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My hands shake.Focus on the guard.It’s not Dunnan; this soldier is too broad. He’s circling the tent. He’ll see me any second. I need to hide, and the only place to hide isin that tent.
I let a thread of fear trickle into him. I can’t controlwhata person fears, but his mind will choose something—a sound, a smell, even the surrounding darkness—if he can’t see me.
He stills. Turns and looks toward the southern horizon. I push a little more fear into him. Sweat beads along the curve of my back. My heartbeat strikes a little harder.
The man draws his sword. He’s a fighter, not a runner. I clench my fists.
He heads toward the horizon. Perhaps to prove to himself there’s nothing there. Regardless, I have my opening. Keeping my focus and the fear steady at his back, I tiptoe to the tent. Slip beneath, replace the stake. Step away from the cot to shake dust from my clothes. Smooth my hair. Draw slow breaths as I untangle my binds. Slip hands and feet where they belong, tighten the knots. Lie on my cot, listening. Worrying.
I hear the guard return. He doesn’t enter the tent.
I don’t fall asleep for a very long time.
Chapter 25
Today is the day Ihaveto make my rendezvous with Qequan’s scout. The option of sneaking away has come and gone, so I’m searching for any opening I can possibly get. My father has us marching northeast again. Judging by yesterday’s speed, Pentalpoint will be closest around midday.
If I don’t make the rendezvous, I fear the scout won’t wait for me. And if I don’t find him and deliver what little I know, I will never be allowed in Cagmar again.
My heart squeezes at the thought. Acting the part of the dutiful daughter, I help tie tents to sledges as the army prepares to set out at the cusp of dawn. I can’t picture a life without Azmar. My mind refuses to piece together a future devoid of him, where I fail in my mission and spend my days looking west, toward the canyon, pining for him and the life we might have had.
Then again, a human and a trollis were never meant to have a happy life together. And yet part of me hopes that because I cannot truly picture a permanent separation, it must be an impossibility. Itmustbe. I could not bear anything else.
When I see four soldiers crossing the dry plain, brushing their hands on their stained, faded-blue clothes, I pause. Were they the same men from last night? Dunnan lingers nearby. After securing a knot, I step over to him and ask, “Where were they?”
He side-eyes me, though I’m hardly flirting. “Set out the ... troll.”
My stomach turns. They killed him, then. Did they put his head on a pike, too, or something even more ungodly? Either way, I know they’re using him as bait. I read my father’s notes.
I desperately try to keep my face smooth, letting my hair shield my expression, and return to my work with the sledges. Bite the inside of my cheek.
I can’t get the image of Azmar’s severed head on a stake out of my mind. My eyes water, but when men come to hook up the sledge, I pretend I hurt my hand.
As before, my father tethers me to his horse. He’s relaxed a fraction. He doesn’t speak to me, which may be a good sign. No talk means no threats or demands. Maybe I’m playing my role better than I thought.
I scan our surroundings constantly as we march, trying to overlay the trollis map with the human one. Gauging the angle of the sun, wishing I had stars to direct me. Not only do I have to worry about escaping my father, but I can’t get lost, either. I offer prayers to every god, including Regret, to aid me. My father notices my wandering eyes and remarks on it, but I tell him I’m watching for trolls.
I hate calling them trolls.
We stop for lunch at midday. I sit obediently near my father, keeping my nose pointed toward my rations but spying the soldiers around me. An idea strikes. While I could claim some privacy to go to the bathroom, Father will send soldiers with me. He did yesterday. But if I can make him uncomfortable, and if Iamearning some esteem, my plan might work.
But I don’t have a knife. I have to make do. This won’t be pleasant.
While soldiers talk, a few packing up early, I gnaw on my thumbnail. Climbing Cagmar has worn down most of my nails, but my thumbnails have held on. I bite it at an angle, so it’s sharp.
Then, checking to make sure my father’s attention is elsewhere, I slip my hand down the front of my slacks, grit my teeth, and dig the point into the highest part of my thigh.
I try to hide my wincing. I dig a little harder, until blood slicks my thumb. Then I smear it across my fingers, pull my hand away, and clench my knees together, giving the blood time to seep through the fabric.
My bleeding is a week away, but no one here knows that.
Finally, I drop my plate and double over, groaning.
“What’s wrong with you?” Father barks. “That’s good food!”
“I-I’m sorry.” I straighten, touch between my legs. My hand comes back bloody. “Oh no.”
Revulsion strikes my father instantly. “You couldn’t have done something?”
