Page 68

“They are calling for me to kill you.”

“For what?” Fox said, tired of biting his tongue, but even as he stepped forward the pain in his side and the wave of nausea reminded him why they needed to end this conversation quickly. He saw Clarita’s face resolve into something akin to pity as she took in the branch protruding from his side and the blood dripping from it.

“Perhaps I won’t need to kill you myself. I can just leave you out here.”

Sofia had gone pale, seemingly uncomfortable at the thought of her own life being threatened.

“Please,” she said. “We aren’t on the same side, but we both worship the dragons. Let that mean something.” She turned to the rest of the group and spoke in dragon-tongue. Fox could only assume she’d repeated her plea.

“What would you have to offer us, other than trouble?” Clarita asked. Her voice warbled, as if through water, and Fox realized he’d lost more blood than he’d realized. His legs trembled and gave out, knees cracking hard against the earth as he fell.

Sofia’s voice felt distant.

“We’ll give you anything. Please?”

“How did you pray?” Clarita asked.

“What do you mean? We found a cenote and a shrine.” Sofia’s eyes lit up, as if realizing something. “I can take you—show you! There was a dragon feather. But only if you heal him.”

He didn’t know how they responded, his mind no longer following the flow of conversation. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled up roughly by his arms. He bit his tongue, swallowing back a scream. It came out as a guttural moan. Sofia was somewhere beside him. She was talking still, but he didn’t listen. He focused only on putting one foot in front of the other as the two men on either side of him moved.

The trek back to their camp wasn’t far, but it felt like the longest walk of Fox’s life. With every step he pushed back the nausea and pain that had him wanting to vomit one moment and keel over the next. Oblivion felt tempting, even as the glow of the fires came into view and the sound of civilization—or the closest thing to it out here—filtered through the trees. Perhaps it was this knowledge that they had reached their destination that finally did it. Blackness swept over him like a wave and he embraced it.

* * *

An indiscriminate time later,Fox opened his eyes to warm light dancing across his vision. He was lying on his back, a few feet from a large bonfire; the bedroll beneath him was the softest thing he’d felt in days. If it weren’t for Sofia’s face hovering over his own, he might have thought he’d died and was with the kings. Then again, the look of worry in her eyes suggested he was dreaming. The pain from his side had receded, but what’s more, the dull ache that had been radiating through his body for the last few days was gone, as well. He was hungry and his eyes burned from exhaustion and the river water, but he felt better than he had in days.

“You’re awake,” Sofia said, voice soft as if not to startle him.

He nodded stiffly, not quite able to find his voice. She immediately moved, bringing a cup to his lips. He assumed it was water, but the liquid smelled of flowers and was subtly sweet on his lips. He finished the first cup and she left to get more.

Whether it was the drink or simply time, his head was beginning to clear when she returned, and he took the cup from her as he looked around. The cenote they were camped out in wasn’t nearly as big as the one they’d found the night before, but it was wide, with plenty of dried land stretched between the sparkling lake and the river that rushed along the southern side. Multiple fires were burning and people milled about the main area. So many more people than Fox had expected.

Clarita was in front of another fire, speaking to a few others, but he saw her take notice of his stare and she stood to come over.

“Lia is sleeping,” Clarita said, not sitting down, “but she wishes for you to rest for the next two days at least. The wound was clean and you were lucky with how the branch went through, but we have mended your stomach and back.”

He lifted his tunic and noticed the set of small, neat stitches along his abdomen. A smear of yellow-green paste covered the wound, any trace of blood cleaned away. Even the ragged edges of the skin along the wound weren’t inflamed. It looked like a three-day old wound more than a freshly made one, but he didn’t question it. The witchcraft of the Dragonborn was long-banned in Suvi, but their healing skills were well-known still. He’d arrested a few for practicing the old ways before—a fact that sat heavily on his chest as he guiltily looked at the healer’s work. That magic had likely saved him.

“We reheated stew from yesterday’s supper, if you’d like some. Your friend already ate, so she can attest it isn’t poisoned.”

He agreed and the woman walked away, leaving him and Sofia alone again. He noted that they had the bonfire to themselves, no one else seemingly brave enough to sit near them.

“Did they give me opium milk for the pain?” He didn’t have any moral objections to the drug, but he didn’t like to think of his senses being addled while in enemy territory. Then again, his head didn’t feel stuffed with cotton like it had the times he’d taken it.

“No,” she said, a hand resting on his shoulder. He wondered if she was even aware that her thumb was rubbing against the skin of his neck as she spoke. “They gave you a tincture. The healer, Lia, said it should take away the pain without making you woozy.”

“A tincture?” he said, voice wary.

“Mushrooms and herbs, nothing dangerous. I asked.”

He nodded. He had more questions, but Clarita had returned, a bowl of something steaming in her hands.

Sofia helped him sit up and a minute later, he was scooping the warm spiced meat into his mouth, trying his best to eat slowly even as the rich smell made his mouth water. It tasted better than even the food he’d had at the castle when he’d visited. The meat was soft despite being the same type of game they’d been chewing on the last few days and the sauce tasted strongly of cumin, salt, and lime.

He felt no shame as he finished the stew, scraping the spoon across the bowl to finish every last remnant. The sound of the wood scratching against the clay made him smile. He thought about how many times his father had berated him for scraping his plates at dinner when he was growing up. He said it was best to leave a bit of food behind. Only those in poverty finished their dishes.

Around him, the few others eating were doing the same, scraping the last bits of the spiced sauce out of the bowl and licking their spoons clean. But they didn’t look starving or poor. They simply looked content.