Page 121 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
My mouth was dry. My belly hollow and sour. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d been given only a heel of bread and a few scant sips of water. But I would not beg. I didn’t want to give my captors the satisfaction.
The night carried on, bringing with it a damp chill. The wind picked up, whistling through the forest, tree branches creaking and squeaking as they bobbed and rubbed together. The ground was hard underneath my bottom, the tree unyielding at my back. My cheeks stung with cold, as did my bare shoulders. The dried blood in my bodice itched. But I remained silent, stoic, allowing the group of five to forget my presence as they supped.
They’d built a fire a short way down the hill from me, just past where the horses—tethered to tree trunks on long ropes—munched on grass along the outskirts of the camp. There were three men and two women. After hours on the road, I’d managed to learn their names and voices, and pick up on their familiar but acrimonious interpersonal dynamic.
I closed my eyes again, listening.
“—still not convinced it’s her,” Jord was saying.
“Fits the description,” another man—Sid—pointed out.
“Plenty of blond-haired, blue-eyed, freckled bitches in Marona,” Jord said. “Royal or not, though, I can’t say I dislike the look of her.”
Corla grunted. “Pig.”
“I’d rather be a pig than an assassin who can’t make a kill,” Jord bit out. “First the blood alchemist, now her? Are you capable of finishing a job?”
“I’ll gladly prove it to you.” Boots on grass, a grunt, a scuffle.
I opened my eyes to see Corla’s shape silhouetted against their campfire, the front of Jord’s shirt twisted up in her fist.
“Fates, you two.” That was Henren, their leader on the road. He was taller than the others, with light brown hair that fell past a small, pointed chin. “Save the violence for our orders, would you?”
Corla released Jord and sat back down on her log; the shadows the flames cast on her face made a caricature of her frown.
“And whatareour orders, Henren?” Jord snarled, rubbing his sternum. “Because I thought they were to question and kill, not kidnap.”
“Her claim changes things,” Henren stated.
“Just because she knows the name doesn’t mean sheisher,” Jord pointed out. “Seems a stretch that the niece of the king would be in Fenrir, working as an anonymous alchemist.”
“Wasn’t she married off to a nobleman in Fenrir?” Corla asked.
“About ten years ago,” the other woman, Breen, answered. “Who knows where her Grace could’ve ended up? I remember the rumors. They wanted her to disappear.”
Sid snorted. “Or she was just a royal girl who got married off. Rumors aren’t facts.”
“Herrumors were damning, though,” Breen said. “Worth a cover-up.”
“Which means they could’ve killed her—not sent her away,” Jord argued.
Corla grunted again. “I don’t care for royalpolitics.”
“Funny, given your charge,” Henren quipped.
“That’swhyI don’t care for royal politics,” Corla retorted.
Their voices continued, filling the night with chatter. Aside from their bedrolls, they’d left their packs and saddlebags heaped not far from where I sat, near where the horses were tethered. My satchel was among the gear, resting atop one of the saddles.
While the five of them continued to debate the truth of my claim, I inched along the ground on my knees, using the mass of bags and tack as cover. I prayed that none of them were sound magicians, able to hear the soft scuffing of my movements—and thankfully, no one seemed to hear me. When I reached my satchel, I twisted around, facing the forest; with my hands bound behind my back, I had to rely on touch to open it. The cloth was worn and supple, making no sound as I lifted the front flap and dug my fingers into the main pocket. My heart leapt when I felt the hard leather sheath of my new dagger.
I didn’t waste any time—I withdrew the blade, swiveled it in my palm, and angled the point up between my wrists. I sawed at the rope, willing myself not to shake, whimper, or rush; I forced myself to take my time, knowing that slow and quiet was better than clumsy and noisy.
When finally, the rope slackened, I quickly turned my attention to my ankles, holding my breath as I sawed through the last of my bindings. My heart was a wild beast banging against the cage of my ribs, desperate for escape.
The moment my ropes were cut, I slung my satchel over my shoulder andranfor the forest.
Behind me, I heard Henren’s raised voice, still arguing with his subordinates: “—doesn’t matter now. She looks the part, and given her claim, the captain will want to see her for himself before—”
