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Even though the words made sense, a bone jarring fear overwhelmed me. “No,” I whispered, the words raw in my throat as I backed away.

I waited for him to pounce, to throw me to the ground and flay my skin from my body. But he did none of those things. A stillness came over him and sensations rushed around me, the drum-like beat of my heart, the cold mud between my toes, the warmth of the cloak against my legs, the faint stink of water.

A low sound came from Methrin’s throat. He rushed at the boat, straining, groaning as he pushed it back into the water and flipped it. The oar splashed out of it and snapped in half, bobbing awkwardly.

Methrin swept past me, snatching up the bag and cloak and marched into the waist-high bulrushes. Iremained on the shore, staring at the boat, one thought loud in my mind.

I’d said no and he hadn’t forced me to obey him.

I touched my throat, remembering the power of his fingers squeezing as he leaped out of the mirror. Wasn’t he wicked? Didn’t he have terrible magic? Why, then, hadn’t he imposed his will on me? Puzzled, I turned to follow him before the mist swallowed him whole.

The sun rose. Golden rays of sunlight revealing lush rolling hills, thick bulrushes that grew on the slopes of the riverbank and stunted trees with bare branches, despite the waters that fed them. Away from the river the land opened into flat pastures with willowy sage colored grass, sparse groves of trees and a range of mountains in the distance. The air carried a honeyed scent and my stomach growled, longing for sweet cakes, sticky figs, and ripe grapes.

Methrin walked with an even gait, slow enough for me to keep up without becoming winded. He’d put on his cloak again, the hood pulled over his head, making him appear like nothing more than a shrouded nightmare. It annoyed me that he never looked back, not even once to ensure I was obediently following him. The idea of running tugged at me but I cast it aside, my exhausted mind too tired to formulate a plan.

Part of me found it a relief not to worry, simply put one foot in front of the other, to do as I was told as I did in the palace. Aside from insignificant defiance I was quiet, obedient, and the recent events left me too stunned to figure out how to fend for myself. All I knew was that I needed to put as much distance as possiblebetween myself and the Venators. Although a whisper of disquiet went through me.

The Venators were hunters, they frequently left the palace and traveled the kingdom, seeking those with magic. Methrin’s warning about them finding us made me feel guilty. I shifted my dress to my shoulder. It had dried long ago and I meant to wear it beneath my cloak, but the opportunity to dress hadn’t presented itself. Instead I put one foot in front of the other, dried mud crumbling between my toes, my tongue swelling with thirst.

Mid-morning, Methrin stopped near a grove of trees and sat down his mysterious bag. Rummaging inside it, he pulled out a water skin, took a long drink and passed it to me. I drank deeply, unconcerned about saving any for later. My morning walks through the palace gardens were never this strenuous.

Leaving the bag on the ground, Methrin walked underneath the shady boughs. “Do you know where we are?”

“No, I’ve never been here before,” I admitted.

Since he wasn’t looking at me I took the opportunity to study him. He moved with a feline grace, stalking among the trees like a predator. His movements unsettled me, or perhaps it was the awareness that I was woefully outmatched. Should I attempt to run he’d be on me in a moment, just like he had in the hall of mirrors.

Methrin lifted his arm and plucked a green fruit from the tree. He smelled it then tossed it to me. “We are in the farmlands west of the palace, many of thecrops that feed the kingdom are grown here. Or, at least they were when I was here. We are traveling to the river which we’ll follow north to the Boundary.”

He plucked another fruit and took a bite.

As I lifted the half ripe fruit to my lips, my gaze dropped to his bag. Would it hurt him if I tossed the fruit at his head, snatched the bag and ran? The river was a landmark that would be easy to follow, it split through the kingdom and I didn’t want to go anywhere near the Boundary, to the haunt of monsters.

Methrin picked up the bag and stepped closer to me. His height made me tilt my head back, and a warmth I dared not explain went through me. He placed a hand on the tree above my head and leaned closer, a roughness to his tone. “What are you thinking, Princess?”

I frowned. “Don’t call me princess.”

His eyebrows arched as he stepped past me. “Come, we have a long way to go.”

Questions rose. How did he know how to navigate this land? How many days would it take to reach the river, and then, after that, the Boundary? Those questions died on my lips and I followed, aware I should put up a fight or at least challenge him. It’s only what my father would have done. Instead I took another bite of the sour fruit.

The hours dragged by as we walked. For the first time, hunger pangs gnawed at my belly and a dull pain built behind my eyes. Occasionally I stole glances at Methrin, but I was too stubborn to beg for rest or food. I stayed silent, kept my mouth shut and plodded on, one foot in front of the other until I was dizzy andexhausted, no longer sure what I was doing anymore. It occurred to me that there were many who felt this way, lost, destitute, hungry, thirsty, during the regime of the Wicked Prince. Did he feel it? The pain of hunger, the bone-numbing soreness from travel, the desperate itch of thirst in his throat and the relentless heat of the sun sucking the marrow of life from every bone?

“We rest here,” Methrin said, tossing down his bag.

I staggered against the rough bark of a tree, almost weeping with relief as I sank to the ground. It was cold under the boughs, the early spring yet to warm the ground, but I didn’t care. My feet were raw and would be blistered in the morning, and my chest hurt, making it difficult to take a full breath. Was this life on the run?

“Eat,” Methrin said.

Something dropped into my lap, and I picked up a pouch-shaped plant and started to peel it. I’d read about foraging yet had never done it myself. The vegetable was bland, tasteless, but had an almost meaty texture to it. It eased the pain in my belly but left a sour aftertaste on my tongue.

When I looked up, Methrin was tying a hammock between two trees. One solitary hammock. My heart sank. So I was to sleep on the cold, hard ground. No better than the boat, perhaps worse.

Daylight faded as he handed me what looked like a pillow, a place to rest my head. Instead of gratefulness, I only felt the sting of jealousy as Methrin climbed into the hammock, swaying gently off the ground.

Self-pity overwhelmed me.

Hugging the pillow to my chest, I leaned my headagainst a tree and let silent tears flow. How much worse could it get? I was tainted by Mirror Magic, unprepared for my escape from the palace, the roughness of travel. My soul yearned to return to the ease of palace life, but return meant death. The hard eyes of the Captain of the Venators flashed before me, a reminder I had nowhere to turn aside from the hands of my enemy. The Wicked Prince of Mirrors.