The path.Yes, the path. I’m going to bring Harthon there—
Harthon.
My eyes fluttered open before I could remember not to. The faceless figure above me tilted their head down. Blank fabric met my blurred vision. A weak moan vibrated against my ears.
Then glass was shoved between my lips again, and that horrible syrup drained down my throat, and I was sucked under.
Chapter 27
“Etarla.”
Skies, everything hurt. My head, shoulders, wrists, strung tightly behind me. My neck ached from the weight of my head, which was floating. No, not floating. Drooping. To the side, I think.
I was sitting, propped against something hard, and—my fingers twitched against its surface—rough. Tree bark?
“Etarla, you need to wake up.”
The urgent command wrenched my eyes open. A string of drool dangled from my lips toward the ground, which wasn’t that far away. I was so hunched, my body was almost folded in two.
I was so damn thirsty. How could I be drooling?
“We’ve traveled for at least one day. We’re at their destination,” the soft voice informed me.
Clarity increased, and the hushed tone registered.Harthon?
“They want us awake now. I think they’re going to take us to their leader. I’m trying to slice through my bindings, so get your shit together and act like you’re conscious so you don’t draw them over here.”
As the voice kept talking, I realized it wasn’t him.
It was Aric.
Fear had me jerking upright, dizziness assaulting me.Harthon. Stefano. Joris.
Where were they?
It took too long to blink the fog from my eyes.
Coarse, frayed rope wrapped tightly around my chest was the first thing I saw before spotting those haunting, faceless visages scattered amongst the surrounding woods. There was no sign of Harthon, Stefano, or Joris. Frantically, I craned my neck, a strained sound coming from my throat.
“They’re tied to trees back there, which suggests they’re still alive,” Aric hissed. “Now keep quiet.”
Except for the bindings and the dirt streaked across his cheek, he looked remarkably okay for a man who’d been taken captive. Then again, he was a man who thrived on conflict.
So are Harthon, Stefano, and Joris, I reminded myself.
They’d overthrown the former Princeps of Fourth, for Domus’ sake. This was child’s play. A training exercise.
Child’s play. Training exercise, I internally chanted as I studied the Horrads.
They reminded me of an ant colony, some sharpening weapons, others harvesting wood. A group of ten or so huddled by a gently flowing river. None of them spoke or seemed remotely concerned with their captives.
The hopeful mantra in my head died away.
They weren’t concerned with us because they knew we couldn’t escape, not with their presence everywhere. I didn’t see our horses, and that river wasn’t flowing fast enough to carry us away. Aric was still trying to saw through his bindings, though, which meant he must have seen some hidden opportunity for escape.
Or he was losing hope and making a last-ditch effort.
Behind his back, Aric’s forearms vibrated with increasingly frantic movements.
