Page 10
Story: The Enemy’s Daughter
The silver doorknob won’t twist.
I’m locked in.
I exhale harshly. Guess that answers whether Tristan was guarding the exit the other night. Dropping my forehead against the door, I pause to think, then in despair stab the knife into the keyhole. After a couple more jabs, I’ve only succeeded in enlarging the hole. A shake enters the muscles of my thighs and arms. Stars, I need to eat.
I slide the knife between the door and the frame. It lands with a clink of metal against metal. What’s in there? Inching closer, I stab into the same spot, not caring if I’m heard. If I don’t eat some food soon, I may not have the strength to try again. I spear and wiggle and push my knife into that space beside the doorknob until something metal falls to the ground—it was some sort of wedge holding the door shut.
Yes. My hold on the knife tightens as I pull open the door.
The hallway is empty, filled with more doors that are a rich, acorn brown. I listen for a moment and, hearing nothing, I open the first one, revealing a bedroom. It’s vacant and unusually large with a made bed covered in a green patterned quilt. A stack of clothes lies folded on an enormous desk. Is this where Tristan’s been sleeping?
It’s not until I make it to the carved railing that muffled voices from the first floor reach my ears. Carefully, I descend the stairs, which is difficult with how hard I’m breathing. There’s a living room with couches on my left and a kitchen beyond that. The finery of it all disgusts me. Everything from the furniture to the framed pictures on the wall looks new and desirable. How have they managed to collect and hoard so much?
And what other things about them have we underestimated?
At the bottom of the staircase, I peek around the corner ahead and find the front door. There it is. I had planned to gather supplies first, at least food and some shoes. Something to carry water. But the exit is right there. I drift toward it, knowing I have to risk it. This could be my only chance to run.
“You . . . to me. It’s time.”
My hand pauses on the doorknob as I hear Tristan’s voice, coming from a room not far away.
Time for what?
Once again, I can’t help but wonder who Tristan is. I know he’s important enough that they would send a rescue mission for him. And the other soldiers called him sir. Could Tristan be the leader of their army or in charge of Vador and that small band of soldiers? Although, if he is, why didn’t they listen to him when he told them not to shoot me?
“The clans will . . .”
I look back over my shoulder, straining to hear. What about the clans? What is Tristan planning? I retrace my steps until I’m close enough to listen—except I’m shaking like a day-old kitten and my hip bumps a small decorative table. The colorful canister on top tips. By some miracle, I catch it before it smashes to the floor.
“There isn’t . . .”
Tristan’s words cut off, as if he’s heard me.
I hold my breath until my lungs catch fire. Shadows of black encroach on my vision.
“They killed him,”
Vador says, in his distinctly deep voice. “Their intent was never to let him survive. I’m sorry, Tristan, but what your father needs is a funeral.”
His father? No . . .
Isadora. I’ve always known your name.
Farron is Tristan’s father. His hatred of me in the forest suddenly makes so much sense. He wasn’t headed to Hanook to avenge the death of his leader. He was avenging his blood, and I, the daughter of the very man he came to kill, stood in his way.
But then why save me?
It must be his twisted attempt at revenge. Even if he hasn’t fully figured it out, he’s smart enough to know keeping me alive gives him the upper hand. If I’m not bait to draw my father out, Tristan can use me for information—although he’ll be sorely disappointed by how little I know. At the very least, what better way to hurt your enemy than to take away their family?
An eye for an eye.
I move closer, needing to hear more.
“No,”
Tristan says. His voice is angry.
“Okay, the people need a funeral, then.”
Is that Samuel? He sounds tired. Frustrated.
“Why?”
demands Tristan. “We don’t know that he’s dead.”
My head snaps up. He doesn’t?
Samuel scoffs. “You were pretty sure when you tore off with hellfire in your veins.”
“I knew he was hurt, then dragged away,”
Tristan says. “I know survival’s unlikely, but it’s possible. I waited all night for you to come up with a better plan than mine before I gave up and did it on my own. It’s been three days, and we still haven’t done anything beyond scouring outside our land. We’ve failed him.”
“You know why that is,”
Samuel says.
“You could be wrong,”
Tristan says, his voice growing louder. “They might be torturing him right now.”
“Has the girl said anything?”
asks Vador.
I startle at the mention of me, then wonder if I have. In the forest Tristan demanded information on Farron, but I assumed from his anger that he knew Farron was dead.
“No.”
Tristan exhales hard. “But I’m not talking about a funeral until we have answers. Until we know for sure that he’s not alive. And we would have known by now if you hadn’t come after me.”
There’s a snort. “You’re kidding, right?”
asks a younger voice—Ryland. “Sir,”
he adds as an afterthought.
Why are these men, especially Vador, a man nearly three times Tristan’s age, addressing Tristan as sir? Is it possible the Kingsland passes on leadership like an inheritance? Like the old monarchs I’ve read about?
“I freed myself more than once.”
My eyes widen. He did set himself free when his soldiers arrived, but what other time is he talking about? My mind jumps to when I tied him to the tree to relieve himself. There was something different about the bandages binding his hands when I returned.
It’s kind of a hands-on job.
Oh my stars.
“But I didn’t want to be let go. The Saraf’s daughter was about to deliver me like a present to his front door. His guts would be nothing but a stain on their floor if you’d left me alone. Most importantly, we’d know unquestionably what condition my father is in.”
A shake enters my body. An unsteadiness. Tristan played me. But is he saying he also set me up? That running past me in the forest wasn’t a fluke? That he allowed me to take him captive?
No. No one’s that good an actor. His admission comes back to me, spoken that night around the fire.
If I’d known everything about you, I would have known you could throw a knife like that.
He really hadn’t, and I interrupted his mission—thank the skies. But he adapted and changed his plans to having me deliver him to Hanook.
Hot anger burns in my belly for ever having considered letting him go. Father could have been killed if not for Tristan’s own men shooting me with a poisoned arrow.
“Why do you think your father’s alive?”
asks a soft voice. Must be one of the women soldiers. “There were witness reports—”
“I know that,”
Tristan barks. There’s a crash as something collides with the wall. “This is why I went on my own. We need to act, and the plan is simple: we sneak in, eliminate whoever gets in our path, and find my father. I’m not wasting another day until I know. Come with me or don’t.”
No.
“Samuel, what intel do we have?”
Vador asks calmly.
“The Saraf and most of their soldiers have moved back toward the clans. He’s got people searching the land for the girl,”
Samuel says. “Might actually be a good time to hit. They’ll be separated. We can pick most of them off along the way.”
Black spots appear in my vision.
“What about the girl?”
asks Vador. “When you connected, did you find out anything we can use?”
“No,”
Tristan says. “I was distracted with trying not to die.”
Someone snickers and says something I can’t make out.
“You’ll need to try again,”
Vador says. “She’s our most valuable resource.”
“I have and I will,”
Tristan says. “But she doesn’t trust me.”
“Then earn her trust.”
I huff a breath in disgust. This is why they’ve trapped me here. Who needs torture when Tristan can use the connection to access my memories or whatever’s in my head? I may not know Father’s tactical plans, but I know the layout of the clans. The faces of important people and their loved ones. I even know who’s been injured and whether it still lingers. Weaknesses can be measured in many ways.
With a jolt, the invisible cord between Tristan and me snaps tight. The sensation is similar to how it felt yesterday, when I accidentally sent a memory to Tristan’s mind.
A chair screeches. Someone’s coming. I startle and back up, only to bump into the table again. The blasted canister tips and rolls, smashing onto the floor. Glass shatters around my feet.
“What was that?”
shouts one of the men.
I gulp a breath but running is futile. So using every last bit of strength, I square my shoulders and walk into the open doorway, meeting them head-on.
Tristan’s shocked face is the first I see in the war room–like space, filled with a long table and chairs. It matches the one in my home. Eight other pairs of eyes sweep over me, all of them pausing on my hand, still clutching the knife. Samuel and Ryland slowly reach for their weapons.
I turn back to Tristan’s tight face, but darkness swims in my vision. I blink and fall against the doorframe.
“What are you doing?”
Tristan asks, with more concern in his eyes than makes sense. He’s an excellent actor. I make a mental note never to trust him again.
“I have news of your father,”
I say coldly.
Tristan turns to stone.
“He’s dead.”
A stab of pain shoots through my heart, and it takes seeing the grief flicker in Tristan’s eyes to figure out it’s coming from him.
I shake my head, refusing to feel bad. Not when you tried to kill my family. Not when, just seconds ago, you planned to do it again.
“How do you know?”
Vador demands.
Tristan’s despair chafes within my exhausted body and my lips struggle to form the words. “Because I was there when he died.”
All eyes turn to Tristan as if he can confirm, but he’s already pressing sharply against my mind.
His lips tighten. “She’s telling the truth.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. How could he know that?
Every soldier in the room drops their head.
Then my vision fades to black, and I hit the floor.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10 (Reading here)
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39