“You should give me a bucket of water,” Ava said.
Banyon gripped the bars and turned to try and catch a glimpse of her on the floor. “Why?”
“To tend his wounds. Water and some clean rags.”
Her warden seemed to think about it for a moment. “Maybe.”
He shuffled away, and she closed her eyes, thinking through her options.
Maybe it would be easier to escape with the new prisoner here. He drew the eye with his big body. She could even do it right now, when Banyon came back.
If he was carrying a heavy bucket of water, that would be even better than the meal she assumed he would be holding when she’d set up her plan.
She opened her eyes and looked over at the prisoner, and found him watching her again.
She pursed her lips, and tried to harden her heart against him.
She didn't know him, and she had planned this for a long time.
It wasn't fair.
Her life was on the line. If she hadn't been completely certain before, hearing Juni and Garmand talk to Banyon had confirmed it.
She had pegged them as Herron's men on the inside, and from the knowing way they'd spoken, she'd been right.
“What are you deciding?” The prisoner's voice was a croak, and he started to cough.
She said nothing, pushing herself to her feet and walking over to the jug with the small amount of water she had left for the day.
She poured it into the chipped wooden cup, wincing when it barely reached the halfway mark, and crouched beside him.
His arms were bruised and scraped, and there was one deep cut in his forearm which went down to the bone.
She averted her eyes, too cowardly to look carefully, and dropped to her knees, easing an arm around his bare shoulders so she could put the cup to his lips.
He glanced up at her, a quick look of surprise, before he lifted his less injured arm and grasped the cup himself, tipping it down his throat with a groan.
Even though the water had gone, he tipped it again, as if trying to find any drop of water left.
She watched his throat work, and felt despair drag her down.
She had to be hard. To think of herself.
And yet, wouldn't that mean they had won?
She sighed.
“What are you deciding?” he asked again in his raspy voice, and she glanced at him, found his eyes on her once again. He was watching her with the patience of a predator.
She eased back, heart beating a little faster, and was careful to guide his shoulders back to the ground gently.
She had been around predators her whole life.
She dusted her knees as she stood.
“Nothing,” she answered at last, refusing to articulate her quandary.
She glanced from him in his half-naked state to the bed, and felt a surge of anger at Herron and his lackeys.
The temperature down here bordered on icy, and they had stripped their prisoner almost naked.
But feeling angry about it wasn't going to solve anything, and the prisoner was as much their victim as she was. More, by the look of his injuries.
“Who are you?” His voice was still rough and scratchy.
“Ava.” She had her back to him, standing next to her bed. She pulled off the thicker of the two blankets and lay it on the ground beside him. “You?”
“Luc.” There was an edge of amusement in his voice. “What . . . are you doing?”
“Making you a bed on the floor. I can't pick you up, but maybe you can pull yourself over?”
He must have been freezing on the cold stone floor, because he used his arms to pull himself onto the blanket with what looked like a massive effort.
She felt the quick, hard knock of her heart when his face turned a strange gray color, and he collapsed.
She crouched next to him, touching his shoulder, but he was no longer conscious. His skin was hot to the touch, and smooth under her fingers.
His hair was dark—a true black—and cut in the same short style as the Kassian soldiers. His chest was heavy with muscle, and she stared at the dark hair that arrowed down a flat, ridged stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.
He was magnificent, but now was not an appropriate time to admire him.
“Are you all right?” She rocked his shoulder, trying to rouse him, but she barely moved him.
And of course he wasn't all right.
She heard Banyon's shuffling step approach and curled around her knees, eyes closed tight shut.
She needed more time to decide!
She turned toward the door, and her knee knocked Luc's bruised shoulder. He gave a quiet groan in his sleep.
Stricken, she opened her eyes and rose up, standing with feet apart. Her escape plan hung over the door, waiting.
She stayed where she was as Banyon peered through the bars to check he could see her, and then rattled the keys as he opened up.
He only opened the door a little way, and swung the bucket of water in with a thump.
Then he left it open a crack as he shuffled away and then back.
He extended a jug and a plate and Ava hopped over Luc to take them, standing in the opening he'd created and looking him directly in the face.
“Thank you, warden.”
His rheumy eyes were leaking at the corners, and he had a light sheen of sweat on his face from carrying the bucket. “Share with the prisoner. They want him alive. Maybe they'll reward you if you fix 'im up.”
They both knew that would never happen, but she bowed her head in acquiescence.
He peered at her carefully, then pulled the old sheet he had slung over his shoulder off, holding it in front of him like a shield. “This was all I could find.”
Banyon tossed it through the doorway onto Luc, as if by not directly handing it to her, he somehow absolved himself of his kindness. “For bandages,” he said, and then shut the door in her face.
She leaned against the door for a moment, looking up at the stone poised and ready to come down on his head, and felt a tear leak down her cheek.
She straightened, using the back of her hand to brush the moisture away, and pushed down every raging emotion. It would do her no good right now.
She put the plate and jug on the table before she hefted the bucket closer to Luc. The water was cold, but there was a lot of it.
She lifted the sheet to her nose and sniffed. It smelled a little musty, as if it had been in a damp cupboard, but was otherwise clean.
She began ripping long strips off it for bandages and used a few of them to clean the scrapes and slices in his arms and shoulders.
When she got to the very deep cut on his forearm, she sat for a long minute, staring at it.
She had only sewn flesh once before—her own—and though she couldn't see the scar above her eyebrow, her finger traced the spot. Her skin felt smooth there, as if the deep cut had never happened.
She had no mirror, so she didn't know how well it had healed.
She lifted her hands to her head, and then hesitated, looking toward the door.
Too paranoid to continue where she could be observed, she moved to the side of the door, lowering to her haunches. It would be impossible for anyone outside looking in to see her.
She burrowed her fingers in her short, dark hair.
Banyon had been slack lately, and her hair actually had a little length to it, now, rather than the shorn look she was used to. Long enough that she'd been able to weave her hidden needle into the strands, in case they checked her clothes again.
She got hold of the needle and pulled it out, tugging a little when it wouldn't come until a few strands came away at the roots.
Eyes smarting from the pain, her fingers shook a little as she unwound the single thread she'd hidden with the needle. The black silk was already threaded through the fine, silver needle's eye, ready to be used at a moment's notice.
She stared at it.
It was the only thread she had left.
>
She had thought all of it was gone, until one day she'd found a short strand of it caught between the mattress and the sheet on her bed.
She'd kept it safe ever since, and had only used a little for the tiny stitches she’d put in her neckline to protect her from poison.
She made her decision and then committed herself fully, hunching over as she crawled to Luc, back to the door. Even if Banyon was pressed right up against it, looking in, he wouldn't be able to see what she was doing.
She clamped Luc's arm between her knees and began sewing.
As the needle pierced his skin, he came to with a cry and a jerk.
His gaze went to her face, eyes wild, and then down to his arm wedged in her lap.
At the sight of the needle sticking out of his skin, his gaze snapped to hers again.
“You're sewing me up.” His voice was a dirty rasp.
She nodded.
He gave a slow blink, a lowering and raising of his eyelids, and then he relaxed.
“I thought you were going to run,” he said, lying back against the blanket.
“Is that so?” she murmured as she worked the needle.
“Yes.” He closed his eyes, but his body remained tense.
“You were wrong.”
“You were going to, though.” His murmur was as low as her own. “What changed your mind?”
She shot him a look of incredulity, but his eyes were still shut.
“Maybe I still will.”
He gave a grunt at that. “You could do worse than wait for me to recover my strength. I've a good sword arm.” He winced as she pulled on the thread.
“You must have, to be down here.” Herron and his generals wouldn't bother singling out just anyone. There was something special about this one.
“It's more than my fighting skills they don't like.” His speech was choppy as he held and released his breath with the in and out of her needle.
“Who are you then? Some warlord threat?”
He was silent, and she looked up to check he hadn't passed out again, to find his bright eyes on her.
She blew out a breath. “You are?”
“I fought in the warlord's army, that's true.” He kept his gaze steady, but something in his eyes, some shadow, told her he was lying.
She lowered her gaze, going back to her careful movement of the needle. “Oh?”
“They think I have a higher rank than I do.” He kept his voice level.
She relaxed a little. She could understand lying about his rank. He wanted them to think he was lower down than he was, and she respected that.
Respected that he wouldn't tell her. She was a stranger, after all. For all he knew she could use the information against him to help herself.
“What rank do they think you are?” she asked, keeping her gaze down, on her work.
She hummed softly as she did. Humming always made a difference, her grandmother had told her. And it seemed . . . right.
“They think I'm the Turncoat King.” He said it in a way that he thought she would understand what he meant.
She looked up, frowning. “Who is the Turncoat King?”
He looked at her in shock, and she almost laughed out loud.
Oh, you are the Turncoat King, all right. And you can't believe I haven't heard of you.
“A warlord,” he said at last.
“I'm assuming the Herald or his lackeys came up with such an unflattering name as the Turncoat King.” She was on the last stitch, and she caught her lip between her teeth as she tightened the thread and began to tie it off.
“You would be right.”
“What do his own people call this warlord?” she asked. She looked up at him, holding his gaze to distract him.
He hesitated, and that told her he was uncomfortable with his people's name for him, more so than the one Herron was using against him.
“They . . . we . . . call him the Commander.” He suddenly looked down at his arm, and she did, too.
She had done a neat job. Almost impossibly neat.
He frowned, and then relaxed back again, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She tilted her head, staring critically at her work. She just wished she had scissors, so she could snip off and save the leftover thread hanging from the end knot. There wasn't much of it, but it was something.
Silk was difficult to snap off, and it would hurt him to try.
She let the idea go. The thread was lost to her now.
She had rubbed it against a sharp edge of stone on the wall when she’d embroidered the poison protection into her neckline, but short of dragging Luc across the room to it, that wasn’t an option.
“Where is your Commander from?” She dipped a torn strip of sheet into the water and dabbed away the blood her needle had made, then began to bandage the cut up, more to hide the stitches than because it needed to be wrapped.
“You really haven't heard of him?” Luc asked.
She shook her head. “I've been here a long time.”
“Why?” He lifted his arm to help her as she wound the bandage around it.
“I heard something someone didn't want me to hear.” That was the truth, in a way.
But she didn't feel compelled to be more honest with him, when he was lying to her.
“You're Kassian?”
“My father was. My mother's people are from Grimwalt.”
He was silent and she wondered if it was because of the reputation of the Grimwaldians.
They were fey.
Some of them, anyway.
Some of them, like her.
But she had managed to hide it for a long time, and she could hide it again.
She rose up, backing away from him, and turned to the table with its plate of bread, cheese and a wrinkled apple from the summer crop.
First, she poured him some more water, remembering the way he tried to get every last drop earlier.
He took the cup from her, his gaze never leaving her face. “Grimwalt has shut its border.”
She raised her brows. “I hadn't heard that.”
“They cannot think their fate isn't tied up with the rest of the region. Who will they trade with, how will they prosper?” He drank the water, slower this time.
Ava gave a low chuckle. “You know who they will trade with, and as for prosper? We do not care for riches in Grimwalt. Prosperity is measured in peace and tranquility, not gold.” She took the cup back, filled it again.
“You first,” he said.
She hesitated, then nodded. She would have to be strong, able to run, when she escaped, with or without him.
Although she knew it would be with him.
She'd made her choice, even though she wished she had enough hardness in her to leave him behind.
He watched her drink, and then took the cup from her when she filled it again. “What is the plan?”
“The plan?” She kept her voice light as she turned away and began to tear the bread in half.
“To escape.” His voice was less raspy now that he'd drunk more water, and he had turned on his side, propping himself up on an elbow.
He looked better than he had when they'd dragged him in. She'd cleaned off most of the blood and his eyes were brighter now he'd drunk the water.
“The guards think you'll harm me. They're hoping for it.” She said it calmly, but the reaction in him was instant.
He looked at the door, face and body still. “Why are they hoping for it?”
“Because they want to claim my death as an accident. They've tried to poison me, but I don't think the food Banyon brought us now is dangerous. He says they want you alive, so we're safe to eat this.” She walked over to him and lowered herself in a smooth motion, sitting beside him, legs crossed. She set the plate between them and took up her half of the bread. “I was going to have to escape today, you see, because I haven't been able to eat for a few days already.”
He hesitated, but she motioned to him with her hand and he t
ook the bread, broke off a piece of cheese and bit into it with strong white teeth.
“They captured you two or three days ago?” she asked.
He stopped chewing, gave her a suspicious look.
“Your stubble,” she explained, waving at his face.
He fingered the dark hair on his chin and nodded. “There was a battle near Zeneca.”
“They took you prisoner?”
“We won. After the battle, they sent in a traitor who pretended to have an urgent message for . . . the Commander, that a nearby tribe were interested in an alliance and wanted to meet, and when we rode out to negotiate, we were ambushed.”
That sounded like Herron's style.
“I hope your Commander got away.” She couldn't help it. She wanted to poke at him a little in revenge for forcing her to change her plans.
He gave her a sharp look, as if he was suspicious of her question, and she lowered her gaze, folded some bread over a piece of cheese, and put it in her mouth.
She had never tasted anything so good.
“Why do they call your leader the Turncoat King?”
He was silent, and she risked a quick glance at him.
He was chewing thoughtfully as he stared at her face. “He was part of the Chosen.”
She hadn't expected that. She met his gaze. “He turned against the Kassian army?”
“He turned against them,” Luc said. “And he took every Chosen on the battle field with him.”
“When was this?” She couldn't believe she hadn't heard of it. It was breathtaking in its implications.
“Just under two years ago.” He was still watching her, looking for any sign of deception in her expression, but he would find none. She would have taken such heart from the idea of the Chosen rebelling.
Herron would have known that.
He would have made certain she didn't hear of it.
The whole sick and twisted Chosen program was the worst thing her aunt had ever done. Even her aunt had known it.
Ava didn't think the queen had ever been the same after it.
“How long were you a Chosen?”
“Who says I was?” He had finished his share of the bread and cheese, and lifted the apple to his lips to take a bite.
“You said the Commander is your leader, I assumed you were in the Chosen with him.”
Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology Page 2
