Page 10 of Humans Don't Have Horns
Daton takes a step forward, his body nearly touching mine. His chest is bare. The shirt he wore was ruined by the direwolves, and its remains were used by me to stop the bleeding. And it feels too intimate. His obsidian-black eyes loom over me. His voice is lethal. “How do you know of Baghiva?”
“I heard you talk of her with the Mongans.” I cross my arms as if I’m not scared of him, as if I don’t notice how feral he turned from just hearing that name.
In disbelief, he asks in Mongan this time, “You speak Mongan?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, eyeing him. He looks like he’s about to have a fit.
“Who taught you?” he demands accusingly.
“I don’t remember, so I guess my mom.” I shrug.
“Your mom? A princess from Renya?” He snorts in disbelief.
“That’s the one.” Why is my knowing his language such a shock to him? True, it’s not something Puresouls are usually taught. But if I know it, I’m certain others know it. Sure, it’s a little unconventional, but so is teaching an Aldonian princess Renyan healing.
“But you don’t remember her teaching you?” Instead of sounding angry now, he speaks very slowly to be sure I can fully comprehend his words. It is even more annoying.
“That’s what I said,” I hiss through my clenched jaw.
“Impossible.” He is so adamant I feel like shouting or hitting him or both.
“Stop changing the subject. Why are you here? Why did you help me escape the swamps?”
“I didn’t do that for you,” he growls. He’s angry again. Good, I’m not the only one here annoyed by this ridiculous conversation.
“Then why?”
Finally, he sighs. “I’ll tell you. But we need to get going. It will take us at least five hours to get to a place safe enough to spend the night.”
I fold my arms and raise the most determined tone I can. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me.”
“I’m not going to stand here and talk to you about my dead wife,” he says in a flat tone that doesn’t match the storm in his eyes. “If you want to hear about her, you will wait until evening. You will listen to it properly.”
“Oh.” All the anger leaves my body. His dead wife. I think I have a good idea what he’ll tell me. It makes me feel sick.
Chapter Six
Lian
Apparently, a good pace is a fast pace, and Daton’s steps are twice as large as mine. The day is hot and moist. The azure sky is clear. The pine trees are cramped. We walk deep into the woods and keep off the trails. The sound of crushing pine needles under our feet is constant, interrupted only by the tweets of random birds.
My dress - if you can call the shapeless, threadbare brown cloth the Mongans clothed me in a dress – clings to my back from sweat. My cloak, too heavy to be worn, is heavy in my hand. When I say I’m hungry, I regret it deeply, since what he gives me is even viler than the porridge I ate in the swamp.
I spit out the bite I took, the sticky texture lingering on my tongue.
Daton shakes his head scathingly.
“I’m not spoiled. It tastes like vomit. What is it?”
“Roram is a root that grows in the swamps. It’s the only thing that grows there and can be eaten by humans.”
I frown. “Does it taste different to you?” Maybe I am spoiled.
“Tastes like vomit’ is pretty accurate.” He drawls, “The swamps are not meant to be lived in.”
“Where did your people live before the swamps?” What he just said made it sound like this wasn’t always their home.
“You don’t know?” He frowns at me. “We lived all over Amada.”
