Chapter 4

The woman vomited in the road, hands on her knees, bent over and shuddering.

He watched without commenting, waiting for her to finish. It had been a long time since sights like those around them had bothered him. He’d stopped seeing carnage a long time ago—even embraced it as the Wolf.

Adrian stepped forward, not sure what he intended to do, a coil of something soft unraveling inside him. The urge surprised him as much as the death around him didn’t.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, jerking away and narrowly missing her vomit.

He turned to the small saddlebag and pulled a leather waterskin from it. Water sloshed inside—barely enough for a swallow—but he opened it and held it out to her.

She watched him as if he were a snake poised to attack.

“It’s not poisoned,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “The prince wants you alive.”

She hesitated only a moment before snatching it from his hands and sniffing the contents. Keeping her eyes on him, she took a small sip, swishing it around before spitting it out. Then she swallowed what remained.

All that was left. The last of the water, and he hadn’t even considered it for himself. He’d handed it to her without a thought—an instinct. Somewhere beneath his armor and blood, past muscle and into bone, had been a ripple of pleasure when she’d taken it from his hand—an offering, a sacrifice to the beautiful defiance all over her face.

Handing it back, she kept her eyes locked on his face, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Soot and sweat smudged her face and body, the terror of the day stamped across her features.

He knew it would stay with her. And maybe she would learn to live with it. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

He nodded, putting the waterskin back in his pack, mind racing. His reaction to her surprised him—disturbing and unexpected.

She was nothing. Could be nothing. He couldn’t forget that.

“We have several miles to go,” he said, turning to her, watching her as she watched him.

She looked ready to run, ready to sprint across the fields until it was all well behind her and nothing but memory.

“Run and I’ll hunt you down.”

Her face paled, expression falling. It had been all over her, obvious for anyone to see.

“You’ll ride,” he said, gesturing to his horse. “Come here.”

“Your horse will bite me,” she said, keeping back.

Nox twisted his head to look at the woman, the whites of his eyes showing, his ears laid back. Nox might bite her. He tried to bite everyone, including the horsemen, and other horses. Adrian was the only exception.

“Get on,” Adrian said. “Or I’ll put you on.”

When she didn’t move, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. He was done playing nice. The prince had insisted she was to be treated well—as a guest and not a prisoner. But Adrian wasn’t going to waste time with her in the middle of the road.

The woman lurched in his grasp, twisting away from Nox as he swung his head around and nipped at her.

Adrian moved between them and swung her up into the saddle in a smooth motion, keeping the horse from achieving his desire. She was small and delicate, weighing almost nothing, and gripped the saddle so tightly her knuckles turned white. The horse dwarfed her, and she made a noise as the animal sidestepped, muscles quivering.

He made a shushing sound, smoothing a hand along Nox’s neck, and the animal settled. Then he took the reins and began to walk, considering the best route to take.

The Traveling City wasn’t far now; it had covered hundreds of miles as the siege slowly wore down the Golden Citadel. It had taken longer than anyone had anticipated, and the prince would be displeased for months. But the blame fell on the generals and commanders. Adrian would watch each one die impassively and refused to acknowledge the spark of relief that flared in his heart.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“To a waypoint,” he replied after a moment.

“And then?”

Was that a tremor in her voice? “The main camp.”

“And the prince is there?”

“No.” Adrian shook his head. “We’ll go to the Traveling City.”

The woman didn’t speak again.

He glanced back once, curiosity getting the better of him, to find her staring off into the distance. She appeared calm outwardly, but a muscle jumped in her jaw, her inner thoughts clearly in turmoil.

Her eyes flicked down, meeting his flat gaze, and then she looked away again, searching the horizon.

There was an air of a cornered animal about her, the sense that at any moment, she would dart away.

She would learn soon enough that there would be no escape.

* * *

Sorcha turned in the saddle at the sound of approaching horses.

The man who took her from the Citadel was at the head of a small group. She recognized his strange yellow eyes even from a distance. They seemed to glow in the fading light. Others rode behind him, all armor similar to the Wolf’s.

Behind them, the Citadel smoked in the distance. She’d avoided looking back, even as a low rumble of collapse filled the air. She hadn’t wanted to see it fall, to witness the final death throes.

They weren’t as far as she’d expected to be. But they’d been moving slowly with her in the saddle and the man leading the horse. It wasn’t long before the group traveling behind them caught up.

They paused as the group joined them.

“The city is empty,” the man with the yellow eyes said, his gaze moving from the Wolf to Sorcha. “I expected to find you in camp.”

“Go ahead and make sure there’s food. Rest your horses. It will be a long day tomorrow to the main camp.”

The man nodded, gesturing to the others to follow him.

Sorcha kept her eyes down as they flowed past her. But she could feel their interest.

Soon they were small figures on the road ahead of them, and then gone as the sun sank in the sky.

It wasn’t long before they reached the small camp he’d spoken of. It was nothing more than a hastily dug fire pit and a circle of saddles and horses. There was room around the fire for people to sit, and someone had dragged a small log near the fire. Two men sat on it holding cards, a small pile of coins between them.

No one looked up when the Wolf entered camp leading the horse. There were maybe thirty men sitting or standing around the area they’d marked as their own. Some talked in small groups, and several were bundled in blankets with their heads resting on their saddles, sleeping on the muddy ground.

No eyes were on her. But Sorcha could feel them not looking. They were more than aware of her among them. Some of it was pure curiosity, but there was hostility in the air as well.

Sorcha slid from the saddle before the Wolf could offer any kind of help. She dodged the horse as he turned his head and tried to catch her with his teeth. Moving several steps away, she wrapped her arms around herself.

The Wolf glanced at her, looking from head to toe in a heartbeat, before turning to the group around the fire and gesturing to a man with blond hair. He came forward but didn’t look at Sorcha, one hand on the dagger at his hip and the other gripping a medallion on a thin leather cord around his neck.

“Hugh, find a blanket for the woman.”

The man nodded and turned away, hands dropping from his dagger and charm.

Another man stepped forward and took the Wolf’s mount to the line of other horses. This one did throw a glance her way, but his expression was unreadable.

Sorcha’s skin crawled with unease, standing hesitantly back as the Wolf went to speak with the pair playing cards.

A copse of trees rose to the right, the grouping spindly and short. Even if she made it that far, there were barely enough trees to conceal her. The rest of the land around them was farmland, trampled fields, with nowhere to hide but the shallow ditches.

Sorcha took a step backward, still facing the group of men. Then another. No one seemed to notice or care that she was slowly easing back toward the road.

Hugh returned from the group of horses carrying a gray blanket. Even from a distance, Sorcha could see it was stained and filthy.

Between noticing Hugh had returned and taking another step back, the Wolf was there beside her, moving so silently she hadn’t even heard his chainmail rattle. He gripped her arm with one black-gloved hand, dragging her toward the fire. She stumbled, but he kept her upright. He indicated a flat stone, barely large enough to perch on, and let her go.

“Sit,” he said, then turned to Hugh. “Find a clean blanket.”

“The witch doesn’t deserve one.”

The Wolf stared at Hugh, radiating cold, not speaking.

Hugh paled, turning away to search for another blanket.

In a smooth motion, he removed his sword and sat beside her with a creak of metal and leather.

She glanced at him, his profile so near to her own, the long dark lashes and smudged soot on his cheek.

Sorcha was painfully aware of him. His cruelty frightened her, the obvious strength and fear he commanded from those around him. He was a palpable force beside the fire, a man made of anger and darkness. But he drew her eye as he took out a cloth and a polishing stone and began to clean his weapon.

It took only a moment before Hugh returned with a cleaner blanket. He offered it to Sorcha without looking at her, his attention on the Wolf.

She took it, grateful despite herself, because the cold seeping up from the ground was already sinking into her bones.

“How do you know this is the vessel?” Hugh asked, mouth set in a hard line. “What if this is some other witch hoping to escape the sword?”

The Wolf didn’t look up from cleaning his weapons, and when he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. “Why are you asking questions?”

The camp fell silent as the men paused, watching the three by the fire, tension building.

Sorcha looked from one to the other.

In a lightning-fast movement, the Wolf removed the dagger from Hugh’s hip and pressed it to his throat. A trickle of blood appeared, sliding down into the high neck of his undershirt.

Hugh’s eyes went wide, the whites visible all around the iris. When he swallowed, the blade cut into him a little, and more blood trickled down his neck.

No one said a word.

Sorcha forgot to breathe. Would he kill the man right here? Like the yellow-eyed man had killed his compatriot. Was there no honor among killers, then?

“I’m not asking questions, sir,” Hugh said, voice rough as he swallowed, and the blood continued to flow.

The Wolf released him, turning away.

Sorcha looked away from them, not wanting to see if either one threw a glance in her direction. She didn’t want to be any more involved than she already was.

The other men returned to their conversations, and Sorcha watched the fire.

The Wolf did not take his seat beside her again. He went to speak with another man, one she had not heard a name for yet, and she was grateful for the small solitude it gave her.

As the sky darkened, a man put a collapsible cooking pot over the fire and poured water into it before adding hunks of some unrecognizable dried food. When it had boiled, the men gathered around the pot, holding cups close to their bodies and talking quietly. The Wolf was last, making sure all his men had eaten before receiving his share.

Sorcha’s stomach growled, but she didn’t think she’d be able to eat. There had been so much blood, the last few hours a blur of panic and pain. Yet her body betrayed her, the scent of the food overpowering.

Adrian crouched beside her, extending the cup he held.

The scent of cooked vegetables reached her, and it smelled better than anything she could remember. But she hesitated, watching him, too aware of the tension between them.

“Take it,” he said, voice flat and expressionless.

Sorcha shook her head. Even as hungry as she was, she didn’t want to eat what this monster offered. She would rather starve. But it smelled so good, and the ground beneath her was so cold.

He shrugged, setting it beside her and moving to sit a few feet away.

The sun set and the moon rose, the men going silent one by one as the card game stopped and they packed up their camp. Hugh brought more wood for the fire, building it up and taking a place among the others. Adrian remained beside her, the cold cup of soup between them.

Exhaustion took its toll, sleep coming on hard, offering a reprieve from the horror of the day, and she welcomed it.

* * *

Adrian watched the woman sleep. Her brow creased as she mumbled through dreams, twitching, her hand fluttering up and falling back. She didn’t wake, and he didn’t move to wake her. She cried out once, a sharp sound in the night, drawing the attention of the men around the fire. He waved them off, and they dismissed her easily, turning back to the campfire.

The horror of the city hadn’t touched him. But he wondered what had happened to her there to disturb her dreams. The blood on her dress had dried, and there had been a lot of it. He hadn’t ridden into the city, leaving that for the others, but there must have been many other people with her. Other priests and priestesses, people whose place it was to protect the vessel.

He was curious about that—her destructive faith and worship of the dead. What did it take for someone to believe in such things? He had faith in his sword and nothing else.

Exhaustion hung heavy on his shoulders, lodging in his back and making his neck ache. But he couldn’t sleep. Despite the prince’s explicit orders that the woman wasn’t to be touched and must be treated with the utmost respect, Adrian’s men were superstitious. They’d already proven themselves to be more wary of what they didn’t understand than beholden to the prince’s word.

It would be a mistake to leave her unguarded until they’d come to terms with the fact that her life was more valuable than theirs right now.