The faint clamor of voices broke over the hill a few fields away. I raised a hand to shield my eyes as people appeared—farmers come to work the Quota Fields, by the look of them. They turned my way.
I peered to where Lord Irrik still slept and then back, heart in my mouth. Did I know these people? There were around ten of them. They were coming closer.
After Irrik hadn’t killed a single guard today, I had no doubt the king had tightened the rules of protecting me. But I was also sure the new rules wouldn’t protect these men and women.
They were getting too close.
I held up my hands in a stop position and thanked the Moons when they halted. One of the men in the middle raised his hand in the air and made a fist.
My body trembled.
“Arnik,” I choked. Hope burst forth inside me, and I took three steps closer before remembering the fearsome Drae at my back, and what he could do.
If I ran away, he’d kill all of them.
Had Tyr managed to get a message to Dyter or Arnik? Was that what had led them here? Or had word spread about the king, his guard, and the Drae at the potato fields. Had they come to see what was happening for themselves?
I raised my fist in the air, and tears slipped down my dirty cheeks as a grin spread over Arnik’s face.
Hope bubbled in my chest, and my desire to escape became a desperate need. I wanted to race to Arnik, to my friend, to the safety and the ignorance of my former life. What if Tyr hadn’t spoken to them? I didn’t want to rely on anyone else, which meant I had to at least try. I stepped forward, but Arnik and his friends were pointing at the slumbering Drae by the vibrant willow tree. One by one, they disappeared back over the mound until only one remained. Arnik looked at me for another few seconds.
Then he disappeared, too.
“You’ll be taken somewhere else tomorrow,” Irrik said on the walk back. “And somewhere else the day after. The king wants you working throughout the kingdom.”
“What?” Fatigue fled as panic hit me. I’d hoped Arnik would come back. How would he find me again if I was constantly changing locations? How would I get my message to him? “What about the rest of the potatoes? I mean, there are still lots more rows—” I stumbled and fell forward, scraping my palms on the path. I hit it in frustration. Why was nothing working for me? All of it. Everything was against me.
Irrik grabbed my arm and pulled me up, but my legs refused to support my weight, and I slumped back to the ground. I’d used up all my energy on the fields. “I need to sit for a minute.”
“You’re not eating enough,” he snarled. “I told you I wouldn’t tolerate weakness.”
“I had breakfast,” I retorted. “I didn’t know I was supposed to pack a picnic.”
His mouth snapped shut, and he narrowed his eyes as I sat on a mound, but he made no further comment.
Ryn: One. Lord Irrik: One million
I was equal parts dejected and elated after seeing Arnik. Until today, I wasn’t sure if he was alive. How had he found me? Had the rebels been trying this whole time? I desperately wanted to be back with him, in safety. Away from this nightmare.
I stared with unseeing eyes at the yellowed grass under my hands, then I dug my hands through the crunchy grass to place my palms against the ground. I wanted to heal the land so it was as beautiful as my mother told me it once had been in her lifetime. I wanted to heal it so people weren’t scrounging for food each day and dying of starvation in their beds overnight.
The fountain garden in Harvest Zone Seven rose in my mind, abandoned and falling apart. That place could be bustling and full of life again if the land would just grow.
If the people weren’t so afraid.
Healing the land while evilness sat in the Verald throne wasn’t enough. The evilness had to be ripped out by the roots. The king had to die.
And the rebels had to do it.
I pushed my fingertips into the pale, anemic dust we called soil and begged the ground to hear my plans and help me. I begged the land to listen to me, to feel my need and heed it. It was time to feed the people again.
Time to take down the man who crippled them.
23
I stifled a yawn as I trudged after Lord Broody-pants and snickered at my own joke. Broody-pants. Classic. He was extra broody today. I knew his moods well after three weeks in his company, going to field after field, hoping each day that Arnik would reappear. All that time had also left me reasonably confident of which of the Drae’s buttons I could push, and when.
He pivoted before I’d finished laughing. “I’m pleased you still find ample amusement in your enslavement. I’m certain Jotun’s guards will report your frivolity to him. He, more than anyone, will want to share in the enjoyment with you.”
All the humor was sucked out of the air with the mention of Jotun, and I couldn’t help a nervous glance around the stone hallway—if the incarnation of evil were present, he remained in the shadows.
I glared at Irrik, hating him for making me feel weak. If he were one centimeter closer, I’d punch him. Maybe. “I was laughing at you,” I snapped. “Dimwit.”
The Drae clutched my elbow. “I don’t see the humor in the joke, Khosana.” He wore his usual black aketon, but an equally dark expression was in position on his face today, too. Despite his obvious brooding, the Drae remained alert, his muscles coiled, anticipating attack.
I batted my eyes at him. “Oh, do go on. I love when you talk Drae to me.”
Reckless. But calculated. Irrik stayed by my side often, and while his words often stung, he’d never hit me. I was pretty sure he acted this way because of how the king controlled him. Everything the Drae did seemed geared to work around the king’s orders in some way. Even if what Irrik did made very little sense to me, I could respect his need to thwart the person controlling him.
His eyes shifted, and a low humming rumbled in his chest. He inhaled and shoved me into the wall. I smacked into the stone, my head bouncing off the rough rock. The Drae stood in front of me, his hand circling my throat. “You would do well to remember you are a prisoner here, not a—”
“Lord Irrik.” Irdelron’s mild voice reached us from around the stairwell corner. “Do not harm my Phaetyn.”
Irrik’s gaze roved my face, the pad of his thumb stroking the side of my neck. His gaze held me captive as he said, “Yes, my king.”
He dropped his hand to my elbow, where he cupped it gently and then tugged me to his side. Without looking at me, he said flatly, “My apologies, Phaetyn.” With more sincerity, he added, “And to you, my lord.”
Right. Crackbrained Drae. He wasn’t fooling anyone with his apologies.
The king nodded.
He was dressed in a white aketon with a golden filigree wrapped up and over his right shoulder, but my gaze zeroed in on the splattered drops of crimson marring the pristine fabric. My thoughts went to Ty and Tyr, my stomach twisting in knots.