“You’re not a farmer,” Gwyneth said.

“I don’t care what the hell he is,” Berdi said and shoved a cloth sack into my hand. “Go!”

“The leader is Sven. He’ll have at least a dozen men with him,” I called over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I still had six hours of daylight. I filled my bota at the pump and grabbed a sack of oats for my horse. They had a long lead. It would take a while to catch up with them. But I would. I’d do whatever it took to bring her back. I found her once. I would find her again.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

I woke to a grinning face and a knife at my throat.

“If you have the gift, why didn’t you see me coming in your dreams?”

It was the boy, Eben. He had the voice of a girl, and his eyes were those of a curious waif. A child. But his intent was that of a seasoned thief. He intended to steal my life. If the gift was all that was keeping me alive, Eben didn’t seem to have gotten the message.

“I saw you coming,” I said.

“Then why didn’t you wake to fend me off?”

“Because I also saw—”

He was suddenly catapulted through the air, landing several feet away.

I sat up, looking at Griz, whom I had seen glaring over Eben’s shoulder. While he wasn’t fond of me, Griz also appeared not to tolerate rash independent decisions. Kaden was already on Eben, yanking him from the ground by the scruff.

“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” Eben complained, rubbing his bruised chin. “I was just playing with her.”

“Play like that again, and you’ll be left behind without a horse,” Kaden shouted, and shoved him back to the ground. “Remember, she’s the Komizar’s prize, not yours.” He walked over and unshackled my ankle from a saddle, a precaution he had called it, to make sure I didn’t try to make a run for it during the night.

“And now I’m a prize?” I asked.

“The bounty of war,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“We’ve always been at war.”

I stood, rubbing my neck, so often abused of late. “As I was saying, Eben. The reason I saw no need to wake was because I also saw your dry bones being picked at by buzzards, and me riding away on my horse. I guess it could still turn out that way, couldn’t it?”

His eyes widened briefly, contemplating the veracity of my vision, and then he scowled at me, a scowl laced with too much rage for his tender years.

The day passed as the one before, hot, dry, grueling, and monotonous. Past the foothills was another hot basin, and another. It was the road to hell, and it afforded me no chance of slipping away. Even the hills were barren. There was nowhere to hide. It was little wonder that we passed no one. Who else would be out in this wasteland?

By the third day I stank as badly as Griz, but there was no one to notice. They all stank too. Their faces were streaked with grime, so I assumed mine looked the same, all of us becoming filthy striped animals. I tasted grit in my mouth, felt it in my ears, grit everywhere, dry bits of hell blowing on the breeze, my hands blistering on the reins.

I listened carefully to their grunting babble as we rode, trying to understand their words. Some were easy to decipher. Horse. Water. Shut up. The girl. Kill. But I didn’t let on that I was listening. In the evenings, as discreetly as possible, I searched the Vendan phrase book inside my bag for more words, but the book was basic and brief. Eat. Sit. Halt. Do not move.

Finch often filled the time whistling or singing tunes. One of them made me take note—I recognized the melody. It was a silly song from my childhood, and it became another key to their Vendan babble as I compared his Vendan words to the ones I knew in Morrighese.

A fool and his gold,

Coin piled so high,

Gathering and hoarding,

It reached to the sky,

But nary a coin,

Did the fool ever spend,

While his pile grew high,

The fool only grew thin.

Not a pittance for drink,

Nor a pittance for bread,

And one sunny day,

The fool found himself dead.

If only these fools appreciated a bit of coin, I’d be out of this blasted heat by now. Who was this Komizar who instilled loyalty in the face of riches? And just what did he do to traitors? Could it be worse than enduring this scorching purgatory? I wiped my forehead but felt only sticky grit.

When even Finch fell silent, I passed the time thinking about my mother and her long journey from the Lesser Kingdom of Gastineux. I had never been there. It was in the far north, where winter lasted three seasons, white wolves ruled the forests, and summer was a brief blinding green, so sweet that its scent lingered all winter. At least that’s what Aunt Bernette said. Mother’s descriptions were far more succinct, but I saw her expressions as Aunt Bernette described their homeland, the creases forming at her eyes with both smile and sadness.

Snow. I wondered what it felt like. Aunt Bernette said it could be both soft and hard, cold and hot. It stung and burned when the wind pelted it through the air, and it was a gentle cold feather when it drifted down in lazy circles from the sky. I couldn’t imagine it being so many opposite things, and I wondered if she had taken license with her story as Father always claimed. I couldn’t stop thinking of it.

Snow.

Maybe that was the smile and sadness I saw in my mother’s eyes, wanting to feel it just one more time. Touch it. Taste it. The way I wanted to taste Terravin just one more time. She’d left her homeland, traveling hundreds of miles when she was no more than my age. But I was certain her journey was nothing like the one I was on now. I looked out at the searing colorless landscape. No, nothing like this.