Confusion settled as I tried to remember what I was saying. “I, um,I was just looking for a spot to relieve myself. If I had been trying to run, that would have been a pathetic attempt.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “Yes, that would have been an incredibly pathetic escape attempt.”
“If you thought I was running, you clearly think I’m a fool,” I said—rather foolishly. If Harthon thought I was brainless, he’d drop his guard, making for an easier escape. And here I was, spoiling that.
He emptied the remainder of the vial’s contents on my skin. “It’s been one day. I’m still unsure what to think of you.”
His honesty must have loosened my tongue because I replied, “Likewise.”
He paused in the middle of wrapping, his eyes meeting mine. I watched as they turned to stone, his smile gone. “I’m not a good man, Etarla, but I’m trying to do good things for the people in my Territory and hopefully others. That’s all you need to think.”
“I’d never mistake you for a good man.” Then I thought about his words. “You know, what you said is a conflicting statement. What do you do, walk the line between good and bad?”
He was quiet for a moment, then, “I fell from that tightrope a long time ago.”
The question wasn’t intended to strike him, but it did. I knew this when he resumed wrapping, tied the linen off, and packed up the supplies without another word. The bandages were surprisingly neat, just as they had been yesterday. Harthon was good at this.
Gear in hand, he stood. “Use the privacy. You have two minutes before North looks for you,” he said, and then he left me in the privacy of the trees.
I hurried to do my business. If North stalked over and found me with my trousers at my ankles, I’d launch myself into the next monstrous river I saw.
When I returned to Harthon’s horse, he was deep in conversationwith the bearded man, eating something from a pouch.
“Fish Eyes.”
I whirled around, spotting Callen waltzing toward me. “It’s Etarla.”
He held up a canteen and a pouch identical to Harthon’s. “Sure. Well, I have food and water here for Fish Eyes, but if that’s not you, I’ll just go.”
I rolled my eyes, but then he started to turn around. “Hey! Wait! Fine.”
He turned, a satisfied grin pasted on his face. I was too hungry to be defiant. Last night’s dinner had been filling, but I had some catching up to do before I ate back all my body had spent in the past week. Callen handed me the items, and I dug into the pouch. It was a mix of cheese and dried meat. Nothing exciting, but it was substantial.
“What, no ‘thank you’?” Callen asked as I chewed a piece of meat.
“Etarlais thankful, but I’m not her, so…” I tossed a square of cheese in my mouth.
His brows shot up. “You…that was well-played,” he said, pointing a finger at me as he retreated. “Turns out there’s more to you than those fancy eyes.” With that, he spun on his heel and made his way back to his horse.
I frowned.
If that nickname caught on, there would be a serious problem.
You won’t be with them long enough for it to become a problem.
Around me, the men chatted and ate, in no apparent rush to leave. With nothing to do but eat and drink, I sat on the ground, studying the group. They generally looked similar to Koerlyn’s men. Rugged, well-built, a mix of slightly young and slightly old, weapons strapped here and there. But they smiled now, while Koerlyn’s men never did. Their comradery was apparent. Whether that came from them or Harthon’s leadership, I wasn’t sure.
If the attack in Third was any indication, they were also deadlierin battle than Koerlyn’s men. Again, whether the people of Fourth Territory were built differently or Harthon trained them to be that way, I didn’t know. But there was a good chance the latter was true. While I’d only been with them for a day, it was clear how much the group respected their leader—a leader who went to battle with them.
A short time later, North called out in that deep, guttural voice, indicating our departure. I rose as Harthon returned. He took the empty pouch and canteen from my hands and tucked it in a saddlebag. I eyed the seat. The stirrup was low enough that my foot could catch it. Until now, I’d been placed on and removed from saddles by someone else. I was getting sick of it, and with my hands free, there was no reason I couldn’t do it on my own.
Granted, I’d never mounted a horse before, but if I could lift a heavy ax over my head to split wood, how hard could this be?
I lightly laid a palm over the saddle, watching the horse’s reaction. When he didn’t so much as twitch, I wedged my left foot in the stirrup. He chuffed, but remained still.
I’d take that as permission.
Most of the men I’d watched used the pommel as a handhold, but with this horse’s size, it was just out of my reach. Settling for a small ridge in the saddle instead, I pushed off the ground. I hardly made it inches before my fingertips slipped from the ridge and my foot slammed down. I jammed my fingers in the little divot again and tried once more. Frustration sparked as I got the same result.
