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They would.

But aside from the danger Ava was in personally, her disappearance from the palace was not good for Fernwell, and for the Rising Wave. Not good at all.

Chapter 7

Someone joined her captor sometime after they’d left the town of Bartolo.

Ava was aware they had crossed the bridge that was the entrance to the town on the south west, and driven through the main thoroughfare and out the far gate.

If only she could have moved or called for help.

There were people who would help her here, including Bartolo’s mayor, but that was why her captor had checked the rope was secure on her before he’d gone through the town, no doubt.

She’d lapsed into a semi-conscious state after a while, but the sound of hooves stirred her, and she became more aware, hoping for rescue, hoping even for a stranger who might realize something was wrong.

Then she heard the rider call a greeting and the soft murmur of voices, and understood her abductor had been joined by a co-conspirator. Maybe even two.

Hope drained from her in a sickening rush.

Another watcher meant less opportunity to escape, and she was not doing well with the rope.

Perhaps it was because of her own innate magic, or perhaps anyone would be the same, but it felt as if it was sapping not only her energy but her body as well. She thought she was thinner, and not just because she hadn’t eaten.

She’d had no appetite when the driver had offered her some bread earlier and had only sipped a bit of water.

That had been hours ago.

One of the few things she could gauge was the movement of light through the cracks and gaps in the ill-made wooden covering over the cart, and it was close to sunset.

She closed her eyes, as she had done most of the day, too exhausted to keep them open, and didn’t realize the cart had stopped until light spilled into her narrow prison as someone opened the door.

She didn’t have the inclination or the energy to look and see who it was.

Someone gave a shout, and she thought she heard an argument, before the wagon driver came in, gloves on, and unwound the rope.

She wondered if he expected her to get up and relieve herself or drink some more, but she had no energy to do either. She simply lay, aware of the reprieve but unable to care very much.

She heard more shouting, and then a man, not the wagon driver, came in, picked her up roughly, and took her outside.

There was a fire, and the cart had been pulled off the road into a small copse of trees.

She was dumped on the ground near the fire, and the feel of the slightly damp, springy grass was a balm to her.

She lay quietly and kept her eyes closed.

When she woke again, the two men were sitting with a woman, talking quietly by the fire as they ate. Something had been roasted over the fire, and she wondered if she would vomit as the smell hit her and made her lightheaded.

“You’re a fool, Sirna. A coward and a fool.” The man who’d carried her from the cart crouched beside her when she tried to roll on her side, lifting her up, and she retched a little, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up, and she collapsed back down, panting.

“No one said—”

“No one should have had to say. It was for capture and going through Bartolo only.” The man stood and when he returned, he had a cup of water which he held to her lips. “She’s a valuable commodity. You almost killed her because you wanted an easy time. A prisoner who wouldn’t even need watching.”

Ava took the water a tiny sip at a time, but his words made the reason for his concern clear.

He was no ally. He wanted her in working condition to exploit, nothing more.

She managed half the cup, and then lay back down, content to simply be, without the draining, sucking weight of the rope.