Yvenne.
Holding to the thought of her, he slept.
CHAPTER 42
YVENNE
Behind her, Yvenne felt Seri shudder herself awake. “We still ride,” Yvenne told her softly, though she didn’t think the young warrior was in any danger of falling out of the saddle. Unlike Yvenne, Seri seemed as comfortable sleeping on a horse as riding it.
A shaky little breath and sniffle followed. Though the girl was taller and bigger than Yvenne, she was not yet a warrior’s age—perhaps only twelve years. Only twice in these two endless days and nights had the girl cried, but Yvenne thought it more of exhaustion than fear.
Not yet had they stopped or slept. They’d changed horses, but her father had driven them hard south—and nothing had Yvenne or Seri eaten or drank, though her father had made the offer. But Yvenne had given the same warning to the young warrior as she’d given Maddek before their dinner in Drahm.
Now the girl’s stomach rumbled, loud and hard enough that Yvenne felt it against her back. Her own gave an answering growl, but the dull cramping below her stomach worried Yvenne more than the empty ache in her belly.
So hard and so far they’d ridden. And they were not yet done, though they might finally have rest tonight.
“We’ve slowed?” Seri whispered.
Yvenne nodded. “There is the Syssian outpost ahead.”
“Will they keep us imprisoned there, do you think?”
She heard the hope in the girl’s voice. Because the outpost was only two days’ ride distant from where thousands of Parsatheans were camped.
But that was why Yvenne had no hope. “Perhaps a night. Either the soldiers from near the Scourge will already have returned or they will soon join my father here. Then we will travel to Syssia.”
For a moment Seri was quiet. Then in a small voice, “What do you think happened at the Scourge?”
Yvenne couldn’t guess, and she hadn’t seen. Her father had put a cloth over her eyes—to prevent Vela from helping anyone find them, he’d said. But he seemed not worried about it now, for a full day the cloth had been untied.
The girl had seen the Scourge fall. But Yvenne didn’t know if that meant the monster had been defeated, or if her brother hadn’t been able to maintain such powerful magic . . . or if Aezil had crushed the Parsatheans as intended and had no more use for the ruins.
That her father had removed the blindfold told Yvenne what he believed: the Parsatheans posed not as much threat now. Yet she couldn’t accept that. “The warriors likely defeated it.”
The girl released a soft, relieved breath. “That is what I hope.”
Yvenne only prayed it wasn’t a false hope. “If you have opportunity in the outpost to escape, take it.” Seri was strong and quick and clever, a warrior through and through. “Do not wait for me or try to rescue me.”
“But—”
“Do not,” Yvenne said firmly. “I will try to negotiate your release. Most likely my father will force a promise from me, or ask me to give him something in trade—and I will agree to it. You may hear me speak lies, but it is only to save your life.”
Because as long as the girl was here, Yvenne dared not defy him.
“I am your Dragon,” the girl whispered thickly. “I will stay with you.”
“You will not. Instead memorize all that you can—how many soldiers, how many horses, how fast we ride—and carry that information back home to Maddek. Swear this to me, Seri.”
“He will come for you.” Absolutely certain she sounded. “And I swear it.”
“I may carry his child,” Yvenne told her. And for that possibility alone Maddek would come. Perhaps also because he’d vowed to choose her as his bride, and she had been chosen to build a new alliance. Yet she was certain he would come for the child. “That will also be my first lie, when I say that I cannot be pregnant.”
The girl nodded, then tensed as the outpost gates opened ahead.
“Be brave,” Yvenne told her softly. “Have hope. Let them think you are beaten and defeated, if you must. But whatever happens, do not give up.”
“I will not,” the girl whispered, her voice trembling. “I will not give up.”
Neither would Yvenne.
* * *
• • •
Or perhaps there would be no lie. In a sparse room, Yvenne was given clean robes and linens and a pitcher of water. Faint crimson stained her inner thighs.
With trembling fingers, she washed the blood away. Nothing did it mean. Just because they had ridden hard—so very hard—and she’d eaten nothing for days did not mean she would miscarry. And some women bled a little, even with child.
Or perhaps she had not been with child to begin. Never had her menses been regular.
Yvenne had believed she was pregnant, though. Perhaps it had only been wishful thought . . . yet she’d hoped so much.
Though she would persuade her father that she was not.
She requested rags from a female soldier. If her request reached her father’s ears, more likely he would believe her.
Dressed, she was taken past a chamber where Seri sat at a table with Rugusian soldiers. The girl ate hungrily—from a bowl served by the same stew pot from which the soldiers ate, Yvenne saw with relief. The young warrior had listened well.
No Syssian soldiers did Yvenne see, though this outpost contained so many signs of home. Small moonstone carvings decorated the mantel in the chamber where her father waited, and against the wall hung a tapestry depicting Queen Nyset’s victory over the twelve-faced Galoghe demon.
Her father appeared haggard, the lines in his broad face deeper than she had ever seen them. Tall and as solid as an ox, always he’d seemed to her so strong—especially in comparison to herself and her poison-weakened mother. Not so much now, and not only because she had Maddek to compare. For so long Zhalen had been a terrifying figure who ruled over her life. But so much more of the world she’d seen since leaving her tower, so many more of the people in it. How small he seemed now.
And as always, the ragged scar on his throat filled her heart with sheer vicious pleasure.
“Sit, Yvenne,” he said, pouring wine into her goblet. “We await your brother’s return.”
The hot, grassy scent of roasted boa on her plate made Yvenne’s stomach growl. She sat but made no move to drink or eat, though her tongue was parched and her belly aching.
Only a spoon sat beside her plate. No knife.
Her father appeared in no hurry to eat his own meal. Sitting back, he regarded her steadily for a moment before averting his gaze . . . though pretending that he wanted to avert it. Idly he stirred his fantail soup, breaking the fat yellow yolk into the cream with the edge of his spoon. “If you truly wish to build an alliance, you should join with us, daughter.”