by Megg Jensen
Bastian laid the man down gently.
“He’s naked,” Elinor said, concerned. “Take off your cloak and cover him.”
Bastian draped the cloak over the sandy-haired man’s body. Only then he looked at the man’s face.
It couldn’t be.
He was dead.
Bastian had seen him die.
Elinor smoothed back the hair draped over his face and Bastian was certain.
“Connor.”
Elinor looked up in surprise, her eyes wide and her little pink mouth open. “You know him?”
Bastian nodded. He fell to his knees. He hadn’t thought he’d ever see his best friend again. Tressa had muttered something about Connor before he passed out in the medical ward. Bastian couldn’t remember what she’d said. Something about dragons and Connor. All Bastian could think of was the moment when Connor had died, lashed into pieces by that evil Stacia and her braid laced with metal shards.
What had Tressa tried to tell him? Had she known Connor was alive?
“His name is Connor. He’s from Hutton’s Bridge.” Bastian grasped his friend’s hand in his. He was thinner, his hair was longer, and a scraggly beard covered his face, but it was definitely Connor.
Elinor looked between the two men. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Now that the fog is down, there will be more of you wandering around out here.”
“No,” Bastian said, “he was with me and Tressa the whole time. He’s the one Stacia killed that day in Ashoom.”
Elinor shook her head, her blond curls falling over her shoulders. “I heard about it, but didn’t see it. Stacia was a cruel leader. I refused to attend any of her so-called group absolutions. She was trying to make the townspeople fear the dragon under her command.” She spit on a kerchief and rubbed away the blood on Connor’s face.
“He is alive, isn’t he?” Bastian asked. He’d already seen Connor die once before. It was almost like a dream to imagine his friend alive again.
Elinor rolled her eyes. “His chest is moving. Breath is escaping between his lips. He even made noises that attracted our attention to him. I would think it’s safe to say that, yes, he is alive.”
Bastian squeezed Connor’s hand. He didn’t receive any sort of physical reply. He searched Elinor’s face, but all she had to offer was concern for Connor. “He’s fully alive, right?” With everything he’d seen these past weeks, he was no longer certain about the borders between life and death. The woman in the tree had taught him that.
Elinor’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, he is fully alive. He appears to be so.” She laid the back of her hand on Connor’s forehead. “He’s not warm either. No fever. In the absence of other symptoms, I don’t feel confident declaring him ill. He looks underfed. Perhaps he’s only starving.”
“How did he get here? And with these eggs?” Bastian was baffled by the circumstances.
“We won’t know until he wakes, so let’s do what we can to help him.” Elinor stood and wiped the dirt off her pants. “Stay with him while I check outside for herbs that can help him. If he starts to awaken, don’t let him get up. We don’t know what his stamina is like. I’d hate to have him get up too quickly only to fall and injure himself.”
Bastian nodded, his eyes on his friend. Settling onto the ground, Bastian tucked the cloak around Connor’s body to keep the cooling night air away from his skin. He couldn’t wait for Connor to wake up. He had so much to tell him. Even more, Bastian had countless questions for Connor. How had he survived such a brutal attack from Stacia’s spiked braid? Where had the dragon claws taken him after he’d been flayed? Had he died only to come back to life or had he only appeared to be dead? Where had he been for the last few months and how did he end up naked in a cave filled with dragon eggs?
Elinor snuck back into the cave, clutching sprigs of dry herbs in her hand. She grabbed a rock the size of her palm off the ground. After tearing the herbs into tiny pieces, she ground them into a fine dust on top of one of the dragon eggs. “It’s the only dirt-free surface,” she said with a shrug.
She sprinkled the bits into her palm, spat on them, and rubbed her hands together creating a thin paste. “Open his mouth for me,” she instructed Bastian. She stuck her thumb in the paste and rubbed her thumb against the inside of Connor’s cheeks.
“What will that do?” Bastian asked her, letting go of Connor’s chin.
Elinor wiped her hands on her skirt. “If he’s feeling any pain, that mixture will help to relieve it. Since he’s already asleep, and possibly in some kind of stupor, I didn’t want to give him anything that would make his sleep deeper. It could kill him. Sleeping draughts are very potent.”
Bastian nodded. He remembered being given one by his uncle Adam, also a healer, not long ago after he’d emerged injured from the fog. He took a deep breath and marveled at how strong he felt. Elinor’s healing powers were beyond compare. He’d fostered a deep distrust of magic after seeing it used for so many evil purposes. He was glad to know some could use it for good.
“What can we do for him now?” Bastian asked, eager for his friend to wake up. He missed Connor, especially with Tressa gone. Once they were back together, all would be right with the world. And Tressa would be thrilled to know Connor was alive. He was her best friend too, and the glue that had held them together.
Elinor wrapped her arms around herself. The air only became cooler as the night dragged on. Her cloak was still under Connor, shielding him from the ground. “We can do nothing but wait. If he doesn’t awaken by morning, I’ll head back to Ashoom and fetch one of my fellow healers. We’ll take care of him while you escape.”
“You can’t take him back to Ashoom. They’d kill him as surely as they’d kill me,” Bastian insisted. “He’ll have to come with me.”
“He’s in no condition to travel.” Elinor glared at Bastian. Despite being small, she had no qualms standing up to him. “Not that far at least. We can bring a litter and carry him to Ashoom. I’ve taken an oath to heal and letting you whisk him away on a boat will only make him sicker.”
“You don’t even know what’s wrong with him,” Bastian retorted. “He might just be really tired after a long trek.”
“He’s naked and unconscious.” Elinor rolled her eyes. "Men.” She folded her arms across her chest. Once again Bastian forced himself to look away from his one weakness.
“I brought extra clothes for you." Elinor pointed to the pack on the ground near the entrance. "He can have them when he wakes up."
Bastian nodded. She'd thought of everything.
“I am a healer. One of the best. If not the best. And the strongest in magical healing. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. For now, we need our sleep too. It’s been a long day for you too. Not long ago, you were passed out, on the beginning of months of healing. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to stand, much less argue with me. Now shut your mouth, lie down, and go to sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” She pointed to Connor’s back. “You there. I’m against his front. We’ll keep him warmer this way.”
Bastian obeyed without question. He’d never let a woman push him around like Elinor did. It was probably because he was tired and still healing. He stretched out next to his best friend and fell asleep within a few breaths.
Chapter Eight
Fire burned in Tressa’s chest, every breath searing a new wound in her lungs. Her lips chapped, beaten by the relentless wind. Bits and pieces of dried skin dangled and blood crusted in the cracks between. The desert was a hard, unforgiving place, devoid of all life.
She’d grown up surrounded by trees and damp fog. Here, her clothes hung on her, thin as peeling bark and stiff as corn stalks just before harvest. Her hair, once bouncy and thick, hung limp on her face, beaten down by the gritty sand that flew through the air like raindrops.
She hated the Sands and the days they’d spent on the horses.
But Jarrett had allies and friends in the Sands, not to mention influence with the queen. People woul
d help them uncover the mystery of Hutton’s Bridge. First the fog shrouding the village in a misty sarcophagus, then the disappearance of everyone who lived there. The red dragons sniffing around the village only compounded the mystery.
Still, she regretted leaving Bastian behind again. She was always doing that. Telling him she’d be back, only to sneak away on another adventure. She wished there was some way she could see him and explain why she’d chosen another path yet again. Bastian trusted her. She believed that with all her heart, but she couldn’t expect him to wait on her forever.
She wasn’t sure she’d do the same, though perhaps it seemed that way to everyone in Hutton’s Bridge. She’d never loved any other man, even after her time with Bastian was dissolved due to her inability to get pregnant.
There were times, though, when she wondered if another man could turn her head. A man outside of Hutton’s Bridge, if such a man even existed. She glanced at Jarrett out of the corner of her eye. He sat erect in the saddle, his resolute, brown eyes scanning the desert for signs of trouble. He’d kissed her twice now. Despite her feelings for Bastian, she’d liked it more than she wanted to admit.
Jarrett's lips had felt different than the other men’s. Stronger. Sure. As if he were trying to help her remember something they’d once shared. It unnerved her and turned her on at the same time. But there was Bastian. And she still loved him—she thought.
It was too confusing. She resolved to tuck these thoughts away where they wouldn’t disturb her. Instead she looked ahead, hoping, praying, that the oasis Jarrett was leading them toward would shimmer into view. So far she’d spied nothing more than sand upon sand upon sand.
Jarrett’s horse stumbled, then fell to the ground, legs folded. Jarrett fell out of the saddle, hitting the ground hard on one shoulder.
Tressa gasped and slid off her horse, landing in the slippery sand. She ran to Jarrett. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, but my horse isn’t. I was hoping they could get us to the first oasis, Camel’s Back.” His voice scratched, muffled behind the scarf wrapped around his face. He’d offered her one and she’d stupidly rejected it.
“How much farther?” Tressa asked, doubting he could offer an answer. The desert looked the same no matter which direction she checked.
Jarrett pointed. “Not far to the west. Over that dune.”
Tressa squinted. She couldn’t even see a dune in the distance. She laid a hand on Jarrett’s. His hand was steady, sure, as he stroked the dying horse’s mane.
“I don’t want to leave him here to die.” Jarrett’s voice cracked. He looked up at Tressa. “But if we stay, we’ll die too. We have to move on.” He stood up and clasped Tressa’s hand. “You ride. I’ll lead the way.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll walk too.”
A muffled laugh came from behind his scarf. “You will ride because you’re not used to the sand. I am. This is my home.” He spread his arms out wide. “This is where I thrive. Trust me, you need to ride the horse.”
She stroked her horse’s dappled coat. “But won’t it hurt him if I do? I don’t want him to die like yours.” She risked another glance at the ailing horse. Foam spittle gathered at his lips. His eyes were closed. Perhaps he was dead already. No, the stuttered rise and fall of his chest told her he was still alive and suffering.
“Your horse is stronger. That’s why I chose him for you,” Jarrett said. “I didn’t have time to secure a better horse for myself. We left Ashoom so quickly. I took what I could get. It didn’t ever occur to me that we’d be coming here. These horses aren’t made for the desert. I think yours will be okay, though.”
Tressa’s heart ached. “But we can’t just leave yours here to die.” Her hand rested on her hilt. She’d never killed an animal before. In Hutton’s Bridge, they raised a small herd of cows, pigs, and chickens to provide meat for the community, but it was the job of the butchers to kill the animals when their time came.
“I’ll do it,” Jarrett said. “It’s my horse.” He grasped Tressa’s shoulder. “But if your horse should falter, you will have to pull your blade. It is the only way to honor the animal’s service.”
She nodded and hoped fervently that her horse would make it to the oasis.
Jarrett pulled his sword from the scabbard. He knelt and whispered in the horse’s ear, then patted its neck. Jarrett’s forehead met with the horse’s muzzle. Together, they breathed as one. He stood quickly and drove his sword into the horse’s heart.
Tressa swallowed hard when the sword pulled free, the sucking sound nearly forcing the food out of her stomach. Again, she prayed for her horse’s good health. If it came down to it, she would show the same respect Jarrett had. She just hoped she wouldn’t be forced to.
“Let’s go,” Jarrett said. He pulled a cloth from his pack and cleaned his blade, red and sticky with blood. “The longer we take, the harder it will be on you and your horse.”
“I’m fine. Really,” Tressa insisted as she mounted. Really, she wasn’t. Her eyes burned more with every blink. Sand stuck to her teeth, making them grit and grind with every word. Each breath felt like swallowing a double-edged sword. Only the promise of the oasis, with its tents and cool water, convinced her not to lie down next to the dead horse, letting the sand bury her alive.
Jarrett took hold of the horse’s lead and began walking in the direction he’d pointed earlier. Tressa sat up straight, determined to make things as easy as possible for her horse, but in what felt like only moments, she’d slumped forward, leaning her body across the horse’s neck. Her arms dangled to the side, her hands limp and useless in the hot afternoon sun.
A nudge at her lips brought her out of her stupor.
“Drink,” Jarrett said.
She lay limp, too weak to tilt the canteen. Jarrett held it for her, letting the water drip into her mouth. Water dribbled over her lips. The cool droplets cascaded over her tongue and into her throat. Tressa felt a smile spread across her face as she lost consciousness.
Chapter Nine
A cool breeze meandered over Tressa's face. Goose bumps radiated from her forehead to her toes. Tressa’s eyes fluttered open. A large fan made of white feathers pumped up and down over her head, suspended from the ceiling by a series of ropes and pulleys.
Two women stood on either side of her. They held beige sponges, soaked in cold water, and they used them to clean Tressa’s body of the sand. She looked down, surprised to see herself completely naked on the pallet.
“Where are my clothes?” She tried to sit up, but one of the women placed a firm hand on her shoulder, holding her down.
“All is well. Relax. Allow us to serve the promised of the First Guard of the Yellow Queen of Risos.”
Promised? Her heart raced.
“Where’s Jarrett?” Tressa asked.
“Your master awaits you. Until you have been cleansed, you are not to see him. A man such as the First cannot be burdened with a grimy bride to be. If you are not clean, he may throw you naked into the desert, allowing your flesh to be eaten away by the sand.” The woman smiled, her toothy grin belying the harsh words she’d spoken.
Tressa lay still, wishing they’d work faster. If Jarrett was prancing around the oasis telling people she was his promised, then they needed to have words.
After what felt like days, Tressa was given a gown of pale gossamer. She suspected her own clothes had been thrown away or repurposed as liner in a stable. Even the attendants who’d bathed her wore gowns finer than anything Tressa had ever laid eyes on.
They offered to assist her in slipping the gown on, but Tressa insisted dressing herself. The two women exchanged a knowing glance and left her alone. The fan above continued to move up and down. As soon as she was dressed, Tressa intended to find out how the fan moved on its own.
The gown slid over her body, accentuating every curve, every muscle she’d developed over the last few months. The fine fabric draped as if it were made for her body, falling delicately to her toes. It
was then she realized her hair cascaded in waves down her back.
She’d cut her hair not long ago, keeping it short while she pretended to be a man of the Black Guard. Now her hair was longer than ever before. Tressa nestled her fingers into the crown of her hair, raking through the strands. At the base of her neck, she felt something strange. A small knot. No, a large grouping of knots.
So they’d found a way to add length to her hair. Tressa felt a sigh of relief. For a moment she’d feared she’d passed out and been unconscious for months. She laughed at her foolishness. This must all be part of making her beautiful for Jarrett.
As his promised—she couldn’t help but snort when she thought the word—she would need to be beautiful. Well, if beauty bought safety and help for the missing people of Hutton’s Bridge, she wouldn’t fight it.
After slipping on a pair of sandals, Tressa walked back over to the fan. She eyed the pulley, following the rope to a hole in the top of the tent, where it disappeared to the outside. She parted the heavy silks and peered into another small tent attached to her own. A man sat on a wooden seat, his feet pedaling slowly, pulling the ropes back and forth in rhythm with the fan. She marveled at the invention. It was so simple in its construction, yet so ingenious. Yet she felt a stab of shame. This man’s only job was to pedal endlessly just so she could have a light breeze in the tent.
“You can stop,” she whispered to him. “I’m okay.”
He startled, his eyes snapping wide. He mumbled a series of words incoherent to her foreign ears, his hands flailing in the air. He pedaled faster, his cheeks puffed out with exertion. Tressa let the silks fall and she retreated into the tent.
Jarrett had told her he worked for the queen, but she never expected this level of importance.
The silks parted, and the two women entered again. “He is waiting for you. Please, follow us.”
