Ula nodded to herself, grimace set. Something as deep as the sea shifted in her golden-brown eyes.
“This is my home. And even ifyour exalted leaderdidn’t care to save it, nor did any of the other men ruling this continent, I do. I care. And I’m not alone. The Otxoa are the rightful rulers of this land, but in their stead it belongs to the people who loved them. It belongs to us. And eventually we will regain it.”
Luca met her gaze, which didn’t flinch. Ula was nothing if not solid and sure. Unblinking, he repeated his earlier affirmation: “I believe you.”
CHAPTER
20
THEguard’s howling would not stop, and five minutes after he’d been beaten by Amarande the men left to find aid. They turned their backs on the princess and the other prisoners, leaving only their binds and fear to hold them.
It was their mistake.
The second the guards disappeared around the rock formations and into the maze of tents and to a roaring fire beyond, Amarande began testing her bindings. As she did, the steel wire structure they were attached to shuddered, bending slightly toward where the guards had been stationed. The princess stomped to the end of her bindings, dug in her boot heels, and pulled. The structure more than shuddered—this time it definitely wavered.
The light was weak, the only source distant fires, but it was enough to reach through the crevices between the rock walls. The illumination proved the structure was crudely mounted—something lightweight the Warlord’s caravan could easily dismantle and haul from place to place, using it to stabilize prisoners from one edge of the Torrent to the other.
They must not think highly of their prisoners. Or maybe it was this specific set of prisoners—all girls. All around the same age—middle teens. Pretty. All likely dumped at the Warlord’s feet as payment of one kind or another. The wolf man’s craggy voice came to her—penance.The bandit’s sneer—tax.
There was likely a single use for so many girls of a similar age to a man as powerful as the Warlord.
That only made Amarande want to flee more.
If she could escape, she could steal a horse and be on her way.
Back to Luca. Always to Luca.
“Help me pull,” she whispered, eyeing the other prisoners, all slumped in their chains against the structure.
No one stood to join her. No one answered. Many of the girls had their eyes closed, and the ones who were awake simply eyed her as if she were speaking ancient Torrentian.
Fine.
Amarande braced herself again and pulled. The wall quivered.
“What’s the point?” one girl asked, the whites of her dark eyes flashing from the far corner. “You’re just going to tire yourself out before we’re marched into the fire pit.”
The fire pit. Of course. That was how the Warlord kept his power.
Supposedly, these fire pits dotted the Torrent landscape, waiting for their turn to host the Warlord. Only he was allowed to light them—do it yourself and risk your own death within the flames.
The pits were all a day’s ride from one another—spread across the Torrent in roughly the same formation of where its cities and towns had once been. And kindling was scarce in the tree-deprived Torrent. Rumor had it that the fires were lit with the most abundant flammable substance around: human flesh. One sacrifice going before all others to literally get the party started. The others coming at intervals all night long to keep the flames licking the sky until dawn.
If they were to be sacrificed, the princess didn’t want to think what the Warlord might do to them before they stoked the flames. Not one use as she’d guessed—two. One, and then the other, final one.
Amarande looked the girl right in the eye with everything shehad. “I’d rather march to my death exhausted than full of energy I’ll never use again. Wouldn’t you?”
Rather than wait for an answer, the princess turned and pulled at the end of her chain a third time.
Again, the wall moved. But as strong as she was, her leverage wasn’t enough without more support.
“Come now, we know the worst that can happen. Why not try for the best? We won’t have long before the guards are back.”
At this, a girl with tumbling dark hair and the blue eyes common in Basilica—and similar to her mother’s, so she’d been told—stood and modeled her posture off Amarande. The princess kicked up a smile. “Thank you…”
“Osana.”
Amarande nodded. “Osana, one, two, three—pull.” The whispered command worked, and together they were enough to slide the pen wall an inch.
