Worse, all of the paths were well traveled this time of year and it hadn’t rained in weeks—meaning they were pitted with footprints and carriage wheels. Summer was when people here did their business, stuffing in a year’s worth of trade—mostly in diamonds—before shutting down for the winter’s snow and ice.
Amarande couldn’t let her focus dip. Adrenaline was her friend, and she had plenty of it. Bitterness and indignation, too—one could run on that particular mixture for days on end.
The princess was alert, moving fast and sure. And even better,as the sun crawled past dawn in the sky, Amarande had an inkling that she was catching up.
She’d played over all the scenarios in her mind and she still had nothing definitive. She knew based on her own timeline of finding the note and then suffering through that absurd meal that she was likely at least two hours behind. But, in truth, that number might have been closer to five. She’d locked eyes with Luca at the funeral, but there was a three-hour gap between seeing him then and being able to slip away from the clutches of an angry council.
Amarande’s heart dropped at the lost time—she shouldn’t have even attempted diplomacy with that boy. It wasn’t worth it. Guilt fluttered in her stomach, which was empty save for a single swig of spiced apple juice. Egia and Maite pressed into her back with all their weight, almost as if to say,For every moment they made him suffer, you will return it in kind.
That was another of Sendoa’s sayings:If not an eye for an eye, a lash for a lash.
Amarande didn’t let herself think about what would happen to Luca if Renard were able to reach the kidnappers before she did.
The road in front of her yawned open, into the red mouth of the Torrent. Her most recent mountain path evaporated into the dust of a much different land.
Amarande had seen the Torrent before, of course. Plenty of times. But she’d never actually set foot in it. Her father and Koldo had only ever shown her it from a safe distance, at the top of a peak claimed by Ardenia.
For as trained as she was, she suddenly realized how sheltered she’d been.
From afar, the Torrent looked like nothing that could bear its name. There was no water in the dusky landscape below. Nothing that could deluge, flood, cascade.
But here, with Mira’s hooves touching the first specks of red sand, Amarande could understand. It wasn’t that the former kingdom had been called Torrence, though likely that played a part. No, it was the other definition of the word that gave this place its name.
It opened wide and presented itself as something sudden, violent, unflinching. The red sands that seemed like a painting from afar shifted like liquid in the wind that barreled down from the mountains on every edge of this bowl, before being trapped, howling, with no way to get out.
The Torrent.
The fallen kingdom of the Otxoa. The lawless desert of raiders, bandits, and the people too stubborn to leave. The Warlord’s domain, with his fire pits and caravans and stolen power.
Amarande reached into her saddlebags for the first time. Not for sustenance but for something she was thrilled she’d thought to pack—a linen kerchief.
She wrapped it atop her nose and mouth, lacing it behind her head, mussing up the careful braids that were already coming undone with a hard night of riding.
Set, Amarande gave Mira a pointed tap with both her heels.
And pushed on.
CHAPTER
12
THEsun was a searing slash across the sky when Luca’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked to catch his bearings, trying to stay as still as possible. General Koldo’s pity lessons were the first thing in his mind:Lack of preparation can squander the element of surprise.
His cheek was pressed against someone’s back, the sun’s rays hot enough that his sweat mingled through fabric with that of one of the pirates. His ear was damp against that person’s spine. The pirate swayed gently beneath the weight of Luca’s body as they moved forward across earth the color of shattered terra-cotta on a horse that was at least seventeen hands high.
The Torrent.
Luca knew enough of his homeland to know that much of it was burnt and barren. The continent of the Sand and Sky had been named to encompass the closer-to-the-sun locations of the mountainous Ardenia and Pyrenee and the lowland beaches of Basilica and Myrcell, but truly the Torrent captured both. It was the Sand and Sky on the most extreme palette—skies so clear they blinded and burned, a landscape of nothing but sand scorched sienna. Mountains ringed the bowl that made up the Torrent on all sides, coolly standing sentry in the distance. The only variations here were flattop plateaus scattered at intervals across the terrain.
The pirates had been overly cautious in securing Luca—hishands were bound and latched to the saddle, another rope connected his midsection to the horse, too, and his legs were tied to the rider’s stirrups. One rope would’ve been enough to keep him from sliding off, but they clearly weren’t taking any chances. Which was funny, because he hadn’t put up much of a fight in the stable—the evidence was undeniable in the bruises that had bloomed across his back, the knot at his temple, the pounding behind his eyes. Not to mention the blood that coated his mouth, drier than it should be thanks to the arid climate.
His periphery was such that he was able to see a rider next to him, but that horse was just enough ahead of the one he was strapped to that he couldn’t make out the rider. Figuring he’d learned all he could know while still, Luca finally raised his head.
His rider reacted in an instant.
“The cargo’s awake!” It was the girl’s voice—he was tied to her back. Both she and the parallel rider, who he could now see was the tall Myrcellian boy, came to a halt. Luca expected the Eritrian’s voice to come next from up ahead, leader that he was, and the boy didn’t disappoint.
“Welcome. You missed the breakfast we weren’t going to feed you.”
