Page 42 of The Prince's Captive

Chapter15

MARCELLA

The next morning, Marcella’s right wrist was still throbbing and her throat ached from the bruises, but she would rather that than willingly subject herself to more of the runes they’d created from the blood of her people. It wasn’t long before the tent flap shifted, and she was directing her glare toward the sunshine banishing the darkness and the green eyes that were always on the other side.

This time, however, there were deep bags under the commander’s eyes and his exhaustion was written all over his face. He held his hand out to her without a word, and Marcella moved toward the front of the tent.

Her knee brushed the necklace she’d thrown to the ground, and her resolve cracked. All night her weak, fragile heart had kept her up, racing as the rumors she’d heard of what the Inimicus put their people and Elemens through when they were delivered to their tables went through her head.

When a captured mage was taken to the heretic’s tables, they didn’t come back. The few times clans had been able to rescue their people, it had never been from the tables in the capital, always smaller cities or a camp. The ones who’d been rescued from the camp told stories of what they’d seen. A Desero woman who had passed away when Marcella was ten had once told her she’d been forced to watch as a heretic used one of the Abyss-tainted knives with runes etched into them on her brother. By the time the rescue arrived the next day, he’d already died. That was how it went.

No one who went on top of a table or under a heretic’s knife survived.

If she had a prayer of avoiding that fate… her pride was worth a little less to her than that.

She tucked it into the palm of her bad hand before taking his offered hand with her good one and letting him pull her to her feet outside the tent. As soon as she was upright and blinking in the sunlight, he was instantly fussing over her, his hands messing with her hair, pulling it back and off her neck as he stared at the skin.

His eyes widened when he didn’t see the leather ties and he asked her, “Have it?”

Marcella uncurled her fist and showed him the little metal piece with the rune scratched into it.

He smiled, but it was still wan, tired, and mirthless. The tension in his shoulders did ebb as he took it and draped it back over her head. He settled it under her hair and tucked it beneath her collar again, taking a moment to brush his hand over the edge of the fabric. He said, “Do not take off. Keep safe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What Inimicus magic is in it? You’ve already cut me off from mine.”

Would it allow him to track her? Was he going to try to let her go again so she could lead him right to her clan’s estate? Did he think she’d lead him right to Hypatia so he could capture her for real this time?

“No magic.”

Like she believed that. Another unique Inimicus ability was how they poured vitae into objects through the etching of runes to make them last. Another attempt to make up for the fact that their runes required two hands to cast.

He was just counting on her ignorance and desire to believe him to get away with his lies.

“Commander—Areator by tomorrow—leave now—” the older commander barked, glaring at Gavril’s hand resting right below the bruises on her neck.

Gavril pulled his hand back and nodded at him. He took her by the arm and said in her tongue, “Time to go. Long day.”

He set her up on his steed once more before swinging up after her, and they set off like every other day. But the pit in Marcella’s stomach just grew bigger and bigger with every hoofbeat.

They were going to reach Areator tomorrow. Once she was within those city walls, there would be no escape. There would be no fate but death or the table.

She reached up with her good hand beneath her collar and clenched her hand tightly around the piece of metal. The edges weren’t sharp enough to pierce her skin.

Her neck ached and there was a throbbing at the base of her skull from the Inimicus’ attack, but the stubborn clan blood in her refused to wish she’d accepted Gavril’s offer to heal it. Better the bruises than have his hands on her.

Although as they rode, she didn’t really get to have a say about his hands on her—arms around her. He pulled her closer than usual, she assumed because she wasn’t clutching the edge of the saddle. She couldn’t with her sprained wrist—at least not without giving away the injury.

When they stopped for the night, there was a buzz among the men. She caught pieces of conversations as they set up the camp about how excited they were to sleep in real beds, see women that weren’t—lupa—she assumed they meant her or other clan women—eat real food, and the like.

Gavril ushered her to the center of the camp like he’d used to and set her right by where they were building the fire. He brushed his fingers over the leather tie and tugged on it until the metal piece slipped back up above her collar and he draped it on the outside of her peplos this time.

What was it? And why had he hidden it all day only to let it be seen now?

He nodded again, and then reached beneath his collar. That was when she realized he also now had leather ties draped around his neck. But he didn’t reveal what the leather held. He then took a deep breath and said, “Stay here.”

She watched him head over to the older commander, whose name she still hadn’t figured out, and he pulled on the leather ties until a metal pendant appeared and he draped it on the other side of his chiton.

She saw Gavril open his mouth and say something, and when the older commander tried to interrupt, he held his hand up, stopping him as he continued, but Marcella couldn’t hear his voice. He was too far away. Part of the way through whatever Gavril was saying, the commander’s eyes landed on the necklace Gavril now wore.

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