Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [51]
And what then?
I didn’t doubt that the Great Khan would sooner kill Bao than allow him to rescue me. Skilled as he was, Bao couldn’t take on all the Khan’s men; and he surely couldn’t outride them. It would be best to be patient. There was a key to these chains. All I needed was a chance to steal it, and a minute or two to undo my shackles.
I raised my hands in surrender, chains dangling from my wrists. “No trouble.”
The Vralian nodded. “Good.” He pointed at the floor of the cart. “Today, hide.”
Forcing myself to be compliant, I lay down. They pulled the tarpaulin back in place, lashing it securely.
Hours passed, long, stifling hours filled with fear, nausea, and tedium. Every hour took me farther away from Bao, farther away from freedom, farther away from the hope that my destiny was calling me home.
What in the name of all the gods did the Vralians want with me?
Never in my life had I felt more alone, miserable, and helpless. At least in the face of the storm that had nearly killed me, I’d been too busy trying to survive to even know what I was feeling.
Although I tried not to, I wept.
My only comfort was the spark of my diadh-anam, alive and flickering inside me, a promise that the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had not forgotten me. I was Her child. These cursed chains could bind Her gifts, but they could not kill Her divine spark within me. In the suffocating darkness beneath the tarpaulin, I prayed to Her; and I prayed to Naamah and Anael, who were my D’Angeline patron gods. Although I could not sense their presence, I prayed they had not forgotten me, either.
At last, the interminable cart-ride came to an end. The Vralians unhitched their horses, hobbled them, and turned them loose to graze, then untied the tarpaulin once more. With a strange, reluctant solicitousness, they helped me clamber out of the cart.
It wasn’t easy.
In the early-evening light, I got a better look at the shackles that bound me. They were etched with sigils and inscriptions in a strange alphabet. The cuffs around my wrists were linked to the circlet around my neck by chains long enough that they didn’t restrict the movement of my arms overmuch. That wasn’t their purpose. The chain that linked the shackles around my ankles was another matter. It was short enough that I was forced to adopt a halting, mincing gait.
Clearly, running away was not an option.
In case the matter was in doubt, one of the Vralians—the one who spoke a bit of the Tatar language—produced yet another chain, looping it around the front axle of the cart, and lacing it through the chain on my left arm. Averting his gaze, he put down a pallet of furs for me, indicating that I could take shelter beneath the wagon.
“You’re too kind,” I muttered.
Deeming me safely secured, he studied me with deep-set eyes. “God wills this.”
Already, I was perishing sick of his bedamned god; but I had the sense to hold my tongue. The other fellow set about erecting a tent well beyond the reach of my tether, which I was sorry to see. They had not been overtly cruel to me thus far, but what kindness they had shown me, chaining me like a dog, I misliked.
I was scared and alone, and if they had given me the opportunity to bash in their heads with a rock while they slept, I would have taken it.
They didn’t.
Instead, they kindled a careful fire of dried dung-chips, heating a pot of water filled with strips of dried meat and root vegetables. They knelt in prayer before they ladled out servings, murmuring in sonorous tones.
The second fellow brought me a steaming bowl of stew and a spoon. Far from it though I felt, I resolved to try being pleasant.
“Thank you.” I accepted the bowl, my chains rattling as I reached for it. I took a deep sniff, miming pleasure, then smiled at