I don’t have time for after. I need to know now.
Working my jaw, I flop over on the cot. Pause. Twist my hands, then my feet. Smile genuinely, this time.
My plan did work. Dunnan was so caught up in me he wasn’t focusing on the knots. They’re loose. With a little wiggling, I’m sure I can free myself.
And if my father stays up as late as he did the night I arrived, his tent will be empty for several hours yet.
I wait an hour. I feign sleep, gently tapping a finger against the inside of my arm to keep myself alert. I’m checked on once. I don’t turn to see if it’s Dunnan or not, but lamplight flashes outside the canvas and the tent flap shifts. No sign of guards after that, though one could be standing at my door. I’ll need to be as quiet as possible.
I twist one hand, then another, out of my binds. Sit up and gingerly work out my feet. It takes some effort. I’ll probably have a bruise on my left heel in the morning. Free, I pull the cot out and wedge myself between it and the tent wall, then work up one of the stakes from the dry ground. Pressing my head to the earth, I peer out into the darkness. Only a couple of campfires remain. I guess it’s nearing midnight.
Light emanates from the center tent, likely where my father meets with his men. I presume he sleeps on the other side, unless he’s somehow humbled himself over the last decade. I scoff. Wait several minutes, surveying, before slipping out. I wish my hair were dark. It feels like a beacon, despite the new moon.
Needing to avoid the front of my tent and the campfires, I tuck my hair into my shirt and pad toward the lit tent, readying excuses in case any guards spot me. But they’re murmuring to one another, heads turned away from me. Praise the stars. Behind the tent, I hear my father’s voice. I freeze, listening. He’s talking about disciplining men from Dorys. Not useful.
I sprint on my toes to the next tent. Don’t bother checking the door. I slip in by raising a stake and dragging myself across the dust.
I can barely perceive anything within. I stub my toe on a cot. Swallow my reaction and move forward. It’s simply furnished, which is to be expected for a traveling army. A cot and two tables take up the space, one narrow with an empty pitcher on it, and another in the center of the room with a drawer. I pull on the handle, but the drawer is locked. Cursing silently, I feel around for the keyhole—
Wait. I know this table. It sat in the front room of our house in Lucarpo. Though I can’t see it, I know its top has a floral painting and a lily is carved into its front left leg.
I also know how the lock works.
Ducking beneath the table, I feel for the back of the drawer, but my fingers are no longer slender enough to reach over its lip. Holding my breath, I scramble across the dirt, searching for a flat rock, anything that could slip in and throw the latch for me. I find a tiny sagebrush and twist off a branch. Return to the drawer and shove it up. The latch is a long metal hook that extends nearly to the back of the drawer. After four attempts, I throw it, then discard the evidence of my effort.
Papers fill the drawer to the brim. I pull a book out from the top and carry it to the canvas where the light is strongest. Squinting, I see it’s a book of pressed plants. A record of what grows where.
Rushing back to the drawer, I grab all that remains, fear dripping into my arteries as my mind tries to calculate how much time I’ve spent here, the noises outside, what I’ll do if I’m caught. I don’t have answers for the last.
I take the stack over to the better light. A leather bag of dice falls at my feet, sounding loud as the monster horn against the silence. I cringe, tilt the pages, squint. Carefully shuffle through, silent as a lecker. It’s so hard to read, but I dare not take any and wait for daylight. Too risky.
I find something that looks promising, and I squat, listening for people. Encouraged by silence, I lift the bottom of the tent so unfiltered starlight can splash on the page. It isn’t much.
I tilt the page, hold my face close. Read.
They’re systematic, the attacks on the trollis. My father is goading them, trying to get them out of their city, thus the heads on pikes. And it’s working. Cagmar has increased its scouts once already. And the more scouts outside the fortress, the more trollis the humans can pick off.
I wish I’d told Azmar about the converging constellations. About the signs. Then at least someone in Cagmar might know what’s coming.
I shift pages. Find a map. It’s difficult to make out, but I think my father intends to lead the trollis into a full-on battle so his army doesn’t have to attempt a siege. Dwindle the numbers as much as possible, just like we did before the drought.