Songbird's Cage

Chapter 19

Her face was against something hard. Everything ached. She couldn't move her arms.

Lark cracked open her eyes. The side of her face was stiff with something, and she had a sickening notion that it was blood. She whimpered as she rolled into her side, feeling like she'd been beaten, her back in agony. Her wrists were still tied behind her. With a great amount of effort and pain she levered herself upright, her legs folded beneath her.

Rory was on the ground on the other side of the canvas tent they were in, but they hadn't bothered to bind him. He was pale, his breathing ragged and labored. A crude bandage had been tied around his leg, but the dirt beneath him had turned to dark mud from the blood dripping from the wound. His eyes roamed feverishly beneath his lids.

Her head and heart pounding, she dragged herself to his side. The wind rippled against the fabric of the tent, and Lark looked to the slit in the canvas that was the way to freedom, and the looming shadows of the two guards that stood outside of it. Fear began to set in – a trepidation at what they might do to her, the things that the wild men she was surrounded by might use her for now that Rory wasn't there to protect her.

And if he died...

Lark forced herself to stop. Her head hurt so badly that she felt sick. She wasn't thinking straight.

There was a sound from outside the tent, and Lark turned her attention away from Rory as a woman ducked in. Her hair was tied back, and she was dressed much like the men Lark had seen. A double triangle tattoo stood out on her collarbone, and there was a sword at her waist. Slung over her shoulder was a worn bag, and her tan, slender fingers were wrapped around the handle of a bucket of water.

Lark staggered to her feet, dizzy and off balance from being bound, and stood in front of Rory. The woman raised a brow, stepping closer.

"Get away," Lark warned, her voice trembling. "Don't touch him."

The woman set down the bucket and bag, putting her hands on her hips.

"Then you tend to him," she said sternly. The cords around Lark's wrists seemed even tighter now, even more humiliating, and she stared at the ground. But she didn't move away. The woman pursed her lips.

"Sit down."

Lark did as she was told, still wary of what the woman might do, sinking back down onto the dirt. She didn't trust any of the Sylvans.

"Who are you?" she asked, hardly expecting an answer from one of her captors.

"They call me Keerla here," the woman answered, touching Lark's temple and frowning.

"You took quite the blow," the woman said, then raised her voice pointedly, looking back towards the entrance. "Arodal hit you a bit harder than necessary."

"My apologies, O Mighty Healer of the South," came the glib response from one of the shadows guarding her tent. "But she nearly took off one of Bastion's fingers, and the gods know that he doesn't have many to spare."

The other guard snorted with laughter, and Keerla's jaw tightened as the two men were caught up in a loud round of mirth. There was anger on her face. Lark watched fearfully as the healer seized the bucket once more and stepped back out of the tent. Through the opening, she could see the three of them.

"I'm sorry," Arodal grinned. "I meant no offense to your past lover."

Keerla dumped the bucket over his head.

"I seem to have spilled it," she said, ignoring the man's stunned look, shoving the wooden bucket into his chest. "Go get me some more."

Dripping with water, and with a scowl that could light fire, Arodal stalked away.