“Survival alone isn’t enough, for what is the point of surviving if there is nothing in life to enjoy?” He his tribe, or survived on this island for so long, by being stupid. But while she’d made her fair share of mistakes, she wasn’t stupid either. “Likely for the information I know.”
He leaned back in his chair, gaze going to the artwork. But not before she saw the furrow in his brow. Kian had expected an answer from her, but not the one she’d given. Curiosity demanded she press for his opinions, but caution made her ask instead, “Have you received any more
communication?”
He nodded. “The guard the rebels have on payroll told us that if we failed and you ended up in Daria’s belly, the deal was off. Nothing since, though there might be orders now that we have you.”
He gestured to the door. “Care to show yourself?”
They left the camp, several of Kian’s warriors following at their heels as they went down to the sunlit beach.
It was smaller than Zarrah had remembered, less than fifty paces of rocks mixed with sand, framed by steep inclines. The water flowed swiftly past in its last loop before descending below the island in the mysterious vortex. On the opposite side of it rose the sheer cliffs rimmed with guard posts, each manned by three soldiers.
“Got yourself a new one, Kian?” one of them called down.
“She got tired of Daria’s menu,” Kian called back, and the guards all laughed. Zarrah’s stomach turned. It appeared the guards were well aware of what the rebels consumed. Her nausea faded as one of the guards rested his elbows on the stone bricks forming the outpost he manned. He glanced true when it first arrived, but we weren’t going to take any chances. That’s why we were on the beach sideways at his companions, then lowered one hand, fingers moving in the code used throughout Valcotta’s military.
Hold ground.
Rescue coming.
Await signal.
He moved his hands back inside the outpost as Kian called up, “You might send something to reward the lady for making better life choices. Drink, perhaps?”
“The last time we sent you drink, it all went down your hatch, Kian,” the guard answered. “The memory of you drunkenly servicing your women on the beach is the source of all of my nightmares.”
“It is my duty to entertain,” Kian cackled, slapping his hand against his thigh, and unease filled Zarrah at the obvious favoritism that the guards showed this tribe over Daria’s. Was it because her tribe had resorted to cannibalism?
One of the prisoners approached, smirking as he leaned close to whisper something in Kian’s ear that only made the tribe leader laugh harder and shout, “Send us libations, my friend! I promise to make it worth your while.”
He then gave Zarrah a lascivious wink.
Despite knowing that this was a show to disguise the real reason they’d come down to the beach, Zarrah gave him a disgusted glare and went back into the camp. Ducking inside the tent she’d been given, Zarrah tucked the canvas under a rock to ensure she was obscured from view before picking up a stick. From memory, she wrote the message Kian had shown her in the dirt, then sat back to stare at the words.
Who had sent it?
Who cared enough, and had power and means, to want to rescue her?
Keris?
Her chest tightened, and Zarrah looked away from the message. Why would he? Not only had she told him that if she ever saw him again, she’d kill him, but the information her aunt’s spies had provided more than proved he’d moved on. To Lestara. Zarrah’s stomach twisted, her hands balling into fists as she envisioned the beautiful harem wife, though in truth, there were probably others.
Keris was the king. He was rich, charming, and more beautiful than any man had a right to be, so women would be clamoring to warm his bed. Why would he risk all of that for her? Besides, the letter’s prose was terrible, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Keris hadn’t written it.
This wasn’t his scheme, because it was over between them, what love they’d shared now ash on the wind.
The reminder was a punch to the gut, and she hated herself for caring so much. For having wished that he’d come, despite all that he’d done, because it proved her aunt’s words. Proved that she was still under his spell. How could she dream of leading an army to overthrow the Empress if the King of Maridrina held so much sway over her? If every time she faced an obstacle, she needed him to provide a solution? A solution that would inevitably be to his benefit.
by steep inclines. The water flowed swiftly past in its last loop before descending below the island in
“Focus,” she snarled softly to herself. “It’s not him, so who sent it?”
Ithicana? She wouldn’t precisely call Aren a friend, but she believed he respected her, as she did him. There was a chance he’d attempt to repay the aid she’d given him, but her heart told her that was a dream. Ithicana had liberated itself, which meant Aren owed her nothing. Even if he felt otherwise, making a deal with murderers and rapists did not strike her as something someone of his morals would do.
The rebels hadn’t written the letter. Keris hadn’t written it. Neither had Aren.
So who? Who had the desire and means to get a letter into the prison supplies?
Zarrah abruptly went still.
Maybe she’d been thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe the letter hadn’t been written by an individual who believed she was worth rescue.
Maybe it had been written by someone who believed she was worth something as bait.
given, Zarrah tucked the canvas under a rock to ensure she was obscured from view before picking up
Keris?
Her chest tightened, and Zarrah looked away from the message. Why would he? Not only had she told him that if she ever saw him again, she’d kill him, but the information her aunt’s spies had provided more than proved he’d moved on. To Lestara. Zarrah’s stomach twisted, her hands balling into fists as she envisioned the beautiful harem wife, though in truth, there were probably others.
Keris was the king. He was rich, charming, and more beautiful than any man had a right to be, so women would be clamoring to warm his bed. Why would he risk all of that for her? Besides, the letter’s prose was terrible, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Keris hadn’t written it.
This wasn’t his scheme, because it was over between them, what love they’d shared now ash on the wind.
The reminder was a punch to the gut, and she hated herself for caring so much. For having wished that he’d come, despite all that he’d done, because it proved her aunt’s words. Proved that she was still under his spell. How could she dream of leading an army to overthrow the Empress if the King of Maridrina held so much sway over her? If every time she faced an obstacle, she needed him to provide a solution? A solution that would inevitably be to his benefit.
“Focus,” she snarled softly to herself. “It’s not him, so who sent it?”
Ithicana? She wouldn’t precisely call Aren a friend, but she believed he respected her, as she did him. There was a chance he’d attempt to repay the aid she’d given him, but her heart told her that was a dream. Ithicana had liberated itself, which meant Aren owed her nothing. Even if he felt otherwise, making a deal with murderers and rapists did not strike her as something someone of his morals would do.