When we’re back in the citadel, I should put Pigeon’s pragmatism into practice. Keeping my mouth shut for so long has only upheld the pretense of peace. No longer.
“Here we go,” Pigeon says, pointing to a thick layer of fog that creeps over the bridge and spills into the river like a cloudy waterfall.
Howell unsheathes his sword.
“What is that?” Lark calls, running to position himself at Howell’s side. The canopy-high block of smog swallows the two guards.
Pigeon squeezes my shoulder.
“One foot in front of the other, Fliss,” she says. “Keep to the edge and use the wall to make sure you’re going straight. Don’t stop.”
Jeremy whinnies softly. We can do this.
“I owe you again,” I say.
She shrugs. “What are favors between friends?”
“Friends.” I smile, then step toward the cloud of fog.
My eyes struggle to focus as the world turns white. I can see only a few inches in front of me and have to work to find the edge of the bridge. When the cool stone is under my fingers, I lead Jeremy on, walking slowly, as quietly as a horse can be, but with the fear-filled urgency of Howell and Lark being nearby. One more step. To Will. Keep going. One more.
“Found anything?” Howell shouts.
“Nothing!”
“Keep looking! Spread out!”
“I can’t see anything in this damned—”
Jeremy and I cross the peak of the bridge and start on the downward slope.
Almost there.
Almost back to Will.
Almost.
The crunch of metal is the only warning I have before a hand flies across my mouth from behind.
“Halt,” a voice I used to love growls in my ear.
I panic, unhook my fingers from the bridle, and slap a hand against Jeremy’s shoulder just before Lark slams me into the stone edge. Thankfully, Jeremy gets the message and canters out of view. Lark leans me so far backward my hair dangles above the gushing river. His green eyes meet mine and his face pales.
“Fliss?”
“Please let me go,” I say with a strike of pain through my abdomen. He’s stretching my stomach, stretching my scar. “Lark, please.”
He pulls me back to standing and clasps both hands around my arms. I try to wrestle out of his grip, but he keeps me pushed up against the wall.
“Fliss, you’re—you’realive? How?” he asks, frenzied.
“Yes. Lark, please. Please let me go.”
“You were dying. You weredead.”
“I was healed. Please.”
“When I thought you weren’t going to make it I tried to—I looked for more herbs. I sent a message to the healers in my village but—”
