‘What’s the matter?’ Fox asks.
‘I’m filthy,’ I mutter.
‘You’ve certainly looked better,’ he concedes mildly. ‘But we should make a start. You’ll have a chance to clean up later.’
Ignoring his proffered hand, I heave myself reluctantly into the saddle, inhaling sharply through my nose as my injured arm takes most of my weight.
Fox hesitates, looking up at me. Maybe he’s having second thoughts too.
‘Well, aren’t you coming?’ I ask impatiently.
He clears his throat and bows his head in mock deference. ‘Right away, Your Majesty.’
I tense as Fox swings himself up behind me, looping his feet into the stirrups. The hard planes of his chest press against my back as he leans forward to grab the reins, the corded muscles of his legs digging into mine as he nudges Cedar forward.
Fox glances upward occasionally, checking the position of the sun as a means of navigation, since the towering outline of the Ridge has long been swallowed by the trees.
Neither of us speaks for a while. I concentrate instead on trying to ignore the continual graze of our arms.
It makes me nervous – being this close to him.
In fact, everything about this situation makes me nervous.
The forest is wild and overgrown, a tangle of roots and vines, filled with all manner of woodland creatures that crawl and croak and leap from branch to branch. I sit poker-straight, flinching at every creak and snap, in a constant state of high alert.
I can sense Fox biting his tongue, but when a butterfly flutters past and I lurch so violently I nearly topple to the ground, he can’t seem to take it any longer.
‘Relax, would you? You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’
‘Iamrelaxed,’ I protest, righting myself.
‘How foolish of me. You positively ooze serenity.’
The way ahead gradually grows denser, then denser still. Fox flicks his wrist carelessly, and a path begins to form, thickets parting down the middle, trees bending gracefully as we pass. Shoulders rigid, I focus on a fixed point ahead.
At a sudden rustle in the canopy above, I jerk my head up so fast that the back of my skull collides with Fox’s face. ‘What’s that?!’
‘That,’ he says thickly, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘is a very rare, very dangerous creature known as a squirrel.’
Cedar huffs amusedly. I scowl, embarrassed.
‘Look, I understand your trepidation,’ says Fox. ‘This is all new for you. It’s only natural for you to be on your guard. But you’re forgetting you’re with me.’
His arms encircle my waist as he gathers the reins into one hand.
‘Not likely,’ I mutter.
14
Elva
Ihardly dare breathe as Matron paces slowly along the line of serfs, inspecting each of us in turn. Her beady eyes linger on me, scanning from head to toe before she lifts a hand. I flinch involuntarily, but she only tugs the collar of my tunic straight before moving on to Ingra, who doesn’t lower her gaze to the floor like the rest of us but stares back defiantly.
I hate it when she does this. Most of us spend our time trying to be invisible, but not Ingra. I’ve often wondered if it’s because of her age. Ingra was sixteen when she was snatched from Veridia – an isle of hot, rolling deserts. Of all the chained-up children arriving in Ostacre’s ports that year, she was among the eldest. The other serfs have always looked to her for guidance. She raised half the people in this room.
It’s yet another means of punishing the Otherlands for the War of the Empires – enslaving the children of the vanquished. A cruel method of oppression, and a practical one. Becausechildren are easier to catch. Less trouble, moremalleable. They’re also more likely to die on the long journey across the Second Sea, but that’s why the slavers always make sure to take extra as spares to replace the tiny, limp bodies they toss overboard.
I was only ten when I was brought to this place, out of my mind with terror. So I kept my head down. I learned to be small and silent, and how to cry without making a sound.
