Elisaf winces. “Lesson learned.”
Zander assesses her injuries with a quick head-to-toe glance. “How many of you are there?”
Her expression turns grim. “Nineteen, including myself.”
I have no idea how many were in the Legion originally, but the muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks, telling me there were significantly more. “Where are they?”
“We’ve set up camp a mile south, ready to pick off any enemy who ventures in.” Sharp eyes swing to me, and I can’t help but shrink at the way they harden. Abarrane has always terrified me, from the first moment I faced her in the king’s war room, when she threatened torture to exact answers I didn’t have. But she also didn’t flinch at defending me as we ran from a charging army in the square. But that was because Zander ordered her. Where Boaz was for the crown, Abarrane and the elite guard she commands are for the man whose head it should adorn. Her unwavering loyalty to him is admirable.
But she’d also skin me alive if Zander asked it of her, and a very dark part would enjoy doing it.
Whatever reservations Abarrane may have for me, when her attention shifts to the river’s edge, raw fury collects in her features. “What is one of Queen Neilina’s witches doing in Islor?” she spits, her hand gripping the pommel of her sword. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone use that name for a caster, and it’s obviously not meant as a compliment.
“This is Caster Gesine,” Zander introduces. “As for what she is doing in Islor, we will learn the truth of that soon.”
As we close in on the Legion’s camp, I see why Abarrane prefers this area. The canopy of looming trees grants shelter while the river provides ample water for horses and warriors alike. Sheer rock walls drop along the west and south sides, limiting ambush opportunities and allowing a clear view of the valley below, so they can kill their enemy with arrows one by one.
A curt whistle sounds, and Abarrane responds with one of her own.
Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention to my left where a legionary stands not twenty feet away. The nocked arrow he had aimed at us is leveled toward the ground.
Aimed at me, I realize, as I take in that cold, predatory stare, reminding me of Sofie’s henchmen, the two men who slaughtered Korsakov’s entire security team on the night that started all of this. Does this legionary agree with Atticus that Islor would be better off without me?
How many of them feel the same?
In all my time in Cirilea, I’ve only met a few of these fierce warriors, trained by Abarrane herself. While the encounters were brief, everything inside told me that if one of them ever had reason to kill me, I was as good as dead.
The poison coursing through my veins is plenty reason to make it happen. What would they do if they knew what else thrummed in this body, waiting for release? Would the order of an exiled king be enough to stay their blades?
Zander’s earlier warning—to assume everyone is an enemy—has me shifting closer to his side as we head into camp.
“Zorya,” Elisaf says in soft greeting, handing off our horses’ reins to a warrior with lengthy auburn hair tied off in braids and a bloody rag secured diagonally across one eye. “How bad is it?”
“Merth blade.” Her voice is emotionless.
Elisaf grimaces, his pat of comfort landing on the female warrior’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”
“He paid for it with his life, though I wish I could have had more time taking it from him.” Zorya’s good eye shifts from Elisaf to Zander. She bows her head. “Your Highness.” She peers at me but offers no greeting. The narrowed gaze she gives Gesine before she leads the horses away is downright menacing.
“That is unfortunate. She was one of our best fighters,” Zander says somberly.
“Zorya is still one of our best fighters.” Abarrane glares at him as if daring to suggest otherwise is a personal affront. She leads us past a bearded warrior who wipes blood and gore from his sword. Her limp grows more pronounced, the cloth bandage glistening with fresh blood despite her attempts to stifle it. That injury is far more serious than she’s letting on.
The smell of roasting meat teases my nostrils, stirring the first hunger pangs I’ve had since yesterday. A wild boar is trussed over a firepit, manned by two warriors. A handful of simple tents—stretched leather over tent poles—are scattered throughout, the nearest sheltering a warrior who lies on the ground while another stitches a gash across his stomach. Others lounge, checking their bandages and cleaning their wounds. Those who are mobile are busy running the camp, chopping wood to stoke the cook fire, sharpening weapon blades, hauling buckets of water.
All wear leathers drenched in blood and countless scrapes and cuts.
And every one of them stops what they’re doing when they notice Gesine. Zander was not exaggerating about their feelings for all things Mordain. I can practically taste the loathing and distrust in the air.
“Nineteen,” he echoes, more to himself, his jaw hard.
“Are there many grave injuries among them?” Gesine surveys the warriors. There is no way she can’t feel their hatred, but if she’s apprehensive, she hides it behind her tranquil mask.
Abarrane watches the caster as if deciding whether to acknowledge her. “Most will heal on their own, given time—”
“I will help speed things along. I will heal as many as I can. If you will allow it,” she adds, bowing her head to the war commander.
“If they will allow it, and I promise you, most would prefer to … stay far from your kind.” Abarrane glares at the gold collar that marks Gesine for what she is. “Then again, we are without tributaries here.”