I raise my hands, which takes more effort than I thought possible. The sun beats down on my face, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m teetering on my feet. “Please,” I croak. “We don’t mean any harm.”
Through half-closed eyes, I see the stranger stop two sword lengths away, their gaze fixed on us, unblinking.
“My wife and I,” I manage, tipping my head toward Aren, “we need help.”
Calling Aren my wife feels good. It’s also a gamble—I hope it makes us seem less threatening. If Aren wasn’t as desperate and dying as I am, she’d probably give me a withering look right now. I keep my hands raised, surrendering to whatever fate has in store for us.
I’m not sure if the stranger understands me. They stand still as a statue, watching us. Then, finally, they gesture toward the wagon with their sword. A clear signal:get in.
I don’t care where we’re going or if we’re going to be killed. We just need to be out of the sun. Aren and I waste no time scrambling into the wagon and find that it’s full of woven cloth and bolts of fabric. A merchant, then. The stranger, still silent, climbs into the driver’s compartment, and Aren and I collapse into each other in the darkness of the wagon. Even though it moves slowly, the cart kicks up a slight breeze that immediately cools the sweat on my skin. I close my eyes and let my head fall back, grateful for the relief. Aren melts with exhaustion on the floor beside me, against the hard wagon wall.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
I shrug my shoulders, too tired to say anything more.
We follow some unseen path, in roughly the direction of the Whisting’s call. I’m lulled into a hypnotic trance as the wagon sways, losing all sense of time and space. I come back to myself only when the wagon stops.
Before I can react, the wagon door is thrown open, and someone reaches in and yanks me out by the front of my shirt. I land hard in the sand, too weak to stop my face from hitting the ground. I hear Aren shriek as she, too, is forcefully pulled from the wagon and slammed down somewhere behind me.
“Leave her alone!” I try to scream, but a gag is put in my mouth, wrapped around my head, and tied with a knot tight against the back of my skull. My hands are bound behind my back, straining the muscles in my shoulders tightly enough to pop.
Aren thrashes and fights as her own cries of fury are muffled, but strong hands prevent me from turning toward her. I struggle, but there are too many people holding me down.
They search me, under my clothes, checking me for weapons. Someone upends my bag, sending my empty waterskin flying into the sand. They confiscate my royal knife, and my blood pumps in fury. They rifle through Aren’s pack as well, checking for weapons or valuables. There’s just her skillet, a second empty waterskin, and some dried, unappetizing plants.
“Clear,” a man’s gruff voice says, out of sight.
A pair of boots steps in front of me. I raise my head as high as I can, straining my neck to peer up at my captor. She looks to be middle-aged, weathered, with sharp eyes. She carries a gold knife in her holster and wears an embroidered sash.
She looks down at me and tongues the inside of her cheek, clearly unimpressed. At last, it appears she’s decided our fate. “Get them inside.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dietan
Aren and I are carried, bound, into a small dwelling. The space is a modest living room, with pillows and blankets surrounding a small hearth. A fire crackles despite the heat of the day. Even with the hearth, it’s much cooler inside. The stone walls keep the outdoor heat where it belongs.
We are both shoved onto the pillows, and the woman walks around us. Pacing the room, she empties her pockets and unties her sword belt. Her weaponry looks familiar, but my dry eyes could be deceiving me.
“You can leave us,” she says to the others who brought us here so roughly. I scowl as they make their exit.
Aren seems unhurt but frightened. She’s breathing hard around her gag. I wish desperately that I could touch her, comfort her, but I can hardly move an inch.
My arms ache, my head still hurts, and my legs are throbbing. I try to shrug my shoulders to loosen my bindings, but the ropes around my wrists dig in even more tightly with every small movement. I want to assure Aren that we’ll survive this, but all I can do is meet her gaze and plead for her not to panic.
Casually, the woman pours two meager cups of water and places them on a small table beside us. It’s barely a sip, but even that small amount is the equivalent of gold right now. Aren stays still, waiting, and so do I.
The woman watches us for a moment, seemingly satisfied. She moves behind us and unties our hands. Aren and I rip the gags out of our mouths, and we nearly knock over the cups in our haste to drink.
I wonder if water always tasted this sweet. I close my eyes and swallow it all.
“Slowly,” the woman says. “Or it’ll come back up.”
I try to obey, but it’s difficult. I want more. The water is cool all the way down to my stomach.
“Please, we mean no harm,” I finally say.
“So you claim,” the woman replies matter-of-factly. She takes a seat on the floor across from us, peering over the crackling flames.
