Sword by Amy Bai Page A

finally, when the silence was strangling him, and received yet another annoyed hiss.
    "They're driving us north, my lord, along the border road. They have scouts where they can prevent us from traveling across the fields. They have bows. We would have no chance."
    Devin gripped the reins a little too hard, then sat back in the saddle when the gesture caused his horse to dance sideways. He flung a small, slightly desperate glance at Hewet, hoping this was some sort of terrible jest, but there was sweat on the man's brow and a grim look in his eye.
    "But what for ?" Devin bleated. "Who are they? There's been no breaking of the peace on the border, I'd have heard of it—it would be all over the kingdom!"
    He said that, and then thought about his sister and Baron Walderan's nephew, and how few people knew the truth of that , and his hands went cold. He began to feel a bit sick.
    But they wouldn't kill one of the heirs to the Great Houses out in broad daylight. Surely not. There was no way it had gotten so bad out here in the mere half a year he'd been holed up inside Caerwyssis's salt-pocked walls.
    "What do we do?" Devin asked again, and Hewet sighed.
    "We ride onward, young lord, and hope that these men are following opportunity and not orders, for they will not likely draw and break the peace if that is the case. We hope the Sarmin Mill, which is about an hour's ride ahead, is not occupied by more of them. We have a small chance of losing them if we move quickly, and if the old bridge is intact. We will pick up our pace when we reach the cover of the trees, just ahead, you see? You must do everything I say now, do you hear me?"
    "I hear," Devin murmured, imagining the road ahead. He had never seen the old Sarmin Mill, reputed to be the first bridge built when the Western provinces were settled, who-knew-how-many hundreds of years back. He had never ridden the border road before. He was never going to do it again, if he got out of this. "I'll do as you say, Hewet. Lead the way."
    His sword was wrapped and packed away in the saddlebags. His bezaint vest was the only protection he had, and it wasn't much, but he swore he would never again complain about how it chafed. He eyed Hewet sidelong and tried to keep his heart from pounding too hard as he slid the flute carefully out of his pocket again to rub his thumb over the worn knobs and curves, an old habit and a comforting one.
    They rode under a curving canopy of beech and ash. Hewet nudged his mount carefully, almost nonchalantly, into a faster gait, and Devin followed suit. He could, if he strained, hear the sound of hoofbeats behind them. His heart pounded harder.
    Next to him, Hewet slipped the faded blue tie that held his sword in its sheath, the mark of a man bearing a blade in the service of the king's peace. "Young lord," he said, still serene as a man playing draughts over a cup of ale, "If you can find your blade in the saddlebags without sacrificing speed, you should do so now. Do not unwrap it yet."
    Good gods .
    This felt unreal, like a play put on for his benefit, or one of his longer, more dramatic ballads. Devin leaned back, fumbled clumsily at the saddlebags, and nearly lost his balance. Hewet was squinting ahead like a man facing down a high wind. The band behind them was fully audible now. He thought he could hear the two scouts that hid in the fields as well. It was a bit hard to breathe past the dread.
    He caught the pommel of his sword in his fingers and slid the wrapped blade out, laying it across his lap. Hewet kicked his horse into a full gallop as the tree cover broke open and let the light back onto them in a blinding wash. Devin loosened his grip on the reins, leaned forward until he was breathing sweat and horse hair, making as small a target of himself as he could manage, and pressed his heel to his mount's side.
    The burst of speed that called up startled him nearly out of the saddle.
    They passed Hewet, who cast an astonished look after them. They