Westlake?
No.
Curse my blasted memory. Curse myself for not being a better student. Curse Eli for not beating the knowledge into me with a stick instead of encouraging me with mild-mannered expectations.
My eyes threaten to well up at the thought of Eli. For two decades, he was my protector. If he were here—if he were still alive—it would kill him to see me thus. A filthy, broken doll in the hands of the very enemy he dedicated his life to shielding me from. I’m thankful I do not possess the energy to weep.
The sun slants higher in the sky as we ride, the stallion’s hooves a steady clop. I’ve not the slightest inkling what part of the world we’re in. Anwyvn is a vast land, and until the past few weeks, I’ve seen precious little of it. The isolated peninsula of Seahaven was my home from the day Eli found me swaddled in a basket on the white shore until the night the invading armies arrived with their flaming torches.
We’ve left the deepest part of the forest behind. Absent are the towering maples, the soaring ashwoods, that sheltered me for the past month. The trees here are set farther apart—a copse of sparse pines with pale copper needles that blanket the arid ground.
It’s nearly midday when we finally come to a halt. I’m so exhausted, I cannot even lift my head to take in our surroundings. I feel Scythe shift in his saddle, then listen to the dull thud of his boots hitting the earth. They step into view as he reaches up to undo the strap holding me in place, and I study their simple craftsmanship.
No spurs, no steel tips. A thick caking of dust on his laces. Leather well-worn from several seasons. That’s a surprise. I figurea soldier of his standing can snap his fingers and summon fresh gear whenever he likes.
“Get down.”
His deep voice is hoarse from lack of use and holds no kindness. I try to force my limbs into motion, but they’re too stiff to cooperate. I remain slung pathetically across the stallion’s rump, my spine an unnatural arch. I fear it will never straighten properly again.
Scythe sighs and, without an ounce of gentleness, gives my midsection a shove. A squawk of alarm escapes my lips as I slide toward the horse’s tail and, powerless to catch myself, tumble to the ground. I land flat on my back, sending a plume of pollen into the air. The impact is cushioned slightly by a bed of pine needles but still manages to knock the wind out of me. For quite a long time I lie there, unable to do anything except blink up at the anemic sky, moaning occasionally in pain.
Scythe leads the horse to a nearby crick. I listen to them both drinking deeply and my own parched tongue rasps against my lips in envy. A part of me—a small one, but a part nonetheless—wishes he’d killed me back in the camp. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. Perhaps he plans to drag me along with him until the dehydration withers me down to a skeleton.
It will be a slow death.
A shadow looms suddenly over me, blocking out the sun. My captor has returned. My eyes flicker open and fix on his. They’re black, even in the bright midday light. He still wears his heavy helmet, concealing most of his features from view. The metal nose bridge tapers into a sharp point at the bottom, lending him an almost serpentine look—a dragon roaming loose in the countryside. As he stares down at me, his mouth curls at one side in either disgust or disdain.
Gods, I hate him.
A leather waterskin hits the ground beside my head.
“Drink.”
I don’t reach for it. I don’t move a single muscle. I’d rather die of thirst than follow his bidding. Foolish as it is, that tiny resistance is the only sliver of autonomy I have left.
“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, he turns on his heel and walks away. His next words drift back on the wind, almost an afterthought. “We won’t stop again until nightfall.”
It takes three distinct tries to sit upright, my strained limbs screaming in protest the entire time. I’m woozy from pain and lack of food, but somehow I manage to pull the waterskin onto my lap. My shackles clank, the iron biting into my ravaged skin as I lift it to my lips and take a deep pull.
It tastes like heaven.
I drain the skin in an embarrassingly short amount of time. My long-empty stomach protests at the foreign sensation of fullness, but I am still desperately thirsty. Eyeing the nearby stream as it gurgles over a bed of mossy rocks, I contemplate dragging myself to the edge for a few more restorative gulps. Properly hydrated, my head might stop spinning. If my head isn’t spinning, I might actually figure out where Scythe is taking me…and how to get away before we arrive…and…
Without warning, I’m yanked to my feet, the empty waterskin snatched out of my hands in a flash. My squeak of protest morphs into a hiss of fear as a large hand clamps down on my shoulder, tight as a vise.
“Time to go,” Scythe mutters, towing me back toward his horse. I dig my bare heels into the dirt, but it’s no use. He swats away my resistance like a bothersome insect buzzing at his ear. I don’t even have a chance to object before he lifts me off my feetand throws me back onto the stallion. The water sloshes uncomfortably in my stomach as he lashes me down with the same rote disinterest he might use in securing a sack of grain.
Once back in the saddle, he clucks his tongue. The horse responds instantly, breaking into a jarring canter I feel in every corner of my battered body.
Just hang on until nightfall, I tell myself, trying to ward off the despair.You can manage that, Rhya.
But nightfall is a long way off.
At some point,I become aware of the fact that I am quite ill. The fever has snuck in on the heels of thirst and exhaustion, disguising itself among the myriad other aches and pains plaguing my body. But as the afternoon wanes, there is no denying the heat that burns within my veins despite the cool northern clime through which we ride. My skin flashes hot, then cold, then hot once more. I find myself thankful for the strap securing me in place; the sheer force of my trembles would knock me to the ground otherwise.
I see no point in telling my captor of my condition. What would his response be?
Let’s make camp. I’ll bring you hot soup and stroke your hair until you’re well again, as Eli use to do when you were a child.