Amarande worked for hours—prodding him, provoking him, begging him for the fire swamp vial. Yet for all that effort her only accomplishments were a wilted voice, parched throat, and his extended silence.
At some point, Amarande fell asleep. The stress and the sun combined to lull her into restless slumber. When her eyes blinked open, it was under a low-hanging sun.
Mountains loomed ahead, backlit, disappearing on the edge of the bowl that was the Torrent. Not just any mountains—her mountains, the mountains of Ardenia. Dusty ivory rock, juniper clinging to the deep jags and fissures. But they still stood at a distance.
After a quick glance to make sure no one was looking, she fished out her father’s map and turned herself away from the bars. As discreetly as possible, she unfurled it enough so that she could surmise where they were based on the distance to the mountains and how far she estimated they’d come from the Hand.
Yes. It was possible to make it to the border of Ardenia by the end of the day. They would have to travel even faster than before without stopping, which could not be comfortable for either the riders or the horses, but when you were the Warlord no one would stop you. The mountains would slow you, though. This many carts and bodies on those steep switchbacks? That might take them a day or more.
Which meant more time for the Warlord to dangle her as bait to Luca.
Amarande knew she would be a distraction. Taillefer was correct. The resistance’s aim was in restoring the Otxoa and the Kingdom of Torrence. Nowhere did she fit into that plan. She was a wedge as much as she was a shield until they reached the Itspi.
And just as she began to hope that this Warlord was greedy enough to hazard Ardenia’s mountain passes in the dead of night, the prison cart lurched.
The entire caravan began to slow.
“Stars and hell,” Amarande muttered, obscuring her map and checking both sides of her cage to get a better idea of where they were stopping.
The bars to the south revealed a sliver of the River of Stone slicing through the distance—they were quite a bit north of the massive line of red plateaus, rather than alongside it as she had previously traveled.
Taking pains to covertly unfurl the map, she walked her fingers back from the ink that signified Ardenia’s edge and up from the massive line of plateaus.
And there, clear as day, was one of her father’s sword-crossXs.
A former city. A fire pit.
But not just any fire pit—likely the one where she and Luca had been rounded up by Renard and his men.
Taillefer was on the opposing side then. Now, she didn’t know where he stood.
There was no dismissing the fact that his refusal to help her—despite all they’d been through, despite the tenuous trust they’d built—was a betrayal.
One she would not so easily dismiss.
Amarande quickly stowed the map and crawled to the farthest forward section of her cage to look about further. The prison cart was positioned in the first third of the caravan. The rest of it curved like a scythe, the tail stretching so far that the shadows of the Torrentian bowl devoured them. She could also see, at close range, Taillefer’s ungloved hands gripping the bars of his cell. She ignored him. For now. He was lucky for that.
As they came to a complete stop, shouts rose from the direction of the Warlord’s carriage at the very front of the caravan. Like her tent, the vehicle was sky blue, opulent, and heavily guarded, mounted guards positioned in phalanx two or three deep on every side.
A figure emerged dressed in vibrant blue silks—the same hue but three shades darker than the color of the carriage. The Warlord, or perhaps a decoy—there were many advantages to being a leader behind a mask, none of them good for opponents and supporters alike—climbed up onto the footboard of the carriage. With great fanfare, the figure grasped the chain of a steel bell held aloft by two of her men and rang in three great chimes.
A whoop went up, followed by a surge of movement in everydirection, every step practiced and familiar as the caravan came to halt for the first time on their journey. Guards secured the camp, barking orders as lesser minions set up cooking pots and started fires and others watered the horses.
Before long, Amarande noticed two of the Warlord’s guards riding straight toward the prison carriage. With barely a pause, the men addressed the guards who drove their cart. “The Warlord requests the pleasure of an audience with the prince and princess.”
From beyond the divider, Taillefer clucked his tongue in a disappointed way. “If it is a request, then I refuse it. Send the Warlord my best wishes but I’m afraid all this traveling has left me quite exhaust—”
Of course it was not truly a request—Taillefer’s reply was cut short as the drivers pulled the cart out of position and carefully drove it forward to the front of the caravan where the Warlord awaited them.
The princess gripped the bars, taking in what she could about the layout of the camp, searching out the tents that held stores and provisions as well as the corral where the horses were kept. Even without the fire swamp, she would find a way out—and to Luca.
The Warlord was ready and waiting for them as they arrived, standing outside her great blue tent, already erected. The cart drivers slowed the horses that pulled them in such a precise way that when they stopped, Amarande’s prison bars were perfectly in line with the Warlord’s slight form.
Though her face was obscured by cloth, Amarande was sure she was smiling.
“Did you enjoy that display, Princess?” the Warlord asked, a note of pride thick in her voice. “We move as one better than even what has been called the greatest army in all of the Sand and Sky, no?”
No.Unpacking was not akin to battling as one.
