Royal Outlaw: (Royal Outlaw, Book 1) (24 page)

“I don’t want your help. Go away.”

The glowing creature turned her head as she loped along beside the running girl. Her amethyst eyes locked with the girl’s dark green ones. The eyes of the fox were like deep pools of water without a bottom. It was like glimpsing into another world. Hypnotized, Mariel could not tear her gaze away. She felt chastised and sorrowful.

“Very well, but do nothing foolish and know that it is very important that you remember that which you have forgotten, Mariel de Sharec, Princess of Natric.”

In a burst of light, the fox vanished. It was as though a spell had been lifted from Mariel. Her feet tangled and she stumbled. She hit the ground hard, but propelled herself into a somersault and bounced back to her feet. The healing wound on her left arm twanged painfully and dizziness gripped her.

Unwilling to admit weakness, Mariel began running again, but her eleventh circuit around the yard was different than the first ten. Her muscles burned and her heartrate accelerated dramatically. Unable to catch her breath, she panted loudly, but refused to stop, determined not to give up. After two laps she stumbled again and she violently expelled all the contents of her stomach.

Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she staggered to the fence and clung to it, shaking and gasping for breath. The world spun dangerously and Mariel struggled to hold on to consciousness. The sound of men moving in the barracks, stirred her to reality. She could not bear the thought of anyone seeing her so weak, even if she was dressed like a boy.

Shaking with fatigue, Mariel crawled over the fence. With the sun just beginning to touch the ground, she lurched across the yard and into the main building. Her feet carried her where she needed to go, while she hovered in a state of detachment. She nearly walked down the corridor where the guards stood in front of the main door to her suite, before she stirred enough to realize that would be a grave mistake.

Locating the door to the study was easy, unlocking it was not. Her fingers trembled violently and her eyes refused to focus. It took nine tries before she was able to pop the lock.

The picks slid from her fingers as she walked into the room. She was willing to collapse on the soft floor there, but she forced herself to reach the bedroom. Crawling onto the large four-poster bed was the last thing she remembered before surrendering to fatigue and slipping into the realm of sleep.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before the princess came to consciousness again. A plate of food had been left for her beside the bed and she forced a few morsels down. Depression had set in. She was weak. She knew it and she could not deny it. Mariel curled up into a ball on her bed. A sudden fear gripped her and she leapt out of bed. Digging in a drawer in the washroom she procured the vial of amber liquid and held it against her chest like a valued treasure that had almost been lost. Popping the cork she lifted the vial to her lips and allowed a drop to slide onto her tongue. Satisfied that no nightmares would haunt her sleep, she sank into her pillows again.

She woke before dawn and scrambled out of bed, determined to prove that she was not weak, as she began her exercises with Aracklin. She tired quickly and her left arm cried out in pain. She tossed the sword aside in disgust, escaped her room, and ran circuits around the practice yard until she made herself sick again. Tears of frustration and depression slid down her cheeks as she collapsed on her bed and let oblivion take her.

High Priestess woke her hours later, checking for fever and asking if she was ill. Mariel refused to answer or to eat. She simply rolled over to her other side and ignored the stern woman’s worries.

The next day followed in a similar manner, with Mariel pushing her weakened body to its limits in the hours before dawn and then spending the rest of the day lost in a state of depression. High Priestess tried to berate her, scold her, draw her out, but failed. Dreyfuss was brought in, but even his arrogant and scathing remarks failed to bring a response from Mariel.

She refused to eat or speak or do anything. High Priestess even allowed Cara into the room, hoping that she might know how to help Mariel. Cara brought Mariel’s weapons, but Mariel did not stir. She was insane with her delusions of the black fox, although the last time she had seen the vixen was on the first morning at the Citadel. She was weak, since she could not run as fast or long as normal and her sword arm felt heavy. And the worst thing of all, she was a coward, unwilling to face her past, unable to evoke the memories that were locked somewhere in her mind.

Mariel thought of her fate, how she could not escape being a princess. The king and queen would not disown her no matter what she did because they were too desperate for an heir, and too proud to name one that did not carry the de Sharec blood. If she turned her back on it all, Dreyfuss would track down her papa and kill him. She was trapped as a princess and now her body was physically as weak as one.

On the fifth day, Mariel woke thinking about Darren. She did not know where he was, but she did know he was not in Natric. And she was glad. What would he think of her now? Lying on her bed, refusing food and company.

“You’re sulking,” he would say. An unsympathetic scowl would contort his bearded face and his arms would be crossed over his chest. “You’re hiding, you coward. Get your lazy arse out of bed and do something with it.”

Mariel sat up and stared into the darkness, half expecting to see her papa standing at the foot of her bed.

“I
am
sulking,” she whispered.

She was weak, she knew that, but she was trying to push her body too hard too fast. She had been injured and had lost her muscle strength and her stamina, but they would not return over night. Thinking back on the last few mornings, she realized that the previous morning she had been able to run a little longer than her first day—minus the ten laps she had been under the influence of the fox’s power.

A food tray with fruit had been left by her bedside in the event that she roused from her depression and decided to eat. Mariel picked up an apple and tossed it into the air. Catching the fruit as it fell, she smiled at her small triumph before devouring it. She wrinkled her nose at the putrid smell that clung to her body and reached for the water pitcher on the table.

Locating a towel, she poured some of the water onto it and rubbed it over her body to get some of the dirt and sweat off. She would do better later. Pulling Aracklin from its scabbard, she launched into a basic pattern and then jogged slowly three times around the large suite.

When she finished the exercises, she felt energized, the opposite of how she had felt on the other days.

“I’m not moping anymore, Papa,” she said as though Darren were there. “I am not a coward. I need information, and I’m going to go find some of my contacts.”

* * *

Peering around the corner of the women’s bathhouse, Mariel pulled a few damp curls out from beneath the bonnet she had stolen from one of the storage rooms. Since the sun had yet to rise, the majority of the Citadel’s occupants were still in bed. However, many servants had already begun their day and she had not bathed alone.

Mariel checked to make sure her weapons were well concealed beneath the apron she wore. She had bathed with lavender—if James were here he would never let her live it down. But she could not deny that she had developed a liking for the scent, perhaps because it reminded her of her mother. Her mother had been brutally murdered by the same man who now wanted her dead. And she could not remember who that man was.

That was why she was here now, she needed information. The Citadel and the City of the Gods was her criminal domain and she had plenty of contacts who might be able to tell her something valuable. Some of her contacts were old friends who she had missed, and she intended to find them first.

As she climbed the stairs to the ground floor, the aroma of baking bread and sweet cake tingled Mariel’s nose. Her stomach loudly reminded her that all she had eaten in the last few days was the fruit devoured in her room more than an hour before.

She picked up her pace at the prospect of food and ducked into the chaotic kitchen. Herbs and spices, pots and pans, and unused utensils swung from the ceiling of the vast room. Water boiled over smoky fires and cooks yelled at maids and kitchen lads. A short man with a pot belly and a bald head lorded over the entire operation.

This single kitchen had to provide food for even more people than the royal palace in Fintel. With so much food to prepare on a daily basis, the kitchen staff was too large for the head cook to know everyone who worked for him. This was always an advantage for Mariel.

She scanned the kitchen, carefully picking out two of her contacts, but they were not who she looked for. A young woman with a flour mark on her cheek drew Mariel’s eye. She was average-sized with thick, brown hair that refused to stay beneath her bonnet as she shoved two loaves of bread into a hot oven.

Mariel delicately weaved her way through the kitchen, nearly getting killed once by a woman with a scalding pot filled with some unknown substance.

The young woman was busy with the ovens when the outlaw approached. Mariel checked to make sure no one was looking, then bent down and whispered in her contact’s ear, “I thought the flour was supposed to go into the bread, not on your face.”

The maid straightened and spun around. Her eyes widened in surprise and then lit up. “Mariel!” She pulled the smaller girl into her arms, embracing her tightly.

There was something about these arms that nearly made Mariel cry. They were warm, loving, accepting, and familiar. These were the arms of an old friend.

“Hello, Lizzie.” Mariel grinned broadly as Lizzie released her and stepped away.

The young woman shook her head and planted her floury fists on her hips. “I shouldn’t have been worried about you. But it’s been so long, I couldn’t help but fret.” She shrugged and started kneading dough. “I should have known better, no one can keep you imprisoned.”

Mariel grimaced at the mention of imprisonment, but Lizzie was busy checking to make sure no unwanted ears were cocked in their direction to notice.

“I have information for you.”

That was just what Mariel wanted to hear. She grabbed a slab of dough from a mixing pot, spread flour on the board near Lizzie, and began to press her knuckles into the soft mixture. “Good. I have questions.”

“Ah,” Lizzie paused dramatically. “But first, I get to ask
my
questions.”

Mariel rolled her eyes, but the smile did not fade from her lips. “Of course, but you know I won’t give you many answers.”

“We’ll see, maybe this time you will be more . . . what is a fancy word? . . .
forthcoming
.”

“Start asking, the sooner your interrogation is done, the sooner I can begin my own.”

“Do you know the princess?”

“
What?
” Mariel dropped the dough and took a step back.

Lizzie looked just as surprised by her friend’s odd reaction. “I don’t know who you work for—you’ve always been mum to that bit of information. But I do know you are part of the Resistance and you’re in deep. Darren Brightsword’s the leader of the Resistance and rumor has it that . . .” Lizzie paused and glanced around and then leaned down close to Mariel’s ear. “Rumor has it that Brightsword has been fully pardoned of all his crimes because he helped the king find the princess. And Brightsword knew who the princess was because she’s his daughter! And since I suspect you are in the inner circle of the Resistance . . .”

“You think I know the princess?” Mariel finished for her friend.

Lizzie nodded and straightened up. “Well?”

Unknown to Lizzie, the real princess stood right beside her, intently kneading dough as she thought about how much she was willing to tell this young woman.
“Do you trust me, Mariel?”
James’s words sounded suddenly in her mind. Lizzie was her friend, and one of her oldest and most loyal contacts, but did she trust her? No. Sadly it was an answer that sprang to Mariel’s mind too quickly. Lizzie was human.

The knowledge that the infamous outlaw Mariel Quickwit was Darren Brightsword’s illegitimate daughter and heir to the Natrician throne would not stay quiet forever. Dreyfuss struggled to keep that bit of information secret, but Mariel knew too many people in too many places and they would not hesitate to spread the news. At the Convent of Narel in Pribum Mariel had been very isolated, here in the City of the Gods she was not—unless she continued to hide in her rooms. Lizzie had a right to hear the news from Mariel, but the princess decided she wanted her friend to figure it out for herself.

“I suppose you could say I know the princess.”

“Do you think she will be a good ruler?”

“No,” Mariel said sharply, digging her fists into the dough harder than necessary.

“Then you plan to stop her?”

Mariel released her death grip on the dough and glanced sideways at the bread rising in the ovens.

“Mariel?” Lizzie gently prodded.

“It’s complicated. Some situations are beyond my control.”

Lizzie stared at Mariel, her piece of dough forgotten in wake of astonishment that the ever brave Mariel would admit to an impossible situation. The scent of burning food reached Mariel’s nostrils, jostling her out of her thoughts. Wiping the flour on her apron she rushed to rescue some bread from an oven.