I stiffen. “That’s not—”
“Secondly.” He takes another step, bringing him so close I can almost feel the heat radiating off his body. So close, it makes my breath catch and my airway close up, like a noose has once again been looped around it. “Narbeth is no border town. It’s nowhere near Eastwood, nor is it anywhere close to the woods where you were discovered.”
I press my eyes closed at this news.Maybe the girl had said Naxton, not Narbeth…
“And lastly,” Scythe says, taking one last step, delivering the death stroke as his body stops just short of mine. “You’d been on the run for quite some time when Burrows and his men found you. Not three days. A full month, I’d guess, judging by the state of your dress.”
“Burrows didn’t exactly pour me a hot bath and allow for pampering.” Anger rises sharply within me. “Seeing as he planned to execute me, it didn’t much matter how I looked.”
“I wasn’t talking about the stench. You’re skin and bones.That dress hangs off your frame, no match for the body beneath it.”
“Times are tough,” I retort haughtily, clinging to my rapidly fraying lies.
“No shoes, no proper cloak.” His eyes flicker down my form. “You ran, and you did it quickly. Without warning.”
I clench my teeth to keep silent.
“What were you running from?”
Flashes of that terrible night—torches and flames, the Starlight Wood burning. The baker, the cobbler, the tailor, incinerated inside their shops before they could flee. My favorite meadow reduced to ash. Children calling out for mothers who could not save them, their pleas piercing a smoke-hazed sky.
I bite my tongue to keep the memories locked within.
“You will tell me.” A declaration. A vow. His words as unshakable as his gaze. “Today, tomorrow. Perhaps in a week. You will tell me your story, girl. All of it.”
“I won’t tell you a godsdamned thing,” I hiss.
Behind us, Jac laughs softly.
Scythe does not. “Stubborn. So stubborn. No wonder you managed to evade them for so long.” He shakes his head, frustration written plainly on his face. “A trained contingent of soldiers, some of King Eld’s best men. Gods.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there is a note of grudging respect buried somewhere beneath all his exasperation.
“You were trained,” he says decidedly. “Someone taught you survival skills. How to move through the woods in silence, how to stay alive in the elements.” He pauses. “Not to mention, how to slow the bleeding of an arrow puncture and wrap a wound with quick efficiency.”
I keep silent, focused on breathing steadily. Quite a feat, given his proximity.
“You are no ordinary halfling, Remnant aside. And you are certainly no farmer’s daughter from Westlake. So, I’ll ask you one last time…” Scythe leans a handspan closer and the world around us seems to still, the howling wind outside the mouth of the cave cutting off abruptly, leaving behind a pervasive silence. “Who the hell are you?”
Chapter
Nine
The back of the cave narrows into a low-ceilinged passageway that leads deep into the belly of the mountain. We walk in silence, Jac at the front, me in the middle, Scythe close on my heels. Two horses bring up the rear—first Onyx, then Jac’s mount, a dapple-gray mare I had not seen tucked in the depths of the cave during the tense standoff between Scythe and me.
I had not answered his questions, had not told him who I am or where I come from, remaining stubbornly silent even in the face of his gathering vexation. Eventually, he’d seemed to decide it was not worth his effort, stalking away in disgust and barking that it was time to depart.
Jac shot me an amused wink before whistling for his mare and leading us to the passageway.
I don’t want to like the man, but there is something undeniably charming about his easygoing nature—especially in contrast to Scythe’s brooding malice. I also cannot deny my relief at his presence. Traveling alone with Scythe feels a bit like being locked in a cage with a feral wolf. One who hasn’t eaten in weeks and will not hesitate to consume you the moment you stop serving his purposes.
The passageway grows narrower as we walk, the stone pathdescending in a gradual slant. It’s cold beneath my socked feet, but I do not protest. I am afraid if I open my mouth for any reason, I will encourage further interrogation from my captors. Best to keep still and silent for the time being. The less they know about me, the harder it will be for them to track me down when I eventually escape their clutches.
The flickering glow of Jac’s torch dances across the walls, casting strange shadows on the pointed salt deposits hanging from the roof like canine fangs in the mouth of a beast. Here, in the deep, the world seems devoid of life. A realm of utter stillness. Except for the intermittent drip, drip, dripping of water droplets echoing back at us as they plummet, nothing stirs in the dark.
We walk for a long time, a single-file parade moving ever deeper, ever downward. We walk for so long, I grow convinced I will never again feel the sunlight on my face or the kiss of wind upon my skin. A sort of panic begins to churn within me, brought on by the tight-pressed claustrophobia of our entombment. The musty air moves in and out of my lungs, tasting of dust and decay, staleness and stagnation, and I struggle for calm.
For someone like me—raised on the wild, windy shores of Seahaven, with the crashing waves and churning surf, running amid the sun-dappled shallows with salt on my skin and sea-foam in my hair, skirts a tangle of sand, heart alight with the tang of the tides—this sort of earthly confinement feels like walking through a crypt. One I will never escape. Not only my body, but my soul itself trapped ever more beneath the mountain, unable to find its way to the skies.