Songbird's Cage

Chapter 24

Four days had passed slowly, every moment laced with dread and edged with fear. Lark's feet were blistered from walking, her legs stiff and aching, her wrists chaffed from the rope wound around them.

Four days had passed while she watched Rory fade in and out of consciousness and delirium. At Bastion's orders, a small supply wagon had been partially emptied for her crippled guard. They had bound her to the cart like a dog on a lead, and in Rory's sparse lucid moments, they allowed her to tend to him while the company continued to move. The days were much longer now; the soldiers no longer erected tents at dusk, sleeping beneath the cold stars instead, giving them several more hours to walk. They left her bound to the wagon during the night with only a thin blanket, so she slept against Rory, against the heat of his skin as his fever burned within him. What came to her at night wasn't sleep; with her body and mind pushed to the point of exhaustion, she would recite prayers until she sank into a blackness like unconsciousness.

That night was no different. Her hunger pains quieted by the small piece of bread they'd given her, she curled against Rory's side after changing his bandage and rubbing yarrow into the wound. Her hands were stained from his blood. He hadn't woken that day. Lark's lips formed a silent prayer to the true gods, the only familiar thing she had left in the land of the heathens that surrounded her.

"Start walking, Highness."

Lark opened her eyes. She hardly recognized who spoke her titles anymore. No one used her name. She was an object to them, a means to an end. To the Weald, she had no name.

She rose to her knees. Her wrists were burning from the friction of the rope. Weak from hunger and unsure of when she had fallen asleep, she crawled off the end of the wagon. After a half-week of starvation and walking without rest, her stiff, aching legs buckled when the movement of the cart forced her forward. Falling hard to her knees, Lark let her eyes close. She was too tired to feel the pain, too tired to rise. A voice growled her title, but it felt warm and far away, like the pleasant hum of cicadas in the summer sun. The relief of being able to rest, to simply lie in the cool dirt and take one breath after another overcame her.

Lark heard Arodal's voice. Hatred burned inside her chest, but she couldn't rise. Pain was knifing through her legs. The film of tepid darkness behind her eyes seemed to settle heavily upon her.

Arms slid beneath her, lifting her upwards. Their hold was gentle, and she knew it wasn't Arodal. Willing the last of her energy towards looking up, Lark found Bastion's blurred face above her. She was slumped against his chest, able to feel his heartbeat through his ribs. His was steady and calm while hers raced within her from fatigue.

His face went out of focus, and a strange rushing sensation moved from her chest to her head. As she let her breath escape, she spiraled into the murky depths of her mind.

There was ragged breathing beside her. Lark opened her eyes to Rory. She was next to him in the wagon. Her head pounding, she pushed herself upright, dizzy and weak. Her hands were still bound. They had stopped moving.

Bastion was crouched over her dying guard, his hair loose, his sleeves rolled up, blood streaked across his forearms. There was a jar of something at his feet, and he reached into it, scraping out a wet, green poultice that he then packed into Rory's wound.

"What happened to the healer?" Lark asked softly. Bastion looked over at her in mild surprise, but said nothing about her waking.

"Keerla?" he questioned. She nodded. Bastion pressed his lips together, and she could sense his irritation.

"She decided that she no longer agreed with my orders or the treatment of my captives," he said. "She believes that all Esarians should be afforded the same treatment as murderers, that they deserve nothing more than death."