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Authors: 111325346436434
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Eldest just rode in. She wasn’t here to witness anything. You’ve heard everything that everyone had to say to her.
Then she remembered Corelle darting up to her oldest sister, earnestly pouring out some story. Eldest’s flash of anger could have been toward a lax sister making excuses—or at the news their brother had been compromised.
Ren scanned the milling women and children for Corelle. The middle sister stood by the padlock’s gate, holding it open as riders were already trotting through. As if sensing Ren’s gaze, Corelle turned toward her as she rode up to the gate. Cool, calculating resentment filled the girl’s face.
She knows.
Ren kept her face passive as she rode past, and tried to ignore the itch between her shoulder blades. Had Corelle told Eldest? Was she riding into a trap?
If the Whistlers fought the way they rode, it was no wonder they won the war.
Showing little evidence that they had ridden all night, the Whistlers led cross-country, over fences and creeks, with seemingly reckless abandon. When one watched, though, not one horse so much as stumbled. Ren wondered if they were attempting an extremely subtle form of assassination: ride out with the princess and let her break her own neck trying to keep up.
The last mile they cut through rows of shoulder-high 52
Wen Spencer
corn, the leaves cutting and grabbing at both sides, and came out onto a dirt path. Fresh wagon tracks crushed the grass growing on either side of the path. The path ran along the cornfield and, a half mile farther down, dipped into woods. The river was near enough to smell over the bruised corn and the hot horses. The Whistlers dismounted, tied off their horses, and went silent as wolves into the woods. Ren wanted to follow, but she knew her own value. Her life wasn’t worth the capture of the cannons. There too was the niggling thought that the small woodlot would be a perfect ambush site by the Whistlers. She signaled to her women to ready weapons, wishing she had told Raven of her indiscretion. Now, on the cusp of battle, would be a foolish time to make her women doubt their allies. On the other hand, letting the captain of her guard ride blindly into an ambush seemed particularly stupid. She fought her conscience while silence came from the woods and one lone cicada droned loudly. A Whistler came trotting out of the woods and tugged on her cap bill in salute. ‘‘There’s signs that a riverboat tied off and something heavy was loaded. No cannons, but there are a couple of fresh graves.’’
‘‘Show me.’’ Ren dismounted.
A screen of brush in the woods proved to be false, a deliberate attempt to hide the path down to the river. On the high bank some forty feet from the river’s edge, the thieves’ camp showed evidence of being used often. River stone shielded a fire pit from the river. Evergreens hid a corral of sapling stringers. A well-beaten path led down to a spring-fed streamlet, a wooden bucket beside it waiting for the next visit. A secretive camp, but one long-standing, not erected overnight. The corral and fire pit both had seen winter. Thinking of the cornfield she left behind, Ren guessed at the origin of the camp. Beyond the corral, five of the Whistler sisters worked at digging up the graves. Ren signaled to Raven and her A BROTHER’S PRICE
53
women to help with the unearthing and continued on to where Eldest Whistler crouched beside the fire pit.
‘‘Whiskey runners?’’ she asked Eldest, meaning the original creators of the campsite. Was it just irony that the thieves used a smuggling camp while stealing cannons meant to fight river smuggling, or had they known what the cannons were going to be used for, and stolen them as a preventive measure?
Eldest shrugged. ‘‘Anything taxed going up and down the river. From the number of horses, tents, and footprints, we figure there were about twenty women in all. There are six graves. Heria saw five riders, so that may be them plus
Then she remembered Corelle darting up to her oldest sister, earnestly pouring out some story. Eldest’s flash of anger could have been toward a lax sister making excuses—or at the news their brother had been compromised.
Ren scanned the milling women and children for Corelle. The middle sister stood by the padlock’s gate, holding it open as riders were already trotting through. As if sensing Ren’s gaze, Corelle turned toward her as she rode up to the gate. Cool, calculating resentment filled the girl’s face.
She knows.
Ren kept her face passive as she rode past, and tried to ignore the itch between her shoulder blades. Had Corelle told Eldest? Was she riding into a trap?
If the Whistlers fought the way they rode, it was no wonder they won the war.
Showing little evidence that they had ridden all night, the Whistlers led cross-country, over fences and creeks, with seemingly reckless abandon. When one watched, though, not one horse so much as stumbled. Ren wondered if they were attempting an extremely subtle form of assassination: ride out with the princess and let her break her own neck trying to keep up.
The last mile they cut through rows of shoulder-high 52
Wen Spencer
corn, the leaves cutting and grabbing at both sides, and came out onto a dirt path. Fresh wagon tracks crushed the grass growing on either side of the path. The path ran along the cornfield and, a half mile farther down, dipped into woods. The river was near enough to smell over the bruised corn and the hot horses. The Whistlers dismounted, tied off their horses, and went silent as wolves into the woods. Ren wanted to follow, but she knew her own value. Her life wasn’t worth the capture of the cannons. There too was the niggling thought that the small woodlot would be a perfect ambush site by the Whistlers. She signaled to her women to ready weapons, wishing she had told Raven of her indiscretion. Now, on the cusp of battle, would be a foolish time to make her women doubt their allies. On the other hand, letting the captain of her guard ride blindly into an ambush seemed particularly stupid. She fought her conscience while silence came from the woods and one lone cicada droned loudly. A Whistler came trotting out of the woods and tugged on her cap bill in salute. ‘‘There’s signs that a riverboat tied off and something heavy was loaded. No cannons, but there are a couple of fresh graves.’’
‘‘Show me.’’ Ren dismounted.
A screen of brush in the woods proved to be false, a deliberate attempt to hide the path down to the river. On the high bank some forty feet from the river’s edge, the thieves’ camp showed evidence of being used often. River stone shielded a fire pit from the river. Evergreens hid a corral of sapling stringers. A well-beaten path led down to a spring-fed streamlet, a wooden bucket beside it waiting for the next visit. A secretive camp, but one long-standing, not erected overnight. The corral and fire pit both had seen winter. Thinking of the cornfield she left behind, Ren guessed at the origin of the camp. Beyond the corral, five of the Whistler sisters worked at digging up the graves. Ren signaled to Raven and her A BROTHER’S PRICE
53
women to help with the unearthing and continued on to where Eldest Whistler crouched beside the fire pit.
‘‘Whiskey runners?’’ she asked Eldest, meaning the original creators of the campsite. Was it just irony that the thieves used a smuggling camp while stealing cannons meant to fight river smuggling, or had they known what the cannons were going to be used for, and stolen them as a preventive measure?
Eldest shrugged. ‘‘Anything taxed going up and down the river. From the number of horses, tents, and footprints, we figure there were about twenty women in all. There are six graves. Heria saw five riders, so that may be them plus
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