AMARANDEpushed Mira to the limits of what she could run.
The sun was in the early hours of its long summer descent and the princess had set a course for a place she knew people would likely be in the vast space of the Torrent: the watering hole.
Before they’d begun to sprint again, the princess administered the only snakebite treatment she knew to work: removing Luca’s boot in case of swelling and covering the wound in a loose bit of cloth—another long scrap torn from her dress.
And that was it. That was all she could do.
Sucking the venom out was a myth. Cutting away at the infected skin, too—that didn’t halt necrosis any more than a pleasant bath. Over Mira’s hoofbeats and the rush of the wind, she could hear Medikua Aritza’s gravelly voice now, the old woman’s sharp eyes fixed on the princess’s face to make sure she was listening and not daydreaming about crossing swords in the yard.
Time spent is tissue lost—get anti-venom as quickly as possible.
Keep the person still—movement spreads venom.
The wound should be kept below the heart.
The first two instructions were an issue. Time was not on their side and keeping Luca still was an impossibility while thundering on horseback across the Torrent’s rivers of sandy earth.
Luca hung on to Amarande’s waist with renewed strength. And he made it a point to talk more than he did before, just so that shewouldn’t worry he’d fallen asleep or passed out or simply died on the back of her horse.
The stub of the watering hole loomed by midafternoon, and Amarande breathed a sigh of relief. They’d somehow managed to avoid the kidnappers, the inn and its keeper, and anyone else who would slow them down. Mira was running hot, her steps imprecise; she needed the break. Even in the state he was in, Luca was watching her vitals, paying close attention to the horse’s breathing and gait, making sure she wasn’t harmed from the hard ride. Whenever they had to slow to navigate a rocky path or tight, prickly brush, Amarande caught him detaching one hand from his hold on her and running it across the horse’s side, checking the rise and fall of her lungs.
Amarande dismounted and walked Mira toward the first of the trees shading the Cardenas Scar. Luca began to swing a leg off, too, but Amarande’s rebuke was immediate.
“No, no, no—walking will get your blood pumping, and that’s the last thing we need.”
Luca didn’t argue. “What’s the plan?”
“Find the anti-venom, pay for it, administer it, and then deliver you to Medikua Aritza before I alert the council to my return.”
“And if we don’t find someone with access to anti-venom?”
“We skip to the final two steps of the plan and hope I don’t have to amputate before we achieve them.”
Luca chewed on that. “What are you paying with? I didn’t see gold in the saddlebags.”
Apparently the fact that she was in a ball gown wasn’t the only thing he’d missed in those early minutes when they’d paused after their escape—perhaps that inattention was the poison already at work. The princess grinned softly and plucked the pouch from her dress. She tugged it open and tipped it his way; the diamonds’ facets shimmered in the light, dancing across Luca’s face. “Leavingright after dinner didn’t simply mean riding away in a dress. Untilveryrecently, this was a necklace from the Itspi’s collection.”
Luca’s eyes settled on the sparkling gems. “Oh, Ama…”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Luca,” was all she said. Tagging on something likeyou’re worth itwould only make it worse. That thing that had sat between them their whole lives reared its head again. He was worth these jewels and more in any situation; but as she was the princess of the sometimes-called Kingdom of Diamonds, the gems weren’t especially precious to her. All she would have to do was say the word on their return to the Itspi, and five other necklaces of greater value would be brought for her inspection.
And so she didn’t add to her sentence either. She wouldn’t cheapen what he was worth to her. He was worth literally everything she’d been through thus far, plus what was to come, and more—diamonds, battle, the political ramifications. Everything.
The princess stowed the jewels and guided their party carefully toward the trickling stream. She was after human interaction, but she stayed cautious, gauging the lay of the land before they made their presence fully known.
The banks were calm, everyone minding their own business—nothing unsavory or violent in progress. Amarande tied Mira to the stump of a tree at the water’s edge and helped Luca off the horse. Careful not to move too much, he sat immediately and began filling the waterskins. Amarande fished out some dried meat from one of the bags, handed some to Luca, and surveyed her choices as she chewed a piece herself.
There were four clusters of travelers—none she’d seen before. A pair of young men made old before their years by the brutal sun. Two women cradling babes in slings across their chests, traveling with a single man and a boy of six or seven. And three men who at first glance sent a chill up Amarande’s spine, because they looked far too much like the men who’d robbed her. They weren’t—theirclothes and hair were all wrong, and none of them bore the injuries she’d dealt, but just the sight of three men like that traveling in a pack was enough to give her pause.
She decided upon the family. Amarande wasn’t comfortable around women with children, mostly because they made her think of the mother she never knew. She wasn’t much older than these babes were now when Queen Geneva decided her freedom was more important than her daughter. The tendril of a thought nagged at Amarande then—that when this was all over she should visit the Warlord and put a truth to what her mind wanted her to see a night ago.
Amarande had to cross the stream to get to them. Leaving her sword with Luca, she hiked up what was left of her shredded skirt, took off her boots and stockings, and carried them across. Her knife was hidden in one of the boots, ready should she need it as she waded across the water to negotiate. The women were crouched at the bank, swirling clothes in the waters, cleaning with only the anemic creek’s agitation.
Both women stopped what they were doing and straightened as she approached. One of the babies in a sling watched, too, the other child asleep. The man and boy didn’t join them, busy filling waterskins.
“Arritxu,” she began, addressing the women in ancient Torrentian as ladies—it was something Abene and Maialen had always told her was preferred here—“please, if you’d help me. My companion is in need of anti-venom for a bite from a Harea Asp. I have items for trade and can pay very well.”
The women said nothing at first. The one on the left—young with hazel eyes and freckled brown skin—swung her gaze over to the other woman before finally speaking. “That was no Harea Asp or your friend would be dead, not drinking water from the banks.”
