“She has pretty hair,” a younger voice said.
“She does, Mama. Now leave her be. She’s injured and needs rest.” A cool palm curled over Gilene’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Shh. Sleep. When you wake again, your man will be here with you.”
Gilene frowned, confused. Man? What man? The spell sickness turned her mind into a mud puddle. She had no man. None wanted a fire witch made barren by her magic and fated to “die” every year, doomed to both physical and emotional ruin by the time her unfortunate successor assumed her role as Beroe’s savior. She fell asleep to the soft croon of a woman singing and the ache of resentment in her belly.
She awakened again—hours or minutes or days later, she couldn’t tell—to the glow of an oil lamp and the curve of a painted night sky above her.
Her gaze traveled across an enclosed horizon, pausing at points to note neatly stacked chests and barrels set against slat walls washed in shades of teal and amber. The sound of voices penetrated their barriers. Men and women talking and singing, children laughing, all accompanied by the bleat and bray of livestock. The bed on which she lay rocked beneath her in a rough cradle’s sway. Where in the gods’ names was she?
“You’re awake.”
The familiar sound of the deep voice sent a cascade of memories tumbling past her mind’s eye: the floor of the Pit consumed in fire; the spirits of the sacrificed women departing; the painful lurch toward her brothers, who waited with their cart for her; and most of all the gladiator who extorted her cooperation and repaid her help by abducting her.
Gilene’s gaze snapped to the large figure folded into a cross-legged position near her knees. Azarion. She would remember his name until the day she died and not with affection. His green eyes caught the ambient light of the lamp, and the somber expression he wore highlighted the high curve of his cheekbones. A beard shadowed his jaw. She tried to sit up, but the blankets tucked around her felt heavier than iron, her muscles weaker than a crone’s on her deathbed.
Azarion rested three fingers on her shoulder and effortlessly pushed her supine once more. “Halani says your fever’s broken, but you need to rest a little longer. The poultice she used on your back and leg worked wonders. Without it, you’d still be feverish and lying on your side.”
Gilene’s thoughts spun. She had so many questions, with only memories made hazy by fever to find her answers. She lay very still, searching for the hot agony of the burns left by her magic, and felt nothing except an extra bit of padding against her back. Her fingers sought and found the bandage on her thigh, discovering as well that, under the blankets, she was as bare as a newborn.
She accepted the flask Azarion offered her without comment, took a careful swallow, and handed it back to him. “Where am I?”
“In a free trader’s wagon. The caravan master’s niece and sister have been taking care of you.”
Gilene recalled the voices of two women, one calm and soothing, the other girlish and sweet. “How long have I been ill?”
“Three days with fever.” She gasped and tried to sit up once more, only to fall back again as muscles sore from lack of use cramped in protest. Azarion frowned but didn’t touch her. “Lie still. You’re not helping yourself by doing that.”
She rubbed a hand over her cheek, wincing at the ache still lingering where Azarion’s knee had struck her. Her skin felt clammy, and her scalp itched. Memories fluttered like moth wings through her mind, fragile and fleeting. The pain in her back, begging her captor to let her go, the scent of despair blanketing cursed Midrigar, and the living darkness hovering just beyond the threshold of the ruined temple, watching as she and Azarion climbed the steps to the sheltered portico. The recollections made her shudder.
“How did we escape Midrigar?” She remembered the thing summoned by the dead, her own panic overriding the fever as Azarion searched frantically for something to draw a protective circle around them.
Azarion’s features sharpened, and she caught the glimmer of true horror in his eyes. “The sacrifice of a tracking party and a sprint to the gate,” he said. His gaze flickered away for a moment before returning to her. “You were right. Midrigar is no sanctuary for anyone. More than the dead linger there.”
She blinked at him, stunned by his ready willingness to admit his error. It even had the vague ring of apology. Crowing over it served neither of them, so she simply nodded and went back to her questions.
“How did we end up with traders?” When he recounted the tale, it was her turn to frown. “Do these people know who you are?”
His relaxed manner disappeared, replaced by the implacable demeanor. His eyes darkened, gaze harder than emeralds. “They know I’m Valdan of Pran, traveling with my wife, Gilene, to the Silfer markets to sell dye. We were attacked and robbed on the road. You were burned when the pot of water you were boiling spilled on you during the struggle.” He bared his teeth at her when she opened her mouth to protest. “The fever clouded your memory, wife. I traded my knife and a crossbow for help.”
More terrifying memories surfaced: the thing screeching at them from the gate’s threshold, the lone tracker raising his crossbow to fire at them, and his quick death from Azarion’s blade. She shivered.
“We’ll be near the town of Wellspring Holt by tomorrow evening.”
Wellspring Holt. She had visited the town as a child with her family for the summer wedding of a distant relative. It would be simple to find her way back from there to Beroe. She just had to escape the gladiator. She eyed him, her renewed anger burning away her lethargy. “What’s to stop me from telling them you’re an escaped Pit slave known as Azarion?”
He shrugged, the easy gesture belied by the narrowed gaze. “Nothing except whatever sense of responsibility you carry. If you tell them, you sentence them to die. I’ll be forced to kill every one of them so they won’t sell me back to the Empire. That includes the woman who nursed you and her mother, who is like a slow-witted child.”
If the power she wielded hadn’t been drained dry in the Pit, she’d set him on fire and worry about reparations for the wagon later. “What has the Empire made of us that we both kill innocents without hesitation?”
Another shrug. “Survivors.”
Her rage sapped what little strength Gilene had left. Her eyelids grew heavy even as she struggled to stay awake and bargain with her captor. “Will you let me go when we reach Wellspring Holt?”
“No.”
She refused to let the bastard Savatar see her weep. “Why not? That your people revere fire witches is all well and good, but I don’t want to be abducted and worshipped. I just want to go home.”
Azarion leaned forward and placed a finger against her lips. “Shh,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, no matter how softly spoken. The look he leveled on her was curious. “Why haven’t you burned me to escape?” Her mutinous silence didn’t deter him. “Because you can’t,” he said, answering his own question. “At least not yet. You’re like a lamp that’s burned away its oil. You need time to replenish as well as to heal.”