8. Feck-All Island

Chapter 8

Feck-All Island

O n their first full day on Feck-All Island—as Erran had grumpily named it, after stepping into a nest of spiders and nearly breaking his ankle trying to dance away—they found the river and the well.

Mariel noted the sun’s position, in the center of the sky, which meant they’d been hiking for close to an hour through dense brush and a scarcely marked path. Erran had had the forethought to mark their route by carving small arrows into trees every few meters. The arrows pointed in the direction of their return, so they wouldn’t get lost.

They might have reached the river faster, but Erran was quick with the reminders that longevity and sustainability were their goals, not speed. Until they had their food and water sources, they had to assume their resources were finite, as was their stamina.

The river was at least thirty feet wide, and from the surface, it appeared to be about half as deep. Upriver was a series of waterfalls, carved through the rocky cliffs.

“A longer walk than I’d like for filling our skins, but at least we have water.” Erran stood on the banks, hands on his hips as he surveyed the river. He knelt and scooped a handful, giving it a tentative slurp. “No heavy taste of minerals. We have no pot to boil with, but I ken it’s safe enough.”

But Mariel was more curious about the well. “Wells don’t build themselves.”

He turned, one brow slanted. “Aye? They don’t?”

“Shut it,” she hissed, shaking her head. “This is now the second piece of considerable evidence we’ve seen that men come here, often enough to build a curing shed and a well.”

Erran turned back toward the river. “Not that often, judging from the condition of our shed. Those carcasses are a year old. More. The dust hasn’t been disturbed in at least that long.”

“Aye, but it’s no minor effort to build a well. You have to excavate, dam?—”

“I know how to build a well, Mariel.”

She scoffed. “Have you built many wells, Erran?”

He said nothing, which was all the answer she needed.

“Well, I have. It’s nay a wee amount of labor. And I wouldn’t waste the time building one if I wasn’t going to use it.”

“When?”

“Excuse me?”

“When did you build wells?”

Mariel took great offense from the skepticism she heard in his mocking tone. “Every time I built a well, it was for a family in need. That’s what community really is, Erran. Jumping in to help others, putting them above yourself.”

Her words punched a small crack in his peevish demeanor. “What’s your point then?”

She approached, lingering a few feet behind him. “The curing shed might be neglected, but this well tells me there could be other discoveries ahead. Better ones.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I don’t know, but don’t you want to find out?” Mariel countered, exasperated with how absurdly thickheaded he was acting.

He reached into the makeshift satchel he’d fashioned from some sack cloth they’d found behind the shed, and he handed her one of the skins. “Let’s get these filled, find some food, and head back. We can do more tomorrow.”

Mariel snatched the skin from him and stepped in beside him. “Why are you dismissing what I’m saying?”

Erran rolled his lips in with a quick raise of his eyes. “Suppositions are interesting thought experiments, but in an actual survival situation, you need sureties. You’re playing a game of odds against a foe you cannot beat but might learn to cohabitate with, if you’re smart. Even if you’re right, we’d spend more energy chasing your ghosts than we can afford, when all we’ve collected is...” He cast a melodramatic and unnecessary glance into his bag. They both knew what was in there. “A bit of fennel. Oh, and look. More fennel.”

“And what do you know about survival situations, Errandil, except what Daddy taught you in your Everything Gets Handed to Me Because I Was Born First and Have a Cock training?”

His eyes rolled all the way toward the sky. “The mouth on you is something else. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I thought foul women were to your taste?”

Erran tilted his head. “As much as lies and deception are to yours, I ken.”

Mariel closed her eyes to cool her blood. They had no choice but to coexist, and it would be smoother if they could do so peacefully. “I have been in survival situations. I don’t refute your point about conserving energy, but hear me out. If men took the time to build a sturdy water source, instead of just filling skins in a river like we planned to, there will be more conveniences. Maybe even a food supply. Someone either lived here or came here frequently. There’ll be signs of it, if we keep going.”

He threaded an exhausted breath through his nose. “I want to be back before the sun reads three in the afternoon. There’s another storm brewing, and I don’t want to be stranded in this forest when it hits.”

Mariel brightened. “Aye, we’ll just go a bit farther and then we’ll turn back.”

“I mean it. I feel like... like we’re being watched, and not by people.” A clench on the end of his words revealed his error. He undoubtedly thought she’d ascribe weakness to them, and after his little animated speech about survival training, it was clear he wanted her to revel in his masculinity. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

“Nay, I feel it too. Whatever they are, they’re dangerous,” she said. It had started the moment they’d pushed beyond the boundaries of their known world, the sensation of hidden eyes stalking their movements. Beasts sizing them up for later. She remembered the crazed squeal she’d heard from the beach, and she knew she never, ever wanted to come face-to-face with whatever foul creature had made it.

They filled their skins in silence and continued on in the same fashion. She picked scattered handfuls of dandelions, adding them to Erran’s bag, and also chicory root. None of it was what they really needed, but it would help make the dried meat stretch until they had a fresh source.

She wondered what everyone back in Whitecliffe was thinking about their disappearance. Both Erran and Mariel would have been declared missing already, but unless Banner or his men had identified her personally, it was unlikely anyone would tie her to the chase. Erran was easier to recognize, but he must have done a fair job hiding because she’d never sensed, even once, that she and the Perevil siblings had been followed. Unless the guards had gotten a solid look at him before he’d leaped into the sea after her, it was unlikely anyone had tied him to the scene either.

Remy and Augustine might guess she’d gone for the Mistwitch , but who would they tell? Who could they tell without revealing more than they should?

That was if they’d even made it to safety. She prayed with all her heart that they had.

And Destin... What would become of him, if she never made it home? Jails were incongruously lawless places. They could hold a man as long as they wanted, unless strong evidence compelled them to release him or a powerful man came to speak for him. There was no one or way to produce this evidence, now that she’d botched the auction heist. And there was certainly no one to speak for him. Steward Rutland had made his position on the matter quite clear.

She had no choice but to accept she was powerless about any of it.

“Mariel.”

She shifted from her haze and followed where Erran was pointing. A fig tree, just off the path.

Mariel broke into a giddy smile and bounded toward it. Erran was slower, still aching from his injuries, but together they filled his makeshift bag with as many figs as it could hold.

“You were right to push us farther,” he said when the sack was nearly overflowing. He adjusted it higher on his shoulder. “Can we turn back now?”

She knew in her heart there was more to be discovered, but they had all the time in the world to explore. Nodding, she leaned against the tree, stretching her back, when a sharp glint caught her notice. “What’s... What is that ?”

He turned toward where she was looking. His eyes narrowed. “I... Stay here.”

“Don’t ken I will,” she muttered and followed him through the brush toward where she could have sworn she’d seen a window.

Erran thrashed at the stalks and stems to forge a path. Some smacked her in the face on the recoil, but she stayed close at his back until the dense flora made way for an open area. At the center stood a cabin, larger and more impressive than the shed near the shore. A large fire pit, surrounded by logs for seating, had been dug into the ground about twenty paces from the door. There was no sign of recent use, and even the ash was mostly blown away, but it was well-built.

She hadn’t imagined the windows. On the front alone there were three, one on the left side of the door and two to the right of it. Vines grew up and around them, and even through a small hole in the pane of one.

It had the same air of abandonment as their first shelter, but that didn’t mean it was.

“Well, look at that,” he said, whistling. “Should we knock?”

Mariel laughed. “And if someone answers?”

“We pray they’re friendly.” He patted his sword. “And if not, there’s two of us. Aye, I know you can fight too. No need to play demure.”

“I would never denigrate my own Guardians-given abilities,” she said, scoffing. Nodding at her boots, at the daggers strapped just under the leather, she asked, “Should I?”

Erran shook his head. “We draw nothing unless we must.” He approached the door slowly, one hand cautioning Mariel to keep some distance. The first knock sent birds scattering deeper into the forest. The second pushed the door open with a creaky swing.

He glanced back and held her gaze a moment before stepping inside. “There’s no one here. You can come in.”

If the shed had been a blessing, the cabin was a damned miracle. It was a single room as well but twice as large, and it had been given far better care. There was a table with three chairs, a stove with a hanging pot, and some frying pans resting on the ashes underneath. Along the windowsills was a handful of lanterns, coated in dust. In the corner was a raised cot, though there were no blankets, and next to it, evidence of two others that had broken and were no longer serviceable, their canvas and rods propped in the corner. A cloudy mirror hung cockeyed on the far wall, a metal basin beneath it.

Mariel approached the table and found a map pinned down by rocks. She traced her fingers over the names, faded but readable. Rushwood. Everleigh Pike. Whitechurch. All towns in the Easterlands.

Erran drew up beside her and leaned over the table. “The Easterlands. Interesting,” he said.

“Aye.” Mariel nodded. “But useless. Why couldn’t it be a map of Feck-All Island?”

He chuckled. “The Guardians want us to work for our supper, I suppose. Hey, what’s that over there?”

They spent the next few minutes going through crates and bags left by the prior occupant. Bandages, antiseptic, and a needle and thread were among their findings. Every discovery they’d show each other, like gleeful children uncovering some new wonder.

“You ken if we push farther into this forest, we might find a whole keep?” Erran jested as their exploration ended.

“There is such a thing as turning back while you’re still ahead,” she teased back. “I wonder when the owner might return.”

“A problem for another day. We solved most of ours in just a few hours. An unexpectedly fortuitous trek.”

He was right. It was a problem for another day. They could have just as easily slept under the rain, at the mercy of whatever beasts prowled the night, but fortune had smiled their way. Only a fool would forsake the gifts the day had brought.

“Oh, and I broke off some flint from the riverbed.” He dug into his pocket to show her. “For fire.”

She frowned. “I usually rub sticks together.”

“If that’s how you want to start your fires, go ahead. I’ll take the easier way.” He sighed. “I suppose we should go back and grab our things? Move camp here?”

Mariel nodded, unsure where the creeping dread had come from. They had food, better shelter, an endless water source... a way to prepare meals and a pit perfect for a large, warming fire. The circumstances could not be better, after what they’d endured. So why could she not shake the sense something very wrong was happening?

It’s the shock, she decided. You wrecked your ship and washed up on an island. Your nerves are shot. Of course you’re anxious.

“This firepit may be our greatest discovery yet. Did you see how it was reinforced on the sides, for containment? We can safely build a fire big enough to send smoke signals to anyone passing nearby.”

“Aye,” she said distantly, following him down the steps and into the warm afternoon. “Let’s be quick about getting back, Erran.”

His hand brushed the middle of her back. “You were right,” he said for the second time. “And in concession to my wrongness, rare as it is, I’ll cook us up the most delicious fennel stew tonight. Might even throw some dandelions in there, if I’m feeling saucy.”

Mariel’s expression cracked, though the smile she offered wasn’t compatible with the burning in her chest, urging her to get to the shed and back as quickly as possible. She’d never had the magic touch like Destin had, but her instincts had kept her alive through some truly heinous situations, and she wasn’t going to start ignoring them now. “How could I refuse such a tantalizing offer from a man who has probably never prepared a single meal in his life?”

The walk back to the shed was quicker. It wasn’t just the markings making for a straightforward route, or their confidence in the destination. There was a lightness between them that hadn’t been possible before. Erran had actually seen Mariel’s smile—her real smile, not the practiced one she believed she’d perfected for him and his family—and it made him want to see it more often.

While she collected their few belongings from the shed, Erran wandered down to the Mistwitch . She looked no worse than she had before, though clearly no better either. But if any of their fires worked, the vessel would be the first thing a rescuer would see, and they would need to know where to find them.

Erran withdrew the dagger he’d borrowed from Mariel and approached the part of the hull facing the coast. The hole was almost bigger than what remained, but there was plenty of room to carve WENT INLAND E+ M on the side, in the largest letters he could manage before his sore arm gave out.

He hadn’t reviewed all the ways he’d been battered in the wreck, but there were plenty of wounds to assess. No breaks, mercifully, which meant he’d be back to form within a day or two. It was mostly bruises, one bleeding right into another, no clear beginning or end. But there were a couple of gashes that would need a cleaning if he wanted to avoid infection. The antiseptic had been one of their more fortunate finds in the cabin.

Mariel was waiting for him outside the shed, her arms stretched around the broad crate. He grinned to himself and went to relieve her, but the sharply offended look she shot back had him thinking better of it.

“I could at least take the blankets so it’s not so overflowing,” he said, but she rolled her eyes.

“You could,” she agreed and sauntered ahead of him. Her ass had a light sway to it, full of attitude, and the urge to charge up behind her and toss her over his shoulder like a savage had him questioning whether he’d perhaps sustained a concussion without realizing so.

“Tomorrow I’ll try my hand at fishing,” Erran said as they passed their first marked tree. “Not much work to fashion a spear, and I saw a few fish pooling in the low tide.”

“Might even be able to rig a pole together. There’s netting, and I’ll bet we could break up some metal, make a lure. The broken cot pieces looked promising.”

“You sound like you know this from experience.” He glanced her way to see her reaction, which was often less guarded than her words.

“I’ve made a few in my time,” she said with a noncommittal shrug. “There were years Destin and I didn’t have a consistent home. Even when we did, there was no food.”

“Where were your parents?”

“Dead. Been on our own since I was twelve.”

Erran struggled to understand the implication of her words. “You had no adults looking after you after the age of twelve?”

“Not really. Destin was seventeen and still two years from maturity, so the law wouldn’t let him take on our father’s property,” she answered, her tone and step still as casual as before. “My friend Remy, the one you saw in Mistgrave, his father stepped up for a spell, but then he was gone too. It was just the four of us. That’s why... he’s so important to me. He’s family.”

“Who was the fourth?”

Mariel’s easiness withdrew some. “Remy’s sister.”

Erran remembered how close the man, Remy, had seemed to his mother’s seamstress. He couldn’t quite remember her name, but she’d been embedded in their household for several years, and his mother was fond of her. If it was a coincidence, it was a substantial one.

He decided their unspoken truce wasn’t the time to ask. Mariel would return to loathing him soon enough. He still had to ask her about Banner anyway, so he might as well store his questions for when the peace had subsided.

“I’m sorry,” he said unhelpfully, wishing there were something better to offer her.

“Wasn’t your fault. You were just a bairn then too.”

It was a strange thing to say. Of course it hadn’t been his fault, but her words didn’t seem accidentally chosen. “Mariel, when I... followed you...” Careful. “What I really intended to do was ride to the jail and take care of matters with your brother.”

Mariel bucked forward. Her expression waffled somewhere between distrust and disbelief. “And betray your father?”

“I don’t see it as a betrayal. If Sessaly had been locked up in error, he wouldn’t have let her stay a moment longer than she had to.”

She snorted. “The only thing Sessaly is guilty of is chin-wagging, and she’s fortunate it’s not a crime.”

He chuckled. “Aye, or we’d never see her again, least not as a free woman.”

“Why is she like that? Does no one ever think to restrain her?”

“The few times I tried to intervene didn’t go so well for me.” He shook his head. “It’s my father’s doing. He spoils her too much. Thinks she’s harmless and won’t let any of us disavow him of this grievous falsehood. Say even a word about it and he’ll turn on you faster than a hurricane.”

Mariel got quiet. “You were really going to the jail? You’re not making it up?”

“I thought you might head there, so I followed you, but then you...” He trailed off, worried about veering too close to the conversation that had to happen, but not just then. “Anyway, I—” He froze... tugged on Mariel to do the same. She stared at him in confusion, but he cocked his head and pointed at his ear, to listen.

It was distant at first, but then it seemed as if the ground had erupted in a muted tremble.

“Is...” Mariel’s eyes slowly widened. Her chest rose and fell in sharp waves. She turned her head slowly behind them and screamed, “RUN!”

A shrill whine rang through the air, set to more thundering hooves. Erran bolted after Mariel, ignoring every scream and ache his body sang in protest.

The sound came up in a rush and Erran pushed Mariel to go faster, but she was practically waddle-running from the position of the crate.

“Drop it! We can come back for it!” he shouted.

“ No , it has our meat !” Mariel dodged a root, leaping through the air and landing smoothly. “Our only meat!”

“I’ll get more!”

“Until you get more, it’s all we have!”

“Mariel, it’s right up on us!”

“Erran, I swear on everything—” Mariel went sprawling over a different root, the crate miraculously landing perfectly upright, aside from some blanket spillage. She, on the other hand, immediately gripped her ankle as she failed to stand.

“Fecking hell,” Erran muttered, scooping her off the ground and flinging her over his back. He almost left the crate, but something compelled him to grab it. The pause gave the beast hunting them a chance to narrow the distance, and he could almost feel the hot, stinking breaths on his ass, the spittle of hunger soon to be sated.

Erran pushed his pace, wheezing from the enduring pain. It seemed every tree and bush was moving, swaying in response to the beast’s authority. He’d gotten the briefest glance of it when he’d lifted Mariel, its curved tusks and elongated snout more than enough for him to know they’d be speared before he could even draw his sword.

Mariel didn’t fight him at all, more evidence of her survival skills. Upside down, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pushing short, tight breaths in and out.

Limbs battered his face, and thorns he didn’t have the time or energy to avoid sliced his ankles. He grunted, shifting Mariel higher on his back, and called on his reserves to give him the last bit of strength he needed to get them to the cabin.

“Erran... Erran, let me down. We’ll go faster,” Mariel said through her panting, but he heard in her voice she didn’t mean it, that she was just as terrified of the fate awaiting them if he missed another step.

“It is tempting to offer you as a sacrifice,” he muttered through his teeth, gasping when they left the forest and entered the clearing. He bolted the rest of the way and slammed through the open door with enough force to send him and her both sprawling across the floor. The crate tumbled, losing its contents on its way to slamming into the table leg.

Mariel yelped and hissed through her teeth. Erran climbed to his feet and raced to the door, but the beast had stopped at the forest line. Its red eyes peered from between the brush, its nostrils flaring in a sinister taunt. Come play .

“What are you... Erran...” Thumping sounded behind him as Mariel hobbled his way. “Close the damn door!”

“He’ll come no closer,” Erran said distantly. The boar—or whatever it was, as the thing was bigger than any boar he’d ever seen, by far—knew better somehow. It’d seen men there before. “He’s watched men hunt. Thinks we have the same tools.”

“Or he’s playing with us,” she replied, gripping the other side of the doorframe for balance. She had one leg coiled up. “If he was afraid, he’d run.”

“He’s not afraid. He’s just waiting to see what we’ll do.”

“Well, give me your feckin’ sword, and I’ll show him!”

Erran scoffed at her, only realizing she was looking for a fight after her response, when she made a disgusted sound she’d been clearly waiting to use.

“Don’t think I have it in me?” Mariel asked in challenge. Pain etched the corners of her eyes, half-squinted as she balanced one foot.

“Do I think you’re foolish enough to charge out there like a loon and swing metal around, praying it lands somewhere useful?” He shook his head. “Aye, I ken you have that in you.”

Mariel reached for his sword belt and worked to wrench it free from its scabbard. Erran clamped a hand over hers and waited for her futile struggle to end. Giving up, she swung around to face him with a caustic glare that was so full of hatred, it startled him.

“Are you too scared of the thing to realize he could feed us for weeks?” Her tone practically screeched. “If you can’t summon the courage, Errandil, at least let me.”

“Enticing as it might be at this moment to watch him flatten you with his hooves and feast upon your foul mouth until it can spew its acid no longer, I might regret letting him slaughter you in the morning.” He dragged her back inside and slammed the door.

Erran released her near the table, so she had something to balance herself, and stormed to the basket where they’d found the bandages and antiseptic.

“Sit,” he ordered, his hands shaking as he dug for what he needed. He found it, turned back, and saw her swaying on one foot, her arms crossed and a petulant scowl on her face. “Mariel, sit the feck down and let me wrap this before you make it worse.”

With her eyes locked on his as if she could sear him alive, she hobbled dramatically toward the chair before flopping onto it. She regarded him with fluttery blinks, her nose flaring, holding fast to her acerbic smile.

Erran had never in his life been so exasperated by anyone.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep before dropping to his knees in front of her.

“Not afraid of the boar coming in to join us for some of your fennel stew?” she said, sounding almost flirtatious. Her spittle sprayed his forehead.

“More afraid he’d respectfully decline, seeing how full he’d be after ripping you apart.” He tore off a length of cloth in his teeth and lifted her leg by the calf. Her ankle had turned a purplish hue and was already swelling. “If you’d have just dropped the damn basket?—”

“You don’t want me to hunt him, aye, but you’re perfectly fine with him eating our dried meat?”

Erran balanced her leg with one hand and wrapped with the other, annoyed with himself for how gingerly he was being with her even as she was once again using insults to make him feel like less of a man. “Do you really think boars eat dried meat?”

“And why not?”

“For the same reason they wouldn’t eat a rotted carcass, Mariel. Their instincts would tell them it’s not fresh and therefore not safe! And from the scent of it, the dried meat is probably boar, aye? So you ken this boar is just magically the only cannibal boar alive?” He cinched the first wrap, tighter than was necessary.

Her eyes closed briefly, but she voiced no complaint.

“Things I’d expect you to have learned, from all your outlawing.”

“Outlawing? Is that even a word? Or are highborns so used to everyone following what they say that you’re just inventing them now?” Mariel’s expression was curled in disgust, but her hands gripped the chair so tightly, her knuckles had gone bone white. “A desperate enough beast will eat anything. That’s what I learned all those years in the forests of Mistgrave, wondering where my next meal would come from.”

“Your parents,” he said through gritted teeth, tightening another length of cloth, “should have had a plan for you if something happened to them. That’s naught to do with me.”

“What privilege drips from the tongue of a boy who thinks everyone has access to the same advantages. A plan, you say? And what would such a plan entail, when most of the adults we knew were dead or dying from scurvy, and our land was being stolen faster than we could build upon it?”

“You say stolen, but the law forbids felons from owning land in the Southerlands.”

“The law? You mean your father?”

“I mean the law, Mariel.” He tied another strip.

“They’re the same, and even you’re not stupid enough to be blind to it. Who benefits from the land being taken? Men like your father. Who determines what’s a crime and what is not? The men who work for him. Ah, what a pretty picture this paints, don’t you think, Errandil?”

Heat engulfed his face, burning the backs of his eyes, which watered from anger. His mouth puckered in rage he could barely suppress, but he had to. He had to. No matter how she goaded him, he could not let her see him like that. She was still his wife, at least until they returned home and he secured the annulment he should have demanded months ago. “You take the cot tonight. I’ll take the floor.”

“I’ll nay argue with that,” Mariel muttered. “And we may even keep warm, since we held onto the crate with the blankets.”

Erran restrained himself, giving her ankle a light tap instead of the squeeze he felt like offering. “Stay off of it.” He cast a sigh and a glance at the door, which was drumming open and closed in the building wind. “We’ll have to keep watch.”

“Watch?” She lowered her ankle to the floor, delicately resting her heel there.

“The door doesn’t latch. I could slide the table over, but there’s not much weight to it. Nothing else in here would do.” He gathered up the spillage from the crate and dug out the bag of meat, then tossed it to Mariel. “I’ll take the first.”

She looked almost sad as she eyed the bag in her hands. It faded abruptly. “Why? Because you’re a man?”

He snorted. “Nay, Mariel. Because I’m neither hungry nor tired anymore, and if I have to spend one more minute in here with you, I’ll go feral myself.”

“What about the storm?”

“I’m not afraid of a little rain.” Erran snatched one of the blankets from the crate and left before she could sling another cutting insult. He draped it over a log and checked to ensure the flint was still in his pocket after their near catastrophe.

Everything she’d said was taking up far too much space in his thoughts, making him angry all over again, so instead he searched for the sticks he’d need to kindle a fire, his eyes always toward the spot where the beast had watched them. There were still a few logs stacked against the side of the cabin from whoever had occupied it last. If they were there much longer, they’d need to chop more.

As he carried his bundle back, an idea came to him. It pissed him off that he was still thinking of her, but he still lifted the branch from the gloaming and holding it against his leg in measurement.

Erran arranged the logs and kindling, then used the flint to spark a flame on the edge of the cloth he’d brought out as a fire starter. It flickered and caught on fast, and he quickly dropped it on top of the arranged twigs. Within minutes, it had enough life that he could settle onto the log and relax.

Relax . He wanted to laugh. Even if he wasn’t stranded on an island no one knew he was on, there’d be no relaxing when Mariel Ashdown was there to remind him of how fast she could go from warm and fun to a glacier.

He still hadn’t worked up the courage to push for the conversation he’d warned her was coming. But demanding answers at this point would only fill in holes, confirming the suspicions her visit to Banner had earthed. He just needed to hear her say it. And he needed to know why.

With a sigh, he laid his sword on the log next to him for ease of draw. He extracted her dagger and whittled the branch he’d brought back with him, clearing his mind and heart of a day that had first lifted him but then buried him in the earth.

It was nearly dawn before Mariel finally succumbed to exhaustion. Her thoughts had nagged her into restlessness, sending her conscience into a confused tailspin.

Erran was a figurehead of everything she’d fought against for ten years. He was also a man who had been nothing but kind to her, no matter what profanities or bitterness she’d lobbed at him—a man who had saved her when leaving her behind would have been a guarantee of his own safety and then, as she’d accosted him, had calmly wrapped her ankle because even in his own anger, he could still do what needed to be done.

She used to be capable of such a thing. Before she’d become a Rutland.

When she awoke, not much later, exhausted and swollen, Erran still hadn’t come in to rest.

But beside her on the cot was a long branch, carved into a crutch.