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Chapter four

Nerys

I t was surprisingly easy to convince the supply master that Nerys indeed had a soldier-husband in the camp.

In fact, there were two Merth Redblades from Finnis currently enlisted, and Nerys rattled off such an extensive list of distinguishing traits that the supply master merely scribbled them down and told her he’d notify her husband and sent her on her way.

Since finding a spouse was not the army’s priority, Nerys likely had at least until tomorrow before she was found out.

Roughly twelve hours to commit murder—plenty of time.

Satisfied, Nerys strolled out of the tent and faced the dour camp laundry women, whose cheerful expression seemed to be leached out along with stains.

“What do you want?” one of the women asked Nerys. The woman was plump, matronly, and far too sweaty. “We have enough workers. You’re not taking our business.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Nerys said, crossing her arms. “I’m meeting my husband and I’m supposed to wait for him here.”

“Should we make her useful?” another woman asked, glancing at the others.

“Nah—look at those arms. They’d snap.” Other women nodded in agreement, a sea of bobbing caps and sweat-drenched locks.

“Tell us, girl,” a different woman asked, “why didn’t he meet you at the village?”

Nerys squirmed. The one question she didn’t think of beforehand. “He told me not to worry and that everything would be fine.”

The women erupted in laughter. “Typical,” the first woman said. “You can stay with me for the night, in case they can’t find him.”

“Thank you,” Nerys said. Refusing would’ve only invited questions.

“Now, tell us,” a woman said, the one who had invited her to stay, “how long have you been married?”

Thus Nerys occupied herself with small talk with the women—more like life stories shared over a steaming cauldron—waited for the sun to set, and then excused herself to use the latrine.

She did use it—it was never a good idea to engage in bloody vengeance with a full bladder—and when she was done, she wandered off to the soldiers’ tents.

At least she had eaten in the village before arriving—one less concern.

If stopped, she’d claim she was lost, and the hour was still early enough that women wandered the rows, though their numbers quickly dwindled the further she went.

More than a few male stares made Nerys uneasy—and walk faster—through the rows.

Too many times she had to ignore the men relieving themselves behind tents.

No wonder the camp smelled—the pathetic latrines they had weren’t being consistently used.

Where was she going? Every five rows there was a tent larger than the surrounding ones, with a stern-faced soldier posted outside.

Outside these tents rested Ca’mail’s cerulean banner—a white figure of a king, with his hands raised, standing over a supine skeleton, juxtaposed over an artistic eye.

Those were likely the commanders’, and they were what Nerys was looking for.

Now, was Cefin’s commander-father important enough to have one of those tents?

And if he was, was Cefin going to be in one?

Or was Cefin spending his time relieving himself with the rest of the human fountains?

Damn, Nerys might’ve been better off asking the supply master for Cefin directly.

While it messed with the chance that she’d be able to kill him before others intervened, at least she would’ve been able to find him in this mess and at least try to kill him before she was caught. What if she didn’t find him?

Damn, was all this a waste of time?

She could still turn back.

…Turning back was sounding more and more appealing. What was she thinking, believing this could work? And those people outside, burnt and hung…

She didn’t want to die. There, she admitted it.

Was she a coward? Perhaps. But she’d find another way to avenge Adilette.

Nerys glanced at the rapidly setting sun.

There was no way out of the camp now. Not at night, not without official permission.

She was trapped until morning. But she could go back to the laundry women and leave when the gates opened, tell the guard that she wanted to go to the village.

Was Cefin’s death worth being roasted? Cefin deserved to die, but her sense of self-preservation grew louder, like a cicada’s growing screams. Did she want to die here?

Fuck no. No one did. Her father would’ve been furious that she was throwing away her life like this.

And Adilette? “Cheese brains” would be the nicest words she’d have for her.

Not to mention what her mother would say—Nerys could practically hear her ghostly reprimand .

That settled it—she’d do it. She’d leave.

And live. Biting her lip, Nerys nodded, a gesture meant for her alone.

She’d wait out the night with the women, and then in the morning she would leave the army.

What she’d do afterward, that was tomorrow’s problem.

Bloody vengeance always had more than one option.

Then, right as the decision was made, one of the soldiers rushed up to her, stopping in her path. “What are you doing?” he asked in a rough accent. The man, who had patchy-red skin and a rough-shaved beard, picked at a sore on his face.

“I’m meeting my husband,” she said, holding her head high.

“Husband?” The man sneered, lowering his pustule-picking hand to cross his arms. “Now, where is he? What regiment?”

Cursed Underworld. Was that something she should’ve known? The supply master didn’t ask. Ninetieth? First? Thousandth? Were those even regiments?

“That’s none of your business.”

The man paused. His eyes roamed over Nerys’s dress, even as filthy as it was, in a way that made her want to tug her cloak around her. She wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to shy away. Besides, she’d dealt with men like this before—they only bothered with weak prey.

“Well,” the crusty soldier said, “I think I’ll make it my business.” Other soldiers overheard their exchange and wandered over, curious. One was an officer, his status marked by elaborate white eye insignia and the archaic uniform.

Shit....shit shit shit. Nerys’s breath rushed and she stared at the ground. No, she wouldn’t get out of this by acting timid—she had to do the opposite.

“What are you doing?” Nerys asked, putting her hand on her hip and raising her gaze defiantly. “Does Ca’mail’s army stand for harassing wives?”

The man sneered. “You’re not a wife. None are out at this hour. Alone.”

“ I am!”

“And I’m the R?ll’s Body Servant.” The soldier leaned towards her, close enough that his stale breath assaulted her nose—sour beer mixed with rancid onions. “Look, I’ll keep your secret—”

“There you are!” They turned to see another soldier approach, pushing past the gathered crowd.

This soldier wasn’t much older than her, and, ironically, looked remarkably similar to the fictional Merth Redblade.

Mahogany brown hair, middling height. Though, on a second glance, they weren’t too similar—this soldier’s nose was too large for his face and had been broken several times, and his lip swollen on one side.

..but he could have been Merth’s brother.

Nerys kept her face blank. What did this man want? Even if he mistook her for someone else, she could at least get away from this bunch and make her escape later.

“Ah, my love,” the man gently grabbed her hand with rough fingers.

Love? He was insane. Actually insane. Now the interloper was close enough he should’ve realized his mistake.

Would he leave her in even bigger trouble?

“I told you to wait in the village.” …And then the man kept talking, revealing a snaggle tooth and ranting on about how she should’ve waited for him.

The man’s accent was as barbaric as the other soldier’s, though it was tinged with something she couldn’t quite place.

What the....was he trying to help her? This is the last place Nerys expected to find help. Of any sort.

“I’m sorry. I became impatient.” Nerys looked back at the soldier who had accosted her and smirked at the sight of him slinking back into the crowd, while the others suddenly had someplace more important to be.

Cowards.

“Come, my love,” the man said, tugging her along.

“Oh, it’s alright.” Nerys tried to take back her hand. “I’m fine—”

“And we have more to talk about.” Right as the man turned and faced her, his eyes flared bright gold, which quickly faded. 22

Nerys looked around. No one else seemed to have noticed. Oh shit. Golden eyes—eyes of gold, of light. He was Cerdorani—one of the enemy who had destroyed her village.

And now he wanted to talk to her. Why?

Oh, fuck.

Nerys let him yank her through the rows of tents and roaring campfires—what else could she do that wouldn’t expose her?

Should she yell for help? Who would come?

And would the help be worse than him ? If the army discovered her…

who knew what they’d do. No, she knew what they would do—prepare roasted Nerys.

She had to be patient. She had to wait.

She’d wait until they left the other soldiers for someplace private—he did want to talk and presumably didn’t want an audience. Then she’d escape this spy.

The “soldier” ushered her into a small tent, which was unlit and filled with little more than two sleeping mats, a couple sacks of clothing, and various eating utensils. The other occupant was not inside. Was that good for her, or not?