Page 82 of Her Cruel Redemption

A shiver of awe ran through me, but I had to quickly pack that away before either of them could see or feel it. I didn’t need them knowing about thethrillof wielding that kind of magic, the way it had consumed me out there. ‘I hear the fact that I am is owed somewhat to you,’ I said, wanting to steer the subject away from the plea to give up the magic I was sure was coming. ‘Thanks for finding me and bringing me here.’

For some reason, this comment made her look a little shifty. She moved her violet eyes to examining a spot on the tent canvas, expression carefully blank. ‘You’re welcome.’

I’d been unconscious for several hours, as it turned out. It was late in the evening, and beyond the tent fires burned as soldiers drank away the day’s sorrows and losses. Mae answered what questions she could about the outcome of the battle, confirming all who had travelled from the Living Valley with us were alive, that Gwinellyn was unharmed, as was King Esario, and both were locked in a strategy meeting plotting their next move. She left after that, muttering something about going to get me something else to eat. Daethie made me swear I wouldn’t eat whatever she brought me until I’d been able to keep the bread down for half an hour, then went off to tend to some of the other wounded.

I was relieved when they left me alone because I needed time with my thoughts. I lay in bed with my head spinning, processing all that had happened. Mae was right; my abilities were terrifying. Astonishing and impossible and wonderful and terrifying. If I could wield magic like that in every battle, if I could control it, I could turn the tide of the entire war. The diplomats and powerful men of Oceatold and Brimordia would crawl over each other to have me as their ally. There’d be no more admonishments to keep from using magic; I’d become an integral piece of battle strategy. Their greatest weapon.

The thought made me feel sick again. I hadn’t fought so all those scheming old men would respect me. I didn’t want to be a weapon wielded by kings. Aether help the idiot who tried it. I turned my mind instead to those moments on the battlefield right before the magic had overcome me, when I’d come face-to-face with Draven. When I’d challenged him to take my mind and he’d refused. When he’d warned me that I was pushing myself too far.

And then he’d left me lying in the mud for Mae to find.

Whywouldn’t he just fight me? I was sure he wanted to. I could almost taste the suppressed fury radiating from him on that battlefield, all that barely restrained violence he seemed perfectly happy to unleash on everyone else. He had no problem manipulating the emotions of an entire front line to send half an army so mad with fear they turned and fled, but I stood before him literally demanding that he strike out at me and what did I get? Him offering to get down and beg for mercy before I’d even started to earn his pleas. Was he just so uncommonly clever at reading me that he knew exactly which reaction would throw me into the most confusion and went straight for that? And what about his pride? Was he really so willing to sacrifice it just to remain unpredictable?

I wanted tohurthim.

I wanted to hurt him until he would fight me the way I needed him to. Until he would let mehatehim the way I needed to. Until he would give up tormenting me with hints of what I might have had if he had been anything less than a total fucking monster who’d sacrificed me to meet his own selfish ends.

I wanted him to finally admit that the feelings that consumed me when he was near were the direct result of him manipulating me with magic. How much would I have to hurt him to achieve that? How much would we have to ruin one another before I would finally be vindicated of my part in this destructive game between us?

Someone brought me food. Not Mae, though. Some prepubescent boy who couldn’t look me in the eye and scampered back out of the tent so fast that he almost tripped over his own feet. I supposed I’d earned a new mantle of scary after my display on the battlefield. It was a little satisfying to be feared and I wolfed down the food with a grim smile haunting my mouth. When I was done eating, my stomach felt far better, but my whole body was still gripped with a jittery, fluttery feeling. It was like being a little feverish, a little ill, maybe a little hungover. I tried to push away thoughts of magic’s toxicity and the warnings of what its continued use would do to me as I dragged myself out of my bed. I had to steady myself against one of the tent poles until I got my balance, but then I strapped on my belt and sheafed a set of throwing knives like it was any other day. After that I was striding out the entrance and into the night beyond.

I felt strangely restless, and I needed distraction from the nest of thoughts turning over and over each other, so I found one of the fires where several men were perched on logs and passing bottles back and forth. They shrank low as I approached. I sat at the end of one of their logs, staring into the flames for a few moments as they all gaped at me.

‘Can I have some of that?’ I finally asked, directing the question to the one with the bottle. He had a neatly cropped beard streaked with rusty colour and a face creased with middle age and weather. He looked to his companions for guidance, and when none was forthcoming he nodded and passed the bottle over. I took a long swig, filling my mouth and throat with enough burn to cut the threads on my more terrible thoughts. When I pulled the bottle away from my mouth, I couldn’t help coughing. The stuff was noxious.

‘Not the like you’d be used to drinking in a palace, eh?’ the man said as I handed him back the bottle.

‘A palace, no. But not the worst I’ve ever tasted either.’

‘Oh, ey? I bet you’ve drunk in some interesting places.’ I didn’t miss the knowing glance exchanged with the man next to him.

‘I’d wager I’ve spent more hours in a tavern than you,’ I said bluntly, staring him dead in the face. The surprise in his expression was satisfying. Well, unless he’d been stuffing his ears with tallow and living in a hole in the ground, there was no way he wouldn’t have heard stories about me. Perhaps the surprise was merely at hearing me admit to them. Wordlessly, he handed the bottle back.

The soldiers relaxed as the bottle emptied, and when the liquor was gone they produced another. It was easy company to fall into. Familiar company. I told them some of the lewd jokes patrons of the Winking Nymph had enjoyed and they were generous with their laughter and in passing their bottles to me. In this way, I earned my mouthfuls. It was a pleasant enough way to pass an hour, numbing some of the tumult that would hit me as soon as I returned to my tent.

But after a particularly raucous story told by one of the men about a cow, a saddle and too much drink, one of others was fool enough to say, ‘I’d like to have seen you riding that thing into battle this morning,’ and after a few chuckles, we fell into a silence too full of room for thoughts to return to the bloody scenes of hours before.

One of the men across the fire stood, stretching. ‘Well, gents, I’m off to renew my faith in life before it’s tested again tomorrow.’

I raised my eyebrows as he withdrew from the fire, and the bearded man who’d first passed me the bottle chuckled.

‘He means he’s off to visit a whore,’ he said. He took a deep swig, his throat moving as he swallowed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. ‘There’ll be a lot of busy ladies tonight. Men always want a warm body to cling to after a day like today.’

Two of our other companions stood, mumbling their goodbyes, perhaps reminded that there were other pleasures to be found beyond this campfire and off to seek them.

‘So,’ the bearded man continued, turning to me. ‘Quite the light show you put on earlier.’

The comment drained all the joviality from me, reminding me of the huge divide between me and my companions. The divide between me and everyone, really. With the buzz of the drink softening my sharper edges, the ache of loneliness was harder to mask. Seemed a good sign to leave. I stood. ‘Thank you for the drink,’ I said. My words were a little fuzzy around the edges. I should have known better than to drink soldier’s swill. It was clearly very strong.

I left the fire and headed for the trees to find somewhere to empty my bladder before I returned to the tent. When I was done, I dawdled along, the sounds of the camp fading behind me as I drew further away, hoping the cool night air would clear my head. The trees broke to form a clearing and I stared up at the sky. It was a clear night for once, without Oceatold’s near constant cloud cover, and the stars were icy pinpricks against the black above. The storm seemed to have left behind a chilly calm. A sense crawled over me, something that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The sense that I wasn’t alone, though I’d heard nothing to suggest it. I touched the scabbard of one of my throwing knives but didn’t draw it. Had one of the soldiers followed me out?

A hand clamped over my mouth.

Fear and rage roared to life inside me, burning through my veins. Magic rose to meet it, hot and potent, rushing to my hands in readiness for release. Howdaresomeone grab me. Didn’t they know who I was? What I could do?

‘You hesitated,’ a voice murmured in my ear. Dark. Whiskey and treacle.Familiar. A body at my back, an arm around my waist. The shock of recognition trembled through me, waking every nerve. ‘Hesitation is a good way to wind up dead. Especially now that you’ve painted yourself as such a bright, crackling target.’

I grabbed onto the hand over my mouth, took a mouthful of flesh and bit down. Draven hissed, flinching away just enough for me to turn on him, plant my hands on his chest and push. He was caught off guard, lost his balance, staggered a few steps back. The alcohol buzzing in my head made me slow. Imprecise. I had to catch my own balance, flinging my hand against a tree, steadying myself as my heart pounded hard enough to shake the earth.

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