“Isn’t she newly married?” Paxton had asked.
“Oh,jes. And she would slice off your fingers if you tried to return her advances. Zaleek only likes to play.” Zandora had winked.
Seas almighty, these Zandalee women. In truth, though,he appreciated them. And he was glad for the distraction of their company. The last thing he needed was to be left alone with his thoughts.
By midday the sun was glaring, and the moisture of the air was overpowering. He sorely missed the cool breezes of Lochlanach. It was early winter there. He’d be able to see his breath in the morning air while hunting. . . .
Paxton shook the thought away.
They trudged for hours, chewing venison jerky from Paxton’s stores, the only respite coming when the three Zandalee would raise their voices in a tribal song, harmonizing and keeping the beat with one hand smacking their thighs. Their voices rang like jewels, vibrant and clear. Paxton let it soothe him as the sun lowered, another day gone.
As they pushed through a mass of leaves as large as two hand spans, Paxton heard a distant noise and stopped, holding up a fist. The Zandalee halted their horses, and the four of them surveyed the area.
Muted voices sounded from ahead. The youngest Zandalee pointed upward at a thin plume of smoke rising in the hazy sky above the trees.
“We are not far from the Zorfina border now,” Zandora whispered, her brow furrowed in suspicion. “I do not know of any Kalorian tribes near Rainiard after the slaughters.”
“This is Lake Rainiard?” Paxton asked. His grandmother’s words about the rumors of safety for Lashed at Lake Rainiard came rushing back to him. A place of freedom thatmay or may not have been a myth. “What slaughters?”
“It is said that the last act of King Kalieno before he became ill was to have all the inhabitants surrounding Rainiard killed. He wished to silence the rumors of Lashed safe havens in his kingdom once and for all.”
“Deep seas,” Paxton muttered, his chest tight.
The middle sister, Zula, whispered something in Zorfinan and Zandora nodded. “Tribes always have scouts placed along the borders of their territories, but there are none here.” Her eyes grazed the trees.
“Perhaps these are only travelers,” Paxton guessed. “Gypsies. We can go around them.”
Zandora shook her head. “I am bored. Let us approach. Perhaps we can find someone to fight.”
A breath of laughter huffed quietly out of Paxton’s nose as he shouldered his pack and bow. In truth, a fight with strangers didn’t sound like a bad idea to him either.
They approached the clearing and watched from behind the trees. Paxton counted seven people milling about, ranging from a young girl to two middle-aged men. They were doing everything from cooking and scrubbing laundry to playing cards of some sort. Two of the men had the smooth, shaved heads of Torestans and olive skin. Their garments were threadbare. Three horses were tied under a thatched stall of sorts. Definitely travelers from afar.
A structure stood nearby, two stories high with a watchtower of sorts on a third level. The rock and mud masonry appeared beaten, chunks missing and broken, as if the buildinghad been through a war. Beyond the structure was a wide lake, so still the surface reflected the grayish sky. Near the people were three tents propped open.
“I’ll approach first,” Paxton offered. He touched his bow and felt for the arrows in his quiver before stepping out of the trees. The moment he entered the clearing all eyes snapped to him. All three men and two lads jumped to their feet. A sudden zap of something in the air buzzed warmly across Paxton’s skin.
They were Lashed, like him. He could feel their energy. He slowly raised the palms of his hands to show peace and began walking forward again. One of the men grabbed a wooden club and the other reached for a bow. Paxton turned his hands around to show his nails. His heart was pounding as he got close enough for the people to see the purple lines that ran through the middle and bottoms of his nails—lashed marks from when he’d started fires for warmth and to cook food, and to heal his brother. The people seemed to relax a fraction, but they didn’t move.
“My name is Paxton Seabolt, and I’m traveling through with my three companions to the drylands of Zorfina. We mean no harm.” He couldn’t help but look toward the hands of the men, thrilling to see purple lines on two of them as well.
“You sound Lochlan,” the older of the men said with distrust. His Euronan was choppy. Torestans were known for not speaking Euronan, just as most Lochlans did not speak Torestan.
“I am . . . formerly Lochlan,” Paxton said, “but no longer.”
“Because you are Lashed?” The shorter man ran a hand over his smooth head.
Paxton nodded, feeling that pit of loss stir deep within him.
The travelers had all come forward now, and their eyes grew wide as they looked past Paxton. The Zandalee had entered the clearing on their horses.
“They are friends of the Lashed,” Paxton explained. “Women of the Zandalee tribe.”
The travelers all gasped and stared, whispering. The warrior women were a sight in their fitted black leathers with black head scarves, their blue eyes bright against dark skin. As the Zandalee approached and dismounted, Paxton introduced them.
“This is their leader, Zandora; her middle sister, Zula; and the youngest sister, Zaleek. The younger two only speak Zorfinan.”
The huntresses eyed the people and their camp in full before nodding. Zandora seemed disappointed that nobody wanted to fight.
