Wellspring Holt. She had visited the town as a child with her family for the summer wedding of a distant relative. It would be simple to find her way back from there to Beroe. She just had to escape the gladiator. She eyed him, her renewed anger burning away her lethargy. “What’s to stop me from telling them you’re an escaped Pit slave known as Azarion?”
He shrugged, the easy gesture belied by the narrowed gaze. “Nothing except whatever sense of responsibility you carry. If you tell them, you sentence them to die. I’ll be forced to kill every one of them so they won’t sell me back to the Empire. That includes the woman who nursed you and her mother, who is like a slow-witted child.”
If the power she wielded hadn’t been drained dry in the Pit, she’d set him on fire and worry about reparations for the wagon later. “What has the Empire made of us that we both kill innocents without hesitation?”
Another shrug. “Survivors.”
Her rage sapped what little strength Gilene had left. Her eyelids grew heavy even as she struggled to stay awake and bargain with her captor. “Will you let me go when we reach Wellspring Holt?”
“No.”
She refused to let the bastard Savatar see her weep. “Why not? That your people revere fire witches is all well and good, but I don’t want to be abducted and worshipped. I just want to go home.”
Azarion leaned forward and placed a finger against her lips. “Shh,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, no matter how softly spoken. The look he leveled on her was curious. “Whyhaven’t you burned me to escape?” Her mutinous silence didn’t deter him. “Because you can’t,” he said, answering his own question. “At least not yet. You’re like a lamp that’s burned away its oil. You need time to replenish as well as to heal.”
He was a loathsome snake and a liar, a thief, and a butcher, but he was most definitely not stupid. Gilene seethed and pulled her blanket up to cover her face and shut him out of her sight. “Go away,” she muttered.
She waited for him to say something else, but he stayed silent and did as she asked. The wagon rocked when he stood and creaked on its struts as he hopped out of the shelter.
He left the door open, and Gilene peeked out from the covers to see sunlight gild the door frame. Azarion’s deep voice echoed back to her, along with the soft voice of a woman—the one Gilene associated with slender hands and a soothing touch.
A shadow filled the opening for a moment, and the wagon swayed again, this time under the feet of a woman wearing dusty skirts and a reassuring smile. Gilene guessed her similar in age to herself. She wore her brown hair in an intricate plait that fell over one shoulder to her hip, its end tied with a beaded ribbon. She assumed Azarion’s previous place by the bed.
“Your husband said you were awake. How are you feeling?” The woman had gray eyes, velvety as a dove’s wings, somber as a pall monk’s prayers.
Gilene swallowed back the denial that she was married, and certainly not to her captor. She licked dry lips, wishing she’d partaken more from the flask Azarion had handed her. “Much better. Are you Halani?” At the other’s affirmative nod, she continued. “He said you nursed me. Thank you.”
The trader woman’s smile widened. “My mother, Asil, helpedtoo, though she offers company more than help. I’ve poulticed your back to ease the pain and speed healing and done the same with your leg. I’m not much of a healer, but it should work.”
Gilene’s erstwhile nurse didn’t give herself enough credit. The pain in her back and thigh was almost gone, hardly a sting remaining to remind her that fire magic wielded a whip against its user. “It’s wonderful and hurts very little now. I’m grateful.” Azarion had neatly trapped her into silence. There was no way she’d reveal his true identity to these people, if only to spare Halani, whose kindness had eased her suffering.
Halani laid her hand over Gilene’s forehead. “Your skin is still cool. No more fever. Do you feel well enough to eat?”
Gilene’s stomach rumbled in answer, and both women laughed. Halani stood. “I’ll be back with some broth and a little bread.”
The scent of herbs filled the wagon’s small space when she returned and set down a bowl of warm broth and a hunk of bread on a tray atop a storage chest. She helped Gilene sit up, tucking pillows behind her as a back rest. “If you’re too weak, I can feed you.”
Keeping her hands as steady as possible, Gilene reached for the bowl and spoon Halani offered. “I can do it.” She hated the aftermath of her magic use as much as the reason for using it. Left weak as a babe for several days, and just as pitiful, she had to rely on her family’s help. Coming from strangers, it was even worse. She’d eat the soup on her own if it half killed her.
The first sip made her eyebrows lift. “This is better than good. Did you make it?”
Halani chortled. “I only wish I possessed such skill with a cooking pot. That’s Marata’s doing. He’s the caravan’s cook and used to run the kitchens on a Kraelian nobleman’s estate. If my uncle had to get rid of all of us save one, he’d keep Marata.”
“Your uncle is the caravan leader?” The chime of small bellssounded outside, the mark of those who refused to join the Trade Guild and obey its stricter laws.
Halani straightened the blankets at Gilene’s feet before offering her a napkin. “Aye. When it’s safe enough and there isn’t a war or two going on, our caravan travels most of the hinterland roads. Our best profits come from the garrisons.” She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear the thieves took your horse and goods. Your husband said they even stole your dye pots.”
Gilene tried not to choke on her broth. Azarion—Valdan, whatever he chose to call himself at the moment—spun a false tale better than a spider did a web. And she was forced to validate his lies. She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “All can be replaced. We’re just lucky to be alive.” The last, at least, was a hard-won truth. Between the Rites of Spring and the predator in Midrigar, it was a wonder neither of them was dead yet.
She surrendered her now empty bowl to Halani, who nodded. “Indeed. Some who thieve think nothing of murdering their marks. You’re fortunate your husband knew how to fight.” A wistful note entered her voice. “He’s a handsome man who obviously cares for you. That’s a treasure none can steal.”
Gilene was saved from replying to that profound misconception by the arrival of a woman older than Halani but with similar features. The space in the wagon grew a little more cramped as she lingered at the entrance and grinned, eyes bright with a child’s curiosity.
Halani gestured to her. “This is my mother, Asil. Mama, this is Gilene, Valdan’s wife.”
Asil waved, and again Gilene had the notion that she faced a child wearing an adult woman’s face. She recalled Azarion’s earlier threat to kill their hosts if Gilene revealed his identity. He had said Halani’s mother was simple.
Even Asil’s voice was that of a much younger girl, high and sweet. “Hamod says come to the front, Hali. He wants to talk to you.”
