Chapter Thirty-One #2
I know I’m dying. More importantly, Aren is, too.
I have no idea how much farther we need to go. We follow the sun. All I know is that we need to keep moving east.
We come upon the head of a large statue that is buried in the sand. As we lie in its shade, I think the illusions on the horizon are playing another cruel trick on me. But as I stare, an image comes into focus, and I hear the sound of a wagon.
Despite my aching muscles, fear jolts me into action.
I scramble to sit up, my heart racing. I reach over to Aren and touch her shoulder.
She lurches awake, and I press a finger to my cracked lips, then cup my ear, urging her to listen.
Her eyes widen when she hears it, too. It’s not a mirage after all.
We stare at each other. Whoever comes our way could cut our throats as easily as rescue us. Fearing the worst, we tuck ourselves deep into the statue’s shadow, pressing against the hot stone to stay out of sight.
Why is there a wagon in the ruins? How?
I lean low, just enough to see the hooves of a horse and four wheels rolling through the sand. Is it the Usurper’s scouts? Is Penrith’s army here? Or has some other enemy—perhaps the ones who kidnapped and killed Lydia—found us?
But I can’t let our potential saviors slip away. We’re going to die if we keep going the way we are.
Nodding at Aren, I slip out from the statue’s cover, and she follows. Together, we approach the wagon as it passes. It’s a covered sleigh pulled by a single horse, its wheels wide enough to glide over the sand. The linen canopy conceals the driver, but there has to be someone inside.
“Wait,” I whisper. My voice cracks, dry as a piece of toast. Straining, I raise my voice. “Wait!”
The wagon stops right in front of us.
There’s a rustling sound, and then the back door opens. A veiled figure emerges, their face and body obscured entirely by flowing white cotton.
Aren stiffens beside me. She’s seen it, too: the glint of metal in the stranger’s hand. A sword.
Instinctively, I move in front of her as the figure jumps from the wagon, sword pointed directly at my chest.
I raise my hands, which takes more effort than I thought possible. The sun beats down on my face, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m teetering on my feet. “Please,” I croak. “We don’t mean any harm.”
Through half-closed eyes, I see the stranger stop two sword lengths away, their gaze fixed on us, unblinking.
“My wife and I,” I manage, tipping my head toward Aren, “we need help.”
Calling Aren my wife feels good. It’s also a gamble—I hope it makes us seem less threatening. If Aren wasn’t as desperate and dying as I am, she’d probably give me a withering look right now. I keep my hands raised, surrendering to whatever fate has in store for us.
I’m not sure if the stranger understands me. They stand still as a statue, watching us. Then, finally, they gesture toward the wagon with their sword. A clear signal: get in.
I don’t care where we’re going or if we’re going to be killed.
We just need to be out of the sun. Aren and I waste no time scrambling into the wagon and find that it’s full of woven cloth and bolts of fabric.
A merchant, then. The stranger, still silent, climbs into the driver’s compartment, and Aren and I collapse into each other in the darkness of the wagon.
Even though it moves slowly, the cart kicks up a slight breeze that immediately cools the sweat on my skin.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back, grateful for the relief.
Aren melts with exhaustion on the floor beside me, against the hard wagon wall.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
I shrug my shoulders, too tired to say anything more.
We follow some unseen path, in roughly the direction of the Whisting’s call. I’m lulled into a hypnotic trance as the wagon sways, losing all sense of time and space. I come back to myself only when the wagon stops.
Before I can react, the wagon door is thrown open, and someone reaches in and yanks me out by the front of my shirt. I land hard in the sand, too weak to stop my face from hitting the ground. I hear Aren shriek as she, too, is forcefully pulled from the wagon and slammed down somewhere behind me.
“Leave her alone!” I try to scream, but a gag is put in my mouth, wrapped around my head, and tied with a knot tight against the back of my skull. My hands are bound behind my back, straining the muscles in my shoulders tightly enough to pop.
Aren thrashes and fights as her own cries of fury are muffled, but strong hands prevent me from turning toward her. I struggle, but there are too many people holding me down.
They search me, under my clothes, checking me for weapons.
Someone upends my bag, sending my empty waterskin flying into the sand.
They confiscate my royal knife, and my blood pumps in fury.
They rifle through Aren’s pack as well, checking for weapons or valuables.
There’s just her skillet, a second empty waterskin, and some dried, unappetizing plants.
“Clear,” a man’s gruff voice says, out of sight.
A pair of boots steps in front of me. I raise my head as high as I can, straining my neck to peer up at my captor. She looks to be middle-aged, weathered, with sharp eyes. She carries a gold knife in her holster and wears an embroidered sash.
She looks down at me and tongues the inside of her cheek, clearly unimpressed. At last, it appears she’s decided our fate. “Get them inside.”