Chapter Sixteen

To my displeasure, it seems it'll take more than a sway of my hips and flutter of my lashes to coax Goldie into sating my desire.

After showing me to my tent, he turns heel and disappears into the camp without a word.

What's worse is that, no matter how hard I try, I can't discern which tent is his from the distance.

Resigning myself, I turn and lift the flap to my tent. A sigh falls from my lips as I step inside and take in my surroundings. A lantern hangs on the wooden post to my left, its lone flame bathing the tent with light. In the center of the tent lies a plain, black bedroll. A cream wool blanket lies atop it. While some form of covering is better than none, I can't imagine that an abundance of warmth can be trapped beneath the thin material.

My shoulders deflate when I spy a leather water skin sitting beside the bedroll. With the unrelenting sun beating down upon me all afternoon, my mouth waters at the sight. Although I took a few sips from the canteen Goldie passed to me during our travels, my body calls for more hydration.

Snatching it off the ground and bringing it to my lips, blessed cool liquid coats my tongue.

Tipping the water skin back further, the pounding in my head lessens as the cool liquid slides down the back of my throat. My cotton-like mouth pays little mind to the thought of saving some of the water for later.

When each drop has been drained, I wipe my cracked lips with the back of my hand and take a large gulp of air. Although the tent is barren aside from the bedroll, I have a newfound appreciation for protection from the elements. I'd rather be led to the gallows than endure the sweltering heat again.

I whirl around as grass crunches beneath footsteps outside my tent. I raise my hand to shield my eyes when the tent flap is lifted and the female soldier steps inside.

"Dinner's almost ready if you're hungry," she says, her gaze flickering around the space.

Although my stomach emits a loud grumble of hunger when the words fall from her lips, I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. "I assume it's poisoned, yes?"

She snorts. "I imagine that the cooks would prefer to avoid a slow and painful death." All traces of amusement fade as she speaks. "So I'd say you're safe. Come on."

My arms fall to my sides as she turns and disappears out of the tent. Although Goldie also gave me some stale bread and cheese during our travels, another loud rumble of protest tells me it wasn't enough food to sustain me.

Blowing out a long breath, I take two steps across the tent and follow her. Starving myself wouldn't be wise if I'm to figure out a means of escape. Even if it means I must put some semblance of trust in those who'd rather see me dead.

Ducking my head, I find the woman waiting for me when I step out of the tent. Readjusting the sheathed dagger at her hip, a knowing smile plays on her lips when she catches sight of me.

"Figured I'd wait for you."

I roll my eyes as she winks and turns her back. Seeing that she's several inches taller than I am, I struggle to keep up with her long strides. A blanket of silver stars now dance across the midnight sky, the luminance of a pale moon guiding our path. I wrap my arms around my waist and hug my body tight when the night air coasts across my skin. The chill the wind carries raises gooseflesh on my skin. I bless the stars for relief from the heat.

Orange and gold flames flicker over the faces of the Risian soldiers seated around a small fire in the distance. Although most of them forgo their armor, I recognize them by the longswords sheathed at their sides.

Conversations come to a halt and heads snap up to attention when we approach. A pregnant silence descends into the air as their gaze flickers from the woman to me.

Scanning each of their faces, I realize that Goldie is not among them. Strange, seeing that he's the leader of the party. I decide to dwell on the matter later when my gaze collides with the scarred man I saw earlier. Amusement dances in his eyes.

Having dealt with the insufferable male population for over five hundred years, I've learned that they're most afraid of the women who refuse to bow to them. Showing them no fear is the only way to ensure a woman's survival in this realm.

The scarred man's shoulders shake with laughter as the woman leads me to sit on a thick log to the right. A large kettle hangs from a branch that sits in the center of the fire, flames licking at its black bottom. My stomach grumbles as the fragrant scent of what boils in the pot wafts into the air.

An older man with a generous gray beard rises and dips a wooden ladle into two small bowls. He passes the bowls and two wooden spoons to the woman beside me. Surprise fills me when our gazes collide and he offers a small smile. Although I've never been taken captive before, I imagine it's not customary for the enemy to grace their prisoners with kindness.

The people of Risian are strange.

Warmth seeps into my palms when she passes me the bowl. I turn my head as she settles on to the log beside me. Her nose wrinkles.

"What?"

"You need to wash," she says, glancing at me for a beat, before beginning to eat her stew.

"Obviously," I sneer. My skin crawls with the reminder of the blood and sweat clinging to every inch of my skin.

The firelight softens her hard, gray irises as she glances over at me and shrugs. "There's a stream nearby. I'll try to sweet talk Nilan over there out of a bar of lye soap after we eat." She inclines her head to the scarred man who sits on the log adjacent to us.

I look down at my bowl in lieu of a response. Carrots, potatoes, and chunks of fatty meat fill my spoon. Although I haven't the slightest inkling what type of animal was slain for the stew, I force myself to chew the chunk of meat. The gamey taste tells me that it's not an animal that I'm accustomed to eating, but I'm left with little choice. I don't need to look in the mirror to know that I've lost some of the mass that fuels my body. While my ego is pleased with the development, vanity is of no use in my current predicament.

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Once we've eaten our fill, the woman leads me through the thick woods on the outskirts of the camp. Despite the heavy boots she wears, her steps are near silent. She glares at me over her shoulder when leaves crunch beneath my steps. I roll my eyes. I'm a queen, not a soldier.

My irritation fades when the sound of trickling water fills my ears. Although I knew of the stream's existence, I wasn't aware it stretched through these parts of the forest. The steady lapping water ricochets off the hollow trunks of bittercrass trees. A whisper of feeling thrums in my veins when the glowing stream comes into view.

Something inside me stirs as my gaze latches to the starlight that glimmers in the depths of the translucent blue water. Whorls of silver and gold churn in time with the water's rhythm. A steady hum rings in my ears when the whorls of starlight brighten, dancing faster beneath the surface as we stop at the bank of the stream.

A twinge of pain stretches through my chest with the sight, my soul crying out for the comfort to be found in sitting beside a lake of the same kind. Of home, in both senses of the word.

I push thoughts of the Amber Palace aside when the woman extends a linen cloth and, blessedly, a square of lye soap into the space between us. I stare at her for a long moment. While I'm grateful for the chance to clean myself, I doubt she's affording me the opportunity out of the kindness of her heart.

Her eyes narrow into mere slits as she meets my gaze in challenge.

"Why?" I demand to know.

The woman rolls her eyes. "Because I don't want to smell you for the rest of our journey. Now, do you want to bathe or not?"

Snatching the cloth and soap from her hands, I give her my back. She scoffs under her breath, but steps forward to undo the buttons at the back of my neck all the same.

Silence stretches between us as I unravel the simple knot my hair is pulled into. Though I'm loath to admit it, I find a semblance of comfort in another woman's presence. Seeing that no purple or blue mars her face means that the men of the camp are somewhat decent. My worry about someone forcing themselves upon me eases with her at my side. Even if I know it's unlikely one of the Risian soldiers will do something so foolish.

The thread in my chest remembers what the woman said earlier before our dinner and takes pride in the fact that the King of Risian will destroy any who would dare do me harm.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Ayla," she says flatly, unfastening the last button.

The silver gown falls to my waist, and I tug it down until the silk-like material pools around my ankles. Curls tumble around my shoulders and waterfall down my back. A light blush creeps up Ayla's cheeks when I turn to face her.

I brush her discomfort aside. I've never been ashamed of my body. Viewing what the stars have blessed women with isn't something that should be considered shameful. Besides, men who have good sense worship soft bellies and generous thighs.

"Pretty name," I murmur. She turns to face the treeline as I step out of the gown and into the water.

Contentment stretches through me when I wade deeper into the stream. Small whorls of starlight amass, dancing around me. Where I expected the water to be cool, the golden whorls carry a heat of their own. Scrubbing my skin until it's pink and I'm satisfied that no traces of the battlefield's stench remain, I dip my head backward into the water.

Ayla remains silent, her back turned to me as I coat my palms with the soap and lather my hair. I can't say that I mind. Though I should be terrified, seeing that I'm surrounded by the enemy, I find it's quite peaceful here.

Holding my breath, I duck my head beneath the water and rinse the soap from my hair. Silver and gold starlight whorls create a ring around my waist. They stretch in each direction, almost as if the starlight means to protect me.

The steady hum in my ears swells, reverberating through my chest. Images flash into my mind. The lake of starlight in Minalis is before me, a smattering of stars hanging so low they seem to kiss the glassy surface of the lake.

I bring my head to the surface and gasp for air when a new image takes shape. A night by that same lake of starlight, dancing with the man that I wish to forget. My teeth clench together as I wring the water from my hair.

Stepping out of the stream, I remind the foolish bond those memories bring about nothing but misery.

Slipping back into my thin chemise and pulling on the silver gown, Ayla casts a knowing glance in my direction as she guides our way back to camp.

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A thin wisp of air forms in front of me as I huff in annoyance. Frost seeps through the ground and into my bedroll as I turn to lie flat on my back. Although I attempt to snuggle deeper into the bedroll and tuck the thin wool blanket beneath my chin, it does little to combat the cold.

Frustration rises in my chest as I stare up at the swaths of black fabric that make up the tent peak. While I would find a newfound appreciation for the warmth of another in this moment, I long for more than that. I long for the slide of rough hands down the curves of my waist, another's glistening chest hovering atop me. To lose myself to pleasure and drift into a dreamless sleep.

What I need, however, is something to fill the hollowness that has overtaken my soul. Although the hollowness has quieted the bond, the emptiness has spread. It devours even the faintest flicker of light in my soul and makes it all the more difficult for my magic to return.

As restlessness lurks beneath the surface, I know sleep will not find me. Sighing once more, I ball my hand into a fist and toss the blanket off my body. My teeth chatter the moment my lone source of warmth is gone.

Pushing to my feet, I run a hand through my damp, unbound locks. Pieces of hair tickle my cheek with each of my movements and I frown. I should have asked Ayla to plait it into a simple braid after I washed it. I'd never bothered to learn how, seeing that Nuelle has done my hair since I was a girl.

The night breeze rolls through the flap of the tent and pricks needles at my skin. I wrap my arms around my waist as I step outside and the wind begins to howl. Making camp here was foolish. Passing through the Tempest Wastelands is a risk at best, as conditions are often impossible to predict. I grit my teeth as the wind picks up. My thin arms provide little warmth.

Keeping my steps silent as possible, I wander down the stretching row of tents to my right. This proves to be difficult because, though the stars blessed me with exceptional eyesight, I'm not skilled in the art of stealth.

The silhouettes of fifteen onyx tent peaks appear through the darkness. Each of them are uniform in appearance. Identifying the tent that belongs to Goldie is a near impossible task.

I frown when I pass tent after tent and the only sounds that fill my ears belong to nature. Uneasiness fills me with the realization. Turning my head to the left, then to the right, I find that the night is the only thing that greets me.

I'm not a general or master of war, but I know that one of the soldiers should be standing watch over the camp. That fact aside, men who march to war often relish in the things that happen beneath the cover of darkness. They share stories of their conquests and gorge themselves on ale and women. Even if the Risian men are not akin to the soldiers I've come to know, the fact that not even a whisper of conversation is to be heard is concerning.

Following the sea of tents deeper into the camp, I freeze when a scent I've become all too familiar with in the past several days fills my nose. Blood.

Alarm bells sound in my mind, and fear surfaces to claw at the depths of my hollow soul. I steel my spine and push my uneasiness aside. If I'm to survive, I must keep my wits about me.

Closing my eyes, I exhale through my nose and command my tumultuous thoughts to calm. The metallic tang that rests on my tongue speaks of blood, though not of magic. There are no screams. No cries for aid or groans of pain. The quiet tells me that the person whose blood has been spilled is no longer of this realm.

The waves that cascade down my back lift into the breeze as another blast of wind whips around me. Opening my eyes, I square my shoulders and stride toward the tent to my left without allowing myself even the briefest moment of pause. Lifting the tent flap, I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes adjust to the lantern light and the scene before me becomes clear.

A sheathed longsword leans against the beam to my immediate right. A pair of standard combat boots sit adjacent. One silver breastplate, a helmet, and two vambraces lay in a pile beside the boots. Save for the blood that pools eneath my feet and the maimed body of a man atop the bed roll, nothing is amiss.

Bile rises in my throat when I take another stride forward and the hem of my gown drags through a puddle of crimson. I hate to see such beautiful material ruined. Curiosity replaces my disgust as I creep closer to the bedroll.

I squint as my shadow covers the Risian soldier's body in darkness. I recognize him as the blond man who leered at me. The stars have a twisted sense of humor indeed.

My gaze falls and latches on to what I assume was the killing blow. A long gash stretches across the length of the man's neck, the bob of his throat still intact beneath the clean cut. I lower into a squat, careful to keep my distance. Although I don't have extensive knowledge about wielding a blade, I know this level of precision requires both skill and experience. The man likely passed in his sleep before the blade finished slicing through his throat.

Standing, I wipe my palms down the front of my gown. Though no blood stains my hands, I need to be rid of the death that clings to me.

My strides are calm and precise as I return to the night. Violence of this nature no longer appalls me. The crown that named me Queen has been bathed with blood for centuries.

I'm unable to push my rising uneasiness aside as I peek into the tents along the row and a pattern emerges. Each tent is soaked with blood from the bodies of the Risian soldiers inside them. Alarm bells scream in my mind when I reach the last two tents.

Realization strikes as I step inside the final tent. There are no personal belongings or blood. No faint glow of a lantern's light. Of the thirteen other tents I've inspected, the corpses of Ayla and Goldie are nowhere to be found.

Though mistrust and doubt slither into my bones, I turn heel and run. Regardless if this is another mind game that the King of Risian plays, I won't pass up what may be my only chance to escape.