And then we ride.
Seven
We gallop across the Tomb Flats, chased by a shroud of purple-graysmoke. My haversack thumps painfully against my side, heavy with the underripe bagrava I harvested from the burning fields, and I cry out in agony every time it brushes my blistered hand.
To my shock, my riding companion offers to take my pack, but I refuse with a suspicious scowl. I’m not about to hand over my possessions to a strange Vanzadorian. Despite my blatant hostility, he still gives me ample space in the saddle, routinely asks how I’m faring, and even offers his spare gloves to cover my burns.
With every offer, my frown deepens and my hackles rise. Rowenna’s letters outlined, in great detail, the horrors of her own journey to Vanzador—how they bound and gagged her as soon as the hillock palace was out of sight. How they mocked and ridiculed her, and refused to stop so she could relieve herself. I’m not about to fall for this overly chivalrous act.
After what feels like an eternity, the horses finally slow to a walk. The wind, however, continues howling past, more violently than I’ve ever felt. The Tomb Flats are completely barren. No flowering knollsor groves of trees. Not even a lone crooked shrub to impede the gusts. Just slickrock and sand.
And Marauders.
My skin crawls as I peer into the dark of the desert. I have no doubt they’re out there, watching us, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It’s how the robbers have always survived on these inhospitable plains. They raid every caravan that attempts to cross. I’ve read dozens of accounts from my ancestors, detailing how the Marauders stole their animals, supplies, and even their children. Then once they had a taste of our bagrava, they became even more bloodthirsty and insatiable.
Soren has to know they will come. Every month, they attempt to steal the tribute of bagrava we send to the mountains, injuring, and sometimes even killing, the Tashiri planters and Vanzadorian guards responsible for the transport. And while I’d rather not die today, it would be poetic, in a way, to watch the ravenous thieves steal the bagrava Soren and his son stole from us.
You forget Soren can bury the Marauders beneath a mountain of rubble before they get within one hundred lengths, Rowenna reminds me.
“Do you need help getting down?” My riding companion dismounts and offers me a hand, which I pointedly refuse.
“I grew up in a farming community. I know how to ride,” I say with a haughty tilt of my chin.
He gives an amiable shrug. “Suit yourself, but even my legs are sore after such a long time in the saddle.”
I roll my eyes and swing out of the stirrups, but either the horse has grown taller or the slickrock is harder than I realized, because pain jolts through my legs and I crumple to the shale. A sharp rock slices through the blisters on my palm, and while I hiss and clutch my hand, the guard rushes to my side, trying to inspect the wound.
“You should have let me help you. Or at least taken my gloves.”
“Why are you being so nice?” I snap.
The guard has the audacity to look offended. “Because we promisedto keep you safe.”
“The way you keptRowennasafe?”
“Oh no, I plan to keep amuchcloser eye on you,” King Soren interjects as he dismounts. “You’re of far greater value than Alaric’s previous bride.”
“I’ll never cultivate bagrava for you,” I spit, to which Soren waves a dismissive hand.
“You’ll do as I say.”
Or you’ll end up dead. Like your sister.
Soren doesn’t actually utter these words, but we all hear them, echoing across the Tomb Flats.
“Are you finally admitting you murdered Rowenna?” I demand.
He gives a nonchalant shrug and passes his horse off to a guard. “Would it matter if I was? Your sister was nothing but a useless annoyance. I can’t even remember her name.”
I know better than to rise to his bait, but my vision goes red, and I pounce at the Vanzadorian king like the jackals that prowl the Tomb Flats.
“You will not speak ill of the dead!” I shout. Except my voice comes out in a smoky cough, and my legs are too sore and wobbly to support my weight. As I crumple to the ground, Soren chuckles, unlatches a water horn from his belt, and tosses it at me.
“Clean yourself up. I won’t make my son go to bed with a hog on his wedding night.”
The wordbedmakes the hairs on my arms prickle, and I wrap them tightly across my chest. Of course I know the treaty calls for a captive bride, but I assumed the union was more about joining Vanzador to the bagrava than man to wife. Soren can’t actually expect me to performwifelyduties, can he?
Was Ro required to perform them?
