THE DEEPEST DARK
Alina rode through the forest. The pony, valiant and strong, was starting to tire. She could hear the sounds of the hunt behind her, further down the hill.
She felt the pony slowing and she let him rest. He did so, head down, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.
Alina bit her lip. Her heart was aching, desperate, sad. She was almost without hope. Behind her, perhaps four hundred feet away, the hunt was starting to make itself heard. She heard shouts, distant yet, and the muffled horn.
I can't do this, can I? She thought sadly. There was no way she could evade the hunters for long. On a pack pony, recently loaded with a carcass and probably still faintly scented with blood, in strange woods in darkness.
If the hunters don't catch me, the wolves might, she thought grimly. The dangers were everywhere.
As she sat, patting the neck of her horse gently, she heard the shouts and horn again. One thing – that noise is enough to scare wolves away, too. She chuckled at that and felt a stray tendril of warmth grow in her heart.
She patted the pony again, gently on his neck. “Come on, you,” she said carefully. “Time to go.”
The pony huffed at her resistance, and then decided to be helpful. He turned and, at a slow walk, they headed away from the sounds of the hunt and into the deeper woods beyond.
Here, the sounds were quieter, the woods still hushed. The woods seemed brighter, Alina noticed, the ground damper underfoot. They rode forward through blue starlight, the shadows of the trees black bars on slick silver ground.
As she rode on, humming under her breath to keep up the pony's spirits – and her own – she noticed why.
The trees are thinner here.
Feeling a wild hope spark suddenly in her heart, Alina rode on.
Nonsense, Alina, she told herself reasonably. It's a clearing, only. Not the end of the woods. Don't get your hopes up.
Still, she rode forward, talking to her pony as she went. The starlight was silvery and Alina spoke softly, feeling her heart pounding.
“Here we are. Almost here. Look at the woods. Aren't they lovely? Not much longer. Here we are...”
She was tired, her mind falling into a fog of exhaustion as she rode, lips murmuring even though she was half asleep. The sounds of the hunt were fading, the woods pale pewter around her, the moonlight soft on her eyes.
Moonlight?
Alina blinked.
Moonlight!
They were facing a thin patch of trees, on the edge of a vast moorland. The trees had thinned, the canopy interspersed with openings through which the light shone.
“Moonlight!”
Alina shouted it, elated. She looked out over the moorland, painted in grays and blues on the ink black night sky beyond. The crickets shrilled and chirped in the long, wet grass. The wind was still. Somewhere, a fox called.
Alina smiled, feeling tears run down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered aloud.
Thank you.
They were out of the woods. She could find her way from here. She could, if the pursuers spent their time riding around the forest, find the way home.
Home. It was later when Alina thought it. She and her pony had been riding across the moors for what felt like hours. The terror of the pursuit had left them both soaked with perspiration which had cooled, and here on the moorlands, the chill gnawed at them, making Alina numb and weary. She thought about how cold the pony was, she had already decided that she would return home with her, and she would make sure the last years of her life were ten times better than the first, in thanks. The thought was a hazy one, on the edge of sleep, dreaming of Lochlann castle...home.
She rode in her sleep. The pony, she was sure as she jarred awake, was also asleep. Home seemed an impossible vision, something she had dreamed of, not somewhere concrete and real and a day and a half's ride away.
“Home,” she whispered to the pony. He shifted his ears, seeking her voice. He plodded on resolutely the way they were headed.
Alina felt herself slowly fall back to sleep, head nodding. She was thankful for the years of riding practice, and for the lessons – entirely unorthodox – in riding astride. She would have fallen ages ago else.
She was asleep, thinking of the man-at-arms who had taught both her and Amabel to ride, eyes twinkling, praising them in their smallest efforts, when she felt something change.
She heard a bird mutter sleepily to himself somewhere in a gnarled tree.
She looked about.
The moorland was gray with morning, the earliest hour of sun. She thought she recognized a hill on the horizon. A great mounded shape, brooding there like a bear. She knew it from the road from Lochlann.
She bit her lip, and then patted her pony.
“I think its morning,” she whispered to him. “And I think I know where we are.”
He huffed a reply, seeming to understand the sense of her words. They continued on.
Alina felt more awake now, listening as one bird and then another joined the dawn chorus. The air was cold – a terrible, bone-numbing cold – and somewhere a faint breeze bent the tussocks.
Alina sighed, feeling a smile stretch her face. Somewhere a fox yipped to her cubs. Then, as Alina felt her heart lift, the pony stopped.
She bit her lip, feeling sudden misery.
“No,” she whispered urgently. “You can't stop now. Not when we're so close! Please. Don't. Don't do this to me...”
She looked up, biting her lip, feeling tears start to flow.
That was when she saw it. The road. White in the early light, it lay across the moorlands. Perhaps fifty paces away.
Feeling her heart soaring, Alina rode towards it. It was the road to that would lead to home.
Joining the road took a little persuasion. Alina dismounted and led her mount a little way, praying that the hunters had gone back to the castle during the night. The wet grass soaked the hem of her skirt, making it heavy. Her cloak was wrapped around her and it trailed in the wetness, snagging, sometimes, on stone, grass, or gorse. Alina sighed. Their progress was slow, but it was nothing compared to the joy of no longer being lost.
“The road's up ahead,” she told the pony. “And when we get there, we'll find an inn. Somewhere safe. And you'll have hay and bran mash and warmth and we'll be able to rest for a little while. Then we'll continue on home.”
She talked as they walked, spinning pictures of warmth and friendliness and home. She had to believe them too, though she spoke to the pony, encouraging him.
We will reach home, she told herself. We will. We will. Not too long, now.
She took no notice of the nagging doubt that told her inns were dangerous and best avoided, that said they had no time to stop, that told her they were both exhausted and would never make it to an inn in time, before they perished of exhaustion and hunger and cold. They were at the road, now. All they had to do was follow it.
We will reach home. We will. Not too long, now.
She walked on, step by aching, tired step. They were both cold, and Alina could feel how the dew soaked through her boots, her toes numbed to nothing. At least on the road they could not get wetter.
We will reach home.
She closed her eyes and walked along, feeling the cobbles rough and uneven under her shoes, twisting her ankle as she walked. She led the horse, eyes closed, knowing where they were by the feel of the stone below her, the sound of the hoof beats on cobble, the scent of dew and the cold wet-stone smell of the road below her.
Her boots were starting to slip. She hung onto the pony's bridle, feeling her legs start to give way.
She cried out, biting her lip.
I will not fall. I will not stop. I will reach home.
She slipped then, and fell.
No!
She felt tears soak her face, warm over the frozen skin of her cheeks. She blinked her eyes furiously, biting her lip. She lifted her hand to cuff the tears away. She looked up.
There, on the moorland, just off the road, was a rider. He was perhaps sixty feet away, but even from here she could see the golden brown of his hair, his height, the long dark cloak he wore.
“Duncan?” her voice was a whisper. How could it be? Could it..?
“Duncan!”
She shouted it, trying to stand. She got to her knees.
The pony, seeming to know she needed help, nudged at her gently. He had his head down and she held the reins and then dragged herself upright, holding onto his leg for support. She stood, leaning on the pony, shuddering and elated.
“Duncan!” she screamed it, using every last drop of energy in her body. Beside her the pony started and huffed. He did not bolt though – too tired, and used to the sound of her voice.
She breathed in, smelling his warm, musk scent.
She looked at the horseman. He had turned. He had seen her! She raised a hand. She waved.
“Duncan!”
“Alina?” he shouted her name. “Alina! Alina!”
As he rode closer, he recognized her and she recognized him. That handsome face, that hair, the long nose, lean body, firm posture! It was him!
“Duncan!” she whispered. “Duncan!”
He reached her and reined in. His own horse was almost as tired as her pony, she thought, seeing him stand, head down, panting heavily. Duncan slid off. His face was gray, his hair wet with rain, eyes ringed with darkness. He smiled at her.
“Alina!”
His cheeks wet with tears. Alina swallowed hard and wrapped her arms around him firmly.
They stood like that for what seemed like forever, her body warm against his firm, hard chest, his warm arms tight around her.
Alina felt her heart soar, cheeks stiff with smiling, heart slowed.
He kissed her then, his lips warm on her cold, hard ones. She smiled and felt her whole body warm and relax, held close against him.
“Alina,” he said. He stroked her hair then looked down into her face, stroking it with his long, warm fingers. “You're safe. You're here. I can't believe it.”
“Duncan,” she said firmly. She could not think of anything else. He was here. They were alive, safe, and free. They would go home.
He wrapped his arm around her, draping his cloak to cover her, too, lending her shivering, frozen body another layer of warmth. He took the reins of his horse, who was recovering, and of her pony, and together the four weary travelers walked, slowly and wearily, along the road. Alina, feeling Duncan's arm around her, her own arm wrapped around his lean, firm waist, felt exhausted, aching, and as happy as she had ever been.
Duncan had found her. They were free. They were going back home.