by Shari Cross
I shut my eyes and lean my head against the door, while I try to control my breathing. I’m overcome with anger and humiliation, but neither will do me any good—not right now. I need to be in better control of myself if I’m going to outplay Charles in his game.
After several minutes, the carriage shifts with the weight of Charles’s body, and the carriage lurches forward. We continue on, traveling well into the night. It’s very late when the carriage stops, and the guards begin to assemble tents, making our camp for the evening. I lean back against the seat, my eyes shut, my foot tapping apprehensively while I wait.
“Your tent is ready, my Lady,” one of the guards says through the window. I let my eyes open slowly and take a deep breath before climbing down the carriage steps and onto the scattered leaves of the forest floor.
The light of the moon is reflecting on the branches and reaching down to the ground. I’m instantly reminded of that night in the woods with Drake, when we were both so young. I remember the way he wrapped his arms around himself, desperate to remember who he was. I remember the way he held my hand, looking for comfort, the vulnerability painted so clearly across his face. I take my mind from that day and picture him now, somewhere under the same sky, the same pale moon reflecting off his skin. In my mind, I imagine his face holds the same vulnerability and fear that it held that night. The pain the image brings is consuming. I take in a ragged breath and tell myself that he’s all right. He has to be.
“This way, my Lady,” the same voice says, and I cast a glance in his direction. The guard is standing in the flickering light that is spilling out of the opening of a square-shaped ivory tent. I cross my arms in front of me and rub my hands along my arms, trying to repress the chill that has begun to seep its way through my body. With a deep breath, I move toward the tent.
I step inside and squint against the light from the fire that’s burning in the center, reflecting off the ivory cloth. To my left, there’s a table with a few berries, parchment, a quill, and a jar of ink. To my right, there’s a metal wash basin, and directly ahead of me, on the opposite side of the fire, there’s a bed made from several fur blankets. I tear my gaze away from it, my body shuddering.
Footsteps approach from behind me. “Leave us,” Charles says. I glance over my shoulder. Charles is standing in the open archway of the tent. The guard behind him bows slightly and then walks away.
Charles steps toward me, and my heart beats violently. His chest presses against my back and his hands grip the tops of my shoulders and move down my arms. They reach my elbows and then begin their ascent back up. As his hands once again reach my shoulders, he spins me around to face him. My stomach lurches. He brings one hand to the small of my back, pushing me against him while the other hand travels to my face, cupping my jaw.
“Let go of me,” I speak through clenched teeth.
“Now why would I do that?” The right side of his mouth curls into a smile. Pressing my hands against his chest, I shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles backward, and I break into a run, desperate to get around him. He steadies himself and lunges for me. His arms wrap around my waist and he lifts me off the ground, holding me pinned against him while he moves us farther into the tent.
“Let go!” I scream, and kick back at him with my legs. Pushing down on his arms, I scratch and claw at him. But his grip remains firm, and when we reach the blankets, he throws my body down. The blankets do little to soften the impact of the hard ground, and the harshness of the blow leaves me gasping for air.
I blink through the pain and see him, standing over me, excitement fully ignited in his eyes. Turning onto my stomach, I push myself onto my knees and crawl forward. But his foot finds my back, and he kicks me flat onto the ground. His foot presses down, right between my shoulder blades, and a sharp cry of pain escapes my lips. He lifts his foot and I fight for air, my back searing in agony. Before I have a chance to move, his hands wrap around one of my arms and he rolls me around to face him. He’s kneeling over me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes storming with a mixture of fury and anticipation. He must see the fear in my eyes because he laughs once and then leans down toward me. His tongue traces its way across my neck. Revulsion shudders violently through my body, and then I remember my dagger.
This is that moment—where I fight back or decide to give in. Deep down I know I don’t have much of a chance. Fighting back will probably only prolong my pain, my torment. But to give in again? I can’t. Besides, Drake and my family are out of Charles’s reach. I’m the only one Charles can hurt now. Knowing this gives me the final breath of motivation.
I move my leg up cautiously, and slowly reach my hand down toward the dagger. Charles is too busy pulling at the ties of my dress to notice my movement. My heart slams in my chest as my fingers slip under my skirt and find the top of the hilt, which is protruding from my boot. I wrap my fingers around it just as he begins to undo the tie on his breaches. Pulling the dagger out, I raise it in the air and bring it down toward his neck, but he moves and the dagger slashes across his cheek.
His body jerks up, his hand flying to his face. Blood pools around his fingers and drips down his arm. I’m temporarily paralyzed with both astonishment at what I’ve done and horror that I missed my mark. He stares down at me in shock, but soon the shock is replaced by absolute fury. I lift my hand and drive the blade back toward him, but this time he’s ready for me, and he catches my wrist. His fingers wrap around my wrist and he twists it until we both hear the bone crack. I scream with agony, and the dagger drops to the ground. Clutching my wrist against my chest, the pain sears through me. He lifts me up by the shoulders and slams my head back down onto the solid ground. He slams my head one . . . two . . . three times more. My vision bursts before my eyes, a shower of sparks erupting in front of me, before going black and leaving me swimming in darkness . . .
Somewhere in the distance I hear the sound of my dress ripping. I will myself to open my eyes, but my body won’t listen. I fall back under . . .
Something warm drips onto my face. This time I’m able to open my eyes long enough to see Charles above me, his blood raining down on me. My eyes flutter and I try to roll onto my side, but his weight crushes me down, pressing me firmly onto the ground. I fade away again . . .
Pain. Pain tearing through my body. Trapped. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
Chapter 33
HER
I splash the cold water on my face, blinking against its harshness, my one useable hand trembling slightly. I look down at it and watch the water trickle its way down my fingers and back into the metal bin in front of my bare knees. I take one end of the fur blanket that I have wrapped around me, and dip it into the water. Bringing it up to my face, I begin to scrub, profoundly aware of every splotch of dried blood that’s painted onto my skin. The thought makes the vomit rise into my throat. I scrub harder, determined to remove every remaining sign of him from my body. I continue this for several minutes, until I’m certain none of his blood remains. I pull the blanket securely around me, clenching it in front of me with my left hand. My right hand is cradled against my chest, pulsing in a pain that has at least settled to a dull throbbing. With trembling legs, I rise unsteadily to my feet and suppress the groan of agony that wants to accompany the movement. Every single part of my body hurts.
I look across the tent, at the desk, which now holds a steaming cup of tea, next to my bloodied and torn yellow dress. How much longer will this last? Is this going to be my life now? I can’t bear the thought. I can’t exist this way, stumbling through a life that’s worse than hell. If our plan fails, I will find a way to kill Charles myself.
“My apologies, my Lady,” a panicked voice calls out from the front of the tent. I turn in the direction of the voice. There’s a guard standing inside the entrance, his back turned toward me, his feet shifting uncomfortably. Though I can’t see his face, I know it’s the same guard from last night, the one who escorted me from the carriage. At first I’m confused by his reac
tion, and then I remember that I have no clothes on and am only partially concealed by the blanket. I try to find any feelings of embarrassment, but there are none. A guard seeing my bare legs and shoulders is the least of my troubles. I search my mind for his name, but come up with nothing. The only guard I’ve heard Charles address by name is Henry. This, of all things, bothers me.
“What’s your name?” I ask quietly. He stiffens slightly, clearly surprised by my question.
“Rowan, my Lady,” he responds hesitantly. “Again, I’d like to apologize. I wasn’t aware . . .”
“It’s all right, Rowan. You don’t need to apologize,” I tell him, my voice a grating whisper. It’s strained and raw, like the harshness of metal being carved into a blade. I think of the tea on the table and move slowly toward it. “Were you the one who brought me this tea, Rowan?”
“Yes, my Lady. I hope you find it to you liking,” he replies shyly. I move to reach for it, but realize that to do so, I’ll have to let go of the blanket.
“Rowan, I’m afraid I need a favor from you.”
“Anything, my Lady.”
“Would you please retrieve my trunk for me?”
“Certainly, my Lady,” he says, hurrying off in the direction of the carriage.
I push the yellow dress to the ground, watching it fall in a tattered heap of realities and nightmares, and perch myself on top of the desk, letting my legs dangle off the side as I wait. In no time at all, Rowan returns, carrying my trunk in his arms. His eyes are squeezed shut as he moves forward into the tent, his black hair falling down across his forehead. He’s young, probably not much older than me. I watch him try to lower the trunk to the floor, feeling around with his hands for a good place to put it. As he sets it down, a chuckle escapes my lips, and blush spreads across his cheeks in response. I instantly feel guilty.
“Thank you, Rowan,” I say emphatically, hoping I didn’t embarrass or offend him.
He keeps his eyes shut and bows slightly. “We’ll be leaving soon, my Lady,” he says, before exiting the tent.
It’s difficult, but I manage to dress myself in a light blue gown. When I’m fully clothed, I reach for the tea. It’s not as warm now, but the earthy, mint liquid is soothing on my throat. I close my eyes and let my mind fall to Drake. The thought of him is overwhelmingly painful. My fingers tighten around the cup in my hand and my breaths quicken. Please let him be alive. These words repeat over and over, but eventually, my thoughts slip further and I can’t help but wonder how he’ll react when he sees me. Surely he’ll know what has happened. He’ll see the injuries and the look on my face. I won’t be able to hide it, and it will destroy him. The cup falls from my hands and clanks noisily as it bounces against the rocks on the ground. I clench my good hand around the edge of the desk, squeezing tightly. You can’t break now. You have to push through. You knew this was going to happen. Still, the difference is that I told myself I would fight him. I took comfort in the thought. And I tried. I tried to fight him. I failed.
The following days go by in a self-sedated blur. There’s a block forming in my mind in an attempt to push out the reality that exists around me. Every day is filled with traveling, and every night follows the same pattern—Charles comes to me, I still try to fight, I still fail.
On the third day, I tried to run away. That earned me a snapped finger to go with my already broken wrist on my right hand, which is now swollen and discolored. Rowan tried to bandage it yesterday, but Charles struck him and told him that if he tried to help me again, it would be the last thing he’d do. I still remember the way Rowan looked at me, a broken apology in his grey eyes.
If only I had my dagger. I wouldn’t merely lash at him, like before. This time I would drive it straight through his heart. But it’s gone. He took it. The thought tortures me. It was the last thing that I had of Drake’s. I need it. I know Charles hasn’t destroyed it. He’ll keep it and use it against me when it will hurt me most. He knows who gave it to me, and that dagger holds significance for him, too, though what it means to us is very different. I have to get it back.
The forest is just as thick in the area we’re now passing through as it is back home, but there are more flowers and shrubs growing here. The air is also lighter, warmer: a complete contradiction to the frigid heaviness that exists inside the carriage. I try to ignore the fact that Charles is several inches away from me and that his dead father is decaying behind me. But this last fact is harder to ignore, considering the heavy stench of death that has spread through the air in the carriage. Despite the open windows, the distinct scent of rotting flesh hangs around me like a cloud. I bring my hand to my face and drape it over my nose, desperate for a clean breath.
Outside my window, something glistens in the distance. My heart beats faster as my gaze trails along the pristine surface of water to the fog that stands behind it: The Glass River. A tremor of fear trickles its way down my spine at the sight of it. I want to ask why we’re headed toward the Glass River, but the only people in the carriage with me are Charles and his dead father, and I don’t want to talk to either of them. I rise slightly and lean farther out the window, glancing around for Rowan, but he must be on the other side. Without warning, the carriage tilts on the uneven ground, tipping me back into my seat.
“This is far enough, Dawson. We’ll travel on foot from here,” Charles calls out, making his voice loud enough to be heard over the shaking of the carriage. Being this close to the river and the Faenomen Forest has my stomach tied up with apprehension. I haven’t been this close to the river since the day I was attacked. The memory brings back terrifying flashes, and I find myself rooted in my seat.
Several minutes later, my door is pulled open. Charles is standing on the ground in front of me, impatience written across his face. The stitches on his cheek are jagged and glisten moistly under the sun.
“Get out,” he says roughly. I hesitate, my gaze returning to the fog. His patience expires and he reaches in and wraps his fingers around my broken wrist. I cry out in pain as he yanks me from the carriage, making me stumble and fall violently to my knees. He releases my wrist and I clutch it against my chest. Tears fight their way up, but I try desperately to blink them back. I refuse to let him see how much he’s hurt me.
I begin to rise shakily to my feet and a set of hands gently grips my shoulders, supporting me as I stand. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Rowan. His lips are taut, his forehead drawn into a hard line while he stares into my eyes, likely seeing the tears that are seconds away from spilling over.
“Are you hurt badly, my Lady?” he whispers. I try to speak, but I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I won’t be able to hold off the tears. Instead, I slowly shake my head, no. He looks down at my wrist and reaches forward to check it. I turn and move away from him, again shaking my head, no. I don’t want him to receive more punishment for trying to help me.
Just then, a large, thick set man slips his arm underneath mine. I glance up, startled by the contact, and realize that it’s Henry. His light blue eyes, outlined by a dark set of lashes, are set on me. I’ve never been this close to him before and I find myself distracted by his thick, black eyebrows that are peppered with grey hairs. The skin on his face, that’s not covered by his grey beard, is lined with several light scars and a few wrinkles, looking like a worn piece of leather.
“This way, my Lady,” he says, walking us forward.
The Glass River is merely yards away, and crossing over the top of it is a fallen tree. The trunk is massive and extends easily to the southern side. As we get closer to the tree, I realize that it’s been carved out, turning the overturned tree into a natural bridge. It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up with what I’m seeing, and once they do, my heart thrashes. I plant my feet firmly into the ground, refusing to move forward. This can’t be real. We’re not crossing the Glass River. Henry pulls on my arm once, but soon realizes that I’m not going to budge. He bends down in front of me, and I’m abruptly swung off my feet and thrown
over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I shout, finally finding my voice. Henry obeys and drops me harshly onto my feet. I stumble, but manage to keep from falling. “Don’t ever touch me like that again!” I yell, not actually feeling overly offended by it, but trying to find something to say that will let me express the anger and uncertainty I’m feeling. Henry doesn’t apologize, he just stares at me with a look of pure boredom on his face. Charles moves toward us and stands next to Henry.
“You are not the one who gives orders,” Charles says, taking several steps toward me. I move backwards and the back of my legs brush up against the trunk of the upturned tree. “Now you can either cross the bridge on your own or Henry will carry you. You choose.” He moves around me and steps onto the surface of the tree. Henry walks toward me once more.
“I’ll walk,” I assert, and then turn around to face the bridge. It looks as though someone tipped the tree over, cut it in half and then continued to hollow out the middle, leaving only a curving shell of tree, forming a makeshift bridge with walls on both sides. I step cautiously onto the tree and notice that along the floor and sides, there are hundreds of intricately carved designs. They’re not designs I’ve ever seen before, with their harsh lines and graceful curves, but there’s a purposeful pattern to them. Henry nudges me none too gently from behind, and I make myself move forward. Walking across the bridge, a nervous anticipation mingles with my fear. I’m about to step onto the southern side, into the Faenomen Forest, into Incarnadine. I always dreamt of what this would be like, but now that it’s real, I’m not sure I want to know.
The wood under my feet groans with every step I take. The closer I get to the fog, the more it seems to thicken, fully obstructing my view of the southern side. I glance around and find that I’m covered in mist, my visibility extending to only a few feet in each direction.
