by Donna Hatch
But not with Zayla.
He pulled away, grasping her hands and pressing them together inside his. “I’m sorry, Zayla. I cannot give you what you want. My heart belongs to another.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You’ve finally let go of Ariana. But not for me.” She stepped away.
“I’m sorry, Zayla. I did care for you.”
She let out a derisive sound. “Not enough.”
He watched her cross the room, her head high, her mouth pressed into a flat line. At the door, she turned. “May the god of the moons keep you safe.” She slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind her.
Kai let his breath out slowly. He’d just rejected a woman who loved him, who was attainable and whom he might have loved someday. And he’d done it for a woman he could never have. Fate was indeed very cruel.
As he sat down to remove his boots, a feminine scream echoed in the corridor.
His first thought, his first fear, was for Jeniah. He raced down the corridor, rounded the corner, and skidded to a halt. His heart leaped into his throat. Jeniah’s guards lay broken and lifeless, their weapons still sheathed as if the guards had been ambushed without warning. Zayla stood over them with a look of abject horror.
Kai stepped over the bodies and ran into Jeniah’s room.
Her bed had not been slept in, and on the floor lay a rag that smelled of a sleep-inducing drug. She was gone.
Through the halls of the castle echoed Kai’s scream of rage and revenge.
Chapter Twenty
J eniah awoke to painful jarring. She lay motionless, trying to get her bearings. A crude, wooden door stood near her feet, and sunlight filtered in between the slats of wood that made up the walls of the small enclosure. With the jolting and rattling and the sound of hoof beats, she realized she was inside an enclosed cart. Aching, she stretched, testing her muscles. Cords tightly bound her hands and feet. Raising her head made her nearly faint with nausea. She recalled the foul-smelling cloth someone had clamped over her mouth before she lost consciousness, and she realized she’d been drugged.
Her guards in Darbor had always insisted on checking any room before she entered, but she had been in such a hurry to change for dinner that she had burst into her room without thinking. Vaguely, she wondered how an enemy could have gotten into such a heavily guarded fortress, and how her abductors got her out without anyone noticing. The wagon creaked to a stop. Voices came from without and someone fumbled with the lock on the door. Blinding sunlight streamed in as the door opened, silhouetting a dark shape in the doorway. Hands grabbed her by the hair, forcing her head up.
“Yes, this is the one we’re looking for, Commander. I’m sure of it.” An unmistakably Hanoran accent brought back Jeniah’s nausea tenfold.
“At last!” replied a Hanoran from outside the wagon. “Bring her out.”
Rough hands dragged Jeniah out and dropped her on the ground. Squinting in the sunlight, she looked up at her captors. Their brown skins and black hair left no room for doubt that they were Hanorans. They wore white leather cloaks like the troop of Hanorans she and Kai had seen during their flight from Arden.
“The king will be pleased.” The Hanoran who spoke wore an ornate braid on his uniform and a gold clasp on his white cloak—adornments that, since they were absent on the uniforms of the other soldiers, appeared to distinguish him as an officer. The officer dropped a bag of coins into the hands of the driver, a nervous-looking merchant. The merchant grabbed the bag, tucked it into the folds of his coat, and made a hasty retreat in his wagon.
Jeniah turned her attention back to the soldiers. Three stood nearby while several more waited in the trees, their eyes alert. A few soldiers held the reins of strange animals that resembled duocorns but were stockier and hornless. The Hanoran officer kneeled beside her, lifted her chin, and looked steadily at her. His eyes were like shiny coal.
She snapped her head back out of his hand. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. At that moment she would have given her life for a weapon. Or a fire poker.
“Oooh, Commander. A woman with spirit,” said a nearby soldier. There were a few appreciative laughs.
The commander silenced them with a look and asked Jeniah, “Can you stand?”
She glared at him. The Hanoran commander was young, perhaps a year or so older than she. He had the same brown skin and black hair as the others, yet something in his bearing seemed different.
The commander scooped her up and began to carry her. Repulsed by his intimate handling of her, Jeniah thrashed so violently that he nearly dropped her before he had taken more than a few steps. The Hanoran steadied himself and placed her on the back of one of the hornless creatures. The beast was covered with smooth scales like the skin of a snake.
As he set her down, Jeniah kicked the Hanoran commander with her bound feet, hitting him squarely in the stomach. His breath let out with a whoosh and he fell to one knee. Delighted howls came from the onlooking soldiers.
“This one’s going to be fun. Shall we tame her first?”
The commander rounded on the soldier. “No one is to touch her, Kryspyyn,” he snarled. “I made that clear before we left.”
Her hands still bound in front of her, Jeniah grabbed the reins of the scaly beast and kicked him into a run.
With startled yelps of surprise, the men scrambled to their mounts. It was foolish to attempt to escape, she knew, but she could not meekly follow her fate. She would die—or kill—before she would suffer a violent attack. She risked a quick look over her shoulder. If she could only get out of sight for a second, she could blur, but the commander’s gaze fixed unblinkingly upon her from only a few hand spans behind.
He leaped off his mount and hurled his body onto her, the momentum throwing her off the beast. They landed painfully on the frozen ground.
Jeniah struggled as the commander tried to get a grip on her. He rolled on top of her and grabbed her bound-but-pummeling wrists in his hand, forcing them up over her head. She writhed and thrashed, but his body effectively pinned her. He lay full on top of her. She was trapped. Absolute panic seized her. A terrorfilled scream tore out of her as she anticipated the sound of tearing clothing and the feel of his hands groping her body.
“Calm yourself, Princess, I’m not going to hurt you.” Something in his voice made her stop fighting him. “I give you my word, no harm will come to you as long as you’re in my charge.”
She stared. He sounded like Kai.
No, this was no honor-bound knight. This was a savage from the desert, one who had destroyed her family and home.
Her breath came in harsh gasps. “What is that, the word of a Hanoran?”
“In my country, my word means a great deal,” he replied crisply.
“In my country, Hanorans are murderers without conscience!”
The commander set his jaw and stood, hauling her to her feet. She nearly sobbed in relief when she realized that he did not intend to harm her in the intimate way the soldier in Arden had attempted. At least not yet. For now, the Hanoran threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the waiting mount. Hoof beats neared and the rest of his men surrounded them.
Jeniah struggled again but his arms clamped down over her, and with his shoulder pressing against her stomach, breathing became difficult.
“Your behavior will directly affect your treatment, Princess. Remember that.”
In reply, she kicked and thrashed, growing short of breath and then lightheaded.
The commander hefted her onto the back of the scaly beast. Freed from the man’s shoulder, she sucked in her breath. Scowling, the Hanoran wrapped another rope around her legs, binding them to the saddle. Then he tied her hands to the top of the saddle before he stepped away and appraised her, tight-lipped.
“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” he warned.
She glared at him. “What, you’ll kill me quickly if I cooperate, but torture me first and kill me slowly if I resist?”
“You
know nothing of torture,” he growled.
She turned her head away and looked straight ahead. The leader mounted his own beast and took the reins of her mount in his hand. His soldiers closed in.
Jeniah kept her head high, fighting the fear coiling in her stomach. Her wrists and ankles throbbed where the ropes bit into her skin, but eventually the pain diminished as she started losing feeling in her limbs. The wind gusted, biting through her gown. Without a cloak, she shivered.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded in an imperious tone of voice.
The commander gave her a curious glance, as if amused by her haughtiness. “To King Rheged.”
She swallowed a cry of dismay. Instead, she raised her chin. “And then?”
“He will decide your fate.”
Jeniah pressed her lips together and kept her head high as a bleak future loomed before her.
The team of twenty-five armed men traveled quickly and openly, staying on the main roads. People they encountered moved off the road with fearful expressions, not even looking at the prisoner. Occasionally, the Hanorans’ guttural voices drifted to Jeniah, but the men rarely spoke as they rode. At sunset, the Hanorans stopped and set up camp near a stream.
The commander appeared beside her. “If you vow not to kick me again, I will untie you and let you off.”
Jeniah wanted nothing better than to kick the man, this time in the face. However, her limbs were so numb she doubted she could. She nodded curtly in agreement.
After eyeing her silently, the Hanoran commander untied her from the beast and lowered her to a blanket on the ground. Kneeling beside her, he untied the knots in her bindings. The cords had bit into her flesh, leaving purple bruises and a bloodied ring around each wrist.
He reached into a pouch at his waist. “Here, this will help.” He drew out a tiny clay jar, dipped his fingers inside, and withdrew them covered with ointment.
She shrank from him.
“Don’t be afraid, Princess.” His voice softened despite his harsh accent. His hand froze and his gaze locked with hers.
She had never seen such dark eyes, so black that his pupil could not be discerned. No hate or lust for violence glimmered in his stare.
He made no move. “With your permission, of course, Your Highness.” One corner of his mouth lifted.
Did he mock her? Under her careful appraisal, the commander’s amusement faded and he waited, hand still extended. An unexpected softness entered those dark eyes, and Jeniah knew then he had no malicious intentions. Stunned to find kindness in the eyes of her enemy, she nodded.
He gently applied the salve to her wrists and massaged it in. The rubbing helped restore the flow of blood but also renewed the throbbing.
“I’m sorry the ropes were so tight,” he said softly, his fingers still coaxing the feeling back into her hands.
Her eyes narrowed. “Strange words for a Hanoran.”
A trace of sadness entered his expression. “You must not judge a whole people based upon the actions of a few.”
Rage boiled up inside Jeniah, and her words came out in fragments. “You are a leader in the Hanoran army. You invaded my country and slaughtered my family, destroyed my home, enslaved my people. You tried to kill me. Hunted me. You forced me into a life of exile. Exactly what am I not supposed to judge?” Her chest heaving, she battled tears of fury.
His black eyes held hers, his expression fading to perfect neutrality. Perhaps all trained warriors possessed Kai’s ability to become difficult to read when they so desired.
He broke eye contact and applied the salve to her ankles, which did much to relieve the pain in her flesh, but her heart felt as raw and open as if she had suffered her losses only moments before.
Though his hands remained gentle, the commander spoke curtly. “You may rest here. If you are going to be difficult, I’ll restrain you. The choice is yours.”
The feeling had returned to Jeniah’s limbs, but she was still so weak that escape seemed impossible at the moment. After a brief deliberation, she finally promised, “I will behave.”
One of his men approached. “Commander Lalen, the perimeter is secure and the watch has been assigned.”
“Guard her, Dayel. I’ll relieve you shortly.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The young leader went to join his men. Dayel eyed her, a suspicious scowl furrowing his brow as he stood a few hand spans behind her, his hands resting on his weapons. Jeniah wrapped her skirts around her legs and feet and hugged her knees in an attempt to stay warm. She wore only thin silk stockings and slippers fit for sheltered palace life, not the outdoors. Why was it that each time she found herself traveling, she never seemed to be properly attired?
Soon, a fire burned bright in the center of camp, bringing life to Jeniah’s chilled limbs. A fragrant pot of stew simmering over the flames awakened her appetite.
“It’s ready,” announced the soldier who tended the food.
The men stood back as Commander Lalen spooned stew into two bowls. As soon as he had taken what he wanted, the other soldiers began serving themselves and eating noisily as they sat near the fire. Jeniah thought they sounded like a bunch of animals, the way they slurped and guzzled.
She turned away in disgust, hugging her knees tighter. The commander returned to Jeniah, squatted down in front of her, and held out a bowl of stew to her.
Her mouth watered and her stomach growled, but she hesitated, reluctant to accept food from the enemy. It crossed her mind to simply throw it in the Hanoran’s face, but that would only incite him. At best, it would succeed in getting her tied up again. She glanced at the guard called Dayel behind her. His stare remained steady.
Still weak from the effects of the poison, Jeniah knew that going hungry much longer would only make her weaker. If she ever hoped to make an escape when the opportunity arrived, she needed her strength. As long as they were willing to feed her, it would be wise to eat. Still, she hesitated.
The commander waited without expression or comment. His bowl held the same food as hers and she’d watched him dish it up. It seemed unlikely he could have slipped poison into her food with her watching.
She accepted the offered bowl. “Thank you,” she murmured automatically, and then bit her lip. Surely such manners would be wasted on a savage.
Commander Lalen raised a brow, and one corner of his mouth twitched. He sat on the blanket next to her. Jeniah tasted the stew and found it bland but hot.
The commander glanced at the guard. “Go eat, Dayel.” “Yes, sir.” Dayel went to join the others.
Spurred by gnawing hunger, Jeniah ate quickly, spooning up every drop and wishing for more.
As the Hanoran leader ate, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m impressed you made it all the way from Arden to Darbor. It’s a great distance, and we searched thoroughly. How did you do it?”
Jeniah hesitated. “My champion guided me.” She almost informed him that Kai was both a Sauraii Master and a Darborian knight, which made him almost invincible, but revealing anything would be foolish.
“He must be very clever.”
She knew it was unwise to provoke the commander, but the images of death and destruction in her head made her recklessly angry. She shot him a daring look. “He killed many Hanoran soldiers protecting me.”
“A great warrior as well.” The commander seemed to take no offense as he hungrily ate his stew.
She blinked. Did he truly take death so lightly as not to care that her champion had killed many of his countrymen?
“Have you ever been to Hanore?” When she shook her head, he continued, “It’s very different from Arden. A desert.”
“Is that where you’re taking me?”
“No. We go to Arden.” He finished his food and stood. “Dayel.”
Her former guard returned. “Yes, Commander.”
“You and Carnea have first watch over the prisoner.”
Dayel nodded.
The commander loo
ked down at Jeniah as though he would say more. Instead, he strode away. As the company bedded down for the night, their voices gradually died away. Three guards circled the perimeter of the camp. Dayel’s and Carnea’s gazes never left Jeniah. She would have to watch carefully to find the moment when she could blur. In a company of twenty-five men, escape seemed unlikely, but many of them would sleep, so it was not hopeless. Under a starless night, the land outside of the circle of firelight fell completely black, the darkest night she had ever seen.
The commander approached her. Under one arm he carried a large, thick fur; in his other hand were a rope and several strips of cloth. Jeniah shrank away from him at the thought of being tied up again, with the ropes biting into her already-raw skin.
He seized her by the elbow, his voice hard, “If you resist me, I’ll tie them tight. But if you hold still, I’ll make them loose enough not to hurt you.”
She held very still. The Hanoran leader wrapped her wrists in the strips of cloth as a sort of bandage, then tied the ropes securely over the top of the cloth with her hands in front. Then he draped the sleeping fur around her shoulders.
Surprised at his show of compassion, she met his black eyes. “Thank you, Commander.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She unflinchingly returned the stare. He wore his hair longer than the noblemen of Arden or Darbor, with a heavy fringe of bangs and tapered sides that framed his face and hung below his jaw. Suddenly, a frown creased his brow. He grunted something unintelligible and stalked away.
She couldn’t imagine what had annoyed him. With a mental shrug, she rolled up inside the fur, grateful for its warmth. She glanced often at her guards, but they never relaxed or looked away. Throughout the evening, Jeniah’s eyes strayed to the young commander. He was no different than the others—not the tallest, nor the leanest, nor the darkest. Nothing outside of his decorated uniform made him stand apart. Yet he was different. In a gruff sort of way, he’d treated her with courtesy and compassion. These were not traits associated with the Hanoran barbarians. Yet, she harbored no hope that his kindness would extend to protecting her from his king.