Chapter One: Egghead

The breeze came and went, cold and damp, smelling of earth and greasewood.

"Rain's on the way," Olaia said. "Maybe snow."

Rana heaved his knapsack off his shoulders and sighed. "Gods, that last climb did me in."

"You did well," she said without looking at him, scanning the tree line at the base of the rise with a narrowed eye.

"What is it?" Rana followed her gaze.

Startled birds on the edge of earshot that afternoon. A small shower of earth from above as they'd descended the ridge. The absence of cricket song in the evening air. It might be nerves, but she didn't think they were alone.

"I don't know."

"Is that why you haven't put down your bow?"

Olaia nocked an arrow. "Let's not start a fire tonight."

…

It emerged when the moon set, a dark, single-minded silhouette.

…

Shit.

Olaia wasn't happy to be right this time. She'd scouted at least a dozen well-planned and uneventful supply runs on her own, and this of all runs had to be the sour one.

Now she had Rana to keep safe.

She stood and shot. Half a second later, an arrow buried itself in the gravel where her foot had just been.

"Run!"

…

It rained.

Rana stopped in a thicket of scruffy sage, hands on his knees. "Do you think we lost him?"

Olaia squinted down the rise. "We'll find out in a bit."

Two hours later, they saw him climbing the rise.

They ran.

And ran.

And ran.

The rain let up. Their pursuer did not. On the morning of the second day, Rana fell and could not rise.

"We can't keep running like this," he gasped.

Olaia hoisted Rana under the arms and dragged him as far as she could. "We…have…to."

When her arms gave out, she tucked him between the exposed roots of a twisted old juniper and crouched beside him, bow at the ready. She heard footsteps and fired into the thick morning mist.

"Stay back," she warned, "or you'll get an arrow in the eye!"

The footsteps didn't stop. An arrow whistled past Olaia's head and into Rana's eye.

…

He gave the trembling boy a merciful end and cleaned the blade on his kaftan.

The girl had run again.

He followed.

…

On the third day, Olaia nocked an arrow and waited, knowing she didn't have another run in her. Alone and far from home, she mustered her strength.

Run if you can, fight if you can't.

Hours passed. The sun dipped below the mountains, casting a ridged shadow across the hills like a dragon's back. She was tired, limbs shaking, wondering if she'd finally lost her pursuer when he emerged from the trees, not lost. He regarded her from the base of the rise as he coolly set his gear down.

Olaia watched him climb the ridge, waiting for him to come into bowshot. He rolled his shoulders as he neared.

Bowshot.

He lunged like he knew he'd just come within range. Her arrow pierced empty air. She didn't have time to nock another arrow before the man collided with her and knocked her bow out of her hand. She struck the ground and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder.

Gods, the man on top of her was huge.

They struggled, grunting and snarling with effort. He might be stronger, but he was overconfident. His grip on her only loosened for a second when she cracked her skull sharply against his. A second was all she needed.

She wrestled a foot loose and kicked. He grabbed at her, fingers groping, snatching at her clothes, but she slipped out of his grasp and rolled to her feet.

Olaia wasn't running away, she was running for her life, buying time for a plan, but he was so godsdamned fast. Fingertips grazed the back of her kaftan. She knew she wouldn't outrun him.

So she stopped.

Abruptly.

He slammed into her so hard they rolled down the ridge, limbs tangled painfully. His hand snarled in her hair, her palm crunched into his nose. Hot blood on her face, a knee in her stomach. The man pulled free, slowing his descent with an outstretched hand, disappearing in a cloud of dust as she hurtled toward—

A tree. Her teeth crashed together, her spine bent in a way it shouldn't. For a moment, nothing but darkness, then flat on her back, trees spinning around her.

Stunned, she flopped and gasped, tasting blood, struggling to get her limbs beneath her, struggling to even breathe.

He kicked her in the face. Once more he was on top of her, grinding her into the earth.

She hammered on his arm, tore her fingernails on his boiled-leather bracer, clawed at his face. Her heels scraped desperate divots in the gravel.

A shard of dying sunlight on his blade, then its edge against her throat.

She finally stopped struggling.

…

His quarry trembled beneath him, jugular pulsing beneath his blade. He could feel her heart pounding, feel the way she tensed like a wild animal waiting for one false move.

"Be still." His quiet warning broke days of silence.

If anything, she was too still. He turned her head with the edge of his knife and let out a soft laugh of disbelief.

There it was, that long, creased scar on her face. For ten years he'd chased a myth. Now, finally, the Wilding queen lay pinned beneath him.

…

He didn't have any hair, just a few days' worth of stubble. Scars and dead eyes like iron and steel. Blood ran down his chin.

She hoped his nose was broken.

"You're real."

"What?"

He scraped his knife point down her cheek. "The scar."

Gods damn it, the scar always gave her away. She wasn't called the One-Eyed Queen for nothing.

"Dantú," she groaned.

"Your dead gods won't save you, girl."

Sheathing his knife, he flipped her over, a butcher slinging a slab of meat. When she struggled, he ground a knee into her spine. She groaned.

"You don't give up," he said, not without respect.

"I would've died a long time ago if I did."

The man bound her wrists and pulled her to her feet.

Her legs nearly gave out. He held her upright. Once more, she was keenly aware of how big he was, with strength like the ground beneath her unsteady feet: immovable.

"Gods but you're a big one," she marveled, half impressed, half annoyed.

"No," he said matter-of-factly. "You're just small." Eyeing her, he added, "Smaller than in the stories."

"How tall are these stories making me out to be? We can't all be ten feet tall like you."

They descended. Her body trembled, a constant shiver now that the threat of imminent death had passed. She could taste blood. Her tongue throbbed, and her swollen lip, split by his boot, stung. Her back sent shocks of pain down her legs with each step.

She glanced at her captor. "So which one of those dirty Numairs sent you out here? The king? Or was it one of his brainboiled brothers?"

He said nothing.

"I was betrothed to one of them for half a second. The ugly one. Then he killed my brother and stormed the city, so…" Olaia trailed into an awkward silence that he didn't fill. "Well," she laughed mirthlessly, "the joke's on him. Now he has to live in the palace."

They exchanged a glance in the dark.

"You're not taking me there, are you?"

No answer.

"Will you at least tell me your name?"

Apparently not.

She looked at his hairless head. "Egghead it is then," she grumbled.

Egghead's supplies waited at the base of the rise. Shouldering his rucksack, he picked up his bow and hooked his quiver to his tasset. He guided her into a narrow ravine. About halfway down, he pointed her toward a shallow sandstone cave cut from the bedrock.

"It's going to rain, you know," she told him.

He glanced dubiously at the spray of stars above them.

"I mean it. The air's sticky, can't you tell?"

"Go." He pushed her forward.

She scrambled up into the cavern. "Water will flood this ravine. We'll drown. Or, if we're lucky, we'll be crushed by boulders."

An exasperated sigh from behind her. "Be silent, child."

"At least untie me!"

Egghead ignored her, laying down his rucksack, his bow. Then he left.

…

The firewood in the high desert was fragrant, like the royal cedars of Quriba. He found plenty in the ravine.

In the stillness, he heard the king's voice as clear as it had been in his study nearly a year ago.

—

"What the hell happened in Orif?"

"You'll have to be more specific, my king."

"Don't play the fool with me. You've heard the stories by now. That damned girl spirited your captain out of his own keep under the noses of fifty soldiers and traded him back for a king's ransom. Half the kingdom thinks she's a spirit and the other half thinks she's a demon."

"Those stories are exaggerated at best. She probably climbed—"

"I don't care what she climbed! The point is she outwitted you once again and now I can't go half an hour without hearing her name whispered behind my back."

The crown clatters across the desk. The king pinches the bridge of his nose. His voice drops dangerously low. "Bad enough she's escaped you for ten years. Now she makes fools of your soldiers and rallies more people to her cause by the day. Don't bother coming back without her. Until then, you're not my brother, you're an embarrassment."

—

The rebel queen still sat in the gaping mouth of the cavern, dozing against the wall when he returned. She hadn't run, clearly exhausted, biding her time if she was clever. He didn't disturb her as he climbed up and lit a fire, considering her curiously in the amber glow. Part of him had expected to discover her long dead, her reputation just a handful of wistful stories invented by rebel Wildings to give them a cause. The other part had expected to find a child, the twelve-year-old that evaded him ten years ago. Instead, this feral woman, spirited, resilient, and capable enough to make him bleed.

If she was real, were the stories true too? Was she the force of nature they made her out to be?

Goddess, his nose throbbed. He gingerly checked it and sucked air through his teeth. Broken. Very broken. Again, he glanced at his captive. She stared back at him, eerily alert.

The One-Eyed Queen had two eyes. But "The One-Good-Eyed Queen" was a mouthful. Her right eye was a soft, pretty hazel. The left, half hidden behind matted curls, glinted glassy blue in the firelight.

Hers was the mean, dirty face of a survivor, her body muscle and bone.

…

Soldier's gear. Now that she'd had a second look in the light, she recognized the cotton twill trousers and armored kaftan of a Numaian soldier, but he wasn't like any soldier she'd ever met. Big and fast usually meant no endurance, but he'd out-endured her. He was strong, resourceful, and smart enough to catch her.

For now. Running tonight would be a waste of precious strength, so she waited and observed.

Her gaze lingered on his bow, irregular, not military issue. The sturdy steel frame was too sharply curved for a longbow, too large to be a horse bow. A thick bowstring had been threaded twice through cams at each end and once more along the front of the bow.

That thing had put an arrow through Rana's eye.

Egghead silently dug through his rations. First, he heated water. He mixed some of it into a small bowl of flour and salt to make a wet dough that he stretched into two discs and laid on a hot rock. Wiping his knife clean, he weaved two strips of salt pork on it and set the blade over the fire.

How many strangers had she befriended over fires like this one?

The water boiled. He shook a modest amount of ground coffee from an oiled pouch. Its earthy aroma filled the cavern.

Olaia swallowed dryly. "You're sharing, right?"

"Turn."

He loosened her cords and beckoned her with a jerk of his head. She scooted closer to the fire, massaging the ache out of her wrists and rolling her shoulders.

She burned her fingers on the sizzling salt pork and her tender tongue on the flatbread, but the sharp pangs in her stomach quieted. She thought of the rations left at the camp she and Rana had abandoned in their haste. Wasteful.

"Here." Egghead offered her his cup, which he'd drained and refilled while she ate.

"It's going to keep me up all night." But she took the tin cup and drank, burning her tongue once more and swallowing more than a little grit.

"You'll sleep."

"If I do, it's only because, thanks to you, I've barely slept in three days."

"Now you can sleep."

"How generous of you."

"Done?"

She passed the cup back. He scoured cup and pot with a handful of sand and a drizzle of water, mindful of what he had left. Packing up, he reached into the depths of his rucksack and pulled out an orange.

…

She gasped audibly, eyes wide with disbelief. "Is that—?" She pointed a shaking finger at it. "Those only grow in the palace groves."

So, she remembered oranges. He silently cut it into quarters and offered her one. Reaching for it, she met his gaze and hesitated.

"Take it," he said. It felt like coaxing a wild animal nearer.

After a moment, she snatched it from his hand and sank her teeth into its flesh. Her eyes closed. Her head fell back.

Her smile caught him off-guard. It was wide and natural. She had a narrow gap between her front teeth, something he had never seen before. He wasn't quite sure how to describe that smile. He only knew that he liked it.

She sighed softly. "I haven't had one of these in ten years."

…

Juice dripped down her hands. Sweet and ripe, an orange was something to savor, but it was gone before she knew it. She rubbed her thumb on the spongy inside of the rind, inhaling deeply.

He watched her with those colorless eyes and held out the rest of the orange.

"You're sure?" An orange was probably a rare indulgence for him too.

"Take it."

She didn't need any more encouragement. As before, she finished it too quickly.

"Throw the rinds in the fire."

Olaia tossed them into the flames. They curled as they dried and ignited, filling the cave with a smoky, citrusy scent. The man inhaled deeply and smiled faintly.

She hugged her knees to her chest. A few days ago, she had rested at a fire much like the one she stared at now. Less fragrant, but warm. She'd shivered in the early breeze that smelled of ice and firechoke pine. Voices murmuring groggy greetings to each other, friends bickering while the fire boiled the first coffee of the day. A smile. Coffee stolen from soldiers much like the one that sat less than a pace away from her now.

The man who killed a friend yesterday.

He poured a small amount of water on a handkerchief and wiped the blood and dust from his face.

Wordlessly, he tossed the handkerchief to her. She didn't care that it was dirty. The cool, damp cloth soothed her scrapes. She held it to her face and inhaled shakily, trying to squeeze Rana and the past three days into a box for later, a box already too full. When she was sure she'd pushed the grief away for the time being, she handed the handkerchief back.

"That's a soldier's uniform," she said, just to say something.

Her eye traced his reinforced leather armor and the polished, symmetrical curves of steel plating painstakingly sewn into his kaftan. Usually, the gold embroidery on a soldier's collar indicated their rank, but his collar was plain.

"You don't fight like a foot soldier, and your armor's too well-fitted. That bow's not soldier's gear either."

Egghead regarded her coolly and didn't reply.

So?" she asked. "What are you? A bounty hunter?"

"No."

"Hm," Olaia grunted irritably. She gestured at the deep scars that made his skin look like the bark of a firechoke pine. "Well, whatever you are, you've obviously seen a lot of fighting." Rapping her head with her knuckles, she added, "Your egg's a little cracked."

Unfazed, Egghead traced his little finger down the left side of his face, imitating the scar that had taken half her sight. "What really happened to you?"

She smiled wryly. "Haven't you heard the stories?"

"I want to hear it from you."

Olaia sighed. Talking about old pain was easier than sitting with new pain. "The night the usurpers seized the palace, I woke to a sword above my head. The captain of the guard betrayed me." She showed him the furrowed scar on her forearm. "I caught part of his blade on my arm. My face caught the rest of it."

"And you lost your sight."

"No. I lost that a few weeks later, after the wound went foul."

"You were just a child."

"I'd hardly been queen for a week when it happened."

"How did you escape the palace?"

"I lost the captain in the passages the servants used, secret ones, and escaped through the catacombs. I ran until I couldn't."

"And other refugees took you in."

Olaia nodded. "We fled to the mountains."

"Do you remember much of the journey?"

"No."

Egghead regarded her quietly. When he spoke, it wasn't what she expected to hear. "Turn around."

He bound her wrists with the cord again, then leaned back against the cave wall, near the entrance. He folded his hands over his chest.

"Rest. We have a long road ahead."

"If the rain doesn't kill us first."

"Enough."

…

A slow drizzle.

She'd been right about the rain. He glanced at the girl. She slept, but restlessly, tossing and turning. Shivering, she stirred, shifting closer to the fire, letting it warm her back. He gazed at the scar on her forearm, the wound that had saved her life. There, the captain's blade had swept down on the child queen, who only knew to defend herself by twisting and throwing her arm over her face.

Twelve.

Her resilience baffled him. A half-broken child, betrayed by the man in charge of protecting her, running through dark, winding catacombs to escape the palace and the city. She wasn't more than a couple years past twenty now, still young enough to smile at the simple pleasure of an orange.

His nose ached, the rest of his body weary and sore from a grueling hunt. Three days it had taken him to catch her. Before that, ten years to find her. By the goddess, he was exhausted, but he didn't dare let himself rest, not with the rebel queen almost within arm's reach.

She was young, perhaps, but trouble just the same.

…

Rain howled furiously in Olaia's dreams. The ground rumbled. She faded in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. The fire had died to a few smoldering embers.

Rana rested in its faint glow. "It's nearly your watch," he said with a weary smile.

For a moment, she believed him, not sure why she suddenly shouted, "Move!"

Rana glanced over his shoulder.

A dark silhouette sat at the mouth of the cave, watching the spitting rain. A flicker of ember glow glinted off polished steel plating. Olaia's stomach dropped. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Too late, too late, too—

She cautiously opened her good eye.

Rana screamed at her, an arrow buried in his skull.

…

Her shout startled him.

He turned, her face the last thing he saw before the world crashed down.

Everything went dark. The embers sizzled out in a wash of debris and ankle-deep water.

Once the debris settled, he heard the girl struggle to her feet. "You should have listened to me."

He didn't respond, trapped beneath a crushing weight of rubble. It shifted as he strained. Several fist-sized rocks splashed around him.

"You're trapped, aren't you."

"Yes," he admitted.

…

Olaia shivered, thinking quickly. Water poured through the rubble, steadily getting deeper. She sloshed through it. Finding a wall, she followed it until she reached the pile of debris. She tested it with her shoulder, wincing when it woke the sharp pain from before. Rough stones, some the size of her head, others probably as big as Egghead, all cobbled slipshod together.

"I don't think I can dig through this alone."

"Come," Egghead told her, just a voice in the darkness. "I'll untie you."

"Aren't you worried I'll kill you?"

"You just said you can't dig yourself out on your own."

"You're more reasonable than I thought you'd be." She felt around with her foot. "Where are you?"

A hand closed around her ankle.

"Dantú!" She jumped. "Warn me!"

"Come." His hands groped for hers as she knelt, dragging her closer, his fingers prying at the cord.

"You really can't do this any faster?"

"The knots are tight."

Her bonds finally loosened. She rubbed her wrists and turned to him. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Yes."

"That's good at least." She felt around, finding his shoulder, following the curve of his back to the rubble that trapped him. "Feels like small debris. Can you help dig?"

He twisted. "A little."

"Careful. Let's try not to shake the boulders loose. Being crushed is a nasty way to go."

They dug. Twice, she heard a groan from above, debris raining down on them. Both times, she held her breath until the rubble stopped shifting.

"Gods, this is terrifying," she whispered, not expecting an answer.

"At least you can run."

She let out a surprised laugh. "Not far."

Olaia found it difficult to dislike her captor. Egghead was human, after all, and just as afraid of boulders hanging precariously over his head as anyone else.

"Wait." He stopped her. "I can move my legs."

"Take my hand."

He clasped her outstretched forearm in a bruising grip and pulled. Her shoulder popped painfully. Growling through the pain, she braced herself and grabbed with both hands, shoulder aching sharply as she tugged.

He broke free. She fell backward with a splash. Rocks fell, rubble shifted, but the bulk of it held. Olaia heard Egghead pat himself down, checking for injuries.

"Any broken bones? Gushing wounds?"

"No."

"Good. Then help me dig."

…

The crevice from which she'd pulled Egghead was their best chance at escape, but it was slow going. The water had receded at least, leaving behind a thick layer of clotted mud. They took turns digging in the narrow, shallow tunnel, cautiously testing each stone and moving those that weren't load-bearing.

Olaia's fingertips burned. The few fingernails that hadn't ripped free during her struggle on the ridge had liberated themselves on stones, buried somewhere in the wreckage.

"How did you find me, anyway?" she asked his feet. The rest of him had disappeared into the tunnel.

"I heard you'd been wintering in the hills," he called back. "I paid a trader very handsomely to find out where."

"Of course. Traders hear everything but don't have loyalty to one town. No consequences if they squeal."

"Exactly. How did you know there would be supplies in the old mountain keep?"

"I heard soldiers had stored—gods damn it, that was you, wasn't it?"

He grunted an affirmative. "The one surprise was you. I planned to follow your scouts back to your camp, but when I saw you, looking exactly the way they said you looked—"

"Except shorter, apparently."

He let out a pained grunt and backed out in a small shower of debris. "We're nearly through."

"Good. I'm about done with this place."

On her stomach, Olaia entered the tunnel, wriggling her hips and pulling herself forward by her fingertips. She tried not to think of the press of rocks and debris that hung heavy over her, feeling a large sandstone slab scrape against her back as she edged deeper.

"This boulder's as big as a horse!" she called over her shoulder.

She felt Egghead's hands tighten around her ankles. "I've got you."

Olaia knew he wouldn't be able to pull fast enough if the rocks above decided to give way, but it was comforting just the same. Once more, she found him more likeable than she wanted to admit.

She scraped around the edges of a rock the size of a melon, slowly working it loose. Light shone through, brighter than before. Olaia yelped when the stone suddenly came free, bringing a wall of debris down with it. The ground tore at her front as Egghead yanked her back.

"Stop!" she shouted, kicking at him and scrambling forward, squinting at the sunlight that streamed in as the debris fell away. "We're out!"

"Go then!" he replied, releasing her ankles. "Hurry!"

Olaia dragged herself through the tight opening as quickly as she could. No time to revel in her freedom yet. Just as she pulled herself out, she felt an ominous shiver run through the rubble.

The thought of leaving him behind didn't even cross her mind.

"Your turn!" She thrust a hand into the tunnel. Egghead grabbed her tightly by the wrist. Once more, she braced herself and tugged, crying out as pain in her shoulder flared. "Come on, come on!"

Rocks tumbled down the pile of debris. The sandstone slab gave way with a crack. Part of it fell, nearly crushing Egghead. The other piece caught on a waterlogged juniper stump, which creaked a warning. It wouldn't hold long.

"Don't stop!" she shouted at him, pulling with all her strength.

"I'm caught!" he groaned breathlessly.

"Wiggle yourself loose, you big ox! It's not going to hold!"

…

He squirmed and twisted, feeling the crush of stone bearing down on him, shifting and groaning. The girl gave one last yank.

He felt a plate of his armor tear loose, but he broke free, pulling his feet out just as the stump gave way. The slab collapsed with a tremor, hardly a hand's breadth from his toes. Before he could get his bearings, Olaia threw herself over him and heaved as hard as she could, rolling them both into an uprooted nettlebarb and out of the path of the debris that roared down the ravine in the wake of their escape.

Once again, he was impressed by her resourcefulness, surprised that she'd pulled him out of the rubble's path so quickly. Instinct, he thought, like she was used to saving people.

"You handled that well," he admitted with a breathless laugh, too aware of the sensation of her arms around him, the weight and warmth of her wiry body on top of him, her mouth easily within reach. Goddess, she may look like a half-starved wild thing with a broken face, but her smile in the sunlight was dazzling. If he were a more impulsive man, he might have kissed her in gratitude and taken just a taste of those lips. But he was not driven by impulse, and even as the idea took root in his mind, he'd lost his chance.

She picked herself up, limbs trembling, and let out a laugh of relief. "Saved your life." She said it like she was proud of it.

"You'd be free now if you hadn't."

She shrugged and began to pluck cactus spines out of her arm. "Like I said, nasty way to go. You could live for hours and slowly suffocate. Scavengers might pick at whatever's exposed before you're dead. Even you don't deserve that, Egghead." She sighed and added in a cheerier voice, "The least I can do is make sure you die the honest way—with a knife in your back."

"You can try," he said, amused that she'd threaten his life so soon after saving it.

"Don't suppose you'll return the favor and let me go."

"No."

"I thought not."

…

Most of his supplies were buried in the cave, the rest of them smashed. The loss of his bow hurt the most; it was valuable and would take several weeks to replace. He had his belt, his knife, and his steel and flint, but he scrounged through the rubble to see what else he could find.

…

Olaia kicked at rocks. "Think I found a waterskin."

He turned it over with mild approval. "Looks intact," he said, hanging it from his tasset.

"Your quiver's over here." She scraped mud from it with her sole and bent to retrieve it.

His knife hissed from its sheath. "Don't."

She threw her hands up. "I just want a look!"

"Back."

For a moment, she'd forgotten Egghead was her enemy. She kept doing that. A dangerous habit.

He lifted his quiver from the muck, eyes fixed on her.

"Well?"

His eyes flickered down. He shook his head. "Broken. No good without a bow anyway."

"Have you found any provisions yet?"

"No. I doubt we will."

"Let me have a look at those arrows."

He silently sized her up.

"Is this because of what I said about knives? Do you really think I could do anything to you with half an arrow?"

Egghead's flat smile was too cold for her liking, but he offered her the quiver. "Try anything and I'll break your legs."

"Have fun carrying me to wherever you're taking me."

"Don't tempt me, child."

Even broken, the arrows were solid, thick, far too heavy for even the longest of longbows. She plucked one from the quiver. Broken in half, the arrow was still as long as her forearm.

"You need a lot of force to get one of these going." She tested the point, broad and razor sharp. Like the one that killed Rana.

She swallowed the thought and pushed Rana back into the box, asking a question instead. "How much distance do you really get with these? Twenty paces? No, not even that."

"It'll take down a lion at sixty."

"At sixty paces, I'm running for the nearest tree and hoping the lion doesn't follow."

To her surprise, he let out a short laugh. "You'd be too gamey for a lion."

She narrowed her eyes at him, considered it, and shrugged. "You're probably right. Come on. There's a stream not far from here."

"You know the hills well."

"I've lived here half my life."

Olaia trekked down the ravine. Her captor followed slightly behind, surprisingly surefooted over the debris that had washed down the already unstable slope.

"You're nimble for an ox," she said. "Noisy though."

"You're the one who won't stop talking, child."

"I'm twenty-two. Hardly a child."

He scoffed. "I have battle scars older than you."

"What, from when you were ten?"

A breeze shivered through a thicket of tall cottonbrush trees at the bottom of the ravine. Olaia inhaled their sweet scent and let out a sigh.

"Do you smell that?" she asked. "That's the smell of water."

She led Egghead through the thicket and down to a small stream, scrabbling down the steep bank and examining the water.

"It's clear," she said. "Good."

They drank and washed the mud from their faces.

"You should look for firewood. Cottonbrushes aren't good fuel, but they'll do in a pinch."

"You won't run," he told her more than asked her.

"Yes, fine. Let's work on getting food. Then I'll see about running."

"Sensible."

"You don't survive the mountains without picking up a little sense."

He searched for wood nearby, while she turned and waded into the stream. Her foot slipped on a slick stone. She held her breath, wobbling in waist-deep water. "Don't drown yourself, Lala."

She watched and waited, arrow in hand. A silver flash. She jabbed. Nothing. She inhaled deeply.

"Patience."

A few more stabs and she still hadn't caught anything by the time Egghead returned and started a fire. She could feel his eyes on her, not doubting, not skeptical. Just curious.

A sunstripe trout darted between her legs. She tracked it with her eye. It stopped in a deep eddy by the bank. She turned her torso, keeping her feet firmly planted as she carefully judged the distance between the trout and the surface.

She struck. This time, she pulled the speared trout out of the water with a triumphant shout.

"It's a fat one. Good eating," she said, picking her way unsteadily back to the bank.

Egghead offered her a hand up, lifting her onto steadier ground.

Olaia slowly roasted the fish on the end of the arrow, trying not to burn the fatty layer just under the skin. That one fish might be their only meal of the day. More fat would keep the hunger at bay.

"You haven't told me where we're going."

"My men are camped in the valley."

"That's another half-day's travel. We might not make it before dark."

"Not if you take all day with that fish."

"It's almost done."

When the skin had crisped, Olaia divided the fish into two messy halves, giving one to Egghead and picking apart the other.

"It would be better with salt and roasted winter root," she said through a mouthful.

"We won't be walking on empty stomachs. That's good enough." He wolfed down the last of his fish, wiped his hands on his trousers, and rose. "Come."

Standing, Olaia flaked the last bit of meat from the bones and popped it in her mouth, sucking the grease from her fingers. Egghead put out the fire and tore a strip from the bottom of his kaftan.

"Turn."

She sighed loudly and turned. She didn't think she could outrun him. Better to conserve her energy for later.

He bound her wrists, tugging to make sure the binding was tight enough.

"Don't pull. My shoulder hurts enough already."

"Don't whine or I'll make it hurt more."

"After all I've done for you…"

…

They walked. Fortunately, the path led downhill. They stopped by another small stream at midafternoon, sitting in the shade of two scrawny firechoke pines. Egghead drank from the waterskin then poured the rest into her open mouth.

"You're not going to untie me?"

"Not this time." The man crouched by the stream and filled the waterskin.

"Have you been to the capital recently?"

Silence.

"Has it changed? What's it like now?"

"Crowded."

She groaned irritably. "That's it? Dantú, but you're a chatty one."

"I haven't seen the capital in nearly a year, if you must know, but it's probably still as loud and dirty as always."

"Gods, what's got all your prickles up?"

"Swear by your dead gods all you like, but the old temples are rubble now. We only worship the true goddess."

"That's right. Egghead thinks I'm a savage and a heathen."

He sighed and stood, pulling her to her feet. Her shoulder protested.

"You may be a heathen, girl, but you saved my life today."

…

He saw the orange glow of the fires first, just after dusk, the light guiding them through the desert scrub. An unexpected weight sank in his chest. His grueling, year-long journey in the mountains was over, his task nearly complete. But he glanced at the young woman who walked beside him, features masked in mud, and felt a twinge of regret, knowing the inevitable outcome of her capture. Despite everything, he didn't dislike her. She'd saved his life. If she were anyone else, he might—

He pushed that uncomfortable feeling aside as they approached the camp. He immediately recognized Javus, quiet and disciplined, and redheaded Atrea, nearly his match with a sword. Nearly.

"Who's there?" Javus called, readying his spear.

"I have the Wilding queen," he replied, dragging her with him into the light.

Javus and Atrea saluted smartly. "Welcome back, sir."

…

Sir? Olaia regarded her captor with newfound interest. What sort of commander wandered into the mountains alone to chase Wildings? What sort of commander didn't flaunt his rank with all the gold embroidery his collar could hold?

"So you're a soldier after all," she noted. "I liked Egghead better."

The commander pointedly ignored her, pushing her toward one of the sentries, a redheaded woman. "Take her to my tent. Let her wash." Turning to the other, he asked, "Where's Suske?"

"Probably still at the Mess. What happened to your nose?"

"She did." He nodded at Olaia. "Watch yourselves. She's scrappier than she looks."

"High praise coming from you, Egghead."

The sentries exchanged a glance. Their commander simply stalked off without another word.

Redhead took her by the arm. "Let's go."

Soldiers, gathered in twos and threes around their fires, stared with curiosity as Redhead pulled Olaia through the camp.

Redhead beckoned two soldiers. "Take her to the commander's tent. He wants her washed. I have to get back to my post; she's your responsibility now."

The soldiers looked at each other and back at Olaia, perplexed. One had a scar along the side of her head, the other sleek dark hair and a snub nose.

"Olaia," she greeted them. "I'd shake your hands, but…"

"You're the Wilding queen," said Head Scar.

"Yes, well done. Where to?"

They led her to the commander's tent, an unremarkable canvas shelter like all the others, and pushed her inside. Snub Nose lit a lantern with his flint and steel. Olaia saw a bedroll in one corner and a large sandstone slab in the other. A map had been unrolled over the stone, held in place by two long swords laid over the edges. Snub Nose took the swords and the map and left.

Her bath wasn't really a bath. When Snub Nose returned, he placed a shallow bowl of water, a well-used ball of lye soap, and a bundle of borrowed clothes on the stone.

Untying her, he asked, "Are you really the Wilding queen?"

"As far as I know," she replied, shaking out her wrists.

"Huh." He looked her up and down with his dark eyes. "I thought you'd be…taller."

"Why do people always say that?"

…

"Did wild dogs drag you here?" Suske greeted the commander with a soldier's handshake, forearms clasped in a firm grip.

"A wild something." He took the cup from Suske's hand and drank. Grimacing, he handed it back. "Why drink tea when coffee exists?"

"If you don't like it, don't drink out of my cup." Suske clapped him on the shoulder. "Goddess, you really do look terrible. What happened?"

"I caught her."

"The Wilding queen? Your brothers will be pleased."

"After that ordeal, they'd better be. She's been calling me Egghead all day."

Suske laughed. "Does she know who you are yet?"

"No, and I'm hoping she doesn't figure it out until she's behind bars."

…

The large cotton tunic nearly swallowed her, and the knee-length braies went well past her knees. These were someone else's underclothes, and they didn't smell very fresh. Still, they were dry and comfortable. Olaia collapsed on the commander's bedroll and closed her eyes.

Something clattered at her feet. She jolted awake, wondering at what point she'd dozed off.

"Eat," said Egghead, nodding at the tin plate he'd dropped in front of her.

She sat up with a groan, inspecting the thick stew, pushing it around with her spoon. Tasting it, she frowned. "It's overseasoned," she said through a mouthful.

The commander glanced at her. "If you're not hungry—"

"I'm eating it, aren't I?"

He didn't respond, leaning on the sandstone slab as he pulled off his boots. The rest of his clothes followed. He glanced into the bowl and began to wash himself with the water that remained.

She stared.

His back: a wide wall of muscle crossed by pale scars, some old and white, others still pink, maybe a few months old at most. His arms were thicker than her thighs and his thighs could be mistaken for tree trunks. Olaia tried not to stare, or at least keep her eyes above—

…

He noticed the scraping of her spoon get quiet. Glancing at her, he saw those wide, mismatched eyes for a split second before she looked away. It was dim and he'd only gotten a glimpse of her face, but…was she blushing?

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had blushed in his presence.

…

"You have a lot of scars, Egghead," she said, pretending she'd been noticing those instead of what hung between his legs.

He dried himself and pulled on a set of underclothes like hers. His actually fit. "If you're done, give your plate to one of the guards and have them bind your wrists."

"I'm getting really tired of this," she said as she rose.

Head Scar tied her hands in front of her, tighter than Egghead ever had.

"My hands will be blue by morning."

"Take it up with the commander."

Inside again, Olaia found him already prone on the bedroll. "So… I sleep on the rock?"

"No. You'll sleep here with me, so I know where you are." He rolled onto his side, making room for her.

"Oh good, you saved me a sliver of bedroll."

He lay closest to the tent wall so Olaia couldn't try to slip out beneath. As soon as she was down, back turned to him, he shifted and threw an arm around her, his grip gentle but tight.

"Dantú, but you're a furnace."

"You'll be grateful for it in the morning."

She knew she would be, but she was also far too aware of his body behind her, his warmth, the astringent smell of lye. She hadn't lain in a man's arms like this before. It might be nice, she thought, if he wasn't her enemy.

…

Exhausted, he forced himself to remain alert as he felt her slowly settle and finally sleep. He could have tied her to a post, left her by a fire with guards on watch all night, but he doubted that even his handpicked vanguard could hold onto this wild woman so full of cleverness and anarchy. He would keep her close for the next two days until he delivered her to the king for judgment.

In the meantime, he couldn't help but notice how well she fit in his embrace.