Ricón had taught her how to use a sling so she could help him hunt the palace grounds for snakes. Of course, she couldn’t say this, so she shrugged and said nothing at all.
There was an easier path, a little farther west and nearer the great plains of Davros, but Jos didn’t want to be seen. Sable couldn’t find a reason to disagree. They still didn’t know Ventus’s fate, or Tallyn’s for that matter, and if Ventus had survived, she didn’t think he’d stop at The Crossing this time. With that thought in mind, Sable endured their rough trek, hoping Tallyn had survived, and also hoping the flute had abandoned her for good.
From dawn till dusk they rode, stopping only to give the horses a break or to replenish their water skins. At night, they found shelter behind the lee of a rock, always open to the night sky. That first night, when the sun dipped below the horizon, habit shocked her nerves into fright, but eventually she found peace sleeping beneath a night full of stars. This sky shared some of Istraa’s stars, though oriented differently, and there were also new stars Sable didn’t know. There was a whole world she didn’t know, and as they traveled, she thought more and more on all that she’d missed, locked away in Skanden for so many years. With Jos’s reward, discovering that world might be possible. Maybe she wouldn’t settle in Istraa after all. Maybe she wouldn’t settle anywhere.
Eventually, the rocks relented, sloping into gentler stretches of land. Trees huddled in the land’s broad crevices, and the grass grew again as they made a slow ascent out of The Fingers’ tundra and into the high desert of Corinth’s boundary. Jagged, snow-capped peaks marked the southern horizon. It’d been years since Sable had seen those mountains. The Gray’s Teeth Mountains, they called them, named after the enormous gray bears indigenous to those parts. She’d always loved the Baraga Mountains of Istraa, with their gentle slopes and broad backs, like giant tortoises sleeping on the sands. Unlike the Baragas, Corinth’s mountains rose sharply, like stone teeth, as if Corinth were a monster trying to swallow the world.
“When did you plan to turn west?” Sable asked as those stone teeth began swallowing the sun. She blinked in the breeze, trying to wet her eyes. The air was much drier here, and the skin on her knuckles and lips cracked. She’d expected Jos to change course sometime today, but he had not.
Jos’s face turned toward the setting sun, and sunlight gilded his hair. “Let’s camp there.” He gestured toward a crop of boulders crowning a small hill.
Braddok gave Jos a long look, then nudged his horse toward the hill.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Sable said.
“Tomorrow,” he said. It was a word thrown to placate her. He urged their horse after Braddok.
“Jos.”
He glanced back. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she remembered their kiss. And sometimes, when he looked at her, she thought he remembered it too, though that night seemed a distant thing now. It angered her how easily he’d put it behind him. She would’ve confronted him on it, but she wasn’t comfortable discussing it in front of his friend.
“Tomorrow,” Jos said at last, and his gaze moved to the mountains. “There’s something we need to discuss first.”
Sable felt a prick of unease. “Which is…?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. He didn’t meet her gaze. “We’ll talk after we’ve eaten.”
Sable studied him a moment, then slid from the horse.
“It’s not far,” Sable said at a sharp glance from Jos. “And I need to move my legs.”
He nodded a fraction, and together, they walked their horse to where Braddok stood, unsaddling his. He glanced over at them and frowned. Braddok hadn’t been outright rude to Sable, but she felt his disapproval all the same. It didn’t bother her, really. She interpreted his disapproval more as a sign of loyalty to his friend than as a personal slight against her.
Wings flapped and an owl landed on the rock beside her, regarding her with an intense yellow-eyed stare. She’d spotted the owl earlier, floating in the distance. She remembered only because it’d surprised her to see it, out in the open and during the day. It also explained why they hadn’t spotted any rodents.
The owl wore a rich coat of black and white, and its thick black brows ended in tufts like two horns. Its long talons curled like tiny daggers and could easily mangle a man’s face.
“Go on,” Sable whispered to it. “We won’t catch any dinner with you around.” She batted a hand at the owl. The owl hooted and took flight.
“And we certainly won’t catch dinner if you warn the food away,” Jos mused behind her.
“Predators make for bad meat.”
“Bad meat is better than no meat.”
She cocked a brow at him. “I take it you haven’t eaten owl.”
A small smile shadowed his lips as he watched the retreating bird, then cast Sable a sideways glance and said, “Actually, I have,” before turning away.
Sable found herself looking after him as he dug through the horse’s saddlebags. Braddok glanced up from the fire he was building and snagged her gaze, and Sable turned her attention back to the task at hand. She gathered what kindling she could find, added them to Braddok’s small pile, and perched on the rock where the owl had landed. She checked her bandage and carefully unwound the wrapping from her waist. Jos’s stitches held, and the cut was knitting itself together well, despite the constant jolting. The skin around the cut was still tinged pink, but faintly. She would’ve liked to apply cannis to soothe the inflammation, but that would require going into a town.
Sable rewrapped the wound, adjusted her shirt, and glanced up to find Jos watching her. He looked back to the kindling and struck flint to steel. She wondered what he meant to discuss. She pulled her sling from her pocket, tucked her hair behind her ears, and glanced around for dinner prospects.
“Here.” Jos approached, handing her the water skin.
She grabbed it, uncorked the spout, and took a sip.
“We’re not far from Stovichshold,” Braddok said suddenly.
Jos leveled a hard look on his friend.
Braddok stared resolutely back. “It might be worth—”
“Brad.”
Braddok’s lips pressed together. His gaze flickered to Sable, and he sighed and picked up his flask of ale.
“What’s in Stovichshold?” she asked, looking from Braddok to Jos.
Jos stared only at Braddok, features tight with irritation. Clearly, this was a matter not meant for Sable’s ears. At last, Braddok set down the flask and picked up his scabbard.
“I’m going hunting,” Braddok said gruffly.
Jos gave no response, but then Braddok didn’t linger to hear one.
Jos looked after his friend a moment, then stepped around the fire and picked up Braddok’s flask. He uncorked it, took a whiff, and, to Sable’s surprise, drained the contents.
She set down her water skin. “Out with it, Jos.”
He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak. He stared at the flames with determination in his eyes, as if sorting through his words, deciding how best to say them, but also wishing he didn’t have to.
“Jos.” She took a liberty she hadn’t taken since Braddok’s arrival—speaking to Jos with the quiet familiarity they’d shared at Tallyn’s and later at Gavet’s, speaking directly to the man hidden deep inside, the one with whom she’d made herself vulnerable.
It worked. Jos glanced up.
She couldn’t read the expression there, but a deep note inside of her wavered with unease.
“Sable, I…” His resolve faltered; his jaw clamped shut. He looked back to the fire, as if he couldn’t look at her and say whatever it was he needed to say.
Sable waited, and a dark cloud of trepidation bloomed inside of her. A major chord turned minor, its intervals diminished.
“We’re not heading to Southbri—” Jos’s words cut short. His gaze fixed on a point behind her.
Too fast, he leapt past her, colliding with a shadow she only just noticed as Jos and the oth
er figure tumbled to the ground. Grunts sounded, but Jos quickly took the advantage, pinning the intruder’s thick neck to the ground with his bare hands. It was another man, near Jos’s age, with hair like wheat, worn long on top but shaved on the sides, and a full beard added grit to an imposing face.
In the same instant both men stalled, gazing wildly at the other, and Sable realized that Jos recognized the man as surely as the man recognized Jos.
“Stanis…?” Jos gasped, bewildered. His hands relented, and the man’s grimace stretched into a wide grin.
“I’ll be damned,” Stanis replied in strong Corinthian.
The accent arrested Sable.
Jos didn’t notice. He jumped to his feet and extended a hand, which Stanis took, and Jos jerked him to his feet.
“Are you alone?” Jos asked.
“Chez and Aksel are here too, somewhere. Bastards.” Stanis smirked, glancing behind him. “Looks like they found Brad.”
Sable followed his gaze to where three figures ambled up their small hill. Braddok, and two other men he clearly knew well, drew three horses behind them.
“We were just heading back from Stovich’s, when I thought I saw…” Stanis’s eyes had been sliding back toward Jos but hooked on Sable and stopped there, sinking deep. “What do we have here?” he drawled, taking a step toward Sable.
Jos moved fast, placing himself between them.
Stanis looked surprised, and he regarded his friend with curiosity and then a smirk. “Got a little Scablicker gift for your brother, Wolf?”
Jos went rigid.
Time stilled, teetering on the edge of a blade.
Suddenly, Stanis was background—a colorless sky—his lewd words no more than a distant howl, save one: Wolf.
Sable slipped from her perch. She stared intensely at Jos, and her heart drummed faster with each passing second. “What did he just call you?”
Jos stood too still. Slowly, his face angled back, and his eyes fastened on hers. And Sable knew. Living in a land of thieves, she had seen that look a thousand times. Jos was a man caught, trapped by his lies.
Braddok and the other two men arrived. One chuckled about something his companion had said, but Braddok elbowed him in the ribs, and they fell silent. They stopped at the camp’s edge, glancing between Jos and Stanis and Sable.
But Sable only had eyes for Jos.
“Who are you?” Sable’s words filled the camp, carved an edge.
A muscle worked in Jos’s jaw, but he didn’t answer.
She thought of his skill, his speed, and his senses. She thought of his authority and the lethal shadow that hovered over him—a shadow, up until now, she’d stopped seeing.
She thought of his tattoo, the wolf hilt, and his tapestry of scars.
“Who are you?” she demanded, fearing his answer as much as needing to hear it.
He turned to face her fully, not once pulling his eyes from hers. “I am Jeric Oberyn Sal Angevin,” he said lowly, and in a perfect Corinthian accent. “Son of King Tommad Angevin the third. The youngest prince and the Wolf of Corinth.”
Sable stared at him, paralyzed. Each word was a fist, striking her mercilessly.
Jeric Oberyn Sal.
Jos.
King Tommad’s youngest son, second heir to the throne. The Wolf of Corinth. The greatest threat to the Provinces this generation had ever known. The man responsible for slaughtering hundreds, or possibly thousands—including many of her own people. And he stood not three paces from her, surrounded by what could only be his infamous pack.
Maker’s Mercy.
She took an involuntary step back, fingers pressed to her temples. “You’re the Wolf,” she said with revelation. With revulsion.
Jos stood silent, but his eyes stormed.
No, not Jos.
The Wolf.
By the wards… How could she have been so stupid? How had she not seen…
A new horror struck her. Did he know her truth? Was that the reason he’d sought her out? Or was his father—Corinth’s king—truly ill, and by some cruel twist of fate, he’d stumbled upon her? Sable didn’t believe in fate, but as her mind raced frantically through the details, she didn’t think he knew her truth. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have tried so hard to discern her past in Gavet’s cellar.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kissed her.
The memory made her suddenly and inexplicably angry. “You…” Her voice trembled with fury, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I can’t believe I kissed you!”
The Wolf flinched.
Stanis laughed.
Braddok folded his arms and looked on at the Wolf as if he’d suspected something awry all along and was glad to finally have evidence. The two men beside Braddok grunted in surprise, then quieted at a harsh look from Braddok.
The Wolf took a step toward her, his expression severe. “Sable—”
“You lied to me!” The words trembled out in a fury.
“Yes,” he hissed. “I lied to you. But only about who I was!”
Sable slapped him across the face.
The sound cracked the night; the Wolf’s head snapped to the side.
“You little bitch…” Stanis took a furious step toward her, but the Wolf thrust out an arm. Stanis stopped in his tracks, simmering in restraint.
The Wolf’s gaze snapped back to Sable, his eyes ablaze, and his left cheek blushed an angry red where she’d struck him. “I came to you because I need your help”—he ground each word through his teeth—“as a healer. I didn’t tell you the truth because you never would have come.”
“And why do you think that is?” Sable snarled.
“Think what you want of me.” His voice was low and unsteady. “I don’t care. But I will see you safely home, as promised. That, I swear.”
“What good is your word?” Sable spat.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t see that you have any other choice, Sable.”
“I never had a choice, did I?”
His silence was answer enough.
She looked at him with loathing and betrayal. “You rutting monster. I should’ve left you in the Kjürda.”
Fury shadowed his face and sharpened the lines.
“Stay away from me,” she warned, slowly backing away from him.
“I still need your help, Sable,” the Wolf continued, eyes fixed on her as he took a step closer. “It’s your choice how that will go.”
Sable took another step back. She didn’t know what to do, only that she could not go with the Wolf to Corinth. Whatever the Wolf’s reasons, his inquisitors would discover her truth soon enough.
So Sable did the only thing she could think of.
She kicked the Wolf in the groin, and she ran.
28
Sable sprinted down the hill, her boots slapping the hard earth. She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away. Far away. Behind her, the Wolf yelled at his men to hold back, then called after her, but she didn’t stop. Her eyes trained on the shadows, arms pumping as she ran for a large copse of trees they’d passed earlier. The shadows could hide her as they’d so often done. Then she could slip away. It was her only hope now.
How could she have been so stupid? Her eyes burned, but she told herself she would not cry.
She would not.
She wiped her nose as she ran, but behind her, the Wolf’s pounding tread drew nearer.
“Sable, wait!” the Wolf yelled.
Her stitches pulled tight, and fire seared her side, but she urged herself forward until—finally—she reached the trees. She dodged right, then maneuvered through the shadows as quickly and quietly as possible. She heard the Wolf enter the forest after her, and then…
Silence.
Sable pressed her back to the nearest tree and held her breath. A breeze pushed through, and the leaves whispered. She wished they’d tell her where the Wolf was hiding. She scanned the shadows, waiting for what felt like an eternity, and a twig snapped to her left—far enough s
he thought it safe to move. Sable peeled herself from the tree and tiptoed in the opposite direction, ears pinned on the forest, and a force slammed into her, knocking her to the ground.
“Sable, stop,” the Wolf growled, wrapping strong arms around her and holding her tight. “I’m not going to hurt you!”
“Then let… me… go!”
He did not. So she slammed her head back into his face.
He cursed, and his grip loosened. She slipped out of his arms, climbed to her feet, and stumbled right into someone else’s arms.
“Gotcha,” Stanis snarled, pinning her arms to her sides.
Sable bucked. Stanis cursed, then whirled her around and punched her. Pain exploded in her jaw, and the force sent her reeling. She tripped over her feet and tumbled to the ground.
A grunt sounded behind her, and she glanced back to see two silhouettes, one clutching the other.
“Hit her again,” the Wolf said, his voice darker than she’d ever heard it, “and you walk home alone.” The Wolf released Stanis with a jerk. “I told you to stay back.”
Stanis only grunted in reply.
Another pair of hands grabbed Sable and hoisted her to her feet. She fought, albeit weakly. The grip was too strong, and her shirt clung to her, damp with what could only be blood. The wound in her side had opened. She glanced up to see the Wolf’s silhouette looming before her.
She spat at him.
Braddok jerked her back. The Wolf didn’t say a word. He simply stood there, his silhouette black against the night, and then he stormed off, toward camp. Braddok shoved her after him, and Sable knew that she had just lost her one and only chance at escape.
Jeric reached camp ahead of the others, where Chez and Aksel waited.
They looked to their alpha for answers, but Jeric couldn’t bring himself to speak. He crouched beside the fire and warmed his trembling hands. They did not tremble from cold.
“One of you find Stanis,” Jeric said.
Chez grabbed his scabbard and jogged off. Aksel lingered, quiet, watching his alpha with reserve. A few minutes later, Braddok returned with Sable.
The Gods of Men Page 25
