Sartor by Sherwood Smith

almost said the word
‘command’ but what if they did not obey? There was no sign yet that
they would obey her. Cherish her because of her name, yes. Listen to her,
possibly. Definitely respect her rank. But actually follow her commands?
    No one answered. No one moved as the older teens sidled
glances at each other.
    Merewen got to her feet and ran back across the bridge,
vanishing among the trees. No one tried to stop her. Atan wondered what would happen
if she did the same, then saw Brick and Sana looking uneasy, and both stepped
toward the bridge, standing firmly to block it.
    “We feel sorry for your friend,” Hinder said
earnestly. He looked apologetic, as did Brick and Pouldi and Sana.
    “But you cannot go chasing after a Norsundrian, not if
you are the last Landis,” Irza stated. She did not look sorry at all. “ We know our duty. Our patrollers will be on the watch for the enemy and your
friend. But your place is here, and our place is with you.”
    “We’ll make a celebration,” Hinder
suggested, and Sin cheered, looking around and making surreptitious hand
motions.
    “We have a swing,” Julian announced proudly.
Shall I show you?”
    Others quickly joined it, the younger children with
enthusiasm. They liked celebrations.
    Atan sighed. She now had before her a horrible dilemma: if
she resisted, her very first war would be with her own people.
    So she bowed in acquiescence, thinking: So I must somehow
get a message to Tsauderei—that is, if he is not already watching. Yes! Tsauderei
must be watching the borders of Norsunder, as he always has. Surely he will see
Lilah.
    And he’d be able to act. Because even if she caught up
with that knife-throwing man, what else could she really do? He certainly wasn’t going to obey a command from Sartor’s last queen.
    She smiled at Julian. “Show me your swing,” she
said.

EIGHT
    Lilah fought an inward battle even worse than the outward
one.
    The outward one was bad enough, beginning with a frightening
ride all through the night, but as soon as they neared the southern edge of Shendoral,
the horse slowed to an exhausted walk.
    Its head drooped as they rode back into the dusty kingdom
that was slowly sliding back into temporal alignment with the land around it. Whoever
it was that had grabbed Lilah did not loosen the cotton-tasting cloth gagging
her.
    An arm strong as a steel band clamped round her middle,
making it impossible to move at all, and so she’d passed the night in a
dreary swing between awareness of cold, and dust, and endless road, and a nightmarish
doze. Her head would drop forward until the horse’s gait broke rhythm and
she’d jolt awake, her neck throbbing, to discover that this part
of the nightmare was in fact real.
    A dull gray dawn gradually pushed the shadows back while
Lilah dozed again. When the horse paused at a stream to drink, Lilah woke. She
winced at the ache sent invisible needle prickles through her muscles. Day had
arrived.
    The horse was dark brown, its mane snaggled after days of
travel, its sides dusty. Whoever had grabbed her clearly didn’t have
another mount waiting somewhere—like with friends. So he was alone.
    Good. She couldn’t escape a bunch of villains, but
maybe she could from one.
    Who was this villain, anyway? She twisted her head to peek
up behind her, and caught sight of a young man’s face. He looked a little
older than Peitar, but younger than her horrible, awful, disgusting Uncle
Darian Irad, former king of Sarendan. Short, curly black hair, light blue eyes—eyes
shaped like Atan’s. That gave her a really nasty jolt. Was it possible that Norsunder had managed to twist one of Atan’s relatives and send him
after her?
    Except why had he grabbed Lilah instead? She winced. Her
head hurt, her mouth felt dry as the dusty trail, and her neck ached. She
couldn’t think.
    Just once she tried to wriggle free from that rock-like grip
round her middle, only to feel the arm tighten. The reins snapped against