The rags between her legs felt less bulky, as if only one or two folded cloths were tucked against her instead of the great wad. So they had changed those, too.
The agonizing cramps had passed. Nothing but a dull ache remained. That was not so bad. All of her body was a dull ache.
Maddek’s arms tightened when she lifted her head. “We still ride,” he told her, as if thinking she might be disoriented from sleep and would roll off the horse as she would her bed.
In the dark and seated sideways against him, she could see little of his features. Just the shadow of his strong jaw above the thick column of his neck. It must not yet be midnight, for the faint glow of the waxing sickle moon on the northwestern horizon still touched him. She faced that moon—so they were riding south and west.
The other warriors rode behind them. She could not see past Maddek’s great form but could hear the clomp of their horses’ hooves.
His big body shifted as he turned to unfasten one of the satchels tied to the back of his saddle. A moment later, a wineskin and a packet of waxed leather dropped into her lap. The scent of cooked meat wafted up, sending her dry mouth instantly to drooling. Her stomach grumbled ravenously.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. Her throat was parched and raw. The wineskin only held water, but she did not care. Her first sip was the sweetest ever taken.
The meat was cut into thin strips. Perhaps because the Parsatheans had been in a hurry for it to roast—but they had roasted a fine amount. Venison, by the rich flavor. Yvenne believed she could have eaten an entire herd, but Maddek had given her so much, her stomach was well filled before she could even finish the packet.
“Enough?” he asked when, try as she might, not another bite could be taken.
“It is.” She folded the packet again. “May I save the rest for later?”
He made a grunting sound that might have been assent. His rough fingers slid against hers when he took the packet and tucked it into one of the pouches fastened to the front of the saddle.
Where she could easily reach it again without asking him for more.
The realization made her throat close with emotion. Her voice was thick when she asked, “May I use this water to wash or ought I conserve it?”
She felt his dark gaze upon her face but did not look up to meet his eyes. After a moment, his answer came. “Wash as you like.”
She carefully rinsed her greasy fingers before wiping them dry on her robe—which was so filthy, Yvenne was uncertain whether her fingers came away clean or dirtier than before.
Oh, but she cared not at all. She was filthy and aching and happier than ever she had been.
So happy that she might weep from it.
But a queen did not cry when there was someone to see her tears, so Yvenne turned her burning eyes to the landscape that lay ahead. They rode upon a rocky ridge overlooking a broad expanse of grassland. Beneath the faint moonlight, she could make out the silhouettes of humpbacked beasts. Short-haired mammoths or their gray-skinned cousins, perhaps—or the bulkier, plated lizards that roamed the plains, though most of those did not move in herds and usually remained near the shores of lakes and riverbanks.
She tied the wineskin to the front of the saddle. “Where are we?”
He gestured north, where a faint silver ribbon unwound in the distance. “There lies the Ageras.”
Which marked the border between Goge and Ephorn. They traveled now on the Gogean side of the river, which emptied into the Boiling Sea—and where they would find a ship to take them to Parsathe.
“When will we reach Drahm?” The port city lay at the mouth of the Ageras.
“In a quarter turn, if we travel at a quick pace.”
Seven days, perhaps. Her gaze touched the Ageras again. “We will take the river road?”
“Yes.”
“Do we ride through this night?”
He shook his head. “A village lies not far ahead. We’ll take our rest when it is in sight and purchase a horse there for you tomorrow morn. My mount has a great heart but we travel too fast and too far to carry two. Especially in this manner, for although you weigh but a feather, that feather is uneven and more difficult to carry.”
So she could imagine, as it was more difficult to ride in this manner, too. “Shall I sit astride, then? It would not be so uneven.”
Maddek’s arm circled her waist and lifted her. Awkwardly Yvenne swung her left leg over the horse’s neck, breath hissing through her teeth as her stiffened muscles screamed a protest. She settled into the saddle and for a long moment, pain blinded her as her hips and inner thighs seemed to tear apart, stretching and adjusting to the new position.
She almost cried out when Maddek’s palm flattened against her stomach and forced her up to sitting instead of curled over the horse’s withers.
The deep, soothing rumble of his voice moved through his warm chest and into the aching muscles of her back. “This pain will be but a few more days.”
Wordlessly she nodded.
Beneath her, the horse’s stride was long and smooth. Yvenne had no reins to grip, so she leaned back against his chest and braced her hands on the heavy thighs alongside hers. Beneath red linen, hard muscles became as iron—but he made no protest and did not push away her hands.
His manner had completely altered since the previous day, but Yvenne would not mistake his care and protection for a deeper change. Still he doubted her. Still he believed she might have taken part in his parents’ murders.
But she would win him over. Just as she had his mother.
At the beginning, Ran Ashev had doubted, too. Enraged and grieving after her husband’s death, the Parsathean queen had wondered if Yvenne’s message had been designed as a lure. Yet Ran Ashev had also seen firsthand the tower chamber where Yvenne was imprisoned and the punishment she’d received for writing that letter. When the two women had met, a fevered and healing Yvenne had not even the strength to leave her bed.
Where Yvenne’s frailty had stirred sympathy within Ran Ashev, however—and had lent truth to Yvenne’s claims—in Maddek, her weakness only stirred contempt. As if he believed strength of body outranked strength of mind or will.
Truly, Yvenne had expected more of him. But that more would come. For now, his anger and grief burned too hot to attempt persuading him to her truth. He would reject her every explanation.
And although his disbelief was a disappointment, perhaps she ought to have anticipated it. Through her mother’s eyes, Yvenne had followed a young Maddek from the Burning Plains to the banks of the Lave. She’d learned how fierce he was in battle against the savages, how shrewdly he’d commanded the alliance’s army, and how deeply he’d grieved each time another warrior was lost. For years, she’d known what kind of man he was.