Page 5

After I climb onto Midas, gaining a height advantage, I feel marginally better.

But it’s slow going with my prisoner walking in front. Silent too. My mind wanders to Liam and Freddy. I hope they haven’t encountered the enemy. Be safe, I wish for them.

As dusk arrives, Midas begins to spook at the shadows, jumping sideways and throwing her head. I fight to keep her in control, but it’s a lost cause. She’s never been good with low light, and the last thing I need is her taking off at full speed and breaking a leg—while dragging my prisoner by the neck with her. There’s also the very real possibility of what could go wrong once I’m no longer able to see. That’d be an excellent time for him to try to escape.

But making camp with my meager supplies is the only other alternative, and somehow, spending the night with this man feels exponentially more dangerous.

This man. I let out a frustrated huff. “You know, it would be helpful if I knew your name.”

“Helpful for who?”

Oh, he’s finally speaking again. “It’s just awkward to not be able to address you directly. It doesn’t even have to be our real names, since you obviously don’t want me to know yours. I’ll go first. I’m Roset—”

“Isadora. I know.”

Unconsciously, my hand pulls on the bandage around his neck, tightening his noose. His feet are swift to respond, stopping, then hopping back. Midas follows his lead. “How do you . . . who told you that?”

He turns, allowing even more slack in his leash. With the dimming light, I can’t make out much more than his silhouette. I imagine his face with a mocking glare as he stays silent.

Questions fly through my head at breakneck speed. Does he know I’m the daughter of the man who ordered his leader’s assassination?

Does he know I’m betrothed to Farron’s murderer?

What else does he know? And why didn’t he try to kill me?

“Look,”

he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit the underbrush of my world on fire. “We’re a long way off, and I need to take a piss.”

What? I swallow. Glance around.

“I’m not joking.”

“How did you know my name?”

He pauses. “I’ll tell you after you untie my wrists so I can relieve myself.”

“I’m not untying you,”

I say with a scoff.

“Then explain to me how this is going to work because it’s kind of a hands-on job—or . . . were you hoping you could help?”

He can piss his pants before I’d ever get hands-on with him. He’s just trying to rattle me. Distract me. Which . . . is working.

“I’m not helping you with anything until you explain how you know my name.”

“Isadora.”

My name rolls off his lips like a prayer. “I’ve always known your name. You’re the White Rabbit.”

“What?”

I recoil. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been called the White Rabbit in my life.”

“It’s because of your hair,”

he says softly. “So blond it’s almost white. Everyone from Kingsland knows you as the White Rabbit.”

“Everyone?”

I whisper. Unconsciously, my hand goes to my long braid.

This man knows who I am.

He’s known all along.

Fates. What have I gotten myself into?

“Can I relieve myself now?”

Midas makes a sound and jerks to the side, spooking again. I fight to gain back control using muscle and soothing words, but she won’t allow us to go on. My eyes close as a scream of frustration builds inside me.

Fine. I surrender.

I jump down from my saddle and quickly secure Midas, then with brisk movements pull my know-it-all assassin to a nearby tree.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is genuinely curious, almost congenial in a way I haven’t heard yet.

Roughly, I jerk the leash around the trunk above him and tie it off so tight he won’t be able to move an inch without choking to death. His hands remain trapped behind him.

“What am I doing?”

I ask the outline of his face, using the same gentle, doe-like tone he used on me. “I’m fulfilling your wish, of course.”

He makes a small gasp as my fingers search for the button at the top of his pants. I flick it open, then find the zipper and pull it down. My confidence wavers as my hands grip the fabric, but in a burst of movement, I drag everything on his hips down. So much so that if he somehow gets his neck free, he’ll trip over his feet. It’s too dark to see anything, and I wouldn’t look down even if I could, but heat scalds my cheeks as if they’ve been burned. “Do you require further assistance, or can you take it from here?”

He’s as still as the tree he’s wrapped around. I can’t even hear him breathe, which I should; I’m extremely close to him.

Did he really think I’d just untie him?

You may know my name, but you don’t know a thing about me.

His inability to speak remains as I storm away, needing a minute alone as much as or more than he does.

New problems quickly occupy my mind. Not only do I have to re-dress my prisoner without him kicking me in the head, but we’ll need to make camp. It’s dark now. Midas would sooner stomp me deeper than a tree root than travel anymore tonight—I should have taken a different horse.

My feet are heavy as I return a minute later.

“You came back.”

My half-naked captive’s voice is distorted from the leash digging into his neck, but he’s undeniably relieved I didn’t leave him to the wild animals.

I approach him cautiously from the side. Too bad there isn’t even a little bit of light so I can verify he’s still secured. Sliding my hand over his forearm, I check that the knotted bandage is still tight. “Did you really think I’d leave you?”

The fabric feels lower down, closer to his hands. Could he have gotten his hands free? But then we wouldn’t be standing here, would we? I jerk on the knot to pull it tight.

He doesn’t answer my question—possibly because I’ve reached down to grab his pants. I lift them up, keeping as much distance as possible, but only make it to his knees before all momentum grinds to a halt. The fabric is bunched, and gravity is not on my side. With a grunt, I use brute force, shimmying them up over his thighs. With a final heave, his pants slide into place. He flinches as my cold fingers press against the warm skin of his belly while I secure the top button, but I don’t care. We’re done.

I’m so winded, I nearly drop my hands to my knees. “I would never leave you like that. Torture isn’t my thing.”

“Really?”

He wheezes out a laugh that somehow brushes against my hair. “Actually, I think you’d have a knack for it.”

I back up a few steps. Cute of him to joke about torture when the Kingsland could put any clansman to shame. Isn’t that why some of our fighters have chosen death by their own hand when faced with imminent capture? It’s the only mercy they will get.

His feet shuffle. “If you care about your horse at all, we should stay the night. It’s too dangerous to travel.”

His voice has gone soft, too soft, and caution enters my bones. “Are you sure you feel that way? You might have to urinate again.”

A small burst of air rushes from him.

The sudden lack of anger in his demeanor reminds me of one of the children’s stories regularly shared at morning academy.

The parable of the fox and the bumblebees.

It’s a story about bumblebees who live peacefully in the forest, building their nest in the ground among their food, the wild plants and flowers.

One day, a fox wanders by and stomps their flowers, then digs up their nest, and though the bumblebees try to stop the fox, they can’t penetrate his thick fur or avoid being crushed by his sharp claws or teeth.

But one brave bumblebee encourages the others to stand their ground.

The bees may lack the strength and size of the fox, but not intelligence.

They can hover beyond the fox’s reach.

When the fox realizes he can’t kill them all without getting closer, he tries to manipulate them into friendship.

So the bumblebees play along by taking the fox to their favorite spot, and as he grows confident that they’re falling for his trap, they lead him off a cliff.

Is this man trying to manipulate me into lowering my guard?

Palming the handle of my blade, I brace myself to draw closer. “I have a knife in my hand, so don’t try anything.”

I untie his neck leash from the tree. It might be stupid, but I run my finger between the fabric and his skin, loosening the noose enough so he can breathe easier.

His scent drifts to me—soap. Something expensive from a trader. But there’s also something fresh and light about him that takes me a second to pinpoint: it’s the absence of smoke from a fire.

I lead him to a little clearing about twenty paces away. We’re far enough from the front lines that a small fire should be fine. “Sit down and prop yourself against this tree.”

He obeys, but I can practically feel his hate and anger returning as I resecure his noose around the trunk. Sleeping here will be miserable. There’ll be ants and other insects. Sap. But at least I’m letting him sit.

Maybe I am good at torture.

He remains quiet as I dig out a spot for a campfire. I start with a few sticks, dried moss, and leaves. In the darkness, I can’t seem to find anything more substantial that’s dry.

It takes five strikes of my blade against the broken piece of flint from my pack to get enough sparks to start a fire. I work for a minute, alternately blowing, then feeding the smoking mass with twigs until it becomes a flame. The sudden light is disorienting. Warmth builds, penetrating my clothes.

My nameless captive stares at me, which I’ve decided to wholeheartedly ignore. I’m not eager to witness more of his animosity. No doubt he’s calculating my weaknesses—which are too many to count. I’ll be amazed if he hasn’t escaped by morning.

Looks like I won’t be sleeping tonight.

Falling back on my heels, I watch my small stack of kindling smoke and burn. There’s a broken branch a few feet away, and I toss that in. We need more wood, but I’m so tired. So thirsty. Hungry, too. And I’m probably not the only one. I adjust my legs to hug my knees. “I don’t have any supplies. It’s going to be a long night.”

I allow myself a glance in his direction. He’s watching me just like I knew he was, but his face isn’t what I expect. His brows are pinched in confusion.

“Who needs food and water or a blanket when you can stuff your bag with ridiculously long bandages and bug-infested leaves.”

He laughs, humorlessly. “Well, I guess it’s worked well for you so far.”

My lips tighten as I look away. I don’t owe him an explanation.

A minute passes. He sighs. “My name is Tristan.”

Sure, it is.

“Well, Tristan,”

I say, “you’re not exactly stocked with supplies either. Or were you planning to use your knives to keep warm?”

His eyes narrow into slits. “I dropped my pack a quarter mile before you saw me so I could travel faster.”

“Ah. Makes sense. It’d be cumbersome to wear while you murdered people.”

He doesn’t deny it, which only angers me more. My face must be showing it, because his eyes shift down and away from me.

Is there really a pack somewhere back there filled with supplies? Weapons? Maybe we should send someone for it. Though the people in the Kingsland live no different than we do, with homes made from the forest and supplies dependent on traders, their raids give them the pick of the litter. Who knows what information we might gain if we could find it?

Information that will lead to more killing.

Which isn’t what I want. I drag my hands down my face. Why does it have to be like this? So much death. Not just from Tristan and the Kingsland, but my clansmen too. We pride ourselves on how we’re so different from them. How we didn’t let the anarchy after the bombs twist us with greed, and our leaders aren’t corrupt. But it hasn’t stopped countless clansmen from training in combat and being willing to kill. How do we break this cycle of death?

As if the answer can be found on his face, I study Tristan. Locks of wavy brown hair curve across his forehead. Others tuck behind his ears. His skin still glows flawlessly in the firelight—too flawlessly. In fact, I’ve never seen a soldier with such a straight nose and so few scars. Perhaps the soldiers in the Kingsland don’t settle their disputes with fists. Or Tristan doesn’t lose his fights.

My gaze drifts to the bandage on his shoulder. It’s not soaked through, which is good because I’m fresh out of cloth.

Not that it matters.

My throat tightens as my thoughts land in the one place I’ve fought to keep them from all night: what will happen when we return to Hanook. Tristan won’t be receiving the stitches he needs or a nice warm meal. He’ll be lucky if he survives the day. I’m delivering him to his demise.

I jump to my feet and start to walk away but stop. Tristan’s cold eyes follow me.

“Why?”

I blurt. “Give me a reason why you’re here on this path. I mean, I get that something really horrible just happened.”

I can’t say Farron’s name. “We’ve stirred the pot and now the Kingsland wants to retaliate.”

Tristan’s posture straightens as if I’ve said something important.

“I know our bad blood goes back decades. For resources and land. But why you? What’s your part in all this?”

And can I persuade you to let it go?

“What do you know about what happened to Farron?”

My body stiffens.

“You said you know the clans stirred the pot. But what exactly do you know about Farron?”

Tristan’s face tightens with anger when I don’t speak. “Who attacked him? What’d they do with him? Tell me everything. Anything.”

Guilt over the answers to those questions pushes my heart rate faster. But not enough to commit treason. “Tell you, my prisoner?”

I say in disbelief.

Long seconds pass. Then slowly, his hateful glare returns as my silence is perceived as support for what the clans did to his leader.

I drop my head at the disgust twisting my stomach. “Not all of us get a choice in the decisions that are made.”

“So you were opposed to the attack on Farron?”

“Don’t you already know all about me? The White Rabbit?”

It might be the poor light, but the animosity in his eyes seems to fade. “If I’d known everything about you, I would have known you could throw a knife like that.”

My gaze darts to his shoulder. He’s right, I suppose. “Good thing I also came with a bag full of yarkow leaves that were boiled, you know, so they didn’t have any bugs.”

He raises a doubtful brow.

“Do you really have no herbs or medicines in the Kingsland?”

“None like that.”

He adjusts his legs. “So, you’re a doctor?”

There are no doctors out here. And if he scoffs at the use of plants, there’s no point explaining the years I’ve spent studying to be a healer. “I’m just a girl with a backpack full of bandages and herbs.”

He nods, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes. Something distinctly not angry. Something distinctly human. It scares me. It was easier not to think about what would happen to him tomorrow in Hanook when he was so obviously plotting my downfall.

I can’t think about him that way. He is the enemy. If the roles were reversed and I were his prisoner, I’d be wishing for death right now. He’d make sure of it.

“You should sleep,”

I say. If he’s sleeping, he can’t be escaping, and I won’t have to talk to him anymore. “We leave the second the sun allows me to see my feet.”