Page 9

“Come on. Get up.”

I struggle to open my eyes. It’s painful, like they’re embedded with bits of dirt. A woman Mum’s age, with a wide nose and short brown hair, yanks the blanket off me. An instant chill settles over my damp skin as I go on alert. I’m in enemy territory.

What’s happening?

Why is it so cold in here?

Where’s Tristan?

“It’s been a full twenty-four hours of you lying in your own sweat. Surely you want to fix that.”

I blink. A day has passed? Pain stabs through my shoulders as I try to move, but it’s nothing compared to the dry ache in my throat. I’m so thirsty.

“I’m Caro,”

the blanket stealer says before grabbing my bicep and forcefully guiding me into a sitting position. I sway with dizziness when she lets go—whoa! I grip the mattress to catch myself. She points across the room. “And the pretty one there is Annette.”

Annette doesn’t acknowledge the introduction. She’s too busy flinging curtains open and stomping around.

“Now if you try anything, you’ll be sorry. I don’t care who’s forcing us be here.”

So these women are slaves, then. And scared of me. The realization marginally lowers my guard, and I look back at my pillow, gauging what angle to fall so I hit most of it.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Caro scowls. “You may be used to lying in bed all day, expecting people to wait on you, but that’s not how we do things around here. Now get up.”

Annette stalks to the back of the room where flowing water echoes off the walls.

Running water?

But how?

Then anger pulses through me, because I know exactly how. Plumbing. Something I’ve only read about in books and a life-changing advancement the Kingsland has no doubt gone to great strides to keep from us. I’ve always wondered what supplies were taken when they raided our traders. Or when entire shipments went missing and never arrived at all.

I swallow, my mouth bone-dry, and glance around the room. White walls, a white bed and curtains. The floor is gray like a river stone but perfectly shaped into flat squares. My hands fist in the linen around me, and I stifle a gasp at its softness. It’s so thick, like it hasn’t been washed in lye hundreds of times. They’ve stolen a lot. Or at least Tristan has.

My husband.

“W-where’s Tristan?”

The women look at each other, and Annette’s lips purse as Caro decides to answer. “He had business to attend to.”

My stomach gives a kick. Enemy assassin business? Or something else? It’s slowly dawning on me that Tristan may be more important than I realized. Although I’m not sure how he’s already up and moving about at all.

The air is so cold I’ve started to shiver, but judging by the women’s light clothing, it’s not the temperature of the room. I must still have a fever.

“Up you go,”

Caro says, taking my arm again, leaving me no choice but to stand.

My legs cramp, and dizziness hits so intensely my stomach is about to revolt. “I need a moment,”

I whisper.

Caro tsks in annoyance. “Annette, I’m going to need help here.”

Annette is closer to my age, and just as Caro said, pretty. But as she approaches, her dark ponytail whipping back and forth, I notice her eyes are red and puffy, as if she’s been crying. What kind of monsters have they been to her? I almost ask, but she grabs my arm and pulls me up.

“There’s a towel and some clothes on the counter,”

Caro says, releasing me when we reach the attached room. She twists a knob on the wall, and water stops pouring into the bathtub. “Don’t take long.”

The door claps shut behind me, and I’m forced to reach for the counter to stay on my feet. A flawless porcelain sink lies before me. No chips or discolorations. I prop myself up on my elbow and bump the tap with my hand. It turns on. There’s also a light bulb shining above my head. With my mouth agape, I pull open the cupboard door underneath and find pipes instead of a bucket to collect the used water. Actual plumbing. There’s a toilet to my right—I assume there’s no bucket under that either.

What luxury the Kingsland gets to live in at our expense.

I freeze at my scowl in the mirror. Dark, bruising circles surround my eyes. There’s blood on my collarbone. Dried blood everywhere on my clothes. My lips are husks of skin, cracked and dehydrated, reminding me of my thirst—as if I could forget. Despite my queasy stomach, I hold my knotted, half-braided hair back and drink from the tap, greedy yet trying to pace myself.

It’s torture to remove my shirt and remaining clothes and step into the freezing water. Burning ashes, we may not have plumbing and electricity, but at least we know how to heat water. With a small squeal, I drop down into a sitting position and water splashes the walls. My lungs seize up. Calling on every bit of strength, I undo the remains of my braid, dunk my head, and lather up with the finest soap I’ve ever smelled, then dunk again. I emerge from the water sputtering. Okay, I’m done. That’ll have to do.

My teeth chatter as I sit huddled on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a soft towel. Now what?

Father’s no doubt looking for me, and if he suspects that I’m here, he may risk all our soldiers to get me back. That, or word could get out that I’ve betrayed him and the clans by marrying the enemy. I’ll be labeled a traitor, and not only will Liam be devastated, but he might not be named as the next Saraf. Then everything Freia feared about the clans dissolving into infighting will come true.

I have to escape. On my own. And quickly.

Pulling on the nightgown left for me, I force myself to drink again, then drag myself back into the bedroom, stopping to catch my breath a couple times. The women are gone, and sadly, they’ve left no food. But they did make the fluffy, white bed. Maybe I’ll just have a little rest first. I shuffle forward, then flop down face-first on top of the covers.

My eyes jerk open to a dark room. The kind of darkness that only comes from the night.

No! I slept too long.

My throat aches with thirst again—the reason I woke up.

I attempt to roll over, but heavy blankets hold me down. I pat them. Someone’s been here. Fear ricochets through me as I fight to push myself up onto my elbow, and I spot the likely culprit sitting on a chair that wasn’t by the door before. Tristan. His head is in his hands. He’s not moving. Is he asleep?

The blankets feel like they’re filled with rocks for how much I struggle to move them aside.

Tristan startles. Runs a hand through his hair. “Are you okay?”

His voice is groggy.

“What are you doing here?” I rasp.

“I . . . was hoping we could talk, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

The little bit of light from the hallway highlights his white T-shirt, and I eye him skeptically as my vision adjusts. Is he really here to talk, or actually guarding the door? Are we back to being enemies?

He kissed my neck.

“I need some water,”

I blurt, desperate to stop any reaction that memory of his kiss might cause.

“There should be a cup next to you on the side table.”

With effort, I sit up and feel around the table beside me. There is a cup, but it’s empty. My head drops. Walking to the bathroom tap right now feels like it’d be as fun as crawling naked over the sharp needles of an empress pine. Another wave of nausea hits, overpowering my need for water. I fall back on the pillow. “I could sleep for another week. Maybe two.”

Why isn’t Tristan as exhausted as I am?

A warm, gentle pressure nudges my mind. With a start, I realize it’s him. Tristan and I may not be fully linked anymore, but he’s still able to reach out to me. Some framework of the bridge we built remains.

“Sorry,”

he says gruffly. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

I’m not sure I believe him. How do you do something like that by accident? Last time it took a lot of concentration and opening up and . . . touching.

My cheeks heat at the memory of how close we had to get to create this tether between us. It was personal, and bewildering, and more intimate than anything I’ve experienced with my own betrothed. Perhaps worse, I didn’t hate it—at least not that part. Not like I should have. Roughly, I kick at the blankets, annoyed I can’t even make things right since I’m currently still in Tristan’s bed. “I need to go home. My people are likely searching for me.”

“That . . . won’t be possible.”

There’s something different about his voice. Is he angry?

My head snaps in his direction. “Why not?”

My voice goes hard, matching his. “Am I your prisoner?”

“You’re . . . one of us now. Not to mention you know our secrets. Your leaving could put us in danger.”

“I—I wasn’t even conscious when I arrived. I know nothing of your people, the layout of your land, your soldiers.”

“You know about the connection.”

His magic. And I have a million questions about that—although I can hardly ask them now, if my very knowledge of the connection is the reason he won’t let me go.

He stays silent, but again his presence presses against my mind. He huffs. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to stop . . . doing that.”

“So that’s it?”

I say. “Because I said yes to some crazy last-ditch effort to save my life, I can never leave this place? I can never see my family again?”

“You’re alive. Isn’t that enough?”

His voice is tired.

Not if it means losing everything. “You know, before your soldiers showed up and shot me, I was going to let you go.”

The memory of it flashes in my head.

Tristan flinches like I’ve hit him in the nose with my empty cup.

I tense. “What just happened?”

His head cocks to the side, his face intrigued. “You . . . sent me a memory, I think.”

Panic erupts. My memory appeared in his head? “But we’re not even touching!”

“Don’t worry. I can’t seem to get it to show me anything. It’s like you’ve sent me a letter in another language and I’m waiting for the translation. For the full transfer to work, I think we’d need to be more connected first.”

Not a chance. “You think? How come you don’t know?”

“I told you. The way we did this—not firmly establishing a relationship first—has never been done before.”

It hits me how much this is sounding like the twisted magic Mum said the Kingsland had all along.

Don’t underestimate their sorcery. If they can communicate without words and inflict pain without a weapon, who knows what else they can do? Is sending memories not a form of wordless communication? Did we not inflict pain on each other by sharing our wounds?

This can’t be what Mum imagined their magic to be, but me being connected to Tristan may be just as dangerous for the clans and their future. “We need to break this connection. It has to stop.”

He stares at me for a second, then rakes a hand through his hair again. “Look, everything is complicated now. Things have been set in motion that may not be undone.”

“Things.”

Like this connection? Or is he talking about me never being allowed to leave? “If I don’t go home, my father will come for me.”

Or Liam will. “And then many people will die.”

“I look forward to him trying,”

he says, voice carrying a looming threat.

“So I’m here as bait?”

Tristan lets out a hard laugh and shakes his head. “If only it were that simple.”

“Then explain it to me.”

My invitation is met with nothing but cold silence. “Oh, I see. The Kingsland doesn’t allow their wives to dabble in politics either. Well, good thing I don’t plan to remain here as your wife. I’m betrothed to someone else.”

Tristan appears at a loss for words. “To who?”

To the man you’re hunting for murdering Farron Banks.

The urge to answer him, to respect him like I would a clansman, is so ingrained in me, I have to bite my lip to keep from speaking.

I feel a slight pressure in my head as Tristan fruitlessly attempts to dig into my mind. He’s not apologetic this time. I turn my head away and ignore it.

He pushes himself out of the chair. “There is no betrothal, Isadora. You’re married now. To me.”

Pain and fatigue battle for my attention. My muscles are filled with thorns, my body covered with sweat. Halfway to the bathroom, I consider lying down as spots dance before my eyes. The poison obviously still thrums through my veins.

I blink. Did they never find any fesber or white thistle?

Then I remember how quickly Tristan stood from his chair. Oh. They’ve found the antidote. They just haven’t shared it with me.

Hot anger fuels my final steps to the bathroom. This is how Tristan plans to make me stay. Not only is he keeping me sick, but it’s no accident that I haven’t been given any food. He wants me weak and immobilized.

That bastard.

Why even save me at all?

Everything makes sense now, and tears fill my eyes at my naivety. Somehow between lying on Tristan’s bed and having his lips on my neck, I let my guard down and swallowed the lie that I wouldn’t be tortured or used as a pawn against Father. I was a fool.

After drinking my fill from the tap, I finger-comb my hair and examine my lips, which haven’t improved from their papery, cracked state. I’m still dehydrated. So despite my stomach threatening to revolt, I force myself to drink some more.

Now for a plan.

I’ll need food for energy. A way to carry water.

Knives. So many knives.

I glance down at the flimsy white gown that stops just before my knees. There’s no way I can flee through the forest in this. I turn to Tristan’s closet and rifle through it, panting like an overheated dog. My knees wobble, threatening to give out. Frustrated, I rip down handfuls of neatly hung pants and shirts, then wilt to the floor beside them.

The clothes smell like fresh air and traitorous boy. I’ve never smelled anything so delicious in my life. Disgusted, I hold up the first shirt I see. It has the whitest, soft fabric, with as many buttons down the front as peas in a pod.

It’s too much work to take off my nightgown, so I pull the shirt on top, do the buttons, then keel over on the pile of clothes, needing a minute to rest.

The darkness is receding when I startle awake.

Blazing skies.

I scan the room—still alone. At least there’s that. Once again, I’m parched, and my belly twists painfully with hunger. I push myself upright and am pleased to find that movement isn’t complete agony. There’s no immediate nausea either. Even better.

There is, however, zero stealth to my gait as I trip across the room and fall into the curtains. Shoving them open, I pause, stunned at what I see. If I didn’t need to sit down before, I sure do now.

How is this possible?

A paved street stretches out in front of me, only it’s not the cracked and defective remnants of an old-world road. This road is black and near flawless. Enormous houses sprout off every which way like leaves on a branch. Instead of forest or horse trails, everything is surrounded by fields of trimmed grass and similarly shaped bushes. I’ve never seen such a spectacle in my life.

But I have read about it.

This is either a piece of the old world untouched, or they’ve successfully recreated it. All my life I’ve been told that the Kingsland is the reason we don’t have enough of anything—bandages, weapons, tools. But I never anticipated the extent of what that meant. We are destitute in comparison. And every bit of it was intentional.

As I spin, my gaze skips over the room. It’s a good sign I haven’t been tortured for any information yet, but I’m not senseless enough to think it isn’t coming. I’ve been left here to rot for a reason. I need a weapon before I walk through that door.

I start with the shelf in the corner, laden with books. In awe, I drag my finger over their near-perfect spines.

The subjects fascinate me—engineering, leadership, mathematics. There’s a book about the history of how the Federated States of the Republic was formed. My breath hitches when I come to what looks like a bunch of novels. Unable to help myself, I grab one and study the man holding a sword on the cover. I take it with me as I continue my search.

Moving up the shelves, I find a framed picture of a woman holding a toddler. Traders often hawk portraits of people from the old world—it’s not like any new pictures can be made—but the boy in this one looks so much like Tristan. Could this be him and his mum? But how?

I peek under the mattress, and upon a deeper search of his closet, I find nothing, including any clues as to who exactly Tristan is. Turning to the only place I haven’t searched, I pull open the drawer to his bedside table and—there it is. I laugh and scoop up the serrated knife.

Oh, Tristan, that’s going to be a costly mistake.

There are other items in the drawer. A notebook. A small bottle filled with pills. My jaw drops as I lift the glass bottle. A pain reliever. How? But that’s where my questions end, because I don’t care where it came from or that it’s expired, like all medicines scavenged from the old world. After a brief fight with the lid, I pop two white tablets into my mouth and swallow them dry.

There isn’t time to study the notebook thoroughly, but I flip through it. The first page doesn’t seem like anything important. In the corner are some scribbled words like abrasion resistance and flexural strength, along with some numbers and a date. Below are some mathematics equations mixed with letters I don’t understand. The next page is filled with a sketch of some sort of old-world machine that runs on a track.

I snap the book closed and set it aside. It doesn’t contain anything useful, like a map of the Kingsland or a guide to a secret passage out of here.

Setting my newfound treasures aside, I clutch my knife and approach the door. I guess I’ll have to find a way out on my own.