The Bitter Kingdom

10

HECTOR

THE snow fascinates me.

Though its cold leaches into my bones, I can’t help lifting my bound hands to catch the falling flakes. They land, sparkling and light as butterfly wings, only to melt against my skin into something so commonplace as water.

It’s a reminder that transformations happen in a second. That my status as a prisoner is a fleeting, ephemeral state, needing only the right circumstance to dissolve it.

We have descended to where trees grow again. It’s colder on this side of the mountain, cloudier, stormier. Every time the snow begins to fall, the Inviernos mutter to one another in hushed tones. Franco glowers incessantly. He cuts our rest stops short and orders us into a gallop whenever we reach a flat stretch of trail.

They read something worrisome in the weather, the same way I can sniff the ocean air, gauge the color of the sky, and feel in my marrow that a hurricane is coming. I listen hard to their conversation for clues, pay attention to the chilling breeze on my face, note the way the horses paw through the light layer of snow on the ground to get to the grass underneath. Because whatever it is they are sensing, I want to sense it too.

Anything that worries my captors presents an opportunity for me.

When we stop briefly to graze the horses in a small alpine meadow, I already have my ear turned toward Franco when he says to his men, “Keep to the center of the meadow. Don’t let the horses stray toward the mountain laurel.”

The Joyan who always rides sentry beside me helps me dismount. His knuckles are huge and his fingers are crooked; he’s a brawler who has used his fists too often. “I need to relieve myself,” I say.

A few weeks ago, this exact request was met with a shrug and a “Soil yourself for all I care.” But I’ve given him no trouble. They’ve purposely kept me weak from hunger, and I’ve made sure they see how my hands have stiffened into useless claws. He grabs me by the collar and pushes me toward the edge of the meadow without a word of protest.

But I have full use of my hands now. My bonds remain stuck to my skin, crusted on by blood and sweat. But if I were to separate my wrists, anyone could see the unraveling mess of hemp created by night upon night of sawing with a now-dull rock.

We near the stunted trees, and my captor gives me a shove. I allow myself to stumble. I hope I’m not overdoing it. But a quick glance over my shoulder assures me the Joyan sentry has already lost interest. He gazes back toward the center of the meadow, where the horses cluster together, chomping on frozen grass.

I won’t have much time. I scan the foliage around me, mentally sorting it, eliminating the familiar. Not lupine, not ferns, not paintbrush . . . there! A shrub with long, waxy leaves and dried flowers that might have been pink or red during high summer.

I glance back again. The Joyan is not watching.

I snap off a sprig of mountain laurel, shove it down my shirt. The Joyan still does not look my way, so I grab a huge handful. I pat it down beneath my shirt to even out the lumps.

“What’s taking so long?”

I nearly jump. “Almost done,” I answer in a bored voice, pretending to tie up my pants. I turn around and say, “Thank you.” The laurel scratches the skin of my abdomen. I resist the urge to look down and check for telltale bulges.

He grunts and leads me back toward the horses. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the mountain laurel. I just know that a plant worth avoiding is a plant worth having. Elisa taught me that.

I’ve memorized the rolling hitch knot used to tie me to a tree each night. It’s a variation on a knot my brother Felix taught me, easy to tie and untie if one’s hands are free. Usually, the traitor Joyan who ties it puts the knot off to the side, just out of my reach. But Franco has been pushing so hard, everyone is exhausted, and I am a model prisoner.

Inevitably, tonight, the Joyan gets careless. The knot isn’t quite so tight. Not quite so far off to the side.

My limbs tingle with before-battle anticipation. As everyone stretches out on their bedrolls and the evening fire burns low, I think I might come out of my own skin with readiness.

I consider escaping but reject the notion immediately. Though I’m not as handicapped as I’ve led my captors to believe, I’m weak from hunger and stiff from lack of exercise. I would need to steal one of the horses to get fast and far, but I could never sneak past the perimeter watch on a horse.

And I keep hearing intriguing bits of conversation. Something about a gate, another sendara that leads to a place of power.

So instead of escaping, I’ll do what I can to slow us down and give Elisa a chance to catch up. In the meantime, I’ll learn all that I can.

Tonight, the chip-toothed Joyan sits cross-legged on the ground before me—a little farther away than usual. I close my eyes, letting my head drop to the left, and feign sleep.

Eventually the breathing of my guard becomes deep and nasal. I open my eyes. The Joyan is definitely asleep.

I survey the camp, seeking movement. Everyone slumbers, though I know the perimeter watch patrols just out of sight. A cloud covers the moon, shrouding everything in darkness. Good. It will be easier to sneak around.

The ropes don’t allow much range of motion, and when I bend my elbows, I can barely reach the knot. It’s awkward work, and I’m not sure how I’ll tie myself back up later. But I am committed to my course.

I shake the ropes loose and step out of them. I pause, breath held, listening for movement.

Tree frogs chirrup nearby, and a slight breeze rustles the pine boughs. The air is crisp and dry, with a citrusy tang. It will snow tonight. I smile into the dark, for I am developing my nose for snow.

But it means I must enact my plan before it falls, lest my footprints betray me in the morning. I creep toward the horses, reaching beneath my shirt for the mountain laurel. It has been chafing my skin all day, leaving tiny, itching welts.

The horses nicker a soft greeting, and I crouch low, for someone is surely on watch nearby. I’m counting on the horses’ swishing tails and the way they huddle together for warmth to disguise my movements.

I know exactly which mount goes with which rider. I weave among them until I find the little chestnut with white fetlocks ridden by the brawler who guards me during the day. I offer her a handful of mountain laurel, palm flat to avoid nips. She lips it up eagerly.

I’m sorry. So very sorry. You’re a good horse, and you deserve better. I hope it will be just enough to make her sick and no more. But I’m not sure.

I don’t have enough to poison all the horses, so I make my selections carefully. Only Joyan horses, and I choose mountain ponies over large war chargers, hoping their smaller bodies will be more susceptible.

I am heartsick as I creep back toward my tree. “Treat your mounts as brothers-in-arms,” I always tell my men. “They are soldiers to your cause and your closest companions.”

The Joyan traitor still sleeps, chin to chest, his left hand twitching in the dirt. I could kill him right now, if I chose. My fingertips itch with the need to wrap around his throat.

Keeping a wary eye on him, I step back into the circle of rope, sit against the tree trunk, and work the rope up around my chest and arms. I yank it as tight as I can, which isn’t very tight at all. The triple hitch knot takes me four tries, and I position it too far forward, but I manage it.

I’ve done the best I can. I press my wrists together, but they’ve been unbound for days now, and it’s only a matter of time before a closer inspection reveals my deception. I close my eyes to await the snow.