Fugitive's Vow (Assassins of Landria Book 3) by Gail Z. Martin

Author:Gail Z. Martin [Martin, Gail Z.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency
Published: 2020-12-29T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Rett groaned, rolled over, and lost the meager contents of his stomach. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he felt like he was burning from the inside.

No one responded to the noise, and Rett fell back, exhausted.

It registered that he lay on a cot instead of the cold stone floor and that he had managed to retch over the side of the bed. Maybe his almost-death had worried his captors, if they dragged a rickety cot into his cell. Only one ankle was manacled—an improvement of sorts. He felt too weak to get out of bed, let alone make a run for it.

His memories were a jumbled mess, even before Doctor had nearly killed him with whatever magicked paste had been smeared onto his skin.

He struggled to determine whether the snatches he recalled were dreams, memories, visions, or hallucinations. All felt vivid, but they weren’t equally real.

Does it matter? I’m going to die here.

Rett glanced toward the corner of the cell. Edvard sat with his knees drawn up, watching him worriedly. “It’s alright,” Rett said quietly enough so that the guards wouldn’t wonder. “You don’t have to stay all the way over there.”

Edvard unfolded himself but didn’t come closer. The longer Rett was awake, the more the blur of memories sorted themselves, although he wasn’t sure he could trust his senses or his recollections.

I remember being beaten. Rett recalled Duke’s anger and the sound of the other man’s fist connecting with his face and body, the snap of bone, and the slap of flesh. Rett’s tongue slipped over his lips and tasted dried blood. He felt bruised all over, and one eye was swollen partway shut.

And yet, as he gingerly tried to move his limbs and shift his torso, nothing seemed broken. He had been certain that had been the case. He hurt all over, but while he hadn’t been completely healed, it didn’t hurt to breathe.

They’ve probably healed me just enough to keep me from dying, so they can have another go at me.

Rett stared at the stone ceiling, trying to sort facts from imagination. He’d grant that Edvard was real. The ghost seemed to expect Rett to hear him, and since he couldn’t, Rett chalked that up to his injuries and whatever potions Doctor gave him to keep him drugged.

He remembered flashes of red, a man’s scream, and the sound of a matchlock firing. Two men dressed in heralds’ uniforms fell from their horses and lay still, eyes staring. Their frightened mounts galloped off.

Vision, he thought, since Rett felt reasonably certain he hadn’t witnessed the shooting himself.

He remembered being overtaken with smoke and dust, hearing men screaming as flames rose in the wreckage. Chunks of stone pelted him. The king’s body lay within reach, head caved in from a large piece of the ceiling.

Memory, Rett thought. That was real.

Rett saw himself running across rooftops with Ridge just a few steps behind, carrying a child. They leaped from roof to roof to escape pursuers, something they had done a hundred times.

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