And she misses me. I feel the familiar feelings of love and longing and affection that she feels when she thinks of me. But they’re tinged with fear and loss, and a terrible intuition that we won’t see each other again.
“She needs me, Taran. And I need her.”
“Then you’ll leave me in the Wastes once we get her back. You know I can keep away from them. I’ll lead them all the way back to Nithyria if I have to.”
Nithyria is Taran’s home too. He knew those fields once, back when they were farmland and prairie rather than blight. And he’s my stealthiest guard. I know he’s right, and I know he wouldn’t have come with me if he wasn’t willing to do this.
“Very well,” I say, nudging Kira to dive lower.
We keep over the river and its floodplain as she descends. She glides down slowly for our sake only, so that we can keep our seats on her back instead of losing them like I did in my first ride with Sylvie. As we approach the camp, she banks out towards the Wastes. We’re so close to Sylvie now, I can feel her every thought.
Anger. Fear. Longing.
Her feelings flood my senses. I’d forgotten in two days of absence how consuming it is to be near her, how overwhelming it feels to be in her presence, to feel her like she’s in my own mind. Like I’m in her body, back where I’m meant to be.
I don’t feel the patrol until the arrow is already in the air. I don’t sense them below, watching us, until I hear the shout.
I don’t notice that Taran has unbuckled his straps in anticipation of landing until I feel him slip.
I don’t see the arrow coming until it digs into Kira’s side, sending her into a screeching dive.
By the time I reach out to grab Taran, by the time I reach out to heal Kira, it’s too late.
We’re falling, careening towards the earth, and this time, there’s nothing there to save us.
Chapter Ten
Without the shackles on my legs, I’m free to move in a small circle from the bed. My arms are shackled at the wrists, but their chains are connected directly to the tent post rather than each other, leaving me a wider range of movement than Seth intended.
Or perhaps this is exactly what he intended. Perhaps this is a test, but not of my capability, but of my loyalty, and if I escape and fail to get away, he’ll punish me for it.
No. That’s not Seth, I realize, thinking about the brute whose hand he took for touching me. As much as Seth may claim he isn’t like Adria, he, too, only knows one way to show affection: violence.
I take a cautious step forward from the cot, the chain attached to my right hand clinking as it loses some of its slack. I pause, standing still. Waiting to see if someone is going to come and see what I’m doing.
But they don’t. Like Ronan, Seth prefers to keep his guards outside his sleeping quarters rather than within them. If things were different, I might point out that the lack of privacy might be worthwhile to avoid the vulnerability of being attacked in yoursleep, but it’s to my advantage that there are no guards here to see me scheming against him. I don’t know how many of them are stationed outside of the tent, but they don’t enter as I drag the chain across the rug on the floor as quietly as I can.
I walk until I reach the end of the slack, holding both arms out behind me. Creeping along, I trace an arc towards Seth’s desk, stopping when I hear raised voices in the distance.
I inhale deeply and hold my breath, standing as still as a statue. Slowly, I lift my right foot and take a creeping step back to the cot as the voices grow closer. If Seth catches me, he’ll have someone tighten these chains or replace my leg shackles, and I’ll lose my chance.
But then the voices withdraw. I wait for a long moment before resuming my advance towards the desk. The noise of the camp returns to its normal level—people talking and laughing far away, the clinking of metal as armor and weapons are repaired and prepared for battle, the crackle of fires to keep away the night’s chill.
I take another cautious step forward. Nothing. No one is coming. Another step. My chains rattle as I reach their limit, but the desk is just beyond reach.
Beyond reach of my hands, at least. If I lower myself closer to the ground and reach with my feet, I might be able to reach the chest that has the chains the servant left just beneath the desk. Or, if I can just get my left arm to stretch a little further, I could pull open one of the drawers with my toes—
I’m straining my bare foot towards a handle when I hear an even louder commotion than before. This time, it’s so loud and so close that I rush back onto the cot as quickly as I can, trusting the noise to cover the sound of my movement.
But no one enters my tent. They run past it, and then their voices fall silent again.
Oh, gods. Please don’t be Ronan.
As badly as I want to be back in his arms, as terribly as I miss him, I desperately don’t want him to come here. I can’t bear it if something happens to him because of me.
The silence is agonizing. The entire camp has gone still, so still I can hear the quiet rush of the Mara, so quiet I can hear the rustle of the wind blowing over the sand dunes. I’m not certain anyone is even here anymore. There isn’t a single cough, a single scrape of a chair leg on the bare ground, a single jangle of chainmail.
I might be alone here. I don’t have Ronan’s gift, but I’m willing to bet my life there’s no one outside the tent at this moment. No one is this quiet.
