Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I close my eyes, hugging my knees against my chest. I wish I could say that I do it to keep myself warm, but the real reason is that I’m clutching onto me, trying to keep myself together.

The moment Commander Rip stepped onto that pirate ship and into my life, my world tilted on its axis. Every time we interact, that axis dips just a little bit more.

Rip is smart. These little talks between us are meant to throw me off. He’s manipulating me, trying to turn me against Midas.

I know what he’s doing, and yet, I can’t stop the doubt he’s casting. Like shadows over the ground, it will spread and grow unless I block it out.

Right now, I’m jumbled. Torn. A mess of thoughts and emotions, of doubts and complications. This is probably exactly what Rip wants, and I’m playing right into his hands by letting my mind spin in agonizing circles.

I sit for a few minutes more, just until I can finally inhale without my breath shaking. Just until I can give myself a pep talk to remind myself to stay on guard and not let my walls drop.

Above me, the snow begins to fall harder, the flakes as thick as fingernails scratching across a starless sky.

Casting one more look across the gathered soldiers, I crawl out of my hideaway spot. I tug my coat close around me, burying my hands under my arms. My ribs ache a little, and my cheek still feels a bit swollen, but the cold is good for one thing at least, because for the most part, I’m numb.

But then again, maybe that has nothing to do with the cold.

I walk away from the bonfire, knowing the general direction of where the carriage is, knowing the tent won’t be far off. All I want to do is crawl into my pallet and sleep, but I can’t. Not yet.

I need to always remember who I’m with. I need to stay on track and not let Rip get under my skin.

I let my feet follow my eyes as a new determination fills me.

The tents I pass by are like a patchwork of leather sewn into the snow, every footstep a stitch. I walk past the gathered horses, their breaths huffing out like smoke, noses nuzzling into bales of hay. There’s a launder tent not far off, where soldiers are scrubbing soiled clothes and brushing black wax over scuffed boots.

No one bothers me aside from a few lingering glances, but I keep my eyes averted. My face is cold even with my hood pulled up, the snow already beginning to pile onto the top of the tents, soaking into the fabric and making the scent of wet leather fill the air.

I’ve found that some smells are strings tied around memories. When you catch certain scents, those strings pull taut. Like a boat being brought to dock, forced to float in the sentiment. Unfortunately for me, wet leather does not moor me with a nice memory.

Wet leather. Not dampened by snow, but by the saliva on my tongue, soaking up my taste and voice. Strips torn from Divine knows what. I was too afraid to spit it out.

Is that memory going to merge with what’s happening now? Wet leather changing from the gag to the cloying scent of Fourth’s tents saturated with snow?

My thoughts swirl and fall.

My king loves me.

Indeed. Loves you so much he keeps you in a cage.

A deep frown pulls my eyebrows together, but I banish Rip’s echoing words.

His aim is to drive a wedge between Midas and me, so I can’t for a second believe he truly just wants to talk. He’s a strategist. An enemy strategist, trying to trick me into switching sides, trying to loosen my tongue.

Which is why I need to find that messenger hawk. I need to find it, send a warning to Midas, and then Rip will know how solid my loyalty is. No matter how respectful and conversational he pretends to be, I have to remember the truth.

“He’s an arrogant, devious bastard,” I mutter beneath my breath.

“Sure hope you’re not talking about me, my lady.”

I whip my head to the left, finding Hojat turned in profile. He’s looking down, stirring a pot of something over a small campfire. The scarred part of his face looks a deeper pink tonight, like the cold is bothering the contorted skin.

No one else is around to share his fire, but as soon as I get a whiff of whatever he’s cooking, I understand why.

I hold my hand over my nose and mouth before I start gagging. “Great Divine, what is that?”

He doesn’t even look up from mixing. “Wormwood, bishopwort, cattle cartilage, and a few other odds and ends.”

My nose wrinkles. “It smells…” I stop short when he looks over at me. “Umm...it smells pungent,” I finish, barely stopping myself from saying what I really mean. Awful. Disgusting. Completely rancid.