Through a sliver of clear glass that the carriage’s window shade did not quite extend over, Marigold could see blue sky and white billowy clouds. A clear sunny sky looked much the same the kingdom over, but somehow by this sky she could tell they were well into Hold Draffor, probably nearing the town of Black Crux itself now. It was something about the feel of the place. It pressed on her, much as it had years ago.

The carriage rattled along a stony road, jolting her in her bonds. Her hands and feet ached deeply and she knew the pain would be excruciating once they were untied again. Those rare times always now were in the presence of Lady Gilliana. She wouldn’t let her so much as piss anymore without being there to see that Marigold didn’t try to cast any magic. Sensing Gilliana’s present power, Marigold was not stupid enough to risk it at anyway. Her former apprentice burned like the sun with magic.

The trip by boat had thrown off her sense of distance and time. When in her middle years she had first traveled to Hold Draffor in order to accept a position as Mage-Matron of a promising young noblewoman, she had traveled the longer route, by road around the southern shore of Lake Pasanhal. That was the same route she had fled by. But she knew that travelers could also go by ship across the lake. It was faster, but more expensive. Of course, Gilliana would have chosen a ship.

This journey across the lake had felt like a seemingly endless period of disorder. Marigold had been blindfolded and carried like a sack of potatoes from the carriage she had been confined to, up a rickety gangplank, and onto the deck of a creaking ship. From that moment on, in darkness and isolation, she had endured the stomach-turning roll and sway of the boat’s progress. She had called out for help until her voice was hoarse, but no one had come to her aid, nor even spoken to her. Every few hours, a ladleful of water was held to her lips. That was all.

Had Lady Gilliana paid the sailors to ignore what they saw and heard? Or were they also mercenaries in her employ? It didn’t take long before the stacked hours of nausea made it impossible for her to care about such trifles. She had no allies. That, she knew.

When the rolling finally ceased, she had been lifted again into a different carriage. This one had normal seats, but by now she found it difficult to sit upright for long. At least she had managed to get her blindfold off. The mercenaries all but ignored her now. On the ship, she had vomited on herself, and no one had cleaned it. The dry yellow stain down her nightgown remained. She could smell her own sick from it and it was difficult not to be sick again with the way the carriage bounced and jostled. Eastern Draffor was a rocky land. Rocky, with good soil. She remembered that.

The moment she felt the carriage transition from the dirt road to the stone cobble of a street, her breath caught in her throat.

“One street ... left onto Market Way ...” she whispered. She felt the carriage driver turn the horses left, and then they were rolling around a gradual corner that straightened up Market Way. Was it quieter than it typically would have been in the busy day market? What day was it? And what time?

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“Right ...” she spoke, and the carriage veered right onto a different street. Up and up through the town it took her. “Bridgeway,” she said. The carriage’s wheels clattered onto a much older road. She felt every bump and pothole. Every familiar one. Her heart sank, and what few shreds of hope remained to her fled. “Here,” she finished, almost exactly in concurrence with the carriage driver calling a halt. The horses halted and pawed at the ground, their harnesses jingling. They sensed they were home.

As did Marigold.

The carriage door was yanked open and bright daylight assailed her eyes. The leader of the mercenaries—Murzagis, they named him—stood there. Without a word, he proffered his gloved hand.

“Make this easy on both of us,” he said in his disaffected voice.

Marigold looked at his hand, then at him. She swallowed and her throat was sore and dry. “Go wipe your ass with stinging nettle.”

Murzagis didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. The man had stone for a soul. He might as well have been a statue come to life. With one hand, he reached into the carriage and grabbed the rope that bound Marigold’s ankles. Ignoring her protests, he effortlessly dragged her off the carriage seat and out the door. With her hands still tied, her hip and shoulder impacted the ground first. Pain shot through her old bones and left her gasping on the dirty cobbles. Oblivious to this, Murzagis drew a knife and sliced through the rope binding her ankles. Then he walked away without even a glance back.

The burning tingle that suffused Marigold’s legs could only take her mind off her other ills for so long. There was nothing else for it but to stagger up onto her feet until the pins and needles subsided. There she stood, hands still bound, swaying slightly and peering around her at a familiar setting that she had hoped never to see again. Over a decade had passed, but the bridges spanning the stony gully up to Black Crux Manor looked exactly the same as they had the last time she had been here. It had been raining and dreary that day. Despite the mild spring sunshine of this one, she trembled. She hadn’t been prepared for this. A sour feeling in her stomach presaged what horrible things might happen to her if she should ever enter that castle again. So, she stood frozen, looking up at the forbidding black-stoned castle, the place she had once called home. Her nightrobe flapped against her chilled legs, disguising how they shook.

She watched Murzagis walk by the impassive guards posted at the gates and disappear into the manor. Lady Gilliana was nowhere to be seen. Was Marigold’s former apprentice so brazenly arrogant as to expect her to follow without a fight? Marigold felt no fight left in her, but she would be damned if she passed through those gates ever again of her own accord.

Her fixation on the looming castle above her distracted her from the fact that two of Murzagis’s people were standing behind her. Evidently, they had decided to give her the opportunity to walk by choice, but their patience didn’t extend far. Marigold felt something dull and metal prod her painfully in the back, accompanied by a harsh, “Move yer ass, old woman.”

Like she had ever had a choice. She closed her eyes and walked. Her wet-stockinged feet shuffled on the gritty stone. Her silver hair, long come loose from its bundle, thrashed unevenly in the wind about her wrinkled face.