Prince Aldric Thorne's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

The kitchens smelled of yeast and old grease. Aldric kept his head down and followed Owen past the bread ovens, past a cook who never turned from his dough. The locked door at the far end stood open a crack, propped by a boot. Owen slipped through. Aldric followed. Beyond it, the bread cart waited in a narrow yard, crates stacked high, the driver slumped on the bench with a jug between his knees. They climbed into the back and pulled a canvas over their heads. The cart lurched forward. Aldric counted his breaths and pressed the dagger flat against his thigh. They rolled through a gate. Voices called. The driver grunted something. The wheels kept turning. When the sound of stone gave way to soft earth, Owen lifted the canvas an inch and looked out. He nodded once. They slid off the back of the cart into wet grass and ran for the treeline. Owen led him uphill through birch and thorn to a hollow where he had buried a bundle. Rough tunics, a belt, a purse of coin. Aldric shed the guard cloak and pulled the plain shirt over his marked back. He tucked the dagger into the new belt. Owen pointed through the trees. "The farm is over the ridge. Horses. Then north to the river." Aldric had opened his mouth to answer when the first bay reached them, thin and far off, and then a second joining it, and a third. Owen's face went still. "Hounds." He listened another breath. "They ran the kitchens. They have the trail off the cart." Aldric felt his stomach drop. He had walked through flour and grease and old blood on those floors. He was the trail. Owen was already moving, pulling him by the sleeve toward the sound of water below. They half-slid down the bank to a shallow stream. Owen stepped in and dragged Aldric after him. The cold bit through the boots at once. "Walk in the water," Owen said. "As far as you can. Downstream, then up. Split the scent." Aldric obeyed. His legs shook. The barking grew louder, then confused, then farther. They walked the stream until Aldric could not feel his feet. Owen climbed out on a stone shelf where no print would show and hauled Aldric up after him. They lay flat in the fern until the baying moved off east, following nothing. By dusk they reached the croft over the ridge. A thatched cottage with a small barn beside it, both quiet. Owen whistled once. A man came to the barn door, looked them over, and jerked his chin. Inside, two saddled horses stood waiting, breath steaming. Aldric put a hand on the nearest mare's neck to steady himself. He was wet to the waist, shivering, and free of the castle walls. The hounds were behind them. The road north was open. He mounted.