Page 14 of The Enemy's Daughter

New problems quickly occupy my mind. Not only do I have to re-dress my prisoner without him kicking me in the head, but we’ll need to make camp. It’s dark now. Midas would sooner stomp me deeper than a tree root than travel anymore tonight—I should have taken a different horse.

My feet are heavy as I return a minute later.

“You came back.” My half-naked captive’s voice is distorted from the leash digging into his neck, but he’s undeniably relieved I didn’t leave him to the wild animals.

I approach him cautiously from the side. Too bad there isn’t even a little bit of light so I can verify he’s still secured. Sliding my hand over his forearm, I check that the knotted bandage is still tight. “Did you really think I’d leave you?” The fabric feels lower down, closer to his hands. Could he have gotten his hands free? But then we wouldn’t be standing here, would we? I jerk on the knot to pull it tight.

He doesn’t answer my question—possibly because I’ve reached down to grab his pants. I lift them up, keeping as much distance as possible, but only make it to his knees before all momentum grinds to a halt. The fabric is bunched, and gravity is not on my side. With a grunt, I use brute force, shimmying them up over his thighs. With a final heave, his pants slide into place. He flinches as my cold fingers press against the warm skin of his belly while I secure the top button, but I don’t care. We’re done.

I’m so winded, I nearly drop my hands to my knees. “I would never leave you like that. Torture isn’tmy thing.”

“Really?” He wheezes out a laugh that somehow brushes against my hair. “Actually, I think you’d have a knack for it.”

I back up a few steps. Cute of him to joke about torture when the Kingsland could put any clansman to shame. Isn’t that why some of our fighters have chosen death by their own hand when faced with imminent capture? It’s the only mercy they will get.

His feet shuffle. “If you care about your horse at all, we should stay the night. It’s too dangerous to travel.”

His voice has gone soft, too soft, and caution enters my bones. “Are you sure you feel that way? You might have to urinate again.”

A small burst of air rushes from him.

The sudden lack of anger in his demeanor reminds me of one of the children’s stories regularly shared at morning academy. The parable of the fox and the bumblebees. It’s a story about bumblebees who live peacefully in the forest, building their nest in the ground among their food, the wild plants and flowers. One day, a fox wanders by and stomps their flowers, then digs up their nest, and though the bumblebees try to stop the fox, they can’t penetrate his thick fur or avoid being crushed by his sharp claws or teeth. But onebrave bumblebee encourages the others to stand their ground. The bees may lack the strength and size of the fox, but not intelligence. They can hover beyond the fox’s reach. When the fox realizes he can’t kill them all without getting closer, he tries to manipulate them into friendship. So the bumblebees play along by taking the fox to their favorite spot, and as he grows confident that they’re falling for his trap, they lead him off a cliff.

Is this man trying to manipulate me into lowering my guard?

Palming the handle of my blade, I brace myself to draw closer. “I have a knife in my hand, so don’t try anything.” I untie his neck leash from the tree. It might be stupid, but I run my finger between the fabric and his skin, loosening the noose enough so he can breathe easier.

His scent drifts to me—soap. Something expensive from a trader. But there’s also something fresh and light about him that takes me a second to pinpoint: it’s the absence of smoke from a fire.

I lead him to a little clearing about twenty paces away. We’re far enough from the front lines that a small fire should be fine. “Sit down and prop yourself against this tree.”

He obeys, but I can practically feel his hate and anger returning as I resecure his noose around the trunk. Sleeping here will be miserable. There’ll be ants and other insects. Sap. But at least I’m letting him sit.

Maybe Iamgood at torture.

He remains quiet as I dig out a spot for a campfire. I start with a few sticks, dried moss, and leaves. In the darkness, I can’t seem to find anything more substantial that’s dry.

It takes five strikes of my blade against the broken piece of flint from my pack to get enough sparks to start a fire. I work for aminute, alternately blowing, then feeding the smoking mass with twigs until it becomes a flame. The sudden light is disorienting. Warmth builds, penetrating my clothes.

My nameless captive stares at me, which I’ve decided to wholeheartedly ignore. I’m not eager to witness more of his animosity. No doubt he’s calculating my weaknesses—which are too many to count. I’ll be amazed if he hasn’t escaped by morning.

Looks like I won’t be sleeping tonight.

Falling back on my heels, I watch my small stack of kindling smoke and burn. There’s a broken branch a few feet away, and I toss that in. We need more wood, but I’m so tired. So thirsty. Hungry, too. And I’m probably not the only one. I adjust my legs to hug my knees. “I don’t have any supplies. It’s going to be a long night.”

I allow myself a glance in his direction. He’s watching me just like I knew he was, but his face isn’t what I expect. His brows are pinched in confusion.

“Who needs food and water or a blanket when you can stuff your bag with ridiculously long bandages and bug-infested leaves.” He laughs, humorlessly. “Well, I guess it’s worked well for you so far.”

My lips tighten as I look away. I don’t owe him an explanation.

A minute passes. He sighs. “My name is Tristan.”

Sure, it is.

“Well,Tristan,” I say, “you’re not exactly stocked with supplies either. Or were you planning to use your knives to keep warm?”

His eyes narrow into slits. “I dropped my pack a quarter mile before you saw me so I could travel faster.”

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