His Captive Sorceress

Chapter 19: Sowing Doubt

A cold draft tugs me awake. I open my eyes to darkness. The fire crackles behind me, but the sun hasn't risen yet.

I rub my eyes clear. We're huddled together in the Balin ruins. The fire has died down, and cold evening air flows through the hollow doorframe. My exhausted body yearns to retreat deeper into the warm pouch and return to sleep, but a sudden sharp thought puts me on edge – Trevus said we were five days from Nepolis yesterday. That leaves only five nights. Nighttime is my best opportunity to make a move, and one is burning away right now.

One of them must be on watch, and they probably know I'm awake. Who's watching determines my options. With Giddius, he can be provoked. With Marcellus, I'll have free rein. With Trevus, I might as well go back to sleep. He'll turn the conversation in his favor, putting me on defense.

I cast my gaze to my feet, and Marcellus's ginger hair is just visible.

I tilt my head up, and the shape of the sleeping pouch above shows it's occupied – Trevus. That leaves only Giddius. His pouch is on the opposite side of the fire to mine – as far away as I could manage. It's nearly morning, and he's stopped feeding the fire.

I have an idea. With some effort, I'm able to untie my boot laces through my sleeves. I peel my boots and socks off into the bottom of the pouch, leaving my feet bare.

Without looking back, I slide out from my sleeping pouch and slip out the hollow doorframe.

The frigid night air hits like a bucket of ice. I wrap my arms around my middle to conserve the tender heat from the pouch. Giddius couldn't have missed me leave, but he hasn't come out yet. He's not one to sleep on task. It won't take long.

I take a seat against the old building, bringing my knees to my chest.

A sharp piece of charred wood pokes my back. I brush it out of the way, only to pause on its smooth curved texture. Twisting around, I examine the wooden column. Underneath the powdery surface are fine carvings, decorative shapes that stretch all the way up the frame. Perhaps the family that lived here were master woodworkers. King Tytius truly is rotten.

Gravel shifts beneath a boot. Giddius has finally stepped out. His eyes move over my form, settling on my bare feet. I'm still seated, and I wouldn't make it a hundred yards into the wilderness without some form of shoe.

"You have not taken flight," he says.

"Would you have preferred I did?" I ask.

"You have a history."

"Then why'd you take so long to follow?"

"Perhaps I care not."

"So, if I started walking now, you'd let me go?"

He folds his arms, his eyes not leaving mine.

"I think you want me to run. That's why you waited – to have an excuse to strike me."

He approaches. "I do not require an excuse."

I rise to my feet. "You do. I doubt you could get away with it for anything less than thwarting an escape attempt."

He grabs my arm, his iron fist pinning me in place. With my sleeves on, he has nothing to be afraid of. "You should not probe my limits," he says.

"You lectured me about casting my lot with favorable odds, yet you keep pushing your luck," I say. "You're walking around with your eyes closed."

His grip remains stiff. "What are you on about?"

"With your insubordination, Trevus is nearly ready to leave you behind. Even I've noticed."