Is it so much to ask the gods, the almighty council, for an iota of happiness? Is joy something so fine, so light, that I cannot hold on to it for more than a few days? All my life it has flitted away from me, afraid of the curse within me. Azmar called it a blessing. I laugh into the nothingness surrounding me. The only people I have blessed have threatened to throw me into a canyon, murder me, exile me. Hurt my loved ones. Forced me to manipulate lawmen and farmers, bending them to his will, taking everything that was good for himself.
And I’m going back to him. My father. Now that I have Ritha’s account, he is even more vile than I’d ever supposed. I feel as though I’m laying nearly eight years of hard-fought freedom at his feet, just to appeal to another tyrant, and it stokes my anger into the evening hours. The stars keep my course straight, though they offer me no guidance, no answers—nothing I can understand, at least. I walk and walk and walk, and inside I steam and fume and burn.
Anger is good. Anger fuels me. Anger keeps up my pace, one foot in front of the other, even after the sun sets and darkness consumes the world. Anger propels me forward when I trip over stones or dips in the dead earth. Anger keeps the sorrow and the fear at bay. Anger is my shield, and my crutch, keeping me warm when the temperature drops and the stars climb across the sky, almost like they’re watching me, curious to see where I’ll go. They shift, the space between them deepening, darkening, then lightening one, two, three shades.
I hear a voice far to the east, where the ground spans a black plain ribbed with periwinkle. A man’s voice. How far have I walked? At my pace, fifteen miles at least. Is it so hard for Qequan to march his army here? Perhaps he wants to keep his advantage. Cagmar is a nearly impenetrable fortress.
“I said halt!” the voice bellows again. I don’t heed it. I’m too angry to stop.
Sand slides under his footsteps as he nears me, the blade of a spear glinting in the light of a rising crescent moon. He grabs me by my bruised arm, and it makes me rage.
“Who goes there?” he asks, then stutters, “A w-woman? Where are you from?”
Through gritted teeth, I answer, “I’m Ottius Thellele’s daughter. Do take me to him.”
He hesitates. At least I know I have the right place.
“Or I will take myself,” I spit. “Tell me your name, so I can relay it to him.”
That startles him to action. He isn’t gentle, but my womanhood apparently makes me less of a threat, so he isn’t violent. Whether he knows of my existence is questionable. He won’t know what I can do. My father liked to keep that our little secret.
We approach a sledge tied to two antelope. He keeps me between his arms and whips the animals forward. I grip the front of the sledge to stay upright, surprised at how awake I am. I force my rigid back to soften so the bumps in the ground don’t crack it. My fingernails dig into the wood. So easy. I’ve been running nearly eight years, and it’s so easy to go back. I merely had to wait for the last place I had found refuge to reject me and for my father to come to me.
Oh, Azmar. That lump returns to my throat, and stars above, I hate it.
We ride too long. I don’t even see campfires until I’m nearly on top of them. The army, or at least this section of it, has erected canvas walls to help block the light, and their fires sit at the base of dusty holes. I’m not surprised to see so many awake. In the blistering heat, it’s easier to travel by night. They may have only recently settled down to camp. The scout stops just outside the site, and I duck under his arm and walk into it.
“Stop right—” He reaches for me.
I spin around and slam my fear into him. He stumbles back. My pulse picks up, as it always does when I use my ability, but my anger flares so hot I barely notice the rest.
I wheel around and march through the camp. It isn’t hard to guess where my father is. Three large tents occupy its south side. One of them is lit. My father is either scheming in that one or sleeping in one of the others.
I don’t go unnoticed. Men—those still awake—stand, confused, ready to stop me, to call out to me, to draw their weapons. But I am impatient, and I am furious. I will not waste time on them.
Gooseflesh rises on my arms and back as I press trepidation into everyone who gets within six feet of me. They hesitate, they retreat, they reach for their weapons but do not strike. I’m only a woman, after all. But their rapid hearts tell them otherwise.
They part to either side of me, opening a straight path for that tent. A soldier mans the door. I send him backpedaling, like I’m a demon from hell itself, and tear aside the tent flap.