The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

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СКАЧАТЬ the bluff as it bent back toward the mountain. He’d have to turn his back on whatever was making the rustling sound. He’d venture far from the spot before reaching the lower elevation and making his way slowly back, giving the creature plenty of time to disappear.

      He didn’t like either option, but the long trek seemed the most promising.

      Cautiously, Luke crept along the rocks, ducking branches, choosing his footing carefully.

      He’d nearly reached the forest floor when a solid-looking rock proved to be loose, dislodging under his foot, rattling downward as he slipped and scrambled to stay on his feet.

      He grabbed for support, clenched a branch in his hand and steadied himself.

      The wren stopped singing. The rustling ceased, as well.

      Luke froze, held his breath and waited.

      Something bolted from the base of the rocks. Unsure whether it was friend or foe, Luke ran for the path, hoping to intercept it, praying it wasn’t a predator. He reached the path and faced the oncoming sound, its source still hidden by the thick brush that edged the winding route. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he raised the weapon and took aim, ready to shoot the moment the animal appeared.

      A woman cleared the bend in the path, her lovely face white with fear, hair mostly hidden by a headscarf that was coming loose, revealing a glimpse of pale hair.

      He’d found her.

      The woman screamed.

      Luke lowered his bow.

      She stood close enough for him to see the arresting blue of her eyes, her white teeth evenly matched as she panted, looking about for an alternate route of escape, the way blocked by dense brush and brambles.

      “Good morning.” He took a step closer. “I didn’t mean to—”

      She yelped, covered her face with one arm and ducked into the bushes.

      “Please!” Luke dived after her. He couldn’t let her get away, not without learning her name. He needed to thank her. He needed to apologize.

      Spiny branches tore at his leather habergeon, grabbing at the quiver of arrows on his back. Luke tucked his bow under his arm and plowed forward, but the woman ahead of him had the advantage of smaller size and a decent head start. Eyes half-closed, arm up to protect his face, he followed the sound of her retreat, calling after her to please stop.

      The sound of her flight stopped without warning. Fearing he’d lost her, Luke charged on, relieved when he caught sight of her pale brown headdress and faded gray skirt ahead of him. She’d stopped running and stood utterly still, facing away from him, staring at something ahead of her.

      Luke looked past her to the spot that held her attention.

      A bear.

      Full grown, claws raised, half a charge away and angry.

      Luke froze. Once the animal realized they meant no harm, it should lumber off to its den and leave them alone. It stared at the woman, seemingly unaware that Luke had burst forth from the woods behind her. If the bear charged, it would charge at her. She was far too close to it already.

      The bear lowered its claws. Luke almost thought the animal might be about to shuffle off, but instead it lunged forward, headed straight toward the woman.

      Luke had sighted his arrow in an instant, knowing he’d likely get only one shot. The woman turned and ran, the bear too close, running too fast behind her.

      Luke let loose the arrow and fit another to his string without waiting to see how well the first had flown. He raised it and saw to his relief that the bear had stopped running, though it hadn’t fallen. Snarling, the animal raised its head and swiped at the arrow that pierced its neck.

      As the bear reared up, Luke shot again, this time sinking the arrow deep in the fur of the animal’s chest. The bear slumped to the ground.

      The woman had run off.

      Luke took off in the direction in which he’d seen her disappear. He couldn’t lose her, not now, when he’d come so close after such a long search. He rounded a clump of bushes, hoping to catch sight of her far ahead, but she’d turned, looking back at the fallen bear.

      She spun toward him as he burst through the bushes.

      Fear flashed across her face, but she didn’t scream this time.

      “Please don’t run.” He extended one hand in a peaceful gesture.

      The woman watched him warily, her mouth open slightly, the fear in her eyes fading to something akin to recognition.

      Surely she had to recognize him. She’d saved his life. He recognized her, and he’d been on the brink of death, hardly conscious while she’d sewn his side back together.

      “I shot the bear,” he assured her, glancing back to see the bundle of black fur still unmoving in the clearing beyond. The bear had been poised to strike, one swipe away from defacing the woman’s beauty forever. She ought to realize that he’d helped her, even if it was his fault for frightening her into a run toward the bear in the first place.

      But when he turned to face her again, she only shook her head.

      “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Luke began, but the woman cut him off, talking rapidly in a language he didn’t recognize.

      It wasn’t Illyrian. It certainly wasn’t Lydian, nor was it Latin. As second in line to the throne of Lydia, Luke was fluent in those three languages.

      If anything, the woman’s words sounded like the Frankish tongue Luke’s sister-in-law, Gisela, had spoken as a child. She’d taught him a few words, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. He tried frantically to remember.

      “Peace,” he said, cringing as he butchered the accent.

      But the woman stopped talking and listened.

      “Peace,” he repeated, his inflection perhaps a little better that time. Try as he might, he could only remember one other word. “Cheese.”

      The woman made a face, half uncertain, half amused.

      “Sorry, that’s all I know,” he confessed in Lydian, then repeated the Frankish words. “Peace. Cheese.”

      The woman laughed, her eyes alight.

      Luke sighed with relief, though questions filled him. What was this Frankish woman doing here on the borderlands between Lydia and Illyria? Her heritage explained her pale blond hair, a rarity in their part of the world, but her background raised more questions than it answered.

      “You are good with languages.” The woman spoke in halting Illyrian. “Do you know any Illyrian?”

      “Yes.” Relieved, he switched to the familiar language of his enemies, chastising himself for not trying the tongue sooner in his excitement. “Do you recognize me?”

      She looked away, glancing to the carcass of the bear lying still in the clearing, then back in the direction of the village СКАЧАТЬ