Page 6

A few birds chirp above me in a tree.

I rub my eyes, then jerk upright. Fates, I fell asleep. The first rays of light bleed through the branches of the forest. My gaze shoots to Tristan. He’s still secured against the tree trunk. I slump a little in relief.

His eyes are closed, but I’m not sure he’s sleeping. His face is tight, and he must be uncomfortable in that position—not to mention freezing. I am. The fire is gone, and now that I’m awake, a shiver has taken up residence in my body. Summer, although only weeks away, can’t come soon enough.

Climbing to my feet, I swipe my pack off the ground and stiffly walk to Midas. She shuffles a step, then shakes her head, excited to see me. I move to stroke her neck and whisper in her ear. I’m sorry. For not being able to free her to graze or give her water. For asking her to carry me despite it. My arms slide around her, and I hug her warmth, needing her strength. Or maybe I’m just stalling.

I don’t want to do today. I don’t want to deal with Tristan. The closer we get to Hanook, the more likely he is to try to escape.

Maybe I should let him.

The debate that’s raged most of the night in my head picks back up again. I’ve seen enough death, lived through enough conflict with the Kingsland to know that beyond Tristan being tortured until there’s nothing of value he can offer, his disappearance will only make things worse. Tensions will escalate. It’ll cause more fighting, not less.

But if Tristan could have a change of heart about attacking the clans, perhaps there’s another path—one that involves loosening the knot on his leash. It’d still take him hours to set himself free, and by then I’d be home and able to sound the sirens to warn everyone of a broader attack. No one would doubt I, a mere girl, had failed to hold a soldier from the Kingsland captive. Why does this situation have to end with the torture and death of one more? The point is to stop a massacre. What if I can do that simply by changing Tristan’s mind?

What would it take to do that?

And how could I ever trust him?

Tristan’s eyes crack open as I walk over and crouch in front of him. He looks tired.

Harmless.

Handsome.

Uncomfortable, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “How’d you sleep?”

His intense green gaze slides over my face, revealing nothing. “Okay.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you slept like a lamb with a belly full of milk.”

His lips twitch like he’s about to respond but holds it back.

“I found some snow lilies.”

His gaze drops to the yellow flowers clutched in my hand that I picked on my short walk over to him. “It won’t taste like much, but it’s energy.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I pull a leaf off and pop it in my mouth. “The seed pods are better, especially when you steam them, but there aren’t any yet.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He’s watching my lips as I chew, and when I notice, he glances away. A muscle tightens in his jaw, then to my utter shock, his mouth opens barely an inch.

I didn’t put much thought into what having to feed him would be like, but as heat explodes beneath the collar of my shirt, I realize this is strangely intimate. Unfortunately, there’s no rescinding my offer now. Ripping off a bite-size portion of the thick leaf, I bring it to his mouth, trying very hard not to brush my finger against his lips. He chews. His cheeks have dimples. His eyes find mine, and it’s my turn to glance away.

“No,”

he says when I go to rip another piece for him.

Oh, good. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, hiding my relief. But before I stand, there’s one more thing I need to say. “I’m struggling with whether I should bring you to Hanook.”

His lips part. Eyes narrow.

“I’m pretty sure you’re aware of what will happen once you’re there, and frankly, I don’t want your blood on my hands. But I also owe it to my people to keep them safe. That’s all I’ve—”

A bird takes flight, and Tristan’s eyes flick to something over my shoulder. His body goes rigid. “Shhhhh.”

Alarm shoots through me, and I glance around. A chickadee chirps her song. Is it a warning? My hand drifts silently to the knife in my jacket pocket, but my weight shifts, causing dried moss to crunch under my toes. I continue to search the shadowed trees around us but find nothing out of the ordinary.

“Get behind me,”

Tristan hisses through his teeth.

Suddenly, something spears my lower back and throws me to the ground. I cry out. Glancing at the source of my pain, I find a large blade. The woman who threw it reveals herself from behind a tree.

“Stop!”

Tristan calls. “Do not attack!”

A half dozen people, both men and women, crash through the bush from all angles, an assortment of bows and other weapons all aimed at me. I attempt to scramble back, but the knife is excruciating, preventing any movement. Breathless, my eyes take in one, then two of the soldiers. Their outfits are dark, and their black pants are identical to Tristan’s, with a multitude of large pockets.

Kingsland. Bleeding skies.

“Vador!”

Tristan calls, struggling to free himself. “I have it handled.”

An older man with dark brown skin and a severe jaw tightens his lips as he stares down the scope of his crossbow. “With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t look like it.”

Sir.

I stab my knife into the ground and use it as leverage to pull myself up.

“Stop moving,”

Vador says to me. “Toss the knife away.”

No way. I know how this is going to go, and I’m helpless unless I get on my feet. I plant a knee and push myself up.

“Lower. Your. Weapons,”

Tristan yells. He shifts, fighting against the bandages binding his hands.

A wave of pain coagulates into agony, and I groan face-first into the ground. Hot liquid drips down my side.

“You’re bleeding,”

Tristan says to me. “Stay still.”

Why? So they can take me hostage? I can’t let that happen.

Tristan’s arm jerks again, and his hands appear from behind his back. He grimaces in pain as he lifts them to the leash around his neck. In seconds, he’s completely free.

I stare, confused.

One of the women expertly raises a hatchet, drawing my attention, and hopelessness threatens to drown me. I’m surrounded. Every soldier is strapped with at least a bow and a quiver of arrows, and there’s no shortage of knives and swords. On top of their matching clothing are plates of black armor, which makes them look like an old-world army.

Tristan steps in front of me. “Vador, she’s injured. She’s not a threat. And as you can see, I didn’t need your help.”

If he could have freed himself all this time, then why didn’t he run? But thinking is growing more difficult as I’m hit with another wave of pain.

Most of the soldiers lower their weapons; two of them don’t.

“We’re taking her in. Alive,”

Tristan says.

“An eye for an eye,”

drawls the muscular man in the middle, his arrow pointed at my chest. “This is your chance.”

My options sound like a real party: death or be taken in for torture. Very quickly, my choice is made. With a trembling hand, I ease the knife out of my lower back, which, thanks to the thick trim of my denim jacket, didn’t penetrate as deeply as it could have. Still, a white-hot iron of pain steals my breath. Pulling on every last reserve, I climb to my feet.

“Stop moving!”

“Drop your weapon!”

I stumble forward like I’m weak and disoriented, then make my move. Tristan’s body slams against my front as I wrap an arm around his neck and jerk him back. My knife goes straight for his throat. It bounces against the thundering beat of his carotid artery.

Everyone goes still. “I will not be your prisoner. I’m leaving . . . with him. Don’t follow us if you want him to live.”

My jaw clenches. But of course they will follow. I can’t stop them. A sound of despair leaks from my throat. “And a horse,”

I add. They must have them nearby. “Bring me my horse and every one of yours.”

Tristan starts to speak, but I dig the knife farther into his neck, cutting him off.

Vador ticks his head, signaling for some of the men to inch to his left. They’re trying to corner me. Time is running out.

“Isadora, listen to me.”

Tristan’s voice is a whisper. “You won’t leave here alive if you do this. Surrender and—”

No. They know who I am, and they won’t hesitate to use me against Father. I have to try. “Don’t fight me,”

I snap, then increase the pressure on the blade. Tristan hisses as I break through his skin.

Suddenly, my elbow jerks back. The knife goes flying from my hand. Pain rockets through my arm as I lose my balance and fall to the ground.

“Cease fire!”

Tristan screams.

His face appears above me, the most vibrant shade of emerald green shining in his panicked eyes. They scan my upper body and stop on my arm. “You’re okay. The arrow didn’t hit anything important.”

His hands land on either side of my head as he exhales in relief.

I can’t imagine why he cares.

“Sam, get the horses,”

Tristan calls. “We need to get her back to Henshaw.”

I consider throwing a punch, but I’d be lucky if I could even reach his face. My fight, my strength feels weirdly gone. A shadow falls over me. Then another.

“Tristan,”

Vador says, his deep voice apologetic. “That was Sam’s arrow.”

Huh. So his name really is Tristan.

“What? No.”

Tristan’s hands slide to my elbow where a hot poker must be burning a hole through my bone. The pain abruptly turns to agony, and I scream. It takes me a second to understand that he’s ripped the arrow from my arm.

“There,”

Tristan says, breathless.

I suppose I deserved that. Eye for an eye and all.

“That won’t be enough,”

Vador says.

A stinging heat climbs up my arm. It bites me every direction it goes, turning to ice as it spreads across my ribs.

Poison. I’ve been poisoned.

Tristan curses so loudly I flinch. “I told you not to shoot!”

“She was about to slit your throat,”

says the large, muscular man. “I had to take the shot.”

The men argue as the cold inside me splinters off into fingers that dive deep into my chest. My heart skips a beat. Sun above. It’s spreading so fast.

Panic claws at my lungs. I grab Tristan’s forearm and squeeze. I don’t deserve his mercy, but I don’t want to die alone.

“She won’t make it all the way back,”

says Vador. “The poison’s already taking hold.”

Tristan’s face is nothing short of violence. “Stop talking and bring me a horse!”