Lambert dresses the part of a farmer with a flaxen tunic and a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. He even smells of manure.
He nods to both of us. “I’ll drive him around a bit to make sure no one follows. Walk the block and meet me at that corner, by the butcher shop,” he says. Then he’s off. Nelson leaves, and I’m alone, circling the streets. I wonder suddenly if the plan might just be a bit too elaborate, too cautious.
I walk alone with only the moonlight as a guide. A pair of city guards turn the corner and walk my way, and my heart starts to pound.
There is no time to hide.
They’ve seen me, and any sudden movements would look suspicious. So I just lower my head and walk toward them, like I’m a simple fishmonger or baker rushing home to my family. The guards momentarily pause as I walk past them. They eye me but keep walking. Thankfully, they don’t give me a second glance.
That was close. Too close.
On wobbly legs, I circle around the block and pass Lambert walking on the street. He nods to me before he disappears down the block, off to the meeting point.
A moment later, I find the wagon where Lambert left it. I run to it and push aside the hay, finding Dietan exactly where I hid him. Unlike him, I’ve never been a good liar, but I put on a little show for any prying eyes that might linger nearby. I roughly brush bits of hay off his shoulders, like I’m an angry wife who caught him where he wasn’t supposed to be.
Dietan’s revived a bit, sitting up on his own and scooting to the end of the wagon. I sling his arm over my shoulder, grateful that this time I don’t have to drag him like a sack of flour. We move slowly, stumbling.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on, that hurts,” Dietan says, losing his balance as I struggle to keep him upright.
“Shush,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “I’m tired of you going to the tavern instead of coming home,” I scold more loudly in case anyone is listening. I look around, checking alleyways and behind corners as I hurry us down the street as quickly as Dietan can tolerate. His head hangs low, covered by his hood, but at least I can hear him breathing.
Then a horn cuts through the night air.Shit.That’s not part of the plan.
Something’s wrong.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dietan
“What in Albion did you put on me?” I mutter, holding the cloak hood to my nose. The stench is unbearable. “This thing reeks.”
“Youreek. Have you smelled yourself? You spent a day in the morgue,” Aren snaps.
I don’t bother to answer. She’s right, I must smell like death itself. Hell, I probably look like it, too.
Maybe this beggar’s costume is an upgrade.
I tug the hood back over my head, but my thoughts are spinning again, my head buzzing from the lingering effects of the poison. My eyes flutter open and closed. For a brief moment, I recall the poisoned biscuit and the long, dark sleep that followed. How long was I out? Hours? Days? I feel like I died and was dragged back to life—though that could well be the lingering effects of Namreth’s torments.
Every step I take sends sharp spikes of pain through my legs and into my back. My ribs protest with every breath. Each movement reminds me that since our arrival, I’ve spent more time broken than whole.
Aren walks beside me, my arm slung over her shoulders, keeping me upright. Her grip on my waist is tight, steady. I lean against her as we move, step by glacial step, but I can barely keep my feet under me. If not for her, I’d have already collapsed face-first onto the street. I can feel her struggling under my weight, trying to keep me from swaying too much, from drawing attention.
She tries to be gentle—I can tell—but the effort costs her. I steal a glance at her, admiring the glow of her face in the moonlight. Even now, even after everything, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
It must be a dream. That’s the only explanation.
Maybe I never woke up at all. Maybe I’m still in that dark place between life and death, and my mind has conjured her here to give me peace before the end.
Then, without warning, Aren smacks me in the ear.
Pain explodes in my skull, my vision whites out for half a second, and my knees buckle. I stagger, too slow to catch myself, and land flat on my back in the gutter. Filthy water splatters everywhere—up my arms, across my chest, into my already filthy hair.
Definitely not a dream.
What the hell did she do that for?
“I told you, no more taverns,” Aren scolds. “Just look at you. You can’t even walk.”
