Chapter 13 The Best Gift
The Best Gift
“In the wake of this week’s treacherous Sapphire assault upon the Northern Wayward’s, several prisoners have fled their chains. The Crown Council claims its finest hunters now ride to reclaim what was lost.”
— Excerpt from The Lyonscliff Press, most recent issue
I dreamt of nothing but darkness.
When I woke, I found myself on horseback, my head leaning into Riven's shoulder. Dark fabric tied us together as my weight leaned back into his muscular chest. It was bright out, with nothing but trees surrounding us.
“Why am I tied to you?” I groaned, pointing to the band that held me.
“Holding onto you grew tiresome,” he grumbled.
I stared down. A white cloth was wrapped around my thigh, caked with dried blood, but no arrow.
It had been real. Everything was real. I gasped, panic surfacing again.
Riven gripped me. “Stop it,” he growled.
“Tell me what happened!”
I needed to get off the horse, to stop moving.
“To you? You got yourself shot with an arrow. To the Sapphire who shot you? I broke the hand that held the bow, and my blade claimed the one that released the arrow. Everyone else? Captured or free. Only time will tell.”
As flattering as it was that he’d made a handless man out of my attacker, I had no interest in being tied to him on horseback. I reached down and ripped the band, releasing myself so I could at least stretch my torso while I simmered in my dread.
“I liked that sheet,” Riven muttered.
I turned to face him as he tossed the ripped fabric to the ground.
“I wasn’t aware you'd brought your bedding.”
“Now you’ll have to share yours.”
My cheeks flushed. “I’ll share my bedding with a Draker the day Queen Delaina shares hers with a Blackheart.” I didn’t even have bedding. I had nothing except my bag, a deed to Castivian, and the King's Mark.
I had been unconscious long enough for the Sapphire attack to either be over, or so far behind us that only the wintry wind rustling the trees could be heard.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Riven managed to sleep at some point as well.
He was alert and put together, as if he would not be caught dead looking out of order. The same could not be said for me.
I leaned forward, giving my best attempt to relieve the tension. The morning sun was just peeking through the trees. With every stretch, my body ached with protest.
“Do you need me to crack your back?” Riven asked.
“On horseback?”
He pulled the reins to a halt and hopped down. He didn’t bother to stretch his legs or show any sign that he had been riding all night.
“His name is Kostini,” Riven said, referring to the horse.
I stroked Kostini’s dark mane, and the horse snorted. I supposed he was grateful for a break, too. One leg after the next, I clumsily swung off, planting my feet on the ground. A shattering pain shot through my injured thigh.
Riven pulled our packs down with ease, tossing them next to a tree. I leaned down, giving a piss-poor attempt to touch my toes, and was instead met with another shooting pain that sent me back upward.
Riven shook his head. “Cross your arms over your chest.”
Desperate for relief, I obeyed. He stood behind me, wrapping his arms over mine and lifting me off the ground with a tight squeeze. Cracks rippled down my spine like an avalanche. I sighed as he lowered me back down.
“Thank you.”
He reached inside his pack and pulled out a smoke. Lighting a match, he picked a tree to lean against.
“But you don’t drink?” I asked.
He kept his head against the bark, eyes aimed at the canopy of forest above. “Does this look like a drink?”
“Looks like a vice, no different.”
Riven’s weapons were strapped along his chest and the sides of his black leathers. The longer I looked, the more steel I noticed tucked in various places.
I probably appeared ridiculous in comparison, wearing two layers of loose, black pants and a dark sweater that had seen better days. I thanked Fate it wasn't the worst cold I had ever experienced, as we’d surely be spending the entirety of the day outside.
“Kostini needs rest, I assume?” I asked.
Riven lifted his head in pained annoyance as he took a break from his smoke.
“That’s rather presumptuous, even for you.”
Kostini snorted as if he understood, yanking his head forward.
I crossed my arms. I had never been rushed by a horse before.
“He’ll let us know when he needs rest.”
Riven offered me a piece of dry bread and a sip of water from a capped jug before we saddled back up. I rode behind Riven this time, silently drowning out the thoughts of the last few days.
By the time Kostini stopped on his own, the sun was low on the horizon behind us.
We had found an easier trail, and there were no signs of anyone following.
We’d been traveling through the Eastern Woods to get to the coast. I knew they were barren, but these lands were eerie.
Being the height of winter, there weren’t even birds singing or crickets chirping.
As soon as we pulled our bags off, Kostini promptly plopped down with a thud.
Riven fed and watered the steed with what he could.
He removed his light armor and top layer, revealing a plain black undershirt.
Tattoos of flames, swords, and other symbols almost entirely covered his arms. Scars filled the empty spaces, old and fading to white.
He repacked his bag and strapped a bow to his back while I sat against a tree. Blood, black as night, seeped through the wrap on my thigh. Riven offered me our last bandage.
I declined. The wound would need washing soon.
“Stay here and keep watch over our things. I won’t be long.”
I stared out into the forest. “Do you think there are Sapphires out here?”
Riven rubbed his hand along the side of his jaw. “We need food either way.”
I sat quietly as he ventured to find something edible. Riven and I had shared so few words throughout the day that being left alone didn’t feel much different. In fact, I appreciated it, even praying that I was truly alone, and not soon to be attacked by Sapphires.
Back against the tree, I listened for any sign of unwanted company.
If Clarke had been worried about the deed's safety and Riven didn’t want Lord Ansel to know I was leaving, it was fair to assume I must not be seen by even the Drakers, regardless of whether the king himself had released me.
Riven was the only exception.
Not even my existence was lawful on these wretched lands.
It did not matter that I was born here, in the castle no less.
It did not matter that I’d spent countless hours of my life sewing the very clothes that Drakers wore beneath their armor to keep from freezing their asses off.
I was born with blood deemed dark, and if I were to be discovered, I would be punished. Likely with my life.
Being outside of the Wayward's walls did not feel as warm and fuzzy as I’d dreamt it would. It felt dangerous.
It did not take being the golden scholar of Lyonscliff to know that in order to overcome danger, you must become it. Being injured did me no good. I had to find a healer soon, or the puncture to my thigh may be the end of my freedom, and the rest of the Dark Natured with it.
Why couldn’t Clarke have done this years ago? Before the Waywards? Why wait until his dying days?
Kostini slept soundly a few feet away while I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited for Riven to return.
Many hours passed, leaving the faintest moonlight coming through the canopy. No fire, no food, and more concerningly, no Riven. My teeth chattered, rivaling the wind howling against loose tree limbs. Had he not said that he wouldn’t be long?
I braced myself as I stood, cursing at the pain.
A gust of winter's wrath blew against me, and a sharp chill raced through me. Riven was out there somewhere with only his undershirt on.
I pulled over the pack Lord Ansel had given me, hoping there was food inside.
As I opened the top flap, the aroma of pumpkin embraced me.
My stomach rumbled, and I dug through the bag, grabbing the source of the smell—a muffin wrapped in crunchy brown parchment paper.
I took a healthy bite, closing my eyes as vanilla, pumpkin, and sugar melted against my tongue.
It was large enough that I only ate half, not used to filling my stomach beyond need, which was fine. I would surely want the rest later. I peeked back into the bag and pulled out a black garment. It was a sweater, thick and softer than the one I had been wearing, with no holes or stains.
I put it on immediately. It was new. No one had ever worn it except for me.
There was more inside. At the bottom, folded up neatly, was a dark-heather blanket. I pulled it out eagerly, letting it unravel. Falling from the folds of the blanket was a little black orb, landing straight in my lap. Picking it up gently, I held the light weight of it in my hand.
I tapped the orb, and it stirred to life, emitting a calm, blue glow. The blanket buzzed, soft flashes of lightning bouncing within it.
It was warm—unnaturally warm. Lord Ansel had imbued the blanket with his own Nature.
I took in the sight of the bag with the braided straps, the glowing orb, my new sweater, the half of a muffin I had left, and the blanket. They were the best gifts I had ever received. And they had come from a Witchlord.
None of it would go to waste. The orb would be especially useful in the darkness.
Now, where the hell was Riven?