I smiled, happy to hear my name on the lips of someone other than my closest friends and family. I wanted Zafir to say it, too, although I doubted he’d ever give in. It would be nice to see him loosen up a little.
Instead, I turned to Floss, asking him a question that had been bothering me. “Why are you doing this? Helping us, I mean. Why not just let the plan unfold and let whoever’d planned to kill me . . .” It felt strange saying the words out loud. “Why not let them?”
Floss grinned, his revolting toothy grin. “Could’a, I s’pose.” He shrugged. “But I was hopin’ there’d be something in it for me if I helped you out. Some sort of re-com-pense for my services.”
I frowned, turning to Zafir who didn’t seem confused at all. “A reward,” he clarified. “He wants a reward for saving your life.”
“Oh.”
Floss’s grin grew. Toothier. More revolting.
“I—I’m sure we can figure something out.” Was all I could think of.
But, again, Zafir helped me out. “You’ll be compensated. But remember this, if we find out that you’re in any way responsible for what’s happened out here, if you orchestrated any of this for your own gain—”
Floss lifted a finger, interrupting Zafir, one eyebrow raised knowingly. “From what I hear, the gallows’re long gone. What’re you gonna do?” he challenged. “Send me to the Scablands?” He barked at his own joke, and then waved off the idea. “Don’t worry. I’m clean as a whistle. And I’ll be collectin’ my reward because I have no intention of lettin’ any harm come to”—he dropped his voice—“Her Majesty here.” He smiled again, and then left us standing there while he whistled an off-key tune.
I started to follow Floss back to where the others were gathering, to where they’d tethered their horses and a blazing fire was starting to swell and dance.
Zafir stopped me, his hand gripping my wrist. “You can’t go over there. You need to wrap your cloak as tightly around yourself as you can and stay here, away from everyone.”
I glanced down at myself. In the dying light of the day, my glow was finding its way out from between the folds of black fabric. Almost unnoticeable, but not entirely. Not hidden enough.
I knew he was right—we couldn’t risk it. But my body was already trembling from the chill.
“We’ll build our own fire, and I’ll bring you some food once it’s ready. I’m sorry, Your Maj—” He stopped himself, and I could see that it was killing him to take Floss’s warning to heart. “I’m sorry” was all he managed through gritted teeth.
I watched as he left to gather firewood, and I hunkered down on a boulder, drawing my knees up close to me. I pulled my hood around my face, cocooning myself inside the soft wool. I was grateful for the moment’s peace, at least, grateful to be alone, even if I was cold. Sabara’s voice had grown quiet over the long day, despite the unnerving dream. She seemed to have withdrawn for the time being, leaving me in relative peace.
Maybe something good had come out of being on the Scablands, after all.
It wasn’t until I found myself lying facedown in the dirt that I came fully and completely awake. Until that moment, I’d simply thought I was having another one of Sabara’s dreams. The vague buzzing, a blur of voices and shouts, could have easily been coming from inside my own head.
Now, however, I could taste the stringy meat Jeremiah had brought back with him—some sort of scruffy-coated animal I hadn’t been able to identify, a meal that hadn’t settled well in my stomach in the first place—against the back of my tongue. I gagged on the gamey flavor as I struggled against an immovable weight that pinned me to the ground.
A hand shot out to cover my mouth and my eyes went wide.
“Silence,” Zafir’s whispered voice warned at my ear.
I nodded, not sure what I was agreeing to, but clear that he wasn’t asking for my cooperation. I’d just been issued an order.
When he was sure he’d gained my compliance, he released me, jumping off me and getting to his feet in one nimble motion. He kept me behind him as I struggled to sit upright.
I scanned the area around the embers from our fire, which had been smaller than the other one. I tried to see past it and into the darkness beyond, where it sounded like there was some sort of struggle taking place.
I thought Zafir would unsheathe his sword, but instead he reached down to his ankle, his hand reappearing with a gun from inside his boot. I hadn’t even realize he’d been carrying a firearm.
“What’s happening, Zafir? Who’s out there?” I asked, getting the rest of the way up and standing behind him.
Even buried within the cloak, I could be seen; there was no point pretending we were hidden where we stood.
He handed me the gun and pulled out his sword.
I considered the weapon in my hand. It was small and light, so much lighter than the steel blade Zafir had been training me with over these past weeks. So much more powerful—a quicker, faster kill—if fired true. I felt safer just holding it.
“I don’t know yet, but don’t hesitate to use that,” he ordered again, and I bobbed my head despite the fact that he was no longer looking at me.
He took a step in the direction of the melee and I moved too, unsure whether that was his intention, but unable to stay behind . . . alone. My hand shook, and I wondered if I’d be capable of shooting straight, or if the others in our traveling party were in danger because of my unsteady grip.
The shouting grew louder and I heard Floss cry out. But his words were muffled and erratic, lost in the chaos of other noises, scuffling and bumping, scraping and clashing. These were the sounds of a battle.
We were under attack.
I froze then, cold dread seizing my heart. Practically right in front of us, someone screamed. It was a deep-down, soul-wrenching scream, followed immediately by the sound of something solid, a reverberating crash that sounded sickeningly like metal striking bone. Iron against skull. My stomach revolted, and I rushed to keep up with Zafir.
Before I could reach him, a figure shot out of the darkness, like an animal—fast and feral. It tackled Zafir from the side, knocking him to the ground. I tried to decide what I should do now, how to help him, as his attacker’s form, darkened by night, took shape. My initial assessment had been wrong.
The assailant was indistinct but massive . . . and most definitely human.
My fingers tightened around the firearm as I took an uncertain step back, trying to distinguish one body from the other, worrying that I might have to fire upon the attacker—upon both of them. I tried to ignore the fact that my hands shook violently.
The two became tangled in a heap of limbs and fists, as they hurled one way, and then tumbled the other. I knew the others were under attack as well, but Zafir was my only concern now. My throat tightened as I watched them, my spirit sinking each time I thought he might be losing ground.
Finally, Zafir—and the only reason I knew it was Zafir was because I recognized his voice as he cursed the other man—landed a solid blow to his attacker’s jaw. It was bone-crunching. I hadn’t recognized that both of my hands—even the one holding the gun—were clenched into tight balls, as if I too were fighting some unseen attacker. When I realized that it was Zafir getting slowly to his feet, while the other man remained flat on his back, I loosened my fingers and released the breath I’d been holding.
And then I noticed the second man, coming at us from out of the shadows. I couldn’t see his face, as I was equally certain he couldn’t see mine, but there we were, separated by mere paces.
I saw him reach for something, and I didn’t have time to think, or even to react. My mind didn’t process the fact that I was still armed. Yet even if it had, I was already too late. He was faster.
Or at least he would have been, if it not for what happened next.
A whooshing sound split the air, as if someone had lashed a whip through the darkness.
But there was no whip, and the noise was followed immediately by a sh
arp, defined thwack. Then the man staggered forward, falling to his knees as he roared, crying out in a strident combination of shock and pain.
He was closer to me now, and I could see him reaching for the back of his shoulder, clawing at something.
“Get away,” Zafir hollered at me, hurrying toward the man, and blocking my line of sight.
It didn’t matter, though; the man had been close enough to the coals of our fire that I had seen his outline—and the shadows of his face. Something struck a chord in me, making every nerve in my body fire. I realized that everything about this scenario was wrong.
“Zafir!” I shouted, in an attempt to warn him.
But Zafir was already there, already reaching for the arrow that protruded from the man’s back, just below his shoulder. And when he spoke to him, I realized he already knew what I did. That he’d figured it out too. “I’ll have to remove it. We can’t just leave it.”
Niko Bartolo—the golden-eyed emissary from the Third Realm—glanced up at Zafir, his face contorted by pain. He answered, his voice coming out on a hiss. “Don’t worry about me. Your men are with me and we’ve captured the others,” he managed between breaths. His eyes darted around apprehensively and he grasped Zafir by the forearm, his voice lowering. “One of them must still be out there.” His gaze shot to me now and I realized he’d known exactly who I was all along. “Get her out of here, before it’s too late.”
It wasn’t necessary, however, because his assailant revealed herself at that very moment. She stepped out from the cover of darkness, her bow at the ready, a new arrow drawn.
“You know this man?” Avonlea asked, not yet lowering her weapon. She spoke to me and not to Zafir. “You know the men who attacked us?”
I knelt before the man stretched on a blanket in front of the fire: Niko Bartolo.
Every ounce of common sense I had warned me to stay away from him, while every instinct strained to bring me closer.
“How is he?” I kept my voice low, not wanting to disturb him.
Zafir had prepared a poultice for Niko’s wound, some sort of thick paste he’d concocted by smashing the root from one of the nearby shrubs and mixing it with a salve he found in one of the saddlebags. The smell of oiled mint reminded me of the ointments my mother used to spread on my scrapes when I was young, making me cry because they stung the abraded flesh.
Whatever it was, though, I doubted Niko could even feel it after drinking from the flask his men had given him. He’d drained the contents right before they’d held him down to yank the arrow from his shoulder. After he’d stopped screaming, when the arrow had been completely extracted, Zafir went to work treating the injury and Niko had passed out.
As I stared upon him now, sweat beaded across his forehead. He stirred as I squatted closer, trying to get a better look. He thrashed as if my very presence disturbed him.
Inside of me, I could feel Sabara awakening, swelling and reaching toward him.
I squeezed my eyes closed, tamping her back down.
“He’ll be okay,” Zafir answered, leaning down beside me and wiping Niko’s forehead with a rag. “He just needs to rest for the night. He’ll have to take it easy tomorrow.”
“So, we’re letting them ride with us? Are you sure he’ll be up for that?”
Zafir glanced at me. “He’ll be sore, but they’re going to the summit too. Besides, there’s safety in numbers. And right now, all I care about is getting you there. Alive,” he added, his brow raised.
“Thanks,” I said with a smirk. “I’m glad to hear you don’t want me dead.”
A royal guard can scowl like no other, and Zafir was no exception. “It’s not amusing, Your Majesty. We don’t yet know who we can trust. Having Bartolo and his men with us adds one extra layer of protection around you.”
He was right, of course.
But I was worried, too, about what Zafir had meant by “taking it easy.” I didn’t want Bartolo slowing us down—injured or not. Brooklynn didn’t know yet what Zafir and I knew, what Floss had inadvertently revealed to us about a traitor, and I was worried about her and the others making it safely to the summit.
Plus, there was the other matter to contend with. Floss and his riders weren’t quick to forgive the men who’d attacked them—Niko’s or Brook’s—even though they’d explained that they’d believed Zafir and I had been captured and were being held as prisoners.
Niko’s men had come across Brook’s soldiers after they’d left the train depot, where they’d been ordered to turn the town upside-down if that’s what it took to find me. Eventually, that trail had led them to Floss’s place.
Apparently, we hadn’t been all that hard to track from there.
Also, apparently, that wasn’t the first group of Brook’s men Niko’s riders had come across. The first party had been butchered and left for dead. Every last one of them.
My stomach heaved as I considered the implications of that attack. Those riders weren’t the only ones who were vulnerable.
Floss didn’t seem to care about any of that. He didn’t much appreciate being accused of kidnapping. . . . Although I wasn’t sure what, exactly, he would have called it. He had snatched me from the tavern, after all.
Still, I couldn’t help noticing the glint of pleasure in his eyes when he realized that it was Avonlea who’d struck one of their attackers with her arrow. “That’s my girl,” he claimed boastfully to the others as they threw more wood on the fire.
“So, Floss is your father then?” I whispered as Avonlea came over to join us. I sat on an old log, which had been ossified from exposure to the cold.
Avonlea, who’d been staring at me, at the faint shimmer just beneath the surface of my skin, made a face. “Of course not. I haven’t always lived with them.” She leaned in closer, her eyes dancing impishly as if sharing a secret with me. “I was brought there to be Jeremiah’s bride.”
I frowned at that. “Really? So, are you? His bride, I mean?”
“No,” she answered, scoffing at the notion. “Jeremiah has no interest in having a wife. He’s practically a child still. All he really wants is someone to tell him tales and help him build forts in the caves outside the settlement camps. He doesn’t even like living by himself, even though Floss insists that every man needs his own home.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t blame him, though. His place smells like dung.” I thought of the one-room cottage I’d first been brought to. If that was where Jeremiah lived, Avonlea was right, it wasn’t much of a home. “Mostly, he sleeps in the main house with us.”
“So what do you do there, exactly? Why are you still with them?”
She used a stick to trace shapes in the gravel at her feet. Shrugging, she said, “Floss bought me, is why. He owns me fair and square. Wouldn’t be much of a bargain if I up and ran just ’cause I didn’t marry his boy, would it?”
I tried not to react, but I wondered if she could see it in my cheeks, if my anger glowed as brightly as . . . well, as brightly other emotions did. “What about your parents? Don’t they want you back?”
“I don’t have parents,” she explained. “Never really did, I guess. I had a mom once, sort of, when I was real small. People said I looked liked her, back when I knew people who could tell me so. I don’t remember her much anymore. I wish I did.” She lifted her shoulders again. “Never knew my dad, not sure my mama did either.”
“Floss said you didn’t have a name, but surely your mother gave you one.”
She shook her head. “She died before I reached namin’ age.”
I didn’t understand, and I hesitated before asking, “She didn’t give you a name when you were born?”
One of the riders, the tough-skinned woman who Floss had found to accompany us, was listening and scooted closer. Her build was solid, and she would’ve reminded me of Eden—the strength she exuded—except that she was bulkier, thicker beneath her heavy layers of winter wear than Angelina’s guard. “Things are different out here, Your Majesty. . . .” I was s
uddenly aware that there was no more pretense about who I was. “Life’s hard in the Scablands. People don’t bother naming newborns. Too many of them die in their first few years. Disease, mostly. But sometimes undernourishment or even a particularly harsh winter’ll take a babe. Children generally start getting names around their fifth year. Earlier if they’re tougher’n most.” Her Scablander accent was less pronounced than Floss’s and Avonlea’s.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman, trying to ignore the stab of guilt I felt over the living conditions of the Scablanders and their families. I made a mental note to talk to Max about this place when I returned.
But then I was thinking of Max—about his steel-gray eyes and his soft kisses that tasted like honeyed mint—and a different kind of pain coursed through me. A deeper, more intimate ache that I had to force myself to shove aside.
The woman smiled at me, revealing teeth that were almost too white, and too straight. “Just Zora, Your Majesty, plain and simple. My mama didn’t subscribe to none’a that city naming rubbish. Didn’t see the need to cause trouble where there was none.”
“Were you born out here, Zora?”
“In the Scablands? No,” she explained. “I came to it the proper way, because I broke the law.” She glanced back toward the other men she’d been riding with. They kept as much to themselves as they could now that the camp was teeming with military men. “I was a counselwoman’s daughter,” she said quietly, in perfectly enunciated Termani. It surprised me to hear that kind of eloquent articulation coming from her. She was so rough, almost dangerous . . . at least until the moment she’d smiled. “And I fell in love with a vendor’s son.”
One of the men looked up then. He couldn’t have heard her, but it was as if he’d sensed her. Their gazes held, the connection between them palpable, like a wire that stretched from one to the other, joining them.
“Is that him?” I asked, and Zora started, as if surprised that I’d understood what she’d just said, and I realized she probably had been. Everyone knew I was the Vendor queen. The girl who’d been raised speaking Parshon.
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