The Bitter Kingdom

12

HECTOR

ONE of the horses died. Not the tiny mare with the white fetlocks, and I’m not sure why one horse should matter more than any other, but I’m glad.

Four others sickened. They vomited green bile and collapsed onto the ground, thrashing their legs. The Inviernos had seen mountain laurel poisoning before, and they assured the Joyans that their horses would most likely be well enough to travel in a day or so. But Franco is out of patience with delays. After an afternoon’s debate, he ordered everyone forward, leaving the Joyans without healthy mounts behind.

There are now only sixteen captors from whom I must escape.

Poisoning the horses halted our progress for less than a day, but I sit straighter in the saddle, feeling stronger. Not helpless. Maybe I can do it again. My mind spins with other possibilities. Anything to slow us down and give Elisa a chance to catch us before she’s forced too deep into enemy territory.

It’s almost like protecting her.

I think hard about it as we navigate the tight, rocky trail of the mountainside. Below us stretches Invierne, a vast land forested with pine trees that, by some trick of light, seem as blue as the deepest part of the sea. Fog sends billowing tendrils through gorges and ravines. It rains or snows several times a day.

After an evening meal of pine nuts and thin soup, the chip-toothed Joyan comes to tie me up for the night. My bonds are so badly frayed now that he is derelict not to notice. If he worked for me, I’d make him scrub chamber pots for a month.

“Marreo,” I say, using the name I’ve heard others use. “A word.”

“You have nothing to say that I care to hear.”

“It’s strange, don’t you think?” I say as he works the triple hitch. “That only our horses got sick.”

“Your horse is fine. So is mine.”

“I mean only Joyan horses got sick.”

This would normally be met by a smack across the face or a hissed warning to be silent. But Marreo just frowns.

I’m encouraged. “It’s convenient that they outnumber us now. I won’t be surprised if you’re all dead or left behind by the time we reach the capital.”

This does earn me a cuff, and my head spins with the impact.

“Trust the Inviernos if you want to,” I mutter, blinking rapidly. “But I am not your enemy here.”

I am most definitely his enemy, and if he has any sense he knows it. I’m praying that he does not have any sense.

He grunts and walks away. I stare at his back, hoping the traitor will fall asleep on watch again tonight.

He does, and I’m the only one awake to observe when Franco speaks quietly to one of his men. After a hushed conversation in a language I don’t recognize, they clasp forearms, and Franco whispers, “The gate is closing.”

“The gate is closing,” he responds, as if by rote. They part, and the Invierno unsheathes a long dagger and slips back up the trail.

The traitor Joyans we left behind will not be making it home after all.

I would never send only one man to dispatch four. Franco must have the highest confidence. It’s true that these Inviernos might be the most dangerous men I’ve encountered. They move with predator grace and display a level of fitness I’ve only seen among the most elite soldiers.

I refuse to let myself feel sorrow for my countrymen. Treason deserves no less.

Even so, there is no sense of triumph that my prediction to Marreo has already proven true. And if the Joyan soldiers don’t stand a chance, then neither does Elisa. Though she surprises me at every turn, she is no warrior.

Somehow, I have to even the odds.