CHAPTER
32
THE couple of hours to the caravan turned out to be a much shorter distance than Amarande expected because of one thing—the women and babes rode, while the man and boy walked alongside. They couldn’t run, only trot slowly.
Frustration built within the princess as Luca’s fever raged further. After twenty minutes, she was nearly at her wits’ end. “Can one of you please ride ahead with us? I’d like to get my friend to your healer as quickly as possible,” she pressed the ladies, who turned out to be sisters.
Amarande hadn’t asked their names, but Luca had. Of course he had. She didn’t trust them enough to use them. Until the anti-venom was in hand, they hadn’t earned her trust. “We’re almost there,” was all one of the women said. No description of where the caravan was supposed to be. No general idea of timing. No nothing.
Luca placed a hand on the princess’s shoulder. She tilted her head and he leaned into her ear. “I’m fine, Ama. Let’s not test their goodwill.”
She didn’t believe him. His palm was clammy against her shoulder—its cool dampness seeping through the overheated lace where her neckline and sleeves met. His grip on her waist had loosened, too, and if there was a single reason she was okay with the pace, it was because she was afraid he’d fall off. He’d also vomited up some—if not all—of the water and dried meat he’d had at their stop. This did not quell her serious concerns about dehydration. Every alarm bell she had was a-clang.
Ten minutes more and a disturbance in the sand fuzzed across the distance. The princess squinted and leaned against Mira’s neck for a closer look.
The caravan.
It stretched the full length of the horizon before them, snaking across the burnt earth in a southwesterly pattern. It was an entire city laid out in a line. Shops, taverns, service providers, vendors of all stripes, with you wherever you went. Like this, it was a much different creature than what she’d experienced the night before.
The princess pressed a securing hand against Luca’s weak grip at her waist and then dug her heels into Mira’s side. The horse shot out, a cannonball fired from the bow of a ship. Luca’s grip suddenly tightened and his body lurched forward into hers, his face pressed into her hair. He didn’t ask what she was doing—but their guides reacted.
“Hey! Wait!” That was from the man, who began running with his wife’s horse.
The younger of the sisters sped up to them, one arm lashing her baby’s sling tight against her chest. The child was miraculously asleep but wouldn’t be for long. Not with how his mother had to yell to be heard over the thumping of hooves and the blast of wind. “You can’t approach alone. This caravan doesn’t take well to strangers charging in and demanding things.”
“Then charge in with us,” Amarande shouted.
“Please,” added Luca for his princess.
The woman didn’t answer but maintained her speed.
Old Zuzen had taught the castle children that Torrent caravans came in two types—the kind that slowed at the approach of riders and the kind that kept going. Supposedly, the caravan that held the Warlord, the one she’d seen for those few short hours, was one that never slowed. This one was in that same camp, and Amarande’s blood prickled with something like fear as their escort and her babe pulled in parallel to the caravan. The woman was greeted by every person they passed, and the sideways looks tossed at Amarande and Luca turned into nothing more thanks to her presence.
The princess bit back a lick of regret that she’d been so impatient.
But … then the woman halted her chestnut steed, and Amarande had to yank hard on the reins to avoid flying past her. With the sudden lack of motion, her baby jolted awake and let out a cry.
“What—why are we stopping?” the princess asked, working very hard not to sound as frustrated as she felt.
The woman took her time in answering, first caressing her baby’s downy head. “The healer is at the back. The caravan will bring her to us.”
More waiting. The woman swayed in her saddle, and the child hushed—movement was clearly something he craved. No surprise considering his mother’s life.
Meanwhile, Amarande was ready to scream; watching the caravan crawl past was excruciating. By the time the woman said, “Ah, there she is,” the rest of her family had joined them, sour faced and breathing hard. The princess’s guilt grew alongside her frustration and worry.
The healer’s carriage was sunrise pink with a large illustration of a tincture bottle rendered in a bright cobalt on the side. The woman began to trot alongside. She pulled aside the fabric lining the windows. “Naiara, we have a snakebite victim for you. They can pay.”
At the last three words, the coach came to a stop and pulled off. Amarande breathed a sigh of relief and made to dismount her horse, but the woman held up a hand.
“A moment.” She entered the carriage and pulled the door shut.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Amarande muttered to Luca.
“Edurne hasn’t let us down yet,” he said, referring to the woman escorting them.
After the longest minute of her life, Amarande exhaled as the door opened. The woman popped her head out. “Enter, both of you.”
Amarande immediately dismounted, unlaced the saddlebags, and then held a hand up for Luca, helping him get off without putting too much weight on the leg. It’d begun to swell a few hours ago, and Amarande hadn’t been brave enough to check the snake wound at the watering hole, too afraid of what damage she might see.
The woman held the door open, her baby now wide awake, silent, and watching. Luca made it a point to smile at the child before he entered. Amarande followed him in, her eyes adjusting slower than she liked. The interior of the carriage had been ripped out—no seats, only open floor. Sitting on pillows were two women. One was old enough to be a lost sister of Abene or Maialen, Luca’s Itspi-found family after his mother’s death. The other was younger than either Amarande or Luca.
“Sit, sit. I am Naiara, and this is my apprentice, Señe,” said the old woman, smiling broadly. She still had all her teeth, and Amarande hoped this meant she was actually good at her job. She sighed as Luca sat down, and placed a hand on his face. “Oh, how lovely you are, kidege.”
Little bird. There was nothing little or birdlike about Luca, and something about the way this woman immediately gave him an ancient Torrentian nickname and pointed out his handsomeness made Amarande uncomfortable.
If Luca felt it, too, he did his best not to show it. His dimples flickered and Naiara seemed to enjoy that, catching eyes with Señe.
Amarande barged right past the pleasantries. She had no interest in giving these people her actual name, nor Luca’s. This was a transaction, and then they’d be on their way. But she did try to at least sound respectful. “Medikua Naiara—”
“I am not a medikua. That is a book-earned title of little value to those who know a lifetime of experience. No title can encompass what I know.”
Amarande swallowed down her immediate frustration and tried again. “Naiara, my friend was grazed on his lower leg by a Harea Asp about twelve hours ago. It wasn’t a full bite, but some venom got under his skin. We need an antidote, please.”