43. Lilias
Lilias
YOUR STOP
My eyes blink open in the gloom. I hold my breath, listening.
Varitan, the elf, usually speaks the moment I open my eyes. Then he’ll threaten Zarek and leave, letting me attend to the needs of my weak human body for a few moments before he touches me and knocks me unconscious again.
But all I hear now is the rustling of heavy cloth and a few murmured voices. A lamp swings over me. I wince at the sudden flood of light.
“Get up,” someone growls.
That’s a man’s voice. A human man. Not Varitan. My eyes adjust slowly, trying to make sense of the jumble of images in front of me. Lamplight against heavy canvas. Rough wood beneath my hands. It feels like I’m in some sort of box. There’s a tired snort, and the box rocks.
I’m in a wagon. I inhale, sharp and sudden, and then turn to my side. There’s a tangle of rope pressed against the wood.
And, in the middle of the ropes, there’s Zarek.
His eyes are closed, and he looks pale in the dim, filtered light. I reach for him before I can stop myself, brushing my numb fingers against his cheek and lips.
He’s breathing. I exhale slowly, letting go of a fear I didn’t even realize I was carrying.
There’s a sharp crack, and the wagon lurches to the side. A horse snorts, offended by the strange sound.
“Get up!” the man shouts.
I grab the side of the wagon and pull myself up, blinking at the harsh glare of the lamp.
We’re in a city of some sort, surrounded by white stone buildings.
Their windows are dark; it must be very late, or very early.
I glance back over my shoulder at Zarek’s motionless body. He would probably know where we are.
A hand closes over my arm, and a tired-looking soldier wearing the blue and scarlet of Vsenrog pulls me toward the back of the wagon. I’ve seen him before, occasionally, when Varitan wakes me.
“Where are we?” I whisper, not really expecting an answer. “What’s going on?”
The man grunts, then pulls a board off the back of the wagon.
“This is your stop,” he says with a nasty grin that suggests he’s just made a joke at my expense.
He waves his hand at the end of the wagon like he’s inviting me to a dance floor. I twist, looking back over my shoulder at the unconscious figure of my husband. The cart still feels like it’s moving, but I know that can’t be right. It’s just my head that’s swaying back and forth.
“He ain’t stopping here,” the soldier says, glancing at Zarek. “The snake’s going to the palace.”
The palace. That must mean Vsenrog. My heart climbs the back of my throat. Gods, what can I do?
A door opens in the building closest to us, and light spills across the paving stones. The soldier pulls himself up straight, then turns to face the doorway. A tall figure steps out of the light. His boots click on the stone as he approaches us.
“Sir,” the soldier says.
The man makes a low grunting sound in the back of his throat as he turns to face the soldier. Light washes over his face, his delicate features and thin blond hair.
Blayne Everard. The back of my mouth turns bitter.
“Yes,” Blayne says. “It’s about time you returned my wife to me.”
Blayne turns to me, then frowns as if he’s disappointed.
“Gods,” he snaps at the soldier. “You could have cleaned her up, you know?”
The soldier murmurs an apology, and I feel a horrible, ridiculous surge of laughter swelling inside my chest. Cleaned me up?
I’ve been dragged across the kingdom in the back of a wagon like a bunch of rotting vegetables for the gods only know how long.
Yes, if only they’d thought to give me a bath, a pretty dress, and some perfume.
I bring my hand to my mouth and bite down on my fingers to keep the manic laughter from bubbling out through my lips.
Blayne turns back to the doorway and claps.
I stare at the building he emerged from.
It’s one of a row of houses, neatly kept, but rather small.
I don’t recognize the street, which means we can’t be very close to the palace.
A small, older woman appears in the doorway. She bows to Blayne before she turns to me. If she’s surprised to find a filthy woman getting dropped on Blayne’s doorstep in the middle of the night, she doesn’t show it.
“Bring her in,” Blayne orders.
The soldier tugs me forward. I manage to untangle my legs before he dumps me on the paving stones, although the world sways around me when I stand. I step toward the open door. Pause. Take another step.
I keep my head facing forward, away from Zarek. I want to turn around, just to make sure he’s still there. Still breathing.
But Malrik thinks I wanted to marry Blayne. And as long as Malrik believes that, he shouldn’t hold Zarek responsible for Elrick’s attempts to create an alliance with Ethiria.
Besides, what could I do now, surrounded by Vsenrog soldiers? Scream? Stomp my foot and insist they listen to me? Look at how well that worked out the first time they kidnapped me.
No, I have to wait. I have to find out what they’re planning, then reach out to people I can trust. Maybe I can get a message to Zarek’s brother, Petrys. He’s a soldier, right? Maybe he’s in the palace.
Still, my chest aches as I drag myself away from the wagon. I feel like something’s broken in there, deep inside, and it’s bleeding with every step I take.
“One more thing,” Blayne says to the woman waiting in the doorway as I stagger toward them. “Make sure her door is locked at all times.”
The woman nods. Blayne disappears as I climb the small staircase to the front door.
And I walk through the door of my new prison.