But in the darkness, the horses could only move at a slow pace up the river, hooves slipping on the slick rocks. Aren would’ve been able to go at twice the speed on foot, but not while carrying Bronwyn. He was exhausted, his body unused to such strenuous activity, and he hated it. Hated feeling weak when all his life he’d been strong.
He caught sight of the familiar glow of algae before Cresta did, his chest tightening at the sight of it. A piece of Ithicana and proof that his people were involved in this step of the plan.
Another ten minutes of following the path through the trees brought them to a low cliff, a cave opening revealed by the glow of flickering firelight.
Dismounting hurriedly, Cresta tied up the horses while Aren untied Bronwyn. Easing her out of the saddle, he carried her toward the cave.
“Huntress,” Cresta called out, and a moment later, a pregnant woman with long, dark hair appeared, a sword held in one hand and a knife in the other.
“Bronwyn got shot.”
“Shit!” The pregnant woman, whom Aren assumed was the sister Sarhina, sheathed her weapons, striding toward him. Then she froze. “Where’s Lara?”
“Luring them off,” Cresta answered. “She’ll be along soon enough.”
“Get inside.”
Aren carried Bronwyn into the cave, stopping in his tracks at the sight of a familiar face. “Nana?”
She was standing and holding her own weapons, but when she saw him, the machete dropped from her hand with a clatter.
For what seemed like an eternity, Nana didn’t speak, and then she whispered, “You’re alive. You’re here. Thank merciful God . . .” Then tears began to pour down her face.
In all his life, he’d never seen his grandmother cry. Not even when his father—her own son—had been lost to the sea.
Then her eyes moved to Bronwyn, and she wiped the tears from her face, composed in an instant. “Bring her here.”
“Arrow through the shoulder,” he said, lowering the young woman to the ground. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Nana only grunted, pulling a knife to cut away Bronwyn’s clothing.
“Oh, Bronwyn.” The pregnant woman elbowed Aren in the side until he made space for her, lowering herself slowly and taking her sister’s hand. “Why are you always the one who gets hurt?”
The arrow had punched clean through her shoulder, the broadhead glittering with blood in the firelight. Cresta had come around the other side, her face pale with concern. “Will she be all right?”
Nana didn’t answer. “Aren, break this arrowhead off and then go outside and keep watch. You”—she shot a dark glare at Sarhina—“go with him.”
“Cresta will go.”
“Cresta will remain,” Nana retorted. “I need an assistant, and unlike you, she follows instructions.”
Ignoring the battle of wills going on between them, Aren reached down and snapped the head off the arrow, Bronwyn only moaning in response. Tossing it aside, he rose to his feet, when a hoarse voice called from outside: “Huntress,” then “It’s Lara.”
Relief flooded through him as his errant wife stepped inside, shoulders rising and falling with her rapid, panting breath. She was drenched, her honey-colored hair hanging in lank tangles over her shoulders. There was a livid bruise on one cheek, and the knees of her trousers were torn through, the skin beneath bloody. Yet when she lifted her face to regard him, Aren’s heart still skipped.
Nana’s voice pulled him back into the moment. “Well, the stars are truly not in our favor tonight, for here you are, still alive.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Lara’s gaze went to Bronwyn, her lips thinning at the sight of her sister. “Is she . . . ?”
“Alive, but barely. Get your hands cleaned up and come help me. For once, you might actually be of use.”
Without a word, Lara edged past him, and Aren practically threw himself at the opening to the cave. His chest felt too tight, his lungs not bringing in enough air, and it wasn’t until he stood beneath the cloudy sky, warm rain washing the sweat from his upturned face, that his muscles relaxed enough to draw in a deep breath.
Cresta walked past. “I’m going to scout.” As silent as any Ithicanian, she disappeared into the trees, a wraith in the night.
A sob of pain came from inside the cave, suggesting the arrow had been removed, and he walked farther down the slope, not wanting to listen. Not wanting to feel.
“So you’re the King of Ithicana.”
Aren jumped, startled. He turned to find Sarhina standing next to him, the rain soaking her dark hair. Despite looking like she was only weeks away from giving birth, she’d moved as silently as Cresta had. Twelve of them. Silas had made twelve of these weapons. And Aren suspected that only now was the man realizing just how dangerous they were. “I was.”
She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Please don’t turn all dreary on me. My sister might be dying inside, and I’ve no patience for unnecessary bellyaching.”
“Unnecessary?” His voice was full of venom, but he didn’t care to temper it.
“Ithicana hasn’t fallen yet. Eranahl has held against every attempt to breach its defenses, and my understanding is that the majority of your civilians were able to reach the safety of the island ahead of my father’s soldiers.”
He knew that. Knew that most had arrived with little more than the clothes on their back, only Ithicana’s career soldiers remaining on the other islands to combat the Maridrinian forces. For months, he’d lived out in the open with what remained of the Midwatch garrison, sleeping in the dirt and eating what they could hunt or forage for in the jungle, all the while fighting soldiers who were living in their homes and eating like kings off supplies coming through the bridge. “And just what do you suppose all those civilians are eating now?”
She leveled him with a steady stare, unfazed. “They are on rations, obviously. Which is why time is of the essence. Your sister is undertaking the first part of Lara’s plan, and with you free, the second half can begin. You will sit on your throne again, mark my words. My father pissed off the wrong woman when he pissed off your wife.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“Because she’s a liar and a traitor who deserves to have her throat slit, that’s why!”
Abruptly Aren found himself on his back, a knife pressed against his jugular. “Let me make myself abundantly clear, Your Grace,” Sarhina hissed, the only thing visible in the darkness the white of her teeth. “You will never speak about my sister in that way or it will be you whose throat is slit. Understood?”
Glaring at her, he didn’t answer.
The knife blade pressed harder, a droplet of blood trickling down his throat. “You mean nothing to me. You are nothing. The only reason that the rest of my sisters and I agreed to help you was because Lara loves you, and we love her. Never mind that we owe her our lives.”
She eased up slightly, and Aren considered how he might get her off him without hurting the child.
But pregnant or not, Sarhina knew her business. He was at her mercy.
“You have no idea what she has endured,” Sarhina continued. “What we all endured at the hands of my father and Serin and the rest of them. Fifteen fucking years of being brainwashed to believe that our people were starving and dying because of Ithicana. They beat us and starved us and turned us into murderers, and through every bit of it they whispered that it was all to save Maridrina from you. That it was because of you that we needed to suffer. That you were a hateful demon who cared nothing for the innocents you harmed, only for the satisfaction of your own greed!”