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And if my father stays up as late as he did the night I arrived, his tent will be empty for several hours yet.
I wait an hour. I feign sleep, gently tapping a finger against the inside of my arm to keep myself alert. I’m checked on once. I don’t turn to see if it’s Dunnan or not, but lamplight flashes outside the canvas and the tent flap shifts. No sign of guards after that, though one could be standing at my door. I’ll need to be as quiet as possible.
I twist one hand, then another, out of my binds. Sit up and gingerly work out my feet. It takes some effort. I’ll probably have a bruise on my left heel in the morning. Free, I pull the cot out and wedge myself between it and the tent wall, then work up one of the stakes from the dry ground. Pressing my head to the earth, I peer out into the darkness. Only a couple of campfires remain. I guess it’s nearing midnight.
Light emanates from the center tent, likely where my father meets with his men. I presume he sleeps on the other side, unless he’s somehow humbled himself over the last decade. I scoff. Wait several minutes, surveying, before slipping out. I wish my hair were dark. It feels like a beacon, despite the new moon.
Needing to avoid the front of my tent and the campfires, I tuck my hair into my shirt and pad toward the lit tent, readying excuses incase any guards spot me. But they’re murmuring to one another, heads turned away from me. Praise the stars. Behind the tent, I hear my father’s voice. I freeze, listening. He’s talking about disciplining men from Dorys. Not useful.
I sprint on my toes to the next tent. Don’t bother checking the door. I slip in by raising a stake and dragging myself across the dust.
I can barely perceive anything within. I stub my toe on a cot. Swallow my reaction and move forward. It’s simply furnished, which is to be expected for a traveling army. A cot and two tables take up the space, one narrow with an empty pitcher on it, and another in the center of the room with a drawer. I pull on the handle, but the drawer is locked. Cursing silently, I feel around for the keyhole—
Wait. I know this table. It sat in the front room of our house in Lucarpo. Though I can’t see it, I know its top has a floral painting and a lily is carved into its front left leg.
I also know how the lock works.
Ducking beneath the table, I feel for the back of the drawer, but my fingers are no longer slender enough to reach over its lip. Holding my breath, I scramble across the dirt, searching for a flat rock, anything that could slip in and throw the latch for me. I find a tiny sagebrush and twist off a branch. Return to the drawer and shove it up. The latch is a long metal hook that extends nearly to the back of the drawer. After four attempts, I throw it, then discard the evidence of my effort.
Papers fill the drawer to the brim. I pull a book out from the top and carry it to the canvas where the light is strongest. Squinting, I see it’s a book of pressed plants. A record of what grows where.
Rushing back to the drawer, I grab all that remains, fear dripping into my arteries as my mind tries to calculate how much time I’ve spent here, the noises outside, what I’ll do if I’m caught. I don’t have answers for the last.
I take the stack over to the better light. A leather bag of dice falls at my feet, sounding loud as the monster horn against the silence. I cringe,tilt the pages, squint. Carefully shuffle through, silent as a lecker. It’s so hard to read, but I dare not take any and wait for daylight. Too risky.
I find something that looks promising, and I squat, listening for people. Encouraged by silence, I lift the bottom of the tent so unfiltered starlight can splash on the page. It isn’t much.
I tilt the page, hold my face close. Read.
They’re systematic, the attacks on the trollis. My father is goading them, trying to get them out of their city, thus the heads on pikes. And it’s working. Cagmar has increased its scouts once already. And the more scouts outside the fortress, the more trollis the humans can pick off.
I wish I’d told Azmar about the converging constellations. About the signs. Then at least someone in Cagmar might know what’s coming.
I shift pages. Find a map. It’s difficult to make out, but I think my father intends to lead the trollis into a full-on battle so his army doesn’t have to attempt a siege. Dwindle the numbers as much as possible, just like we did before the drought.
Pressing my lips together, my heartbeat loud in my ears, I put the papers back the way I found them, grab the dice bag, and shove it all back into the drawer. Push the latch to the right so when it closes, it locks. I don’t know a lot, but I know enough. I know the army’s path. I know where they plan to make their attack. I know a couple of their tactics.
And I know humans, my father most of all.
I’m due to rendezvous with Qequan’s scout tomorrow night. If I run now, I’ll arrive early, but most of my travel will be during the night, when it’s cooler. I won’t be able to get provisions. I’m not sure where they are, since I’ve never seen foodstuff in the other tents. But I can survive without food and water for a day. I’ve done it before.
My breathing sounds like grating slate to my ears, so I hold it when I slip out, replacing the stake and smoothing the dust. I stare at the lit tent between me and my cot, listening for guards. Someone passes on the other side of my father’s tent. Maybe I can loop back around another way and avoid whoever it is. Scanning the subtle ridges of theparched landscape, I slink toward the shadows, imagining myself a beast from the canyon. I follow the shadows, surprised when my footsteps hush. I’ve stumbled upon a soft trail of sand, and I wonder if a river or stream used to flow here. Grateful for my luck, I quicken my speed. Following this, I’m moving away from my rendezvous, but once I get a good distance from camp, I can circle back and—
Men’s voices touch my ears. I drop to my hands and knees, causing my hair to fall out of my shirt. It’s so pale it reflects the starlight. Carefully tucking it away, I search for the source of the voices. It isn’t hard, since one of them carries a lantern.
They’re coming from up ahead, to the north. And they’re getting louder. Pulse quickening, I search for cover, but there’s nothing nearby but a riverbed. I hunker lower, listening to the steps. At least four men. But a scraping noise hums beneath the steps, like something dragging across the rough earth.
Biting my lip, I lift my head and squint. The lantern light casts a sickly yellow over the bunch, turning all but the front man into silhouettes. They carry a great, dark mass between them—the source of the dragging. At first I think it’s a sledge, but as they near, I realize it’s the trollis from the tent.
A shock shoots up my spine. I pinch my lips together. Where are they taking him? Is he still alive, or did they ...
I don’t have time to find out. The men walk straight toward me. Even pressing myself down into the sand, I’ll be seen. Cursing inwardly, I carefully retrace my steps, tiptoeing as softly as I can until I wind back toward the lit tent where my father and his men are. I start to go south, evenmoreout of the way of my rendezvous point, when I hear a soft sigh and a trickle of water. I freeze. Somewhere in the sagebrush, a soldier is relieving himself.
West, then. I pass my father’s tent, too afraid to linger and glean more information. I’m confident that what I have is sufficient. I veer toward the storage tent where my cot is—
Guard.
Vile words push against my tongue. How is this so hard? My thoughts tumble over one another. The men need to rest at night, yes, but that’s also when they’re the most vulnerable. Though the center of the camp sleeps, guards will patrol its borders, ensuring the army isn’t assailed in the darkness. I might try to outrun them ... but if I stumble, if I hurt myself, I might not make the rendezvous, and then Qequan will believe me to be a traitor. I’ll never see Azmar again.
