Chapter 6
Dawn crested, bright and blue, over the Bay of Tides in the east, where the cliffs touched the sea. The new sun danced a jig on the surface of the water, sparkling and brilliant as if it were happy— ever so happy— to welcome the new day. It moved like the fluttering, hopping wings of a hummingbird, darting here and there and everywhere before the whole waving surface was engulfed in white, its face blazing like a beacon in the dark. Edward admired the way it moved— the way it swayed and rippled as the sun crested over the seamless horizon— until Carlisle gave him a careful nod, and they were forced to move on.
Edward had never before appreciated just how deep in the jungle his aunt and uncle lived.
Far on the outskirts of the capital of Marolando, the healer's hut had been a constant fixture in the Maronese landscape since the dawn of time. Buried deep in the wilderness, even before villages and settlements had expanded and encroached on its solitude, this hut had been the home and hearth of the medicine man for centuries, whose job it was to tend to the needs of the most vulnerable citizens. The hut was lonesome— there were no neighbours to break the silence and no easy roads to encourage guests. Only a barn for livestock, a small garden for fruits and vegetables, and two rough-hewn paths that led to the front and back gates, just wide enough for two mounted men to ride abreast.
For the Maronese people knew that sickness could spread like wildfire, and only the jungle could keep it away.
"Not far now," Edward said gently, glancing down at Esme, who looked thin and exhausted. "Just over the crest of this hill and down again to the bottom, and we'll be at the village gates. Are you sure you don't want to ride?"
"No." His aunt shook her head and kept one hand on the corner of the litter, the other clasped tightly on a rope tied around the neck of a slow, fat mule. "If it's as you say and we're nearly there…"
"We are, darling," Carlisle replied, holding the rope attached to the other mule. "Once we get the girl settled, we'll have a good night's rest."
"Praise be," murmured Emmett, glancing down anxiously at the litter piled high with furs. "Is she well, Carlisle?"
"Well enough."
The girl, pale and wan, slumbered on as they walked, plodding a slow and steady pace up the hill. It was torture to move so slowly. Edward's horse— a fine, war-trained thoroughbred of 16 hands— was not used to such drudgery. He often grew antsy— he was not accustomed to this torturous slowness, and sped ahead in a quick trot that earned him nothing but scolding. Edward might have imagined it, but he thought that when he met the horse's eye after the last incident, he might have caught a hint of resentment. Magnus had always been a temperamental beast— almost as fussy and particular as his master.
But, while some might suspect otherwise, it was not the mules' fault that they moved so sluggishly. Carlisle, ever-resourceful, was unable to keep horses on his small plot of land, but had discovered some years back that mules were not so fussy. He'd raised them from foals— plump and clumsy things that tore up his garden and chewed on his fence posts. But even for mules, babyhood did not last forever, and they grew. They became healthy and strong— well-trained beasts of burden taught to carry bodies, both living and dead, through the jungles and fields of Marolando.
Edward had seen them more than once, always cool and collected, on the battlefield of last summer's bloody raids. He'd seen them carrying men who screamed and women who wailed. They'd pulled carts of children to safety, always under Carlisle's careful guidance, and they never faltered, sure-footed and sturdy as they were. They could be quick as small horses, should Carlisle spur them on, and they could be as slow as molasses trickling idly down the side of a bowl when so commanded.
That morning, Carlisle moved them at a snail's pace, determined that the girl should not be jostled by the pace of an overzealous canter. They had to move slowly, or else the girl would suffer.
"Nearly there," said Carlisle, steadying the litter on his animal's broad back as the party finally crested, the incline growing sharper and steeper on those last few meters. Magnus whinnied impatiently as Edward surveyed the sleepy village from his post, moving the horse into the underbrush to keep the mules on the road.
In the pale blue morning, the village lay sprawled in the valley between the jungle to the east, and the mountains to the west. Nestled snugly in the great, grassy basin, Edward's capital was the jewel of the island— the centre of culture, the seat of government, and the base for their strong, and still-growing, army. La Ĉefurbo, as it was known to the locals, was perfectly placed in the center of the island, no more than two days' ride from any other settlement. The low-lying flatness of the village was an exception to strategic rule— it did not hold high ground, as military prowess might demand, nor did it have access to waterways to launch a fleet, but for what it lacked in traditional gains, it made up for in fortitude.
For La Ĉefurbo was, for all intents and purposes, a fortress, enclosed by tall, stone walls on all sides. Passages through these walls were sparse and narrow, guarded by some of Edward's best soldiers, and while any citizen of Marolando was permitted to enter the village unmolested, everyone knew that the King's soldiers would not hesitate to strike if they scented danger. The people who lived in the shadow of Edward's castle were some of the safest in the land, and their lack of farmland or green space was feeble payment for such peace of mind.
"Edward."
Snapped back to attention Edward turned, Magnus' hooves stamping anxiously at the undergrowth as he moved. Emmett's horse strode towards him, snorting, and shook its great, black mane.
"I'll go on ahead," said Emmett, jerking his head down the hill towards the village. "I'll clear the road and have them open the gates."
"Thank you."
"You'll be alright?" Emmett glanced anxiously down the path, as if half-expecting some unseen assailant to barrel out of the trees.
Edward laughed.
"I'll be fine," he insisted. "We're nearly there. And you forget… I was once a fighter too."
He thumbed the hilt of the great, steel sword at his waist.
"Yes," Emmett conceded. He wheeled his horse around. "But now you are a king. And a king is not a fighter."
The title settled on Edward like a cold rain.
"We'll be fine," said Edward. "It's still early. Few will have risen, and even so, we are not conspicuous enough to attract much attention."
Emmett grunted.
"Very well," he said. "I won't be far ahead. Call out if you need me."
And without another word he spurred his horse and flew down the road, dust pluming in his wake.
"We should move," said Carlisle gently, having stopped to assess the girl again as they crested. "It'll be full daylight soon, and if you hope to escape unnoticed…"
Edward, grimacing, gave a curt nod.
"On, then," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to ride, Esme? Magnus is strong enough to hold us both, or I'd be glad to take your place down there…"
"I'm sure," she said. Her eyes were bright from lack of sleep. "We're almost there… it makes no difference now."
They made quick work of the hill. Descending was far easier than ascending had been, and soon, they moved at a smooth, steady pace towards the village gates. Edward spied the sentry in the watchtower just as they emerged from the trees at the base of the hill, and the man did not hesitate once he saw the face of his ruler and his precious cargo, held aloft between the healer's beasts.
"My King." The man bowed respectfully as Edward approached.
"Samuelo."
"You are most welcome." He unlatched the gate. "Please…"
"Thank you."
The party moved through without aplomb.
"Have you thought about where you'll put her, Edward?" asked Carlisle. "It will need to be big enough for us to work… and clean. I can't stress that part enough."
"Yes," Edward said. "I thought the blue rooms would do."
Esme blinked, surprised.
"Your mother's rooms?"
A flush, warm and pink, rose on Edward's cheeks and he stared nervously ahead.
"Yes," he said. "They are the biggest, besides Jasper's and my own, and they are meant for a woman. "
Carlisle stared intently at him for a long moment before he gave a short nod, looking for all the world as if he wanted to speak.
But he didn't, and so Edward drove them onward.
It took nigh on twenty minutes to maneuver to the castle gates.
"Let them through!" Emmett shouted, his voice carrying on the cool, morning air. "Pull up the gate!"
And at once, the great, spiked, metal portcullis rose with the clinking of chains, retreating into the stone archway to let them through. They slipped into the courtyard just as the first of Edward's curious citizens began to make their way to the stone walls to watch.
When the gate closed behind them, its posts buried deep into the hard, pressed earth, Edward breathed a sigh of relief and dismounted, handing Magnus over to the waiting hands of the wiry stable master. The man, always stoic and frowning, gawked at the hidden figure in the litter, his eyes bugging when Carlisle reached over to check her pulse again.
"She is well," he reassured, seeing the man's sudden nerves.
"She looks dead," the man grunted. "Is she ill?"
"She is not dead," Carlisle replied.
Esme shook her head.
"Inside, Carlisle," she insisted. "Please…"
And at once, as if the man had forgotten himself, he gave Esme a respectful bow and backed away, tugging the horse behind him.
"Please, Edward…" Esme put her hand on his arm. "Get her inside."
"Of course."
And Edward moved, leading the party towards the small, shadowed doorway that led straight into the antechamber— beyond the grand entrance hall, away from the cavernous throne room, and towards that long, winding staircase that would bring them to the Queen's Chambers.
A/N: You all are lovely. Thank you for all your support and kind words.