Page 18 of The Prince's Captive

She took a bite of the plain dry cake and sipped on the water.

Commander Gavril grinned when she did and she almost spit it back at him, just to wipe the look off his face.

But she was hungry and thirsty.

So she had little choice if she wanted to stay alive as long as possible. However much longer that would be now.

Once she’d eaten the rations and finished the waterskin, Commander Gavril reached into his pocket, and for a moment she thought he might try to give her the set of lily pins and clasps back as reward for her ‘good behavior,’ and in that split second she resolved to spit in his face—but the clasps he pulled out were plain and practical.

He held them out to her. “Stronger. Better than knot. For riding.”

Marcella didn’t really want to have to worry about her knots coming loose and exposing her in her undergarments to all of the Inimicus. The commander had been humiliating enough even if he’d been trying to heal her. She snatched them out of his hand and set about undoing her knots to replace them with the clasps.

Once she had, he pushed himself to his feet, held his hand out to her, and said, “Ready?”

Did she have a choice?

Before she could continue to sit there as still as a statue, the older commander grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up, practically throwing her at Commander Gavril. The blond commander caught her and said, “Pardon his manners. He—” he paused before his eyes lit up and he said, “Punctual.”

Did he really think he was so clever fumbling around in her language?

Not that Marcella was any better in his, but at least she wasn’t pleased with herself for what little she did know.

Regardless, Marcella was ushered out of the command tent in the early dawn to see that the rest of the camp had been almost completely torn down. They’d left the command tent, and her, for last. Half of the Inimicus seemed to already be ready to ride, sitting on their horses.

She spotted the heretic sitting on a horse as far away from her and the commander as possible. The two Inimicus that had been her guards the previous day weren’t mounted, and she saw them doing some of the more strenuous work.

She didn’t have long to look as Commander Gavril led her over to his horse, the same one as the day before, a giant brute of a creature. She was being thrown up onto it before she could even think to protest—no matter how futile.

Commander Gavril swung up behind her, his arms sliding around her again to reach the reins like they had the day before, and he turned his horse, tapping his heels against its sides and pulling to the front of the group.

He gave a few orders in his own language, and Marcella really needed to learn it. If they thought she didn’t know it, they’d keep saying important things in front of her that she could use. Besides, she didn’t want an Inimicus commander to understand more of her language.

But as Commander Gavril and his group set off, she wasn’t going to get the chance. No one spoke in the early morning as they rode hard and fast.

Marcella didn’t have much opportunity to try to focus on piecing together their language, but she did get a count of the number of Inimicus she was dealing with.

Thirty plus the two commanders.

Not great odds.

For Marcella. If they’d really expected to succeed in getting Hypatia, they should have brought fifty.

Marcella finished her count in the first hour of riding, so when they slowed later to keep from riding their horses into the ground, and she no longer had to clutch the saddle to stay on, she clasped her hands together and decided to spend her time more productively.

She leaned forward, and when she did, Commander Gavril’s grip on her tightened, but she wasn’t in danger of falling off. She just kept her head lowered as she held her hands and prayed to Asentai that she might show her daughter grace and a way to escape.

Or… if she was to go to Asentai’s embrace sooner, that she not be turned into a sick Inimicus experiment on the way.

Her lips moved as she silently prayed for hour upon hour as they rode through the forest toward the Inimicus borders and out of clan territory.

She was so focused on her prayers that she didn’t notice until a hand was shaking her shoulder that they’d come to a stop at noon. She jerked upright and looked around to see the men dismounting and pausing to water and rest their horses for a few minutes as well as take care of their own basic necessities.

She looked over her shoulder at Commander Gavril. He had a furrow to his brow as he stared at her. “What—” Whatever word he seemed to be looking for, he didn’t find, so instead he just gestured to her hands, still clasped.

She stared at him silently, practically daring him to keep trying for the word he was looking for. Of course he didn’t know the word for prayer.

The Inimicus claimed a faith they never practiced. If they did, they’d be burning their heretics and their sick operating tables. They wouldn’t know what being devout looked like even if they were smacked in the face with it.

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