Page 9 of The Enemy's Daughter

“I thought you were the Kingsland, you malevolent bucket of hair,” she shouts back. “I was going to put an arrow in your guts.”

His lips tighten, but then Freddy’s urgent eyes find mine. I’m terrified to hear what he has to say. “There’s at least a half dozen wounded. They sent me back for more bandages.”

“Who’s injured?” Freia asks. “Franklin? Felix?”

“Liam?” I add.

At Freia’s mention of their brothers, Freddy’s face grows mournful. “We got separated. I don’t know the names of anyone hurt.”

My heart thuds painfully. “Has the Kingsland launched their whole army?” I’ve heard the number of their fighting men alone could be as high as four hundred, nearly double the entire population of the clans.

He shakes his head. “From what I’ve seen, they seem to be hunting for Farron’s body in small parties.”

Hunting.

“Do you need more men?” Bandages are pointless if we’re severely outnumbered.

“Your father sent a runner back to Maska.”

For more of Gerald’s men, our best trained fighters. “Good. Let me gather what you need.” I run back into the house and stuff almost all our bandages and a wide variety of dried herbs and bottles of boiled-water solution into a bag. Medicinal herbs could mean the difference between life or death for the wounded. And we need any advantage we can get.

“This,” I say, opening the bag at Freddy’s feet, “is whimlore. It’s a mild pain reliever. You can swallow a pinch, but don’t take more than that or it might cause nausea or diarrhea. Too much and...” I hesitate as it hits me how dangerous these herbs are in the hands of an untrained person. “Their throat might swell shut. And this”—I point to a leaf that looks very much like whimlore except for its size—“is yarkow. It goes on the wound to stop the bleeding. Don’t eat this.” I take in Freddy’s overwhelmed face. Bleeding skies, he’s not going to remember. I point at the whimlore. “Eat a pinch for pain.” Then point to the second one. “Don’t eat. This goes on the wound for bleeding.” I pull out the next sack and open it. “This is—”

He scrubs a hand down his sweat-damp face. “I’m—are you sure you can’t just come?”

I slowly stand.Maybe I should.

“No,” Freia says to me, then whirls on her younger brother. “Don’t say that. Not to her. If she goes, her father will have both your hides.”

“Not if I could stay back far enough; he wouldn’t even have to know.”

I blink as Freia’s finger suddenly appears in front of my face. “Stop that,” Freia says. “You can’t go. It’s not just your skin at stake, okay? It’severyone’s. If you’re murdered, there’s no wedding. If there’s no wedding, Liam isn’t Saraf. You’re the promise your father will keep his word. And if Liam isn’t Saraf, then the five clans go back to behaving like ravenous wolves about who gets to be the next leader. Then we all die because if our infighting doesn’t kill us first, the Kingsland surely will.”

I take a deep breath. She makes a valid point. Except—“I don’t plan to be murdered, and there are two people in a marriage, Freia. This all falls apart just as equally if Liam dies on the front line. Which is likely without a healer.”

She tips her head as if somewhat agreeing. “But it can’t be you.”

Who else, then? Freia’s only just begun her studies to be a healer, and any woman more knowledgeable in healing would never risk Father’s wrath by going to the fighting.

Not that I would ask any of them, because no woman here has been trained to defend herself.

There’s only me.

“Freia’s right,” Freddy says as he scoops up the bag of medical supplies, his face now showing his worry. “You can’t come. I shouldn’t have suggested it. It’ll be fine. They sent me to get the bandages and”—his head bobs in one firm nod—“the plant stuff. Hopefully someone there can figure it out.” His deep brown eyes are slow to meet mine, but when they do, they offer me a wordless apology. “I’d better go.”

“Freddy wait,” Freia calls, chasing after him as he heads to the barn for a new horse.

I stay back, allowing them time for a goodbye.

It could be their last.

The thought hits me like a rock to the temple, and I suddenly know that I need to make sure that’s not the case. In the living room, I snag the empty backpack hanging by the door and stuff my travel medical bag inside. It contains a few bandages and a small assortment of herbs, but Freddy has the bulk of the supplies. I slip a pillowcase off one of the pillows on the couch, then rip bundles of yarkow down from the ceiling and place them in my sack. I fill the small pocket on the front of my pack with whimlore. In the kitchen, there’s a day-old skin of water, half full—good enough.

“What are you doing?” Freia asks as she comes back inside. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I have to.” If I want to follow Freddy, I can’t stay to argue. Sifting through the wooden box of weapons Father keeps on the counter, I swipe three knives. With the one in my pocket, that makes four. I’d take the bow, but I’m probably worse at it than Freia is.

She follows me to the corner as I pull on my denim jacket with the cotton hood. “Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?”

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