“Yeah, you know, where you kneel and offer thanks and beg forgiveness? Maybe you’re unfamiliar with the practice, since you Tashiri have never done anything wrong. Always the bloody victims…”
I leap to my feet, every trace of tiredness gone. “Wearethe victims!Youterrorizeus!”
Alaric grabs his coat and heads for the door, grumbling as he goes.
I bolt after him. “Where are you going in such a hurry? Didn’t you enjoy our conversation last night? I thought we could continue bonding today.”
“I enjoyed it so much, I’ve already forgotten most of it,” he snaps before striding off toward the firepit.
I stand there, panting and smiling, relishing this small victory.
The guards come to take down the tent, and we’re back in our saddles before the sun is fully up. I assumed I would ride with Alaric, now that we’re wed, but he makes excuses about needing to help Soren clear the trail and orders me to ride with the same guard as the day before. Which is fine by me. Preferable, even. I won’t have to be on my toes, ready to spar at a moment’s notice. And I won’t have to cling to Alaric’s muscled torso and inhale the annoying wind and leather scent of him.
Hour after hour, we gallop across the endless Tomb Flats. It’s all so uniform, I could almost believe we’re running in place if not for the dark triangular shadows that appear on the horizon, growing steadily taller. And King Soren and Alaric’s occasional manipulation of the land.
On our second day of travel, they raise a rock wall to shield us from a pelting sandstorm. And when a guard claims to spot something trailing us across the dunes on the fourth day, the Vanzadorian rulers carve a tunnel into the earth, and we ride belowground for the rest of the day.
Alaric never returns to our marriage tent. I tell myself it’s due to mysharp tongue and intimidating presence, but if the yammering guards are to be believed, it’s because he’s keeping watch through the night with Soren, guarding us—and, more importantly, the bagrava—from the Marauders.
Sometimes I think I see the wild-eyed thieves darting in my periphery. Other times, I swear I hear their battle cries in the yapping howl of the jackals. But on the seventh day of travel, we arrive at the base of the mountains unscathed.
The towering slabs of stone hardly make me feel safer, though.
I always thought the mountains protecting Tashir were high, but I was wrong. The slopes Soren erected along our border are an anthill compared to the soaring peaks of Vanzador. Proving, yet again, that King Soren’s “protection” and “allyship” are a shadow of what he truly has to offer. A mockery more than anything.
I crane my neck to survey the craggy bluffs, jutting from the earth like the world’s tallest forest. Each stony branch rises higher than the next, creating a canopy of cliffs that swallows us in its shadow. The air is at least ten degrees colder than it was on the Tomb Flats, and a whistling breeze tears through my linen shirt as if it’s made of cobwebs.
I have never felt more insignificant and exposed.
The guards dismount and unbuckle their saddlebags, which they convert into satchels they sling across their shoulders. Hiking poles unfold from tent support beams, spurs become hand picks, and lead ropes are knotted into longer climbing ropes. Everything, it seems, has a double purpose. Everything is adaptable to the mountain.
Except for me.
A low rumble brings my gaze back to the base of the peak, where Soren stands with his hands raised. As the rumbling intensifies, a channel opens in the earth, roughly the size of an irrigation ditch, and a steel contraption lurches down tracks embedded in the hillside.
It comes to a stop with a hiss, and Soren climbs into the compartment, motioning for Alaric to follow. “Ride with me—and bring yourbride. The bagrava too. The people will be eager to see the fruits of our conquest.”
I stagger back, furiously shaking my head. This is precisely what they did to Rowenna. She told me all about this strange contraption and the crowd of ravenous Vanzadorians waiting at the top. They mocked and ridiculed her, picking her apart like hungry vultures.
“I’d rather walk,” I say.
To my surprise, Alaric mutters something at the exact same moment. Something that sounds an awful lot like,Don’t you ever tire of the production?
I gape over at him, certain I must have misheard.
King Soren turns slowly back around. “What was that, my boy?” His tone is perfectly pleasant, the lines of his body relaxed, but something about it lifts the hairs on my neck.
“I said, ‘Don’t you think she needs instruction?’” Alaric lies smoothly. “As much as I’d prefer to ride with you, Father, I think it would be wise to teach my new wife to climb. Sure-footedness clearly isn’t a family trait, and Indira has expressedsomany concerns about falling to her death.”
“How dare you act as if my worries are unfounded!” I bark at him, but Alaric continues talking over me.
“We can’t risk losingthissister. It would be a much greater waste.”
While I sputter with outrage, Soren considers me and nods. “You’re right. She’s of no use to us dead. Ensure she makes it to the top.”
He raps on the ceiling of the contraption, and it starts its steep and puffing ascent up the rock face. I watch it go, marveling at how effortlessly it climbs, like a spider on a windowpane.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” Alaric asks once Soren is out of sight.
