I narrow my eyes suspiciously, but reach inside, unable to turn down a direct challenge, only to draw my hand back moments later with a yelp. Hissing in pain, I empty the clump of stinging nettles out on to the ground, then glare at Fox.
‘They made me think of you,’ he tells me.
Seething, I hold up a finger.
Fox tuts. ‘How vulgar you are, Your Majesty.’
‘Stop calling me that,’ I snap, massaging my palm.
Still smirking, Fox sets to work building a fire, placing the pewter cooking pot on a large flat stone in the centre. I watch as he meticulously cuts and cleans the roots he foraged, adding them to the pot alongside the nettles to blanch, followed by a sprinkling of wild herbs. As the steel sparks and the kindling catches, my thoughts turn to Flint.
There was a moment in the Ridge tunnels, before the explosion, when I almost believed he wasn’t going to do it. I’d never seen him so helpless. He looked … terrified.
I’d screamed at him, begged him,willedthe flames to spring forth – and then, mercifully, they did. He saved us. And now he’s out here all alone.
Fox watches me gaze uselessly into the flames. ‘Your brother can handle himself,’ he says, as if I’d spoken aloud.
I look up in surprise, and he holds out a bowlful of sorry-looking stew.
After his stunt with the nettles, I consider not taking it. Or throwing it back in his face. But hunger tips the scale, and I pick up my spoon, blowing gently on the steaming concoction before taking a small sip. I pull a face. It tastes as bad as it looks. Worse.
‘Don’t worry, Storm Weaver,’ Fox tells me, grinning as he settles himself against a tree stump. ‘There’s more than enough for seconds.’
Silence resumes as we both choke down the stew. When I push away my empty bowl, Fox tosses me the waterskin. Reflexively, I catch it with my injured arm and wince. Thebandage is damp and fraying, and most of the salve was washed away in the spring.
‘Want me to take a look?’ Fox asks.
I wrestle with my response. Pain battles pride. Pain wins.
I shuffle closer to him, extending my arm and avoiding his gaze. He encircles my wrist to examine the bite. His touch is warm, gentle.
‘So?’ I say rudely, unable to help myself. ‘How does it look?’
‘Not bad,’ he responds, applying some poultice.
I flinch at the sound of his dagger being slid from its sheath and watch as he uses it to sever the end of the bandage.
‘That dagger,’ I begin.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s the same one you had in Zafar.’
‘It is. I won it in a game of cards.’
‘You didn’t have it at the Binding Ceremony,’ I say quietly.
A flicker of something dark and wretched passes across his features. ‘No,’ he agrees. ‘I didn’t think I’d need it.’
I remember the moment he snatched my own dagger from my belt – that curved silver claw cut from the beast in my first trial. I remember the moment it was plunged deep into the emperor’s chest. I can still smell the blood spreading slowly across the dais.
Fox says nothing as he finishes tying the bandage, then turns away to stoke the fire. Dusk has fallen, and the flickering light glances off his face, which is carefully neutral – a mask of indifference. Well, almost. I watch a muscle pulse in his jaw, recalling his expression that day. The horror. The guilt.
When I speak, my voice is softer than intended. ‘I don’t blame you, you know.’
Fox begins packing away his medical supplies. ‘Then you’re on your own with that.’
‘Only because people don’t know the truth.’
