Seeds!
I throw the fletching half on the ground and feel under my arm for the point side. My fingers are shaky. Breath saws through my lungs. I pluck the tip out, and my ears go fuzzy from the burst of agony. I hold tight to the edge of the saddle with my good arm, trying to fight the haziness filling my head. Blood oozes from the wound, seeping down the sleeve of my blue gown.
The stream curves, cutting farther south. Gale’s front legs dip deep. He founders, and we’re jolted forward. I manage to hang on to the back of the saddle, but Aodren flips over Gale’s head and falls into the water with a great splash. He rises, short breaths punctuating his body’s tremors from the icy plunge. I guide Gale to the side of the stream, looking back over my shoulder to make sure the remaining guard and dogs haven’t caught up.
My brain races as I look over Aodren, sopping wet and shivering. He needs to get out of the wet clothes, but he doesn’t have another change of clothes. All we have is a tarp and two bedrolls.
I reach back along Gale’s flank, to where we secured our supplies. One of the blue rolls is gone, lost in our flight or in the stream.
I try not to show my panic as I tell Aodren to climb up behind me. He can lean into my back for warmth while I get us farther away from the pursuers. Maybe the clouds will clear and the sun will dry his clothes.
“But your arm,” he protests, pointing to the streaks of red coming down both sides of my sleeve.
I hold up my good hand. “I can manage.”
Knowing we have little to no time, he scrambles up behind me and we set off.
I stay alert, putting as much distance between the remaining guard and us as I can. We cut across the main road to the southern woods and wind our way through the Evers to the most likely path Cohen might’ve taken.
Aodren said he heard the guards talking about a traitor in Cohen’s midst and mention of the southeast cliffs. I keep all my thoughts at bay until we’ve gone two hours without any sign of our pursuers. We’re near the path that leads to the cliffs.
Aodren hasn’t stopped shivering. His cold has seeped into my ribs, where there is less fabric to my dress. While I’d hoped for sun, the clouds haven’t cleared. I doubt his clothes will dry without a fire. I cannot stop thinking of all the warnings that Papa gave about keeping dry and warm during winter travel. It’s been hours and I’m certain he’s still wet. We need to find somewhere safe to set up camp. At the very least, I need to get him moving to keep his body temperature up.
“We should get down, look for tracks, perhaps find somewhere we can camp.” I dismount and gesture for him to do the same. The adrenaline of the chase has worn off. The exhaustion from two nights spent in the dungeon without food is edging back in.
Aodren slides off Gale. “We cannot do anything until your arm is wrapped. You’ve lost so much blood.” Aodren points to my dress’s hem. “I could cut some off and use it for your wound.”
Knowing it must be done, I hold my dress out for him, watching the way his hands shiver as he wraps one around his dagger and slices off part of my dress. He cuts the fabric in two pieces, one longer than the other. One piece wraps around my arm, and the other is constructed into a sling.
“Thank you.” I cradle my arm even though it’s held by the fabric. “But I’m worried about you. We need to find somewhere to make a fire.”
Aodren pushes hair from my face. His fingers are ice. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll let you know if I get too cold. Anyway, you scared me today. I thought I might lose you.”
I go to tell him that’s not the case, but my words are stolen from me when he leans in and presses his chilled lips to my forehead. I understand why he kissed me in the castle. He wasn’t thinking straight and it was reactionary. But this kiss? I don’t know what to think. It settles in me, another layer of guilt.
I shift farther away. My head is hazy and my body tired and sore, but I press my point once more about needing to find camp so we can build a fire.
“It’s barely past noon.”
“You’re freezing.”
He lifts the shirt away from his body. “It’s nearly d-d-dry.”
The warmth of his words rings with truth. His clothes might be drying, but they’re still damp and icy. His fingers are angry red, and his lips have a bluish tint. Physically, he’s showing signs of being cold. Too cold.
I start to shake my head, to disagree, but he turns and strides away. “Finding Omar is our priority,” he calls over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes. Who am I to argue with the king of Malam? If he’s all right braving out the chill in damp clothing, there’s not much I can do to stop the fool. And I thought Cohen was the only stubborn man in my life.
Tracking is easier in the frozen months because barren scrub oaks show damage from travel at a quick glance, instead of the scrutiny needed in the warm months. I move quickly, mindful of my injured arm in its sling, until I come across hoofprints and a bunch of broken branches.
Aodren approaches, his feet scraping along the frozen ground. He lacks the finesse of moving with any semblance of stealth. I wonder if he’s always this way, or if his movements are jerky from the frozen river bath.
I gesture to the cluster of prints and damaged bushes. “Could belong to Omar and his men. I count about six sets.”
He holds his arms crossed; his entire body shivers every few seconds, and his teeth chatter. “That’s odd. B-b-because I’m certain there’s another s-set over there.”
My look of worry is silenced when he makes a show of pointing again. With a sigh, I follow the direction of his finger to the dense brush.
I don’t tell him that he’s probably mistaken. Maybe the cold’s gotten to him. Or if he has found something, it’s likely old, having been immortalized in the frosted ground until spring.
The brittle bush’s thorns hook on my dress as I push between the leafless mounds to verify Aodren’s find. He catches up to me, crunching the ground cover with every step.
“Perhaps you should stay there,” I tell him.
“Yeah, perhaps.” With a sheepish smile on his face, he wraps his arms around his body and stops moving. Which hits me with a touch of guilt for being so hard on the man. After all, it was because of him that we escaped.
The ground is dented with horseshoe prints. I squat down and run my good hand along them. Aodren was right. The ground is cold and hard, but there’s still give to the dirt. The soil flakes in my fingers. This print could be recent.
“Do you think someone followed them?” Aodren asks, giving voice to the fear whispering in the back of my mind.
I hope not.