Page 43 of The Traitor Queen (The Bridge Kingdom 2)

“Or not. She could be dead.”

Cresta laughed softly. “I’m grateful not to be going with you two. There is nothing worse than being the third wheel in a lovers’ quarrel.”

“She’s no longer mylover,” he replied through clenched teeth.

Her only response was a sound of amusement, as though the conflict between him and Lara were nothing more than a disagreement over the décor in a room. “As you say, Your Grace. But don’t think you’ll get off so easily. Lara won't be killed by our father’s soldiers. The woman is next to impossible to kill—that’s why we call her the little cockroach—and the very fact that we haven’t been caught suggests that everything is going exactly according to her plan.”

Bronwyn took the opportunity to moan, and Aren thumped his heels against his horse, awkwardly pulling on the reins until it moved next to her, the river water splashing up to soak his legs. Reaching down, he pressed his fingers to her throat, the pulse beneath them weak, her skin cold. “We need to hurry.”

But in the darkness, the horses could only move at a slow pace up the river, hooves slipping on the slick rocks. Aren would’ve been able to go at twice the speed on foot, but not while carrying Bronwyn. He was exhausted, his body unused to such strenuous activity, and he hated it. Hated feeling weak when all his life he’d been strong.

He caught sight of the familiar glow of algae before Cresta did, his chest tightening at the sight of it. A piece of Ithicana and proof that his people were involved in this step of the plan.

Another ten minutes of following the path through the trees brought them to a low cliff, a cave opening revealed by the glow of flickering firelight.

Dismounting hurriedly, Cresta tied up the horses while Aren untied Bronwyn. Easing her out of the saddle, he carried her toward the cave.

“Huntress,” Cresta called out, and a moment later, a pregnant woman with long, dark hair appeared, a sword held in one hand and a knife in the other.

“Bronwyn got shot.”

“Shit!” The pregnant woman, whom Aren assumed was the sister Sarhina, sheathed her weapons, striding toward him. Then she froze. “Where’s Lara?”

“Luring them off,” Cresta answered. “She’ll be along soon enough.”

“Get inside.”

Aren carried Bronwyn into the cave, stopping in his tracks at the sight of a familiar face. “Nana?”

She was standing and holding her own weapons, but when she saw him, the machete dropped from her hand with a clatter.

For what seemed like an eternity, Nana didn’t speak, and then she whispered, “You’re alive. You’re here. Thank merciful God . . .” Then tears began to pour down her face.

In all his life, he’d never seen his grandmother cry. Not even when his father—her own son—had been lost to the sea.

Then her eyes moved to Bronwyn, and she wiped the tears from her face, composed in an instant. “Bring her here.”

“Arrow through the shoulder,” he said, lowering the young woman to the ground. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Nana only grunted, pulling a knife to cut away Bronwyn’s clothing.

“Oh, Bronwyn.” The pregnant woman elbowed Aren in the side until he made space for her, lowering herself slowly and taking her sister’s hand. “Why are you always the one who gets hurt?”

The arrow had punched clean through her shoulder, the broadhead glittering with blood in the firelight. Cresta had come around the other side, her face pale with concern. “Will she be all right?”

Nana didn’t answer. “Aren, break this arrowhead off and then go outside and keep watch. You”—she shot a dark glare at Sarhina—“go with him.”

“Cresta will go.”

“Cresta will remain,” Nana retorted. “I need an assistant, and unlike you, she follows instructions.”

Ignoring the battle of wills going on between them, Aren reached down and snapped the head off the arrow, Bronwyn only moaning in response. Tossing it aside, he rose to his feet, when a hoarse voice called from outside: “Huntress,” then “It’s Lara.”

Relief flooded through him as his errant wife stepped inside, shoulders rising and falling with her rapid, panting breath. She was drenched, her honey-colored hair hanging in lank tangles over her shoulders. There was a livid bruise on one cheek, and the knees of her trousers were torn through, the skin beneath bloody. Yet when she lifted her face to regard him, Aren’s heart still skipped.

Nana’s voice pulled him back into the moment. “Well, the stars are trulynotin our favor tonight, for here you are, still alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Lara’s gaze went to Bronwyn, her lips thinning at the sight of her sister. “Is she . . . ?”

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