Chapter 9 #2
It took all of my willpower not to look around. This was the third time he’d warned me, albeit in his arrogant, reluctant way. I wouldn’t delude myself into thinking his reasons were altruistic. But I’d heed him all the same.
So I didn’t look at him, and I said nothing as he continued his grueling pace.
The sky lightened to lavender and then Nocta’s sugary, muted pink.
Finally, the sun’s warmth spread over the forest, banishing the chill.
Birds fluttered from branch to branch over our heads.
A few offered tentative songs as we passed, but the forest was otherwise still.
Before long, my empty stomach groaned and my leg muscles trembled with every step over the uneven ground.
My heels burned, blisters forming as my skin rubbed against my stockings.
A stabbing pain formed between my eyes, the bursts of discomfort flaring with my heartbeat.
My head swam, the trees blurring. Just when I started to wonder what Lorcan would do if I fainted, the trees opened onto a small clearing.
Lorcan stopped. Panting, I staggered to a halt beside him.
A few fallen logs lay at the edge of the clearing, which glowed pink and golden under the rising sun.
The glow was everywhere, its perfect heat wrapping around me.
I tilted my head back, letting the light spill over my face.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost be in Derryton, the familiar slam of the cottage’s back door ringing in my ears as Mama hurried down the steps to tend her herb garden.
Corinthe!
Smiling, I stepped forward, ready to grab my apron so I could help.
The rasp of steel snapped my eyes open, and the fog in my head cleared. Lorcan’s sword flashed in the sun, chasing away the memory.
Staggering backward, I thrust out a hand to block Lorcan’s blow. “Don’t—”
“Hold this,” he ordered, flipping the blade and shoving the hilt into my hand. I grasped it automatically, confusion swamping me as he strode to a log and sat.
The dragonstone pulsed but I ignored its light, my confusion growing as Lorcan opened his jacket and withdrew a white cloth. Feet braced wide in the grass, he unwrapped two small round buns.
My stomach clenched, my insides gnawing at themselves. The buns were as plump and golden as the sun, their tops glistening with butter. The scent of fresh-baked bread hit my nose, and I couldn’t stifle my moan.
Lorcan bowed his head.
Surprise cut through my hunger. I’d been around enough gentry to know they didn’t pray before meals.
That was for peasants and merchants, who depended on the gods for a good harvest. The nobles Mama occasionally treated might appeal to the gods when facing death, but never over something as mundane as food.
Lorcan lifted his head.
His eyes were totally black.
My mouth went dry, my fingers tightening around the sword’s hilt. We were miles from the Drakhold. I had his weapon, but he had fangs and stolen magic.
“ Zid vedara ,” he murmured.
Power brushed my skin. The air cooled, and the sun dimmed. I looked up, expecting clouds. But the sky was clear, the sun a round, hazy smear behind its veil of magic.
When I lowered my head, the air around the clearing was tinged with blue and Lorcan had placed one gleaming bun on the log beside him. He lifted the other and took a healthy bite.
Saliva rushed into my mouth. The sweet, milky scent of melted butter taunted my nostrils.
Lorcan chewed, his black gaze unfocused.
I stared at the second bun. Maybe this was the challenge, and I was supposed to kill him and take the bread.
Like mother, like daughter. Perhaps I was a prodigy like Mama.
I started forward—
Vines rushed over the log, green tendrils quickly crisscrossing the bread.
I stopped, shivering as more power slid over my skin.
Zid vedara. The first word was the same one Vander had used in his study.
The blue in the air was familiar, too. It had hemmed us against his bookshelves.
It had glowed in the crystals he’d dropped around our campsite in the Wendlewood.
And it had glowed in the witch’s eyes in the dungeon.
The vines thickened around the bun. Lorcan didn’t look at them as he took his last bite, his jaw working.
A breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees that bordered the clearing.
The vines continued to circle the bun, obscuring the golden crust until only green remained.
The breeze became a wind. Trees shuddered, raining leaves that tumbled through the air and into the clearing.
I gripped the sword as my heart thumped faster and my skirts whipped around my legs.
“What’s happening?” I asked Lorcan.
He said nothing, his eyes on the same distant spot. Beside him, the vines began to retreat. They slid down the log, slithering over one another before rolling backward. The bun had vanished.
Lorcan didn’t move.
The wind quieted. More leaves tumbled. A lump formed in my throat. Because I’d seen leaves tumbling that way before—when Alon pulled his gaze from the sky and asked me to kill him.
The vines thinned. Just before the last one slipped from the log, it climbed Lorcan’s thigh. Slipping over his knee, it shivered once and then quickly retreated.
Then it was gone.
The wind stopped, and sunlight filled the clearing. My throat burned as a final, lonely leaf tumbled gently to the grass. I looked at Lorcan, something loosening inside me.
He stood and closed the distance between us. “We’ll keep moving,” he said without meeting my gaze. Then he started forward.
“Wait!” I called when he was several steps away.
He paused, his head turned just enough to show his profile. His eyes were back to normal. His expression was, too, his features arrogant and petulant.
I moved to his side. “That…” I swallowed, his warning about being watched ringing in my head. But we stood in the open. He’d given the bun to the forest in plain view of anyone who cared to spy. “Was that for—?”
“We have more ground to cover,” he said. “Don’t fall behind.” He moved off again, his long strides eating up the ground.
I hurried to catch up, and I thrust the dragonstone sword at him. “Don’t you want this back?”
“No.”
Any inkling of goodwill I might have felt toward him evaporated. The sword wasn’t particularly heavy—perhaps five pounds at most—but it was long and cumbersome, and I didn’t have a scabbard.
“You could at least give me the scabbard,” I said.
Lorcan swatted a thatch of tall grass from his path. “I could.”
The grass rebounded, slapping me in the stomach. Gritting my teeth, I shoved it away. “But you won’t.”
No reply. Which was its own reply. I tightened my grip on the sword, a vision of me plunging it into his back flashing through my mind. He probably wanted me to attempt it. Then he’d have an excuse to further humiliate me.
More grass loomed. He pushed through it, letting the swaying stalks snap into my path.
I slashed the sword at a waving thatch, slicing it in half. “You said something back in the clearing. Zi —” My throat closed, my air cutting off. Searing pain wrapped around my neck before fading. Coughing, I slowed my steps. “ Zi —”
Lorcan stopped and turned. His dark eyes were impassive as he watched me recover.
Raising my free hand to my throat, I tried again. “You said zi —” My windpipe closed once more. The burning pain returned, and I lapsed into another round of coughing. As quickly as it came, the pain fled. But the next time I tried to speak the strange word, I couldn’t even open my mouth.
“Let me know if you think of it,” Lorcan said. He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t use my sword to clear the grass.”
During the next hour, I entertained myself by imagining the most painful ways he might die.
Assisting Mama had given me a whole arsenal to choose from.
The pox was unpleasant, although most people grew too feverish to realize what was happening to them.
On one occasion, my mother had tended a hunter who had stepped into a bear trap.
The stench of his rotting leg had spread through the whole village.
That was perfect for Lorcan. He enjoyed bothering other people.
My headache returned, along with a churning hunger that made my eyes water.
My throat grew dry, my mind spinning with visions of the water pitcher I’d left behind in the Drakhold.
As much as I wanted to ponder the strange gag that fell over me whenever I tried to echo Vander’s and Lorcan’s words, my hunger-addled brain was too sluggish to sort it out.
So I kept walking, exhaustion and irritation growing with every step.
The sun loomed overhead, its diffused glow turning the sky a paler shade of pink.
The trees changed, their trunks becoming narrower.
Eventually the ground sloped, and I had to angle my feet sideways to keep my balance.
After a few minutes of descent, the trees grew sparse and the land smoothed into a broad, flat strip with hills rising on either side.
A river flowed down the center, its banks studded with rocks and clumps of bushes.
We’d reached the glen Rasimir referenced in the dungeon.
Lorcan threaded his way around the bushes.
The river flowed on our left, the water sparkling in the sun.
Shoving damp hair from my face, I trudged forward, my boots sinking into soft grass that soon gave way to coarse sand.
Somewhere in the distance, more water roared.
The sword hilt grew slick in my sweaty hand.
My heels burned, and I was reasonably certain my stockings were filling with blood.
Still, Lorcan marched onward, never missing a step.
“Delphine said you were a king,” I called.
He kept walking. His empty sword belt rode low on his hips.
“But you’re a prince now.”