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Then find shelter.If only it were that easy. The drought has wracked this country. The mountains in the north might provide a cave, butthey’re at least two weeks’ journey. I’ll die before I make it there. And I’ll die if I stay here.

I think of Terysos. But I’ll be recognized. They know me. They drove me out. My father’s army is not so far away that I wouldn’t be reported. And I’d likely be tied up, unable to return to Cagmar even when my information proves true. I’m not hydrated enough to make it to another township. The next closest ones are Lucarpo, my hometown, and Dina, miles to the southeast. Too far.

Which means I must return to my father.

My jaw trembles. I bite down and start walking, my legs half-numb, half-ache. I’ll have to march the entire night to catch up with the army before it sets out again. If it sets out again. I don’t know, but I imagine they won’t stay dormant long.

My tired mind threads through excuses, searching for ways to justify my absence. The aerolass scared me. The soldier threatened me. I got lost. All of them sound transparent. My father will see through my lies.

But if I must choose between his wrath and my death, I will choose the first. And so I remind myself,I’ve survived him before.

Chapter 26

My feet are bleeding by the time a scout finds me and escorts me to camp. It’s near dawn. I’m exhausted. My body isn’t really mine anymore. Everything feels far away.

The scout doesn’t take me through the camp, but around it. A few soldiers meet him. They exchange words. I hear them, but I don’t. I lean on the scout as we wait. I don’t want to, but my legs are so weak, my stomach empty, my throat dry, my heart twisted to the point of shredding. I clutch at my chest as though Azmar’s bloodstone hangs there.

My father will be even angrier to be awakened, given how late he turns in.

The soldiers return, each taking one of my arms. They escort me to my father’s tent. A dim lamp glows atop the table there, the same one I pulled notes and maps from only thirty-six hours ago. Father’s arms fold across his chest, his face a stoic mask.

That’s the worst of his expressions. I avert my gaze.

“Wake up the men.” His tone stings. “Might as well move out early.”

The soldiers depart.

“Well, Calia?” He closes the distance between us quietly, like a cat, and I’m a mouse, trapped. “What’s your story this time?”

I could scare him and run, but the truth has not changed. I have nowhere to run to. I’ll be lucky if I’m fed today.

“I was frightened.”

He laughs. It’s a quiet, bitter laugh that oddly reminds me of Grodd.

“Oh, Daughter.” He grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks me close. “Once again, I have to remind you what true fear is.”

Bruises from those who should love you sting more than others. Deep and lasting, they bleed into your spirit, no matter how common they become. Something shatters with each strike, and it isn’t always bone.

Fortunately, my father didn’t break anything, though several of my ribs ache when I breathe. He spared my face, except for the side of my jaw, which was likely an accident. Clever men know to hit where clothes cover.

We march the next day. I’m allotted water, but without food and with a newly beaten body, I struggle to keep up and drag at the rope tying me to my father’s saddle. After two hours, his exasperation wins out, and he has one of the soldiers toss me onto a sledge. I realize, as we grow close to the end of the day’s march, that we’re heading to the East Arrow, just as I’d told the trollis scout, a place nearly triangulated between Terysos, Dorys, and Lucarpo, where my father’s plans indicated there would be a battle.

I lift my head as the sledge drags along. A spot on the mountains looks darker than the rest, but as I watch, I realize it’s another portion of my father’s army come to meet us. A portion that must have been working to draw out the trollis to the north. I ask the nearest soldier who they are, but he ignores me.

I look skyward, to the stars. A slip of light crosses directly overhead, then vanishes. My pulse quickens. It means something, surely. If only I knew what.

I count men when we make camp for the night, estimating nearly one thousand soldiers. When my father binds me—refusing me a cot—he says, “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You want revenge?Show me. I’ve a special place for you tomorrow, Calia. Prove yourself, and I’ll let you eat.”

He shoves me down and leaves, snapping his fingers. Two guards, including Dunnan, come inside the tent to guard me. Dunnan never meets my eyes. There will be no stowing away tonight.

And tomorrow, the battle will begin.

I do not leave my father’s side.

He keeps my wrists bound by rough rope and totes me around like a dog on a leash as his men, and the men of a man named Lythanis, prepare for battle. They don armor, sharpen weapons, and assemble tents in practiced fashion, though there’s only shelter to house half the soldiers. The trollis will be far better outfitted, yet I struggle to find relief in the fact. Most of the human soldiers have been coerced through desperation. They need food, water, and shelter, and they’ve been raised from infancy to believe the trollis are monsters. They have every reason to attack and no motivation to seek peace.

Surprisingly, my father lets me ride when we march, keeping me sideways and in front of him, holding my rope along with his reins. The lope of the animal hurts my bruises, but I try not to wince.