Then again, a human and a trollis were never meant to have a happy life together. And yet part of me hopes that because I cannot truly picture a permanent separation, it must be an impossibility. It must be. I could not bear anything else.
When I see four soldiers crossing the dry plain, brushing their hands on their stained, faded-blue clothes, I pause. Were they the same men from last night? Dunnan lingers nearby. After securing a knot, I step over to him and ask, “Where were they?”
He side-eyes me, though I’m hardly flirting. “Set out the . . . troll.”
My stomach turns. They killed him, then. Did they put his head on a pike, too, or something even more ungodly? Either way, I know they’re using him as bait. I read my father’s notes.
I desperately try to keep my face smooth, letting my hair shield my expression, and return to my work with the sledges. Bite the inside of my cheek.
I can’t get the image of Azmar’s severed head on a stake out of my mind. My eyes water, but when men come to hook up the sledge, I pretend I hurt my hand.
As before, my father tethers me to his horse. He’s relaxed a fraction. He doesn’t speak to me, which may be a good sign. No talk means no threats or demands. Maybe I’m playing my role better than I thought.
I scan our surroundings constantly as we march, trying to overlay the trollis map with the human one. Gauging the angle of the sun, wishing I had stars to direct me. Not only do I have to worry about escaping my father, but I can’t get lost, either. I offer prayers to every god, including Regret, to aid me. My father notices my wandering eyes and remarks on it, but I tell him I’m watching for trolls.
I hate calling them trolls.
We stop for lunch at midday. I sit obediently near my father, keeping my nose pointed toward my rations but spying the soldiers around me. An idea strikes. While I could claim some privacy to go to the bathroom, Father will send soldiers with me. He did yesterday. But if I can make him uncomfortable, and if I am earning some esteem, my plan might work.
But I don’t have a knife. I have to make do. This won’t be pleasant.
While soldiers talk, a few packing up early, I gnaw on my thumbnail. Climbing Cagmar has worn down most of my nails, but my thumbnails have held on. I bite it at an angle, so it’s sharp.
Then, checking to make sure my father’s attention is elsewhere, I slip my hand down the front of my slacks, grit my teeth, and dig the point into the highest part of my thigh.
I try to hide my wincing. I dig a little harder, until blood slicks my thumb. Then I smear it across my fingers, pull my hand away, and clench my knees together, giving the blood time to seep through the fabric.
My bleeding is a week away, but no one here knows that.
Finally, I drop my plate and double over, groaning.
“What’s wrong with you?” Father barks. “That’s good food!”
“I-I’m sorry.” I straighten, touch between my legs. My hand comes back bloody. “Oh no.”
Revulsion strikes my father instantly. “You couldn’t have done something?”
His tone is accusatory. He has no change of clothes for me, and the trollis council didn’t allow me to take a spare.
“I just . . .” I try to let natural panic edge my voice. “I-I just need to take care of it.”
I stand up, better showing the stain on my pants. My pulse radiates in the cut. I’ll need to clean it out as soon as I’m able, so it doesn’t get infected.
A few of the closer soldiers pale. One of them awkwardly withdraws a handkerchief.
My father snatches it and throws it at my feet. “Martos, watch her.”
The youngest of the band frowns but begrudgingly gets up. Little provides cover out here, only a few scraggly trees and ditches, some sagebrush. I choose the farthest scraggly tree in the direction of the Pentalpoint. I’m halfway there when Martos whines, “What in hell are you doing?”
“I-I just need privacy.” I show him my bloody hand again. He recoils.
Men.
I quicken my step. He quickens his to match. I slip behind the tree, which isn’t nearly wide enough to cover me. I think Martos will turn around when I move to pull down my pants, but he only folds his arms and watches.
“Do you mind?” I wad up the handkerchief and remember what my father said about “anxious” men.
Martos shrugs.
Daring, I let the slightest shiver of fear pass from me. I don’t even feel it, my own worry bubbles so strongly.
But Martos does. And thankfully, he turns around. Probably afraid of invoking Ottius Thellele’s rage for ogling his daughter. Or he’s disturbed by menstruation.
I rustle my shirt. Slip out of my shoes. Tiptoe away, keeping that trickle of fear steady, just as I did with the soldier last night. Just as I always did when Father brought in farmers and landowners to barter with, or anyone he wanted something from.
I don’t want Martos to hear me run. There’s a hill a short ways north. If I can wind around that, he won’t see which way I went. I need to get distance between my father and myself. He has a horse, and—
A sliver of white crosses the sky overhead. I squint. An aerolass! I haven’t seen one since I was sixteen. Like trollis, they have a build similar to a human’s, but with great feathers stemming from their long arms, and wide tails like a bird’s. Most of them have migrated away from here.
The ones that stayed were violent.
The stars, the gods, have heard my prayers. Or have they? The aerolass is so far away and alone. Fight or flee. If it’s the second, then it doesn’t matter.
Pushing my focus onto that aerolass, I ball up fear until my skin sweats cold and my knees clack together; then I shoot the fear out of me, sharp and fast as an arrow.
The aerolass’s flight falters. It banks toward the army.
I start to run. I’m nearly to the hill when shouts sound behind me. I don’t turn to see if the aerolass has attacked or if it’s been spotted. I don’t turn to see if my guard or anyone else has noticed me. I don’t turn around for anything.
I run and run and run, slipping through any cover I can get, ignoring the jagged rocks and thorns that bite at my bare feet. I don’t have time to put on my shoes. I don’t have time to do anything but run, run, run.
My father will be furious. He’ll send men after me.
With luck, I will never have to face them.
I don’t stop running.
My heart burns my blood, my blood burns my muscles, my muscles burn my bones, and the sun burns my skin. I dash through every ditch, descend every hill, wind through every skeletal thicket and tree graveyard I find. I rush toward the Pentalpoint, looping around just in case Terysos, the closest human township, has its own scouts.
The evening is turning blue when I trip, skin my knees, and vomit over gravel and dust. I try to will my body to calm, to preserve its water, but it dry heaves and shudders, like I’m a wet rag wrung.