Page 13 of Lich's Mate

I frown down on the dish, knowing that anything I say will be misinterpreted.

I wish he’d just go away. Instead, the xaphan grins down at me with his damaged, chipped teeth.

“Oh, don’t look so sad, little girl,” he says. “You know that if we feed you more than that, we’ll fatten you up. And you don’t fetch as much in the market with a gut on you.”

I want to spit in his face. I want to take the chains bound around my wrists and whip him with them.

But as he closes the cage, I’m completely neutralized.

He makes his way back to position in the slow-moving caravan. Part of me swears they’re poisoning me, or that they’re messing with my food. The other day, I thought I saw an eye in it.

But then I heard that prisoners succumbing to starvation can start to see things that aren’t there, so I’m not even sure I can trust my senses.

No. You’re probably just seeing things.

I lean down with what little room I have in the cage and bring my face into the bowl. The food is unappetizing and hard to stomach, but I try to stomach it anyway.

“Can I please have some water?”

Across from me, I see a woman in another wooden cage, just within speaking distance. Her voice is dry and hoarse, but she cries out frantically.

I expect that the caravan will start moving soon, but the woman calls out even louder.

That’s when I hear familiar footsteps trodding back toward me. Only this time, the xaphan is brandishing a long, flowing whip.

They share a look, the xaphan reasserting his power, and the woman peering through the bars, her curly red hair obstructing her vision.

Before I know what’s happening, the xaphan brings the whip back, slapping hard against the woman’s wrist with precision. Even from a distance, I can see a small trickle of blood fall to the cage floor.

“Now we don’t like damaging the cargo,” he says, as the woman gapes at him speechlessly. “But if you don’t shut up, there’s a lot more where that came from. We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

I want to stand up for her—to reinforce that clearly, they’re not giving her enough water. In truth, I’m just as parched as she is. I just know to keep my mouth shut.

But I don’t know what good it will do. They don’t consider our voices. I have no power over him.

Once he’s out of ear range though, and the caravan has resumed moving, I know I can’t just not say anything.

“Hey,” I call out, looking both ways to make sure I’m not being watched. “I know it might not seem like it, but we’re going to be okay.”

She looks amused. Gripping her wrist, she offers me a wry smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, no liveliness to her words. “We’re going to be just great.”

I smile solemnly in return.

Abigail was her name. I faintly remember it now.

Her father used to operate a small store in town.

Of course, I could reminisce about those times, when I’d stop by as a child and he’d offer me a discount or a free piece of meat to sample. And she’d just look down, watching the sales from the top of the stairs, where her bedroom was.

She was like a ghost.

But he’s dead too.

And she probably doesn’t need to be reminded of that. Just like I don’t need to be reminded of my family, and of everything I lost.

“You’re a strange one, Meera,” she says in response to my long, contemplative silence.

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