Talia could not find a single word of excuse; her lips only trembled. She wanted to summon her usual brazen disdain, but she was at the end of her tether in body and mind, and her thoughts refused to fall into order.
She yanked her hood forward to conceal her agitated face and tried to slip past her half-brother, who barred the tent flap. But Gareth caught her wrist in a vice.
“I asked why you were rummaging through Varkas’s tent.”
“Let go!”
She wrenched violently at her arm, but Gareth’s grip was locked fast, unyielding.
He hauled her toward him with a snarl like an enraged wolf.
“Out with it. What foul scheme are you cooking up now?”
Talia bit her lip against the pain, her bones groaning under the pressure.
‘A mindless brute with nothing but muscle.’
She lashed out, kicking him squarely in the shin without hesitation. He had yet to strap on his greaves; Gareth let out a strangled curse and stumbled back.
Seizing the split second of freedom, Talia pulled her arm clear. She threw herself past the tent flap and took to her heels.
Behind her came the clatter of furniture crashing over, Gareth’s furious pursuit hot on her heels. Talia never once glanced back, weaving madly through the lanes of tents.
Before long, her carriage loomed out of the dark. She scrambled inside, rammed the bolt home, and collapsed into the corner.
Her chest heaved with terror that Gareth, blind with rage, might smash the carriage door to splinters. Yet as the minutes dragged on, the camp remained quiet. Wary of so many eyes, he must have abandoned the chase.
Talia exhaled a ragged breath and buried her face against her knees. Then a wave of bitter disillusionment washed over her, twisting her features. A shudder of disgust crept through her skin—disgust at how utterly pathetic she had been.
Why had she lost her wits simply to check whether he was still breathing? Worse, it sickened her to have shown Gareth such naked panic.
Did he suspect anything?
Chewing nervously at her lip, Talia cautiously parted the curtain a fraction to peer out.
Outside, the knights were striking the pavilions in the grey dawn light. None of them seemed aware of the commotion she had caused.
She pressed her cheek close to the pane, searching the yard with darting eyes, before letting the heavy fabric fall shut again.
As day broke over the camp, the knights mounted up and dressed their ranks. Among them was Varkas. Talia watched through the seam of the curtains as he inspected the vanguard according to routine. But the moment his horse turned toward her carriage, she shrank back out of sight.
Had Gareth spoken to him? Was he coming to interrogate her?
While her mind raced to stitch together an excuse, Varkas halted his mount nearby, issued a brief order to the escort, and wheeled back to the head of the column.
Her shoulders sagged in relief. An instant later, a guardsman’s voice rang out across the lines.
“Form up! Move out!”
She gave no answer. As if expecting none, the knight spurred his horse forward without another word, and the carriage lurched into motion beneath her.
Talia sank back against the cushions, gazing up at the pale sky through the slit in the curtains. Another tedious, stifling day was beginning, devoid of answers.
The march that had begun at dawn ground to a halt long before the sun had even started its descent.
Gareth, his temper fraying past endurance, had unilaterally declared that they would go no farther.
By imperial mandate, the itinerary of the pilgrimage belonged solely to Varkas, the lord commander. Yet few dared cross the future Emperor.
In the end, under Varkas’s quiet acquiescence, they pitched camp in the middle of a barren plain, just short of Ulgram Hill, the second holy site.
The soldiers were visibly disgruntled at lingering in the open wasteland, but to Talia, the halt was a mercy. Trapped all day in the rocking cage of the carriage without food or rest, her body had reached its limit.
She lay curled on the bench, blinking against waves of lightheadedness.
Then that loathsome voice drifted through the paneling.
“Your Highness, I’ve brought fruit.”
Talia’s brow knit. It was maddening that the knight would dare return after the lashing she had given him yesterday.
Unless he had some hidden design, what reason was there to flatter her so persistently?
She spat through the wood, sharp and cold.
“Get lost.”
“You claimed you couldn’t eat without knowing what was in the pot, didn’t you? Fresh, whole fruit ought to be safe enough.”
Lacking the strength to argue, she said nothing. Emboldened by her silence, the knight threw open the door and thrust a silver tray right under her nose.
“I do this only because I’d rather this caravan not become a funeral procession. Stop this stubbornness and eat at least this much.”
She glared up at his face with undisguised contempt before casting her eyes down to the platter. Upon it lay ripe red apples, plums, and a cluster of green grapes.
Talia stared at them blankly, then muttered in a voice devoid even of anger.
“How do I know you haven’t rubbed venom on the skins?”
Any normal man would have retreated by now, but the knight held his ground. Exhaling a heavy sigh, he picked up one of the apples, took a deep, deliberate bite, and held the scarred fruit back toward her.
“Is that proof enough?”
“You expect me to eat your scraps? Filthy dog—take it away!”
For a moment, the knight looked as though he might throttle her where she sat. Talia turned her back on him regardless. She was famished, starving down to the marrow, yet she could not bear to put anything into her mouth that another’s hands had touched. She knew that even if she forced it down, her gorge would simply rise and heave it back up.
“I’ve heard enough. Stop tormenting me and get lost.”
“Is ‘get lost’ the only command Your Highness knows?”
His brazen insolence struck a spark against her frayed nerves.
Talia pushed herself upright. A sudden rush of dizziness tilted the world, but she locked her knees, refusing to betray weakness before him.
When the fog cleared from her vision, she brushed past the wary knight and stepped out onto the dust.
The sky was fading from cobalt to a dull, bruised orange. Talia lingered a moment, then set off toward the margins of the camp, ducking the sidelong glances of the men.
She needed to be somewhere empty and still, where no one could see her. Yet if she wandered too far from the perimeter, the guard would descend upon her at once.
After a moment’s hesitation, she made for a grove of trees set back behind the supply wagons.
From that distance, the sentries could still keep her in their line of sight, which would keep them from crowding her under the pretense of escort.
Talia sank down, her back against the rough trunk of an ancient spruce, and drew in the cool evening air. How long she sat there, she did not know, until a faint sound of laughter broke through the quiet.
Her eyes snapped open. She was not the only one seeking a quiet corner; through the scattered trunks, Ayla came walking with slow, easy steps.
Talia’s face hardened.
She was battered in spirit and flesh. She did not have the stomach to endure that radiant, carefree expression right now.
She rose abruptly to leave, but another figure emerged from the shadow of the boughs.
It was the man whose life she had spent the previous night praying to preserve.
Talia stared, her eyes going dead. Holding Toruk’s reins loosely in one hand as he trailed after Ayla, Varkas wore a peace upon his face that she had never once seen.
She was so accustomed to his glacial detachment, his furrowed brow, that the quiet ease of his features seemed entirely foreign.
‘Does he always look upon Ayla like that?’
As Talia stood frozen, Ayla caught Varkas by the sleeve, stepped up onto her tiptoes, and tilted her face toward his. Talia’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what the girl was asking.
She did not want to see it. She did not want to burn into her memory an image she could never scrape out, something she would turn over and gnaw upon for the rest of her days.
Yet even as her heart shrieked to look away, her gaze remained glued to them. Perhaps she was waiting for him to push her aside with cold disdain. Instead, like a faithful hound, Varkas leaned down to meet her.
The moment he lowered his head, Talia spun on her heel and ran. But before she could clear the trees, hands clamped onto her like iron.
Her eyes widened in horror. Gareth, his face flushed red with drink, held her fast by the upper arm, staring down into her face.
Talia ducked her head under his measuring gaze, but it was already too late. He had seen the wet gleam lingering in the corners of her eyes.
“Could it be… you…?”
Gareth let out an empty, disbelieving laugh.
Talia twisted wildly to tear herself from his grip, but the Crown Prince did not budge an inch.
He peered down at her raw, betrayed expression as though watching a rare spectacle, until finally a roar of laughter tore from his throat.
“So that’s what it was!”
END