she heard from Baron Kellis during his talks to Lord Amplevale, Simon’s father, thanks to the canyons, Amplevale had not experienced any direct attacks for two centuries. Their strength was in swift reinforcements to the southwest.

Besides, setting up an ambush in open grassland with mere rocks and hillocks to hide behind was near impossible, especially with the full moon illuminating every dip and chink of the terrain. The bandits would spot them creeping in from a mile away, and she’d be dead in a breath.

Gillian led them about half a mile away from the forest before settling down upon a boulder, signaling his men to scurry about setting up camp.

The bandits shoved Meya, Arinel and Zier against a boulder then looped a lengthy rope a dozen times around them, binding them side-by-side to the cold, hard surface. The Baron and Baroness were given another rock all to themselves to their left.

“What are your demands this time?” Arinel called out.

Gillian, along with everyone conscious in the clearing, glanced up at the lady as one, before the other bandits returned to their jobs. For a brief moment, Meya expected a negative answer with a few scathing insults thrown in, but Gillian shrugged and complied.

“Nothing out of the obvious.” He looked back down at a map he had spread on the boulder, studying it by the moonlight. “I asked Lord Coris to come alone with the dowry. If I see one soldier with him, the deal is off, and we silence you all.”

The simplicity with which those words were uttered sent shivers running down Meya’s spine. It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement.

Meya felt Arinel trembling as well. Yet, the lady went on, probably trying to keep Gillian talking to gain as much information as possible.

“But there’s no deal, is there?” The lady shot back, feigned bravado in her strangled voice. “Your right-hand man said you’re delivering a requiem for the Hadrians tonight. You’re going to kill him and kill us all the moment you get your hands on the dowry. Coris is not stupid. He wouldn’t come alone. Worse, he wouldn’t come at all. How can you be sure he won’t leave his father and brother to die and become Lord Hadrian himself?”

Gillian didn’t reply straight away. Meya couldn’t help herself. She opened one eye a slit to see his reaction.

Arinel playing devil’s advocate could only serve to widen Gillian’s mirthless, secretive grin. It was as if he knew something about Coris that they did not. Judging from his smugness, it seemed as if this kidnapping was still part of the plan rather than a sidetrack.

“Oh, he would come.” Gillian tilted his head, a triumphant grin still playing on his scarred features.

“I won’t count on him being alone, but I count on him coming for one person, even at the cost of his own life.”

What?

Meya’s heart jolted at that unexpected shred of information, while Arinel shot back in an instant.

“Who?”

The lady’s fierce voice rang in the deafening silence. All the remaining bandits have stopped whatever they were doing and were listening in as well.

Gillian turned to Dockar, who had walked up nearby. Amidst the confusion and curiosity of both their conscious captives and his remaining underlings, the two men smiled at their shared knowledge. Dockar turned to Arinel with a grin.

“How about I give you a hint?” Without waiting for Arinel’s reply, he went on with a laugh. “If you had to ask, obviously it’s not you, Lady Crosset.”

Gillian and Dockar shared a curt nod, before snapping back to business; Gillian ordering the other men to stand watch at various spots for enemies approaching from the forest.

Deciding it was time to drop the bomb, Meya nudged Arinel with her shoulder.

The lady jumped and whirled around, eyes wide. In lieu of asking out loud, Meya cocked her head at Dockar. Arinel shook her head, a look of hopelessness and cluelessness in her bright blue eyes, and Meya bit her lip.

If they went by Dockar’s hint, it was not Arinel as well. That would leave only the Hadrians.

Gillian had said there was only one person Coris would come after. But between one’s father, mother and brother, how could one possibly choose?

Though Meya felt pretty sure Dad and Mum wouldn’t have that much difficulty were the choice between her and, say, Mistral, Morel or Marin, despite that, Meya wouldn’t be able to choose between him and Mum and her siblings without going insane afterwards.

Surely there must be a reason, wasn’t there, other than familial love? A reason Gillian and Dockar knew that she didn’t.

But, no matter what, it didn’t change the bitter reality that here as well, Meya was just as useless and worthless as she had been, back in the pig pen of her crumbling mud cottage. No-one would see the need to save her life. She was on her own, as she had always been.

Being on one’s own, however, had its merits. Once you were used to it, when things went south, you were always prepared for the worst. And you wouldn’t waste precious time hoping for help that was not going to arrive.

A gust of strong wind blew across the moor once more, and Meya glanced up at the night sky. It was still as clear as ever, with the round moon settled in its place, like a golden button on a black velvet cloak spangled with tiny diamonds, but she could see a vast expanse of thick black clouds hovering towards them from above the dense Hadrian forest.

After a quick sight-over to make sure none of the bandits were focusing on her and Arinel, Meya relaxed against the searing cold of the stone. Her arms were crossed, and her wrists tied together, but her fingers were still free.

Meya wiggled her left thumb, reaching into her right sleeve. Her fingertip caressed the cold, smooth, faceted surface of a gemstone. The ruby brooch Coris had given her.

As the chambermaids dressed her for dinner, Meya was fidgeting with it when she discovered the brooch was actually a sheath; a tiny, razor-sharp blade was slotted within it. She had moved it from her pocket to the inside of her sleeve, just in case.

If she could get it out and saw through these ropes, and if the wind kept on blowing hard, Meya and Arinel might still have a chance at survival.