ChapterTwo
Ahumid summer night wraps around me in a thick blanket of darkness as we leave the small tent and head toward the center of the camp, where a roaring fire lights our way. The flames lick greedily at the warm air as my captor guides me down a long pathway where tall square-shaped tents line both sides—enough to contain at least five hundred warriors.
My steps falter at that realization. I’m in a camp full of Bloodstone barbarians. The warriors on night patrol are the only men moving around the camp. They wear the same type of armor as the man who took me. That combination of leather and mail. Yet, I don’t need to set eyes on all the warriors to know how precarious this is—my being here.
The first prickle of fear needles into my skin. It wasn’t there when the man took me from the alehouse and forced me onto the back of his horse. Nor was it there when we rode until the moon gave way to the sun.
As Olah is my witness, I must show my worth. That is the only way my kidnapper will allow me to live. I glance at him, taking in the determined jaw. Those haunted, sad eyes.
A tall warrior wearing a combination of mail and leather armor straightens at the front of the largest tent in the center of the encampment. Thick black battle marks slash below his intense blue eyes and under his bottom lip. If not for his dark beard, I’m sure he’d have more paint on him. I shudder at the thought. The imagery of him ready for war with his face smudged in death.
Another night rears into my thoughts like an angry nightmare, blinding my vision in intense images. The Bloodstone warriors racing into my village. The way their black battle marks slashed across their harsh features. The way they brutally swung their weapons. The way they plucked lives the way others pluck weeds. Nobody meant anything to them.
I swallow and shove the memories into the farthest crevices of my mind, locking it there with all my other painful memories. Like losing Aniah.
A sharp pang pierces my chest as I allow thoughts of my younger sister for a breath before shoving it away too.
It’s not the time for such memories. Not here. Not among the Bloodstone.
“What have you done, Luc?” the tall warrior asks, his voice strained and his dialect as crude as the man holding on to me.
The Bloodstone talk faster than Kyanites, as if they must rush through everything they say.
“What I had to do.” The man’s grip on my arm strengthens. I resist the urge to wince or to grunt my objection. “Now, make way.”
“Luc.” Amber shadows weave over the warrior’s disapproving features. “She doesn’t belong here.”
“She’s a Kyanite healer, Gabriel.”
The warrior turns his angry blue eyes on me, slashing them over me in displeasure. “Precisely. She’s aKyanite. Her magic cannot be trusted.”
“What choice do I have? What other solution? I have tried everything.” Desperation fuels my captor, this Luc’s words.
The man steps closer to Luc and lowers his voice a fraction. “I am close to finding the stone.”
What stone?
Surely, he doesn’t mean bloodstone.
Forty summers ago, the gods cursed the Bloodstone tribe, taking all their magic and their ability to obtain even a pebble-sized stone. Without their bloodstone, they cannot call on their gifts, and without it, the rest of us are safe from their darkness.
Luc’s jaw clenches. “Leah doesn’t have time.”
Something flickers behind the disapproving warrior’s stare. Maybe the first hint of compassion. “Use the Kyanite’s magic,” he says, his tone brittle, “then before the light of the sun, send her away.”
No!
They cannot send me away. I have waited ten summers for this moment. Besides, this is the closest I have ever gotten to the Bloodstone tribe.
Luc offers a curt nod. “So be it.”
Without another word, the warrior moves aside, allowing us access to the tent. Luc steps through, bringing me with him into the well-lit interior. Beds line the walls of the room. Shelves and a large, well-crafted washing stand mark the center. Their furniture isn’t shabby like I expected, nor is it ornate. Father would call it comfortable.
Father.
My chest aches as I recall sneaking away from our home in the middle of the night. It has been four summers. Four summers of wondering if he thinks about me.
A bed near the far wall catches my attention. Rather, the woman lying on the mattress catches my attention. Her chest rises and falls in labored breaths. Long brown lashes flutter against her cheeks. A sweaty sheen coats her skin.
