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Ciri urged her mount on through the tangles of the undergrowth, leaning to cling to the mare’s neck as she surged up inclines that scattered loose soil underfoot, leaning back again as they dropped into vine-choked valleys.
The horse was sure-footed and hot and could sense Ciri’s rush of adrenaline and frustration, the overwhelming need to flee and flee fast. Whoever dared to chase her would not keep up, not with the reckless route that she took through the landscape.
But no one was chasing her. Not yet, at least.
“Go take that new mare out,” her grandmother had said after Ciri’s frustration bubbled over into snide words unbefitting of a princess. Her lips had pursed with pale tightness, but the softness of her eyes said that she understood some of what Ciri was feeling. She and Queen Calanthe only fought so fiercely and so often because of how similarly stubborn and rebellious and bold the both of them were. “I trust that you’ll come back with a clearer head.”
She could pretend for a moment while hugging the mare’s muscled neck, that this headlong race was part of a much grander, more exciting adventure. That her life was not spiralling utterly out of her own control in ways that were so mundane.
Princess Cirilla of Cintra, having been of age for nearly a year now, was to be married off before midsummer.
“We have delayed long enough,” said her grandmother. “If it were wholly up to me, I would not have you marry at all except for love. But the threat from the Scoia’tael increases by the day, and a marriage will strengthen the coalition of our allies. You have known your whole life this day would come.”
Ciri’s whole life made for a dreadfully boring story. Nothing exciting or interesting had happened to her even once or ever would.
Even a harrowing flight through the forest in defiance of her Destiny was nothing more than a cliche. The newest feminist literature told similar tales over and over. Stories of bold maidens who spat and brandished swords and cut their hair short and fled from the marriage bed were all the rage in the more forward-looking areas of the Continent.
But this was Cintra, and Ciri was not a girl but a Princess. No one would ever write a story about her except as a footnote to some arrogant prince, further noted in the lineage of her sons and grandsons.
Probably her name would be misspelled. Princess Serilla of Cintra, it would say. Producer of prodigious heirs and otherwise simply not of note even a little bit.
The rugged landscape suddenly opened up as the mare charged ahead, and Ciri found herself on a beaten track, cutting off a rider on a grey stallion who scrambled desperately to avoid a collision.
Her mare skidded in a great cloud of dust and veered one way while Ciri veered the other. She soon found herself sprawled on the path observing just how much faster her mount could run without a rider as the horse disappeared around a curve in the path, her hoofbeats fading.
Something nudged Ciri in the stomach.
“Ow,” she said, touching the velvety nose of the grey stallion who snuffled at her abdomen. The horse’s face was fine-boned and dished along the curve of its profile, and it wore a bridle embroidered with intricate stitching and hung with tassels. The reins jingled with miniature bells. The horse’s ears were pierced with golden barbells.
This was no Cintran horse and certainly no Cintran rider.
Mustering all her courage, she forced herself to squint up at the towering rider, the dappled sunlight through the trees casting a mottled glow on his figure. A young man dressed in earth tones, his skin dark and jawline bare of facial hair. He looked down at her with brow furrowed, as though confused by the series of events that had led to a girl lying flat on her back on the path before him, dazedly stroking his horse’s muzzle.
Most distressingly, he wore a cap sitting askance on his head, a squirrel’s tail slung across his right shoulder.
“You’re a--” Ciri wheezed to clear the dust from her lungs and sat up on her elbows. “You’re an elf.”
“I’d say so, yes,” said the young man. "Have been since I was born.”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Ciri shoved herself up to stand and found herself much less fine than expected. The world spun.
“You alright?” asked the young man.
“No, of course not,” said Ciri. “What a stupid thing to ask.”
Her brain a bit addled by the fall, Ciri was not sure whether she should be more fearful that the elf would leave her alone in the forest or that he would take her with him. There were said to be Scoia'tael encampments scattered throughout the countryside, but she had not expected any so close to the outer wall.
She didn’t notice the rider dismount until he was standing beside her at the stallion’s head.
“His name is Wyn,” said the elf, lying a gloved hand on the horse’s face, “and I’m Dara. How about you?”
“I’m--” She stopped herself. “I’m no one. I’m an orphan. A brigand. Nobody.”
“A brigand? Did you plan to rob me? By flinging yourself from your horse?”
“Well,” said Ciri, “I’m not a very good brigand.”
“That was a well-bred horse for an orphaned nobody,” said Dara. He was smiling, the slow sort of smile that touched his dark eyes first, though she didn’t know what exactly about this situation was anything close to amusing.
“I stole it.”
“I thought you weren’t a good brigand?”
“Suppose I just go lucky,” said Ciri. She drew a deep breath and felt a twinge in her ribcage. Ignoring it, she squared her shoulders and faced Dara with all the bold nobility she could muster. “Or not. I know all about that cap you wear. I know who you are. I know you hate my kind and want me dead. So go on, get on with it. Try to strike me down. I'll defend myself."
“Your kind?”
“Humans,” said Ciri simply. “You wish to wipe us out and claim our castles for your own and muddy our bloodlines.”
Dara bent over his knees to laugh, a startlingly loud noise in the quiet forest.
“I think you may have some things a little backwards," he laughed. “Is that really what’s being said about us these days?”
“Yes. In all the… brigand camps.”
“I didn’t know brigands cared about castles and bloodlines.”
“No but--” Ciri felt her cheeks turn pink.
“You’re Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” said Dara, and Ciri’s heartbeat leapt in her throat.
“How did you--”
“You’re wearing the seal of Cintra at the clasp of your cloak. Your hair is as pale as they say. And you speak like a princess.”
“I damn well do not,” said Ciri. “Fuck you,” she added for good measure.
Dara laughed again, a sound both light and musical, a warming sort of laugh.
“Princess Cirilla,” he said, stepping closer to her. The horse between them seemed bored of the affair of standing in the middle of the road, his eyelids fluttering closed. Her head felt too muddy to know what she was meant to do in this situation. She expected that she should flee. Call for help. At any moment, a gang of Scoia'tael could burst from the trees and claim her for ransom.
“Ciri,” she corrected.
“Ciri,” said Dara, smiling. “I’m not going to leave you alone in the woods.”
“Right,” said Ciri, suddenly dizzy. She found that it was not as gratifying as she thought it would be to be a part of a more exciting narrative. “You’re going to kidnap me and take me back to your camp and make my grandmother give in to all your sick and twisted demands for my safe return. Or worse, you aim to defile me and force me to bear your children which will ascend to the throne. Or you--”
Her dizziness overwhelmed her.
The forest pitched to and fro, and when she became aware of her surroundings again, she rode on horseback with someone’s arms clenched around her, the undergrowth a green blur and the horse’s pace swift and sure.
Cold fear gripped her until she saw a familiar outer wall rise up from the forest. She knew if she craned her neck, she would see the glittering spires of Cintra’s main keep far away on the hill.
“You took me back,” said Ciri, her voice scratchier than expected. Dara’s grip tightened as she shifted to look round at him, and he reined the stallion to a halt. He had removed his cap, and she was struck by the strange urge to touch the line of his pointed ear. She realized a second too late that she had given to the urge and snatched her hand back, face burning.
“I took you back,” said Dara. “I’m not an animal or a monster. I don’t kidnap or defile distressed maidens. None of my kind do. We want reparations, not slaughter. We want our relics returned to us and our history respected.”
“How boring,” Ciri mumbled. “The other story’s much more exciting.”
Dara dismounted and shifted to help her do so as well. Ciri swayed on her feet but managed to stay upright, distracted by the warmth of Dara’s hands on her arms.
“I’m sure you know there’s a gate not far from here. Follow the wall. I can’t go farther than this.”
He gathered up Wyn’s reins and turned to lead him back into the forest, and Ciri felt her heart clench strangely.
“Wait,” she called. “You saved me. You’ll be rewarded.”
“I don’t think that’s how this works, Princess,” said Dara and smiled his soft smile.
Ciri breathed deep, holding herself upright and summoning all her bravery, and strode with only some unsteadiness to stand before him.
“Thank you, Dara of… the woods. For your service and protection.”
“Very formal for a brigand.”
“Yes, as is taught at brigand school.”
Being almost of a height, Ciri needed only to rise slightly onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the line of Dara’s brow. His fingertips touched the curve of her elbow, and she rested a palm on his chest. Small and lingering touches that she would remember with perfect clarity long after.
“Have you read any of the latest stories? With defiant maidens who flee from the marriage bed and learn to fight with swords and ride swift horses and cut off all their hair?”
“I can’t read,” said Dara simply, “but they sound like good stories.”
“Yes,” said Ciri, and with all the stubborn rebellion that was her birthright, she ducked forward to kiss him on the bow of his lips.