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Chapter 2 - THE PRICE OF FORGETTING[PART II]

The horse hated him. Cadarn could tell by the way it kept trying to scrape him off against low-hanging branches.

"She can smell fear," Garrett called back from his own mount. They'd been riding for maybe an hour, following a narrow forest trail lit only by a sliver of moon between the clouds.

"She can smell vomit," Cadarn muttered, gripping the reins with white knuckles. "Because I've already thrown up twice."

"Three times."

"I wasn't counting."

His thighs screamed from the unfamiliar position. His back felt like someone was slowly inserting a hot poker between each vertebra. And the withdrawal was starting—hands shaking harder, cold sweats, the creeping sensation that insects were crawling beneath his skin.

He needed a drink.

He needed several drinks.

"There's a waystation two hours ahead," Garrett said without turning around. "We'll water the horses, let you rest for ten minutes. No more."

"Generous."

"I'm practical. You're no good to me if you fall off and crack your skull."

They rode in silence for a while. The forest pressed close on both sides—ancient oaks and blackthorn, twisted shapes in the darkness. Somewhere an owl called. Somewhere else, something small died with a brief squeal.

Nature was honest, at least. Predators didn't pretend to be anything but what they were.

"Can I ask you something?" Cadarn said finally.

"Yes."

"Why you? Why send a... what did you call it? Intelligence division? Why not diplomats, or—"

"Because diplomats get tortured for information and break in three hours. I've been trained to last at least six." Garrett's tone was matter-of-fact. "And because extracting high-value witnesses from hostile territory isn't a job for people who believe in honor and fair play."

"You don't?"

"I believe in winning. Honor is for people who can afford it."

Cadarn thought about that. "And Prince Edric—he knows the methods you use?"

"Prince Edric knows that war is ugly, and pretending otherwise gets people killed." Garrett finally glanced back. "He's not a saint, Doctor. None of them are. But he's smart enough to know that a war of succession based on forged documents and purchased witnesses is going to bleed the kingdoms white. If your testimony can prevent that, it's worth the moral compromise of extracting you against your will."

"I came willingly."

"Did you?"

Cadarn didn't have an answer for that.

They rode on.

The forest began to thin slightly, and through the gaps in the trees, Cadarn could see open fields stretching away into darkness. Farmland, probably. Empty at this time of night, but come dawn it would be full of people who had no idea their world was about to catch fire.

"How many people know?" Cadarn asked. "About what I know."

"Currently? Duke Theodric's inner circle—maybe five people. They suspect there's evidence that could undermine his claim, but they don't know specifically about you. Not yet."

"And your side?"

"Prince Edric. His spymaster. Two senior council members. Me. That's it."

"What about the Crown Loyalists? The ones backing the third nephew—Prince Malric?"

Garrett was quiet for a moment. "They don't know yet. But they will. Information like this doesn't stay secret for long, no matter how careful we are."

"So I'm going to have three factions trying to kill me."

"Capture or kill, yes."

"Wonderful."

"Welcome to politics, Doctor."

They crested a small hill, and in the valley below, Cadarn could make out a squat stone building beside the road—the waystation. A single lantern burned in the window. Probably a night clerk who spent his shifts sleeping and skimming profits from the strongbox.

Cadarn had stayed in a hundred places like it. They all smelled the same: horse piss, sour ale, human desperation.

"Ten minutes," Garrett reminded him as they guided the horses down toward the building. "Relieve yourself, drink water, stretch your legs. Then we move."

"What happens if someone's following us?"

"Then we don't stop."

They dismounted in the small stable yard. Cadarn's legs nearly buckled when his feet hit the ground—muscles locked up from the unfamiliar ride, joints stiff and screaming. He caught himself against his horse's flank.

The horse snorted in what sounded like contempt.

"I don't like you either," Cadarn told it.

Garrett was already moving with efficient purpose—checking the horses' hooves, adjusting tack, refilling water skins from the station's well. Everything about him was economical, practiced. A man who'd done this a thousand times in a thousand different places.

Cadarn stumbled toward the building. His bladder was screaming, and the nausea was getting worse. Withdrawal always hit hardest in the first day. By tomorrow he'd be hallucinating. By day three, if he survived, he'd be—

The door opened before he reached it.

An old man stood in the doorway, lantern in hand, squinting out into the darkness. "Help you gentlemen?"

"Just watering horses," Garrett called from the well. "We'll be gone shortly."

"Fair enough. Privy's around back if you need it. Three copper for fresh water, five if you want feed for the beasts."

Cadarn fished in his pockets—more from habit than expectation—and came up with nothing. He hadn't had copper to his name in months.

The old man's expression soured. "Beggars, then. Well, the well's public access by king's law, but don't expect—"

"We'll pay." Garrett appeared beside Cadarn, pressing a silver coin into the old man's palm. "Keep the change. And we were never here."

The old man's eyes widened at the silver—probably more than he made in a month. His fingers closed around it instantly. "Never here. Right. Understood, sir."

He retreated back inside, door closing firmly.

Cadarn looked at Garrett. "You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did. Witnesses remember the people who don't pay. They forget the ones who overpay." He nodded toward the back of the building. "Privy. Go. Nine minutes left."

The privy was as disgusting as expected—a wooden shack over a pit that smelled like death's asshole. But Cadarn's bladder didn't care about ambiance. As he relieved himself in the darkness, listening to his own stream disappear into the void below, he had a moment of absolute clarity:

This is my life now. Running. Hiding. Pissing in holes while people hunt me.

And the worst part?

It wasn't even the worst thing he'd done.

When he emerged, Garrett was already back on his horse, holding the reins of Cadarn's mount. "Time's up. Let's move."

"You said ten minutes."

"I lied. Mount up."

Too tired to argue, Cadarn hauled himself back into the saddle with a grace that would make children laugh. His horse shifted irritably beneath him but stayed put.

They rode back toward the road, leaving the waystation behind.

"How much farther tonight?" Cadarn asked.

"We ride until dawn. There's a safe house at the crossroads near Blackwater Ford. We'll hole up there for a few hours, let you sleep, then continue."

"And if we're followed?"

"Then you'll learn very quickly whether you remember how to treat arrow wounds."

Cadarn's stomach lurched. "You're joking."

Garrett's expression in the moonlight was unreadable. "Only a little."

They rode through the night—endless hours of darkness and pain, the rhythm of hoofbeats and Cadarn's own ragged breathing. Twice he nearly fell asleep in the saddle and jerked awake with his heart hammering. Once he actually did vomit, though he managed to lean far enough to the side that most of it missed the horse.

The horse did not forgive him.

Dawn came slowly, bleeding red and gold across the eastern horizon. In the growing light, Cadarn could see they'd left the forest behind. Open country now—rolling hills, scattered farms, the occasional stand of trees. And in the distance, smoke rising from morning cooking fires.

People. Living their lives. Not knowing.

"Blackwater Ford is just over that ridge," Garrett said, pointing. "The safe house is a farm owned by a retired sergeant from Prince Edric's father's campaigns. Loyal. Discreet."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm the one who recruited him ten years ago."

They crested the ridge, and there it was—a modest farmstead in the valley below. Stone house, barn, chicken coop, a few fields that looked recently harvested. Smoke rose from the chimney.

Normal. Peaceful.

Cadarn didn't trust it.

But as they rode down into the valley, nothing happened. No arrows. No shouting. Just a dog barking from the barn and chickens scattering as they approached.

The front door opened. A thick-shouldered man in his fifties stepped out, gray-bearded and weathered. He saw Garrett and gave a short nod.

"Captain."

"Sergeant Bram. This is our guest."

Bram's eyes shifted to Cadarn—taking in the mud-stained clothes, the hollow eyes, the shaking hands. His expression didn't change. "Looks half-dead."

"Three-quarters," Cadarn muttered.

"Well, get him inside before he becomes fully dead. I'll stable the horses."

Garrett dismounted smoothly. Cadarn... did not. He more or less fell off the horse and would have hit the ground if Garrett hadn't caught him.

"Easy, Doctor."

"I hate horses."

"I know. Come on."

Inside, the farmhouse was simple but clean. A central room with a hearth, table, and chairs. Stairs leading to a loft above. The smell of porridge and bacon made Cadarn's stomach revolt and growl simultaneously.

"Sit," Garrett ordered, pointing to a chair by the fire. "Eat something. You need food in your system."

"I'll just throw it up."

"Then throw it up with something in your stomach. Sit."

Too exhausted to argue, Cadarn collapsed into the chair. The warmth from the fire was almost painful after the cold night ride. He held his shaking hands toward it, trying to absorb the heat.

Garrett moved around the room with practiced efficiency—ladling porridge into bowls, cutting bread, pouring water from a pitcher. He set it all in front of Cadarn.

"Eat."

Cadarn stared at the food. "I can't—"

"You will. Because if you collapse from malnutrition and withdrawal, I'll tie you to the horse and drag you the rest of the way. Eat."

Slowly, mechanically, Cadarn picked up the spoon.

The porridge was bland but warm. The bread was hard but edible. He forced it down, one bite at a time, while his stomach threatened rebellion.

Garrett sat across from him, eating his own meal with the same efficiency he did everything else.

"Can I ask you something?" Cadarn said after a while.

"Another question?"

"Why are you doing this? Really. You could have sent someone else to extract me. Why you personally?"

Garrett was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. Then: "Because I'm good at it. And because this matters."

"Which matters more to you? Being good at it, or that it matters?"

Garrett looked at him directly. "I stopped worrying about which was which a long time ago, Doctor. I suggest you do the same."

Before Cadarn could respond, the door opened. Sergeant Bram entered, stomping mud from his boots.

"Horses are stabled. Gave them feed and water. They'll be ready to ride by midday." He paused, looking at Garrett. "You'll want to know—there's tracks on the north road. Multiple riders. Maybe a day old."

Garrett's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. "How many?"

"Four, maybe five. Military shoes on the horses."

"Ours or theirs?"

"Can't say for certain. But they were moving fast and didn't stop at Millford Village."

Cadarn's blood went cold. "They're tracking us."

"Maybe," Garrett said. "Or maybe they're just patrols. Either way, we're not staying long." He stood, all business again. "Doctor, you get three hours of sleep. Then we ride hard for the border."

"What border?"

"The one between here and safe territory. Bram, I need you to send a message to—"

A sound cut through the morning air.

A horn. Long, low, mournful.

Coming from the north.

All three men froze.

"Signal horn," Bram said quietly. "That's the pattern for spotting fugitives."

Garrett moved to the window, careful not to silhouette himself. He peered out through the gap in the shutters. His jaw tightened.

"How many?" Bram asked.

"Six riders. Coming fast. They'll be here in minutes."

Cadarn stood on shaking legs. "How did they find us so quickly?"

"Doesn't matter." Garrett spun, all cold efficiency now. "Bram, is your bolt hole still under the barn?"

"Aye."

"Get the doctor there. Now. Hide him, hide the horses, and play dumb when they question you."

"And you?"

Garrett's hand went to his belt, checking weapons. "I'll delay them. Buy you time."

"Six trained soldiers, Captain? That's suicide."

A thin smile crossed Garrett's face. "Then I'll die slowly. Move!"

Bram grabbed Cadarn's arm—grip like iron despite his age—and hauled him toward the back door.

"Wait—" Cadarn protested. "He can't—"

"He's doing his job," Bram growled. "Now I'm doing mine. Move your ass, Doctor, or we all die."

They stumbled out the back, across the yard, toward the barn. Behind them, Cadarn heard Garrett's voice, calm and cold:

"Come on, then. Let's see which of you bastards is fastest."

Then the sound of a door barring.

Then shouting in the distance.

Then—

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