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Fifteen.Aren clenched his teeth, feeling sickness rising in his guts. The report didn’t give a reason for why the girls had fled. It didn’t need to. At fifteen, they’d been assigned to their first garrison. It would be their first War Tides, and they’d have no choice but to fight. And rather than doing so, they risked their lives to flee. To find another path. Another life.
And he was supposed to order their execution for the offense.
His parents had rarely fought, but this law had brought out the shouts and slammed doors, his mother pacing the rooms in such fervor that he and Ahnna had both listened in fear of one of her fits taking her, of her heart stopping, never to beat again. Closing his eyes, he heard the echo of her voice, shouting at his father, “We are in a cage, a prison of our own making. Why can’t you see that?”
“It’s what keeps our people safe,” his father would shout back. “Let down our guard, and Ithicana isdone.They will tear us apart in their fight to possess the bridge.”
“You don’t know that. It could be different, if we tried to make it so.”
“The raiders who come every year say otherwise, Delia. This is how we keep Ithicana alive.”
And always, she would whisper, “Alive isn’t living. They deserve more.”
Aren shook his head to drive away the memory. Except it only receded, content to haunt him.
Allowing civilians to come and go from Ithicana all but ensured every one of the kingdom’s secrets would leak. Aren knew that. But if Ithicana had strong alliances with Harendell and Maridrina, the consequences of those leaks would be far more palatable. With the navies of those two kingdoms supporting the bridge’s defense, it would give some of his people a chance to pursue paths other than the sword. To leave and educate themselves. To bring that knowledge home and share it. It would mean he’d no longer have to sign kill orders for children.
But the older generations were adamantly against such a move. A lifetime of war had turned them against outsiders, filled them with hate. And filled them with fear. He needed Lara to help him change that, to make them see Maridrinians as friends, not foes. To convince them to fight for a better future, no matter the risks.
Because how things were . . . It couldn’t continue forever.
Pulling the papers from his pocket, Aren shredded them, allowing the breeze to carry them out to sea.
Then there was a commotion in the bushes, and Aren was on his feet, blade in hand in time to see Eli burst into the open. The servant boy skidded to a stop, breathless, and said, “It’s the queen, Your Grace. She needs your help.”
14
Lara
Hands held her wrists,pinning them to the table. Cloth covered her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth.
Water poured down, an endless torrent.
Only to cease.
“Why were you sent to Ithicana?” a voice whispered in her ear. “What is your purpose? What do you want?”
“To be a bride. To be queen,” she choked, fighting her restraints. “I want peace.”
“Liar.” The voice sent fear through her. “You’re a spy.”
“No.”
“Admit it!”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“Liar!”
The water poured, and she drowned all over again. Unable to voice the truth to save herself. Unable to breathe.
There was sand beneath the fingers, cold and dry. She couldn’t move, her wrists and ankles bound and tied to her waist. Trussed up like a pig.
Darkness.
She rolled, colliding with a wall, more sand falling onto her head, dragging at her hair. Backward, the same.
No way out.
