His nose nearly touched hers and his breath was hot. “You think I care what Dagrun’s soldiers think of us?” Seth whispered. “There are people here who will help us. Not everyone is fond of the king. It has something to do with the Waking Rite. He never completed the rite. His people don’t accept him, not all of them. The master physician, Gallach, he’s one of them and he wants to help us. They are planning something. They think Barrin’s heir is alive and Dagrun is not the rightful king.” Seth spoke so fast he was stuttering. “Kepi—”
“Don’t address me by my first name. I’m the queen of the Ferens now.” She took a step back, straightening her breastplate. What was he talking about? What was Seth planning with these people? She wanted nothing to do with it—these people were traitors, men loyal to the old king. Dagrun’s men had routed a contingent of soldiers at Catal, but there were still men who did not accept her husband, who would never accept Dagrun. Dagrun’s men had found a cache of weapons the day before, and that same evening they had arrested a band of slaves who had tried to steal swords from the armory. There were traitors everywhere. Kepi eyed the guards, who were all watching this exchange. If they tell Dagrun, Seth will lose his head. Be quiet, or you’ll get yourself killed.
Seth’s face darkened. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “It was only to save us, Kepi. You have to know that.”
“Hush now,” she told him. “If you know what is good for you, do not speak any more of this.”
But he continued. “The Ferens would have killed me if I hadn’t led them to you. But you can’t seem to forgive me for that.”
“I have forgiven you,” she said softly. It was true. But what he did not understand was that while she had forgiven him, she no longer loved him, and she told him so.
“No—no. You are lying. You love me. You’ve always loved me.”
“Leaving is not the answer, it never was. Not for us. We never had a future. It is time you accepted that as I have, Seth.”
“Kepi, no—”
“We wanted to believe that such things were possible. But in my heart—in my heart—I knew I would never do it. I could not forsake my family or my name. Forget your plots against Dagrun.”
She turned to leave, then came back around and stood next to him. Her heart broke for him. He had loved her, in his way. It was a foolish love, a boy’s love, but she knew he had meant it. For consideration of that love, she decided to be gentle. “You go on, go ahead. Find your freedom, find your way someplace where you will be free. I release you from my service, Seth. Good luck to you, but I need to find my own way.”
49
The outlanders took Merit on horseback, leading her with a goat-hide rope tied around her hands, the Harkan soldiers following on foot behind her horse. Sevin kept a strong face—he was stout-necked and accustomed to desert survival—but his soldiers had spent two days gnawing on leathery hides for nourishment and no longer had the strength to walk. One man collapsed on the road, stumbling into the dust, trying weakly to stand. The Hykso made no effort to assist the boy, and willing to make an example for their captives of what might happen if they walked too slowly or tried to resist, one of the outlanders slashed the boy’s back, opening the wound to the sun and soaking the air with the smell of blood. The scent drew black-winged birds; they gathered upon the boy’s back, pecking at the wound, undeterred by his cries as the riders moved off.
“Kill him,” Merit said, craning her neck to look behind her. “For pity’s sake, don’t leave him like that!” But the outlanders paid her no mind, riding on as if they had not heard a thing. “Kill him,” she cried again, angry and disgusted.
The sun beat down ceaselessly, the taste of sand in her mouth. Fearing she would join the fallen boy, Merit raised her bound hands, curving them into the shape of a cup to ask for water. A man with wrinkled skin and a twitching eye caught sight of the gesture, tracing the shape of her arms, the flow of her dress across her body. He shook his head—he would give her nothing. “Gods,” Merit cried. She cupped her hands again. “If you want me alive, give me something.”
Merit refused to be ignored. She kicked at the horse, tugging at the leather ropes, pulling the caravan out of order. Her mount tangled with Sevin’s; the gray horse bucked and whinnied, and Merit lurched backward. She would have fallen to the rocks if one of the men had not caught her and helped her sit upright.
When she was securely in the saddle, one of the outlanders—making no attempt to speak, grinning madly, fingers shaking—offered her a cup. He wore a necklace of shattered skulls—gray fox, she guessed from the animals’ wedge-shaped heads. He must be some sort of mystic. She took the brown cup and gulped its contents, then heaved when the bitter taste hit her throat—he had given her vinegar, or something worse. Her throat burned. The man beat his legs with laughter, jiggling the skulls like bells. The caravan halted, the rest of the outlanders eager to join in her humiliation. A toothless warrior, cloaked in a dirty robe, plucked off her golden earrings, took her necklaces and bracelets, putting on the pieces and swishing around, his face fixed in a comically haughty imitation of hers.
She would not be cowed. She looked to Sevin, but he shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered. Anger will only encourage them, his expression seemed to say. She kept her eyes and her voice steady, and in words that they seemed to only half understand, demanded water, demanded her things be returned to her. The mystic paid her no mind, passing her jewelry to the others, pinning her earrings to their skin, laying the necklaces around their necks. A tall warrior with arms and legs dressed in ringlike tattoos swung her mother’s short sword and chipped the blade on a stone.
“No!” she shouted. Sevin again flashed her a look of concern, but Merit saw nothing but red. She tugged at her mount, but the horse panicked, catching its hoof between two rocks and snapping its ankle in two. The horse fell, taking Merit with it. She lay under the beast, her leg pinned, unable to move.
The tattooed warrior stood over her, his golden eyes meeting her own. “Help me!” she cried, but he was unmoved. She spat at him, but he only laughed. His lips were red where the ash had worn away, and she thought for a moment that the man might simply take her right there on the ground while the others watched. Instead, he lifted the beast with his shoulder, then made two of her soldiers pull Merit free while he bludgeoned the screaming horse. She was alive, safe. Barca must be paying a high price for ransoms. Her worth as a ransom had saved her life, but the thought gave her little comfort.