“So, how did you end up in Ludesa anyway?” Olivier asked with a heave as he and Jeth lugged a tin basin sloshing with fresh water from the lake.

Now that the task force knew when Nas’Gavarr would be upon them, they spent the next day preparing supplies. The two were busy packing the lake to take home with them. Or at least that’s what it felt like. Without Melikheil to provide water, they would need as much for the long journey home as they could carry.

“To find work, why else?” Jeth replied. They hoisted the basin between their shoulders and carried it up the sandy embankment. “I break horses and herd cattle at a ranch there.”

“I’ve heard lots of your people are laboring on Ludesan farms,” Olivier said. “I always wondered why they’d leave the communes that supposedly provide for their every need.”

Jeth scoffed. “Maybe a long time ago. Now, it’s plagues, poverty, and other gifts from the good ol’ Confederation Period.”

“The Second Wave passed almost a decade ago.” The men lowered the basin near Faron and Loche’s tent. “Is it still that bad living there?”

“A question only a true ignorant imperialist would ask.” He chuckled.

“You do realize my province was also swallowed up by urling expansion.”

“Sure, a hundred years before Fae’ren and by will of its own. Not a drop of blood spilled if I remember the tales.” He grabbed a bundle of empty waterskins piled near Roscoe, cooking the day’s lunch, and handed some off to Olivier.

“True, Del’Cabria never had to invade Ludesa with swords or bows, but they invaded all the same. Most of us didn’t like it any more than your people did,” the red-headed bowman replied. “We did have more time to adapt to urling rule, I suppose.”

“And now your province is the second richest in the Kingdom.”

“That’ll happen when you produce most of the Kingdom’s food. Maybe Fae’ren should do something similar,” Olivier said with a toothy grin beneath his mustache.

“Like what? Provide the Kingdom all its drinking water? No, wait, Elmifel Province has the monopoly on that . . . as well as all the wine.” Jeth winked.

“You got all that wood.” Olivier bent down to start filling the waterskins along with Jeth. “If your people didn’t worship all the trees, you could cut a few down and make a fortune.”

“We don’t worship them. . . that much . . . just one really, and it’s a very impressive tree, mind you.”

“I bet it is.” Olivier grinned.

Jeth often enjoyed his and Olivier’s political discussions, even when they trod on sour territory. Ludesa Province was home enough for him, its people, for the most part, warm and accepting. No one paid too much mind to where a man came from as long as he understood his place and worked hard. For Jeth, any place at all, even at the bottom, was a step up from where he had been.

When they returned with full waterskins over their shoulders, Major Faron was talking to Baird just outside the Saf ’s tent. Faron was stone-faced as always, and Baird bit his cheek with anxiety and nodded repeatedly. “Go retrieve Sir Tobin from watch and come to the Meister’s tent for a briefing,” Faron finished.

Baird did as he was told and Faron approached Jeth and Olivier. Both lowered the waterskins, and Olivier erected himself, taut as a bowstring. “We’re right behind you, Major.”

“No. You need to tend to Master Loche again, his wound is getting worse.” The major swallowed hard and wiped sweat from his glistening cross-cropped hair that made his pointed urling ears appear even longer.

“Aye, Major.” Olivier marched to his patient’s tent.

“Jeth, you will watch the Saf. She hasn’t eaten or drunk a thing since we arrived. See to it that she does. I don’t want her dropping dead of dehydration before the Overlord gets here.”

“Aye, Major,” he repeated with a curt nod and left.

Faron called after him, “Oh, and don’t talk to her any more than you have to and absolutely no touching her unless to prevent her escape.” He then turned on his heel and was gone.

Jeth’s nostrils flared as he stretched his neck to the side with a crack before picking up one of the waterskins. Tell that to your spearmen, for Mother’s sake, he fumed within his mind.

Still shaking his head, he went to Roscoe at the fire pit to grab a bowl of stew and headed for the square, floorless tent where the Saf was being held. He walked through the rolled open flap and found her curled up on two cushions, her wrists and ankles bound with a rope tied to a metal peg, embedded deep into the ground underneath a chair. The tent’s canvas filtered the blazing sun’s light and gave the entire space an apricot hue.

He placed the bowl of stew on the small table near the sleeping hostage, and she immediately jerked awake. “Wha . . . ?” Her voice was muffled under the veil she still wore. It no longer lent her an air of opulence or mystery. It was just something she hid behind.

Jeth put his arms up and backed off. “It’s all right, it’s just food.”

“Oh,” she muttered, glancing at the bowl then waved it away with her bound hands.

“Suit yourself.” He unscrewed the cap on the waterskin’s spout and held it out to her. “You do need to drink something. You’re in a desert.”

The Saf gave him a dry, ‘I know. I live in one, you moron’ glare.

“Alright then, more for me.” He cast his head back and drank the refreshing liquid in obnoxious gulps until it ran down his face.

The Saf stared up at him, blinking furiously. “Stop that!”

“Oh . . . you want some?” he offered.

The Saf snatched it out of his hand, and he chuckled to himself as he sat in the chair. She put the skin under her veil to drink, but the cumbersome material got in the way. With a grunt of frustration, she unclipped it from her hair band and tossed it aside. She drank with such urgency the skin deflated into a crumpled hide. Breathing hard, the Saf wiped her mouth and threw the skin back at him where he plucked it out of the air. His gaze caught her unveiled face, and he fumbled it before it hit the ground.

Her skin, decorated with tiny iridescent gemstones around her cheekbones and temples, illuminated like bronze. Her soft, youthful features, full lips, and ice blue eyes made her look both innocent and wicked all at once. A powerful combination.

“F-feel better now?”

The Saf didn’t move or say a word, only continued to stare at him with eyes like frost in the desert heat. Jeth’s pulse quickened.

“You’re the archer that put a hole through my wedding garments,” Her Herrani dialect made the words sound like a river flowing off her tongue, a river that could pull Jeth under and drown him if he weren’t careful.

He nervously scratched at his scruffy beard and shrugged. “Shouldn’t matter now, because you’re not getting married anymore. Though, I suppose you’d rather be with your new husband than tied up by enemy soldiers.”

The woman pursed her lips and narrowed her unsettling gaze. When did you start sweating so much? Jeth thought.

“And look on the bright side,” he continued. “It’s rumored that the Tezkhan Chief already has about . . . ten wives he stole from other tribes so . . . you can probably do better.”

After a few blinks of her long white eyelashes, her features softened, and she appeared about to grin. She didn’t.

She ran her hands down the blue silk material of her pants, stopping at the tear made by his arrow. “He is a barbarian, no doubt about that, but lucky for me, I get to contend with eight more right here. I think I would have preferred the company of Chief Ukhuna of the Tezkhan raiders.”

“Ouch.” Jeth mimed being shot in the heart, and then bent down close in his seat as if to tell her a secret. “In your present situation, it might be hard for you to believe, but we aren’t all bad.”

“Oh?” She raised a white eyebrow in feigned interest and leaned into him with a matched conspiratorial tone. She spied around the room and flashed him a dangerous smile before continuing at a whisper, “Last night, the blonde one with the sunburn insisted on watching me urinate because he thought I might try to escape. As if I could make a run for it mid-stream with an armed soldier holding the rope tied to my ankles.” Her smile slanted to a scowl that paralyzed him in his seat. “So, if you were wondering why I refused to eat or drink . . . now you know.”

Jeth released a drawn-out sigh. “That’s uh . . . sorry . . . and they’re supposed to be the civilized ones.”

His stomach churned, recalling how he too had contended with numerous brutes like Baird and Tobin for most of his life. He relied on his quick-witted remarks and good humor to distract them from the notion that he was dirt beneath their feet. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to put up with us much longer.”

She scoffed and drew her gaze down to her hands. “Isn’t that Mage you brought with you going to try to kill the Overlord?”

He scratched his head again. “Uh . . . you know, I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

She shook her head and before long, came breathy laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your wizard is doomed.” The Saf giggled like it was a joke she alone understood.

Jeth could only shrug in response. If anyone could defeat the Overlord of Herran, it would be Meister Melikheil, but he was not about to explain why to the hostage.

“Are you going to eat that?” Jeth leaned over to pick up the bowl of now cold stew on the table.

The Saf grabbed it and held it away from him.

Jeth sat back in the chair as the Saf finally ate a few bites of her meal. In the meantime, he took out his knife and started cleaning small granules from his fingernails. Twenty minutes later, the Saf was done.

She wiped her mouth and asked, “Where are you from, Del’Cabrian?”

Squirming in his seat, he said, “Oh no. I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because anything I say to you, I might as well be saying to your father. And I’m not especially comfortable with him knowing where I’m from.” Jeth slid his knife back in his scabbard.

“Do you really think the Overlord cares where you’re from?” She snorted. “As if you’re that important, he’d waste his precious time tracking you down.”

“He’s got all the time in the world.”

The Saf pouted, saying nothing more as she slumped against her propped up pillows. Jeth tapped his fingers on the armrest, resenting the silence until she looked up at him from under long lashes, eyes round. What’s the Overlord going to do to your home? You’re never going back there, he thought. “Why do you even care where I’m from?”

“I don’t know. . . .” she began in a softer tone, smoothing out her pants. “You’re different than the others. You don’t speak like them or look like them. They don’t seem to accept you as one of them, and yet you fight alongside them. That is very curious to me.”

Her frost-blue eyes continued to blaze into his, generating a heat within the tent of which the scorching sun outside was not the source.

“I’ve been told I can be very intriguing,” he said. No one has ever told you that, not once.

The Saf bit her bottom lip to stifle a giggle. “I see.” She then became serious. “You don’t owe those men anything. Why fight for their way of life? For their king?”

Jeth thought back to all the abuse he’d been subjected to since enlisting. Despite his archery skill, which allowed him to be a part of this integral mission—one that could win Del’Cabria the war—he feared his achievements would still go unrecognized. You probably should have stayed on Talbit’s ranch.

“I was told that the only way a man like me can move up is through military honors.”

“Move up what?”

“In status—the pecking order.”

“I don’t understand that.” The Saf shook her head.

“You don’t have social statuses in Herran?” he asked with surprise.

“You mean a system in which the privileged on the top rule over others based on some made-up standard? No.” She looked him straight in the eye. “For you to risk your life out here for a chance to move up in this silly pecking order means that it must be very hard on the bottom.”

“Not so bad,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Back where I’m from, everyone is relatively equal. Everyone contributes, and has a voice . . . well, almost everyone.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to get into why he couldn’t be a part of that because of some inane superstition.

“Then why desire to move up at all?” She inched closer, looking up at him from her knees.

“Some of us have to play by other people’s rules to survive.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted away.

“And that is why they will never change,” she said. “So, stop playing the game.”

“You think it’s that easy, do you?”

She nodded. “In Herran, Sunil, and Odafi, all men and women are free to do as they please and will bear the responsibilities that come with that freedom.”

Jeth raised an eyebrow. “Like the freedom to choose who to marry for instance?”

“Freedom to marry at all.”

“To be clear. You’re choosing to marry Chief Ukhuna of the Tezkhan raiders and are in no way being forced to by your father,” he said with suspicion.

The Saf laughed out loud. She was missing one of her upper molars, but it did little to challenge her beauty and, in fact, added to her charm. “Yes, I’m choosing to marry the Chief, but only temporarily.”

“Huh?”

“Your major didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?” His nerves fluttered about in his stomach. You shouldn’t be talking to her for this long, you goat.

“I’m not a daughter of Nas’Gavarr,” she said.

“What? Are you a decoy or something?”

“Nas’Gavarr has no use for decoys. I’m a thief, posing as Saf ’Raisha, intent on robbing the Tezkhan Chief of something extremely valuable.”

“Why are you telling me this?” His eyebrows cinched together as he cocked his chin to the side.

She closed the last small gap between them and whispered, “I can be persuaded to split my part of the earnings with you. If . . .” she bit her lip again and shrugged, “. . . you let me go?”

He leaned back and chuckled deep in his chest. Of course, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. This was not the first time he had been manipulated by someone who saw him as a fool. He could smell it in the air before she opened her mouth. Yet there was something about her proclaiming she was not the real Saf that gave him pause.

“You don’t want to keep fighting this war, do you?” she said in breathless wonder. “You deserve much better than this. These Del’Cabrians will never accept you into their society. In the desert, the lowest of men can find whatever it is they seek. Be it riches, respect . . . pleasure.” A wicked giggle escaped her at that word. “But it will not come to those who are unwilling to take it.”

It would be easy for Jeth to take her up on her offer, even knowing if he helped her today she would betray him tomorrow. Might be less infuriating than being seen as shit under a horse’s hooves or less futile than trying to prove himself worthy in the eyes of Hanalei’s father.

He hissed aloud at the last thought, which sounded too much like the fancies of a young girl. The Saf kept her eyes on his but didn’t say a word.

Voices rang from outside. Faron, Baird, and Tobin left the Mage’s pavilion. The major flicked his hand at Tobin, sending the blond urling up the hill for watch before ducking into Loche’s tent with Baird.

Jeth’s attention was pulled back to his charge when she put her hand on his knee, her eyes glossy.

“Please,” she begged. “Your major won’t listen. You have to help me. You will be a wealthy man if you do.”

“Hold on.” He got up to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked, grasping his pant leg. He took her wrist and pulled it aside to check her bindings. The peg was secure. He started for the exit again.

“Stop! I want to ask you something.”

He groaned. “What?”

“That older swordsman. The one I cut. Haven’t seen him up and about. Is he all right?”

“Why do you care?” His brow furrowed.

Baird burst out of Loche’s tent and proceeded to kick over a carton of rations. He clutched at his head, running his hands over his brown, sweat-slicked hair, breathing hard.

“I’ll be right back,” Jeth muttered.

After asking Roscoe to keep an eye on the Saf, he approached the frustrated spearman. “What’s going on?”

Baird snapped his head around, eyes red with dark circles underneath like the last hour had been more strenuous than every day since the start of their mission combined. He squatted down on his heels and rested his forehead against his thumbs. “Master Loche . . .”

Jeth stared down at him, listening to Baird’s heart pump thick blood through his chest, his own growing heavier. “You two have history?”

Baird stood back up and wiped his dry nose. “You can say that. We’ve been fighting together since this blasted war started. I’ve seen him cleave through hordes of naja without breaking a sweat. And a little scratch by some bitch’s blade does him in? It doesn’t make any ashray-licking sense.” He stood back up and stormed off toward the lake.

Jeth entered Loche’s tent to find Faron and Olivier kneeling over the navigator, now sickly white and covered in rivers of sweat. The stench of rot and burnt flesh was overpowering. He scaled back his sense of smell, but the thickness of the air lingered, along with a sharp, foreign odor.

“Cauterize it again,” Faron commanded.

“I’ve done it twice already. It’s not working,” protested Olivier.

“Then perhaps you are doing it incorrectly.”

“With all due respect, Major. I learned how to cauterize a wound before I ever picked up a bow. Some kind of desert pathogen must have infected his wound.”

Loche opened his peeling lips and rasped, “Don’t even think about putting that hot poker on me again. You should all be getting ready to leave this place. Get as far from here as your horses will take you.” He leaned his head to the bag of whiskey in the tent’s corner. “Leave me a bottle, and you boys take the rest. Have yourselves one good night. I’ll be fine here.”

Faron slowly rose to his feet and exhaled heavily through his nose. His tired gaze finally fell on Jeth standing there. “Why aren’t you guarding the Saf ?”

“She’s claiming she’s not. But a thief posing as her,” Jeth replied.

The major rolled his eyes and led Jeth out of the tent. “Do not believe a word that woman says.” He pointed at him with a rigid forefinger.

“What if she’s telling the truth?” Jeth said. “Don’t you find it strange that Nas’Gavarr would send his daughter to meet her betrothed with nothing more than ten of his warriors and two camels? Why wouldn’t he escort her himself if this marriage is so important?”

“She has the marking on her back that all of Nas’Gavarr’s daughters have. I checked as soon as we secured her. The Meister confirmed her father is on his way. She is without a doubt, the Saf. You will not leave your post again unless it’s an emergency. Is that clear?” Faron’s voice stiffened even more, his tone low. Jeth began to tremble.

“Aye,” he said, so quiet he wasn’t sure a sound came out at all. He bowed and started to walk back.

“Wait,” Faron said. “She obviously sees you as an easy mark. I will watch her.”

“Uh . . . alright. What will you have me do instead? Should I help Olivier?”

“Get some sleep. I need you to watch the Meister for one more night. Be prepared to set off at first light.”

Something’s wrong here, you know it, he thought. It felt prudent to press the issue of the Saf ’s identity. Make Faron listen. He tried to force the words out, but they wouldn’t come. “What about Master Loche?” he asked instead.

Faron’s jaw tightened, and his hard, blue gaze broke before replying, “He will not be returning with us.”

The major, in his purposeful, stiff fashion, walked toward the Saf ’s tent.

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