Lovina shook the hair out of her face. She flared her nostrils, licking her lips. Her hungry eyes watched his spoon go from his bowl to his mouth and back, twice, before he realized what the problem was.
“Lovina, it’s not poisoned.” Using his spoon, Tomaaz ate a mouthful of her food. “See?”
She shook her head, glancing at her own spoon.
“And your spoon’s all right too. Look.” He used her spoon to take a mouthful from his bowl. “I can get you a fresh portion, if you want.”
She snatched her bowl and spoon from him. Within moments, she’d downed a few spoonfuls and put the bowl down, clutching her stomach.
She’d eaten so little. What had Bill fed her? How had she survived?
§
Although Tomaaz’s stories were funny, over the last eight years with Bill, the well of laughs inside Lovina had run dry. How could she ever feel anything again? Except endless pain and the weight of drudgery. And the gray, pressing her flat against the ground, all fire gone out of her, bending her to Bill’s will.
Lovina’s fog seemed thinner. Or was it because Tomaaz was so near that she could see the startling green of his eyes? He watched her, weaving a peaceful melody with his quiet words.
Then he stopped.
Beyond the window, birds called. The silence in the room stretched. His eyes on hers, Tomaaz slowly reached out. Lovina wanted to shrink back, but the kindness in his gaze pinned her.
“Lovina.” His touch was gentle as he prized her fingers open. “Lovina,” he whispered, “take the clear-mind and free yourself.”
She shouldn’t trust anyone, but she parted her lips and popped the berries in her mouth.
He took her cup of water from the bedside and drank deeply from it, then passed it to her. His message was clear: if it’s poisoned, I’ll die with you.
She clutched the cold metal of the cup and swigged water down her parched throat. It was cool, refreshing. Pure—not tinged with numlock, like the awful stuff Bill gave her.
Tomaaz smiled, sunlight catching in his blond hair. He leaned back against the wall, wincing as he moved his legs, and fell asleep.
Gradually, the fog drifted from Lovina’s vision until she could see him clearly for the first time. His sleeping eyes were fringed with blond lashes and he was smiling faintly in his sleep. His tousled hair hung across his shoulders, which rose and fell as he breathed. His hands had callouses from hard work, but were clean, and his nails were neatly trimmed.
Lovina glanced at her own. The nails that weren’t ripped and torn were pitted with black grime. Her hands were scarred where Bill had burnt her with hot coals when she’d been too slow making his swayweed tea. And she had callouses, too, many more than Tomaaz.
There was a slight change in Tomaaz’s breathing.
Lovina looked up, trapped by his green gaze.
The fog on her feelings lifted, and something tight unfurled inside her chest.
Western Settlement
Tharuk 458 slugged back the last of its ale and stomped across the road to pee in the forest. At the sound of bird wings, it looked up. An old crow was flapping haphazardly, losing height. As it neared, the crow squawked Zen’s two-note call. It wanted to talk. Stepping out onto the road, 458 held its arm out so the crow could land. The silly bird was so tired, it dropped in the dirt at 458’s feet.
Picking the crow up, 458 touched its furry fingers to the bird’s skull. Zens had drilled his tharuks for weeks, teaching them how to mind-meld with these daft birds. Sometimes their messages were garbled, but this crow’s message was clear. “Find this tall female with black hair.” The bird relayed the woman’s image and scent through its memories.
Zens’ stones did that. Implanted in the birds’ heads, they allowed birds to mind-meld when touching someone, and enhanced these puny bird-brains’ sense of smell—useful for a tracker. His nostrils twitched out of habit, trying to catch the elusive smell of this woman, but he couldn’t. A dragon rider, she’d make a fine prize for Zens, alive or dead.
The bird croaked under its fingers. “Alive,” it melded. “The spy said capture her alive.”
“Of course,” melded the tracker. That still left scope for torture. After their troop’s ruined infiltration into Lush Valley, he and his underlings had been killing time in the tavern, rather than returning to Commander Zens. Losing an entire troop on the Western Pass was not an incident Zens could laugh off. Hands would be severed. Yes, hands and feet, not just a harmless ear or toe. Heads could roll.
“Not finished,” the bird croaked in his mind. “This is the new Queen’s Rider.”
A light-haired female shot into his mind. He knew that one—she’d been riding the beast that had slaughtered his troop, flaming them, high in the mountain pass, just two days ago. The crow squawked again. Another message? 458 kept his hands on the bird’s head.
“The Queen’s Rider is the dark-haired woman’s daughter,” the crow said.
Good, it would make the dark female’s suffering even more enjoyable, knowing he was avenging his troops. “Where is this dark-haired female? How can I find her?” he asked.
“On her way here,” the crow replied.
Thick globules of hunting saliva dribbled off 458’s tusks. When she got here, 458 would be ready.
§
After two weary days, Marlies reined Star in near the ring road around Western Settlement. Her backside was aching, her back was sore, and Star needed a decent rest. While Star cropped tufts of grass at the forest’s edge, Marlies dismounted and crept
