Page 38 of The Enemy’s Daughter

Once, when I was seven, I tripped and scraped my knee on a tree trunk, spilling my bucket of rhuberries. Mum took the edge of her shirt and wiped the dirt off my scratches with rough strokes that made me cry. I always thought it was odd that she was the healer everyone turned to. She never was very gentle.

My pain reminds me of her touch. A lightning rod stabs my hip again, and I moan.

Death is stupidly unpleasant. And cold. I’m disappointed.

“Isadora?”

I startle at my mother’s voice and crack an eye open. It’s the only one that works.

“Don’t move.”

Not a problem. I can’t.

“You’re safe.”

I exhale the word how. Because I shouldn’t be. Nothing is making sense. And . . . am I lying on a block of ice?

Through the sliver of my open eyelid, I see her smile. It spreads across her face, leaving deep indents in her cheeks and tears shining in her eyes. Her hand grips my ice-cold fingers tightly. “You’re in a cave a half-mile north of Cohdor.”

Okay. I somehow survived, but now my arms are branches that don’t bend, and my head feels like it’s buried in sand. It’s even difficult to take a deep breath, which is terrifying. Did the poison paralyze me?

I can see there are candles. A small fire. And yes, the rock walls of a cave—which explains why it’s cold. I look down as much as I can and see I’m still in my wedding dress with a blanket draped over me. How much time has passed?

The sharp edges of Vador’s face appear above me. “Hi,” he says.

Even if my mouth could move, I’m so shocked I’m not sure I’d know how to use it.

“Where to begin?”

He clears his throat, then rubs at the cliff of his jaw. “I’ve never been much for talking, so how about I just give it to you straight? Your mother tracked down one of our spies late this morning, who brought her to me in the forest. We negotiated a trade—information on where to find Tristan and Henshaw in exchange for faking your death at your wedding.”

What?

“After you were poisoned the first time, Tristan asked Samuel to change the poison on most of his arrows to a paralytic called prickle posy. I believe you’re familiar with it.”

The memory of suggesting this to Tristan comes back to me. We were lying on his bed side by side after I took back some of the poison from him. I was half joking.

“Your mother confirmed that if we shot you with it in a nonvital place, you would appear dead within minutes. Even your chest would seem to have stopped moving.”

The sensations I felt this time were different. Less painful. Mostly a loss of feeling, a hollowing out of each part of my body until I couldn’t move.

“Though,”

he says, and his eyes become troubled, “when you stabbed yourself with the second arrow, you very nearly died for real. Once we realized what you had done, we released Tristan so he could take on some of that load.”

They held him back so he couldn’t spoil the ruse.

“In the end, our plan was successful. Everyone, including your betrothed, thinks you’re dead. Nobody is going to come looking for you. The paralytic will work itself out of your system within hours, at most a day. Then you’re free.”

Free.

Shock reverberates through me at what this means. I’m free of Hanook. Free of a betrothal to Liam. Free of any responsibility or duty to the clans. But—“Tris-s-s-s . . .”

I can’t get it out.

“He’s fine. He didn’t get as much as you because you passed out quite quickly. But it was enough. He saved your life. Again.”

Then why isn’t he here? Anxiety creeps over me, becoming like an itch I can’t scratch. Is he upset with me? He has every right to be. Once again, I took my life into my own hands and nearly died while he was forced to watch. I reach for the connection, praying for it to stir inside me, but there’s nothing there but a steel ball of fear in my gut.

Perfect. I’m finally free to be with who I want, but my actions have only hurt Tristan, possibly pushing him away.

More heartache comes to mind as I remember Father.

Tears sting my eyes as grief for him rumbles through me like a summer storm. I thought I hated him. I thought I wanted him ruined. Taken down. But now that he’s gone, it hurts. He died trying to save me from Gerald.

The man he almost gave me away to. Twice.

My heart squeezes painfully at the memory of being used by him to serve his own selfish purposes. It doesn’t stop the sadness over his death. It adds to it. Tangles it into a messy knot. Will my love for the man who gave me life ever not be complicated?

Vador eyes the entrance to the cave. “I need to get going. I don’t want to test your new Saraf’s patience by being caught on clan land.”

So Liam is okay, and he’s now Saraf. The people didn’t revolt. They accepted him. There’s tremendous relief that at least this one thing came out right. And also a sadness at the thought of never seeing him again, after all we’ve been through together. “T-t-teach him,”

I fight to say. Liam has a good heart; he just needs to learn a better way. Now that Vador’s replaced Tristan as acting mayor, a mentorship of sorts could go a long way in navigating this path to peace between our peoples, both now and long-term if Vador is elected mayor.

Vador squeezes my hand and nods. He takes a step to leave but another urgent question comes to my mind. “Enola?”

“She says hello.”

My other eye pops open. My body is coming back to me. “I—I didn’t—”

“We know.”

They do?

“She woke up and reported that she saw Annette following her before she was attacked. She also heard some of what they said to you before Annette tried to force you to the fence, which means I saw it, too, through our connection. There will be a trial for what those nurses did to both of you.”

A trial. Does that mean I don’t have to clear my name? If I could smile, I would.

“Samuel also heard snippets after he awoke. It was enough for him to understand what had transpired. Now I should go.”

He bounces his head in goodbye and leaves before I can say another word.

Mum immediately sets about changing the bandage on my neck, then makes me choke back a disgusting concoction of tea. Slowly, I gain back control of my body, not that I’ve had a need for it. There’s too much going on in my head.

Where is Tristan? What happens now? With the clans thinking I’m dead, returning to Kingsland is my only option, but is it safe for me there? Annette and Caro weren’t the only ones upset by my presence.

And after I hurt Tristan by nearly taking my life, does he even want me there with him?

Mum rustles a bag of herbs. Her face is tight, like she’s holding back a mountain of sorrow. How inconsiderate of me. I’m not the only one who’s had a life-changing day. “Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods without looking at me, but it’s too quick.

“You went to Vador to set Tristan free.”

Her thin lips press together in a grim smile. “I found a Kingsland soldier and did what I had to do for my daughter.”

That’s not all she did. She also went against Father—for me. “You must really love me.”

She snorts, then her eyes close and her face collapses in silent tears. Her shoulders shake as she cries.

I reach for her as she did for me last night, and she buries her face in my hair. “Thank you.”

I may not ever understand her choices, but I’ll never again doubt her love.

Eventually, I warm up enough to drift off to sleep, and when I wake, it’s to Mum’s voice telling someone she’ll wait outside. Footsteps brush the ground of the cave, but before I even see him, I feel him. The connection effortlessly spirals into place.

He lies down beside me, pressing against my side. The scent of balsam trees and fresh soap and something distinctly Tristan engulfs me, and only after I’ve hugged him to me do I feel like myself again.

Whole.

We hold each other without saying a word. His relief is what sets me most at ease, melting the anxiety that’s eaten away at me for hours. I haven’t lost him.

Pulling away to meet his eyes, I whisper, “I missed you.”

“Yeah?”

His lips pull into a crooked smile that sends my heart racing. Then he does that thing where it feels like he brushes against a secret place in my mind. I melt with a sigh.

It was only a distraction. Before I can form a coherent thought, he calls for my arrow wounds and takes them on.

My eyes snap open. “Don’t.”

He tenses.

“You shouldn’t have to suffer,” I say.

His brows crease. “But that’s how this works. We share sickness. We share health.”

His words sweep around me like a soothing wave, cocooning me in a promise.

“And”—he finds my hand and weaves our fingers together, sending tingles streaking up my arm—“you’ll need to be at least fifty percent better to make it back home.”

Home. My eyes close as a delicious warmth douses me with that word.

Then Tristan gently, even reverently, invites life back into every corner of my body and mind, and I don’t stop him. Because as Enola said, two strands woven together will always be stronger than one.