The snow crunched underfoot in the dark woods, sunlight reflecting off of the brass rings of the horses' reins, steam rising from their noses as they struggled through the cold.

The stagecoach driver scowled and pulled up his collar, tugged down his hat, and slapped the reins to speed their progress. The road was little used, winding through the hills through the south of the Empire. Winter had come early this year, blanketing the passes and lower valleys with snow.

The coach lurched through unseen ruts in the road, and he heard a thump as the passenger shifted about. He leaned precariously out of the driver's box to call down, "Are you all right, Your Grace?"

There were two knocks against the window, signalling for Hudson to bring the coach to a stop. The horses snorted restlessly, and the coach door opened wide.

The little Duchess blinked against the brightness of the outside, squinting at the trees before looking up at the driver. Her blue eyes were sleepy, but clear and calm. Already they glittered with the same unnerving intelligence and charisma that the late Duke and Duchess had possessed, had drawn people to them in droves, and had eventually sealed their doom.

"Are we there yet?"

Hudson started. It was such an impatient, childish thing to say. The little Duchess was only twelve years old, yet he regarded her with nearly the same awe and respect as the Duchess Ysana had received when she first arrived in Feurn.

Little Duchess Aselaine cleared her throat, and Hudson blinked. He slid over in the box to make room as she heaved herself up beside him. "Ah, no, Your Grace. We have a few more leagues yet." He eased the horses back up to speed as she settled herself on the uncomfortable seat.

He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was an aloof child. She had no playmates in Feurn, and he doubted there was much leisure to be had at the convent in Ivengaard where she schooled. He had gotten over his surprise when she spoke to his father Ounay, the acting steward of the fief, as an equal.

Uneasiness wrestled with sympathy as they passed under the dark, leafless trees. Duchess Aselaine seemed to have the world against her; he feared she would grow into a harsh and bitter woman, despite the reverential adoration of her people.

"How is your father?"

Hudson swallowed. She sounded so adult, though she had a child's voice, one that had never sung a song or cried out in pain from a scuffed knee.

"He has taken ill, Your Grace, but we believe he will pull through." Ounay had spent too long a night among the dusty papers and ledgers left behind by the late Duke. He tackled the pursuit alone, and Hudson only knew that what had been left behind was what had caused their untimely end. Ounay suffered from rheumy eyes and exhaustion, but his stubborn wife had tied him to the bed and forced him to rest.

The Little Duchess nodded and was silent. Her coat surely was not enough to keep out the cold, but she did not shiver or complain. They rode on in silence for the next several leagues. Hudson could not relax until they came to the last crossroad, and the snow-laden sign declared they were but three leagues from Feurn Castle.

Hudson quickened the horses into a trot. The road here had been smoothed by the passage of other travelers that hadn't come from such a long way. The Duchess beside him leaned forward, as eager as he to finally be home.

Alas!

The road ahead was blocked by a line of bodies. There was a sharp intake of breath from the Duchess, and he felt sick; each one had bled out and stained the snow a violent red, their throats now gaping maws still steaming with the warmth of life.

Hudson had to tighten the reins to keep the horses from bolting. He gazed into the shadows along the side of the road, cursing the early-setting sun, searching for signs of movement.

A blinding pain erupted from his shoulder and the Duchess shrieked in horror. An arrow sprouted from the muscle, blood blossoming into an unholy flower. The carriage shuddered as their cloaked attackers rained down from below. The horses screamed and the stagecoach lurched forward.

Hudson half-turned in time to see the blade that would pierce his left eye, killing him in an instant. His body slumped onto the Duchess, spraying her with blood and bits of gore. Three of the highwaymen tried to keep their balance as the horses galloped through the line of bodies, four more running out onto the road to try and block them. The horses would not be slowed, kicking out. One was struck in the head and fell, unmoving.

All four wheels of the stage coach were airborne as they hit the row of bodies. The Duchess clutched the side of the driver's box; the highwaymen leapt from the roof of the carriage as its first two wheels struck the road, sending it tumbling into a ditch beside the road.

Wood splintered and the horses would not be dragged down by the wreckage. The Duchess screamed in agony and terror. Hudson's body had cushioned the worst of the fall as she was thrown into the web of reins behind the horses, but jagged chunks of lumber joined her in a deadly tangle. She could feel the warmth of her blood, and Hudson's, as the horses thundered down the road to Feurn Castle.

-----------------

Ounay stood in the doorway of the little Duchess's bedroom, staring at her small, motionless frame. The canopy bed was too large, Her Grace was too pale, and his heart constricted at the sight.

Eyes were red from weeping at the loss of his youngest son and the near-loss of the little Duchess Aselaine. The horses had arrived in Feurn village dragging a mess of leather, wood, and blood. It had taken an eternity to free her and bring her up to where the old doctor could attend to her grave injury. The wreckage of the carriage had torn a long line from her heart, to her shoulder, and down her arm. So much blood had been lost that they had thought her dead, but the little Duchess was resilient. Her linens had to be changed hourly as she sweat out a fever that Ounay was certain would have killed a full grown man, but her resilience was so strong it nearly frightened him.

He turned away from the heartwrenching sight and limped down the hall toward the late Duke's study. The only sound was his cane against the cold stone floor; the entire castle was silent, waiting for Her Grace's recovery.

Clutched in one hand was a piece of parchment. They'd sent men out to the road to review the scene. The line of dead had been a troup from Feurn's own garrison, sent out to meet Duchess Aselaine's returning stagecoach. The single enemy they'd found, dead as a doornail, proved to be much more than a typical highwayman.

His comrades had attempted to hide his body by burying it under a fallen tree. However, Feurn's dogs had uncovered and dragged it out. Any valuables the man had was already filched, but they found an order tucked away, illuminating the man's task. Assassination.

Ounay eased carefully into the seat behind the desk, unrolling the parchment for the umpteenth time, studying the words as if to gain some new knowledge from them. The hired killers had been granted half of their reward before the deed--the man's gold had gone with his friends, of course--and were instructed to return to Houdenvarn once it had been completed. Houdenvarn was a town south of Gold's Pass, just beyond Feurn's borders. Men were already on their way to find the Duchess's would-be killers, and the murderers of Ounay's son.

Who they would be meeting in Houdenvarn was still a mystery. Ounay had concluded the assassins had already met or knew who had hired them, and would easily find them. Only a loopy scrawl at the end of the instructions would signify their patron, the initials of a name Ounay had seen many times as he sifted through the late Duke's secret papers:

Roderick Arcenau.