His gaze went to her face, eyes wild, and then down to his arm wedged in her lap.
At the sight of the needle sticking out of his skin, his gaze snapped to hers again.
“You're sewing me up.” His voice was a dirty rasp.
She nodded.
He gave a slow blink, a lowering and raising of his eyelids, and then he relaxed.
“I thought you were going to run,” he said, lying back against the blanket.
“Is that so?” she murmured as she worked the needle.
“Yes.” He closed his eyes, but his body remained tense.
“You were wrong.”
“You were going to, though.” His murmur was as low as her own. “What changed your mind?”
She shot him a look of incredulity, but his eyes were still shut.
“Maybe I still will.”
He gave a grunt at that. “You could do worse than wait for me to recover my strength. I've a good sword arm.” He winced as she pulled on the thread.
“You must have, to be down here.” Herron and his generals wouldn't bother singling out just anyone. There was something special about this one.
“It's more than my fighting skills they don't like.” His speech was choppy as he held and released his breath with the in and out of her needle.
“Who are you then? Some warlord threat?”
He was silent, and she looked up to check he hadn't passed out again, to find his bright eyes on her.
She blew out a breath. “You are?”
“I fought in the warlord's army, that's true.” He kept his gaze steady, but something in his eyes, some shadow, told her he was lying.
She lowered her gaze, going back to her careful movement of the needle. “Oh?”
“They think I have a higher rank than I do.” He kept his voice level.
She relaxed a little. She could understand lying about his rank. He wanted them to think he was lower down than he was, and she respected that.
Respected that he wouldn't tell her. She was a stranger, after all. For all he knew she could use the information against him to help herself.
“What rank do they think you are?” she asked, keeping her gaze down, on her work.
She hummed softly as she did. Humming always made a difference, her grandmother had told her. And it seemed . . . right.
“They think I'm the Turncoat King.” He said it in a way that he thought she would understand what he meant.
She looked up, frowning. “Who is the Turncoat King?”
He looked at her in shock, and she almost laughed out loud.
Oh, you are the Turncoat King, all right. And you can't believe I haven't heard of you.
“A warlord,” he said at last.
“I'm assuming the Herald or his lackeys came up with such an unflattering name as the Turncoat King.” She was on the last stitch, and she caught her lip between her teeth as she tightened the thread and began to tie it off.
“You would be right.”
“What do his own people call this warlord?” she asked. She looked up at him, holding his gaze to distract him.
He hesitated, and that told her he was uncomfortable with his people's name for him, more so than the one Herron was using against him.
“They . . . we . . . call him the Commander.” He suddenly looked down at his arm, and she did, too.
She had done a neat job. Almost impossibly neat.
He frowned, and then relaxed back again, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She tilted her head, staring critically at her work. She just wished she had scissors, so she could snip off and save the leftover thread hanging from the end knot. There wasn't much of it, but it was something.
Silk was difficult to snap off, and it would hurt him to try.
She let the idea go. The thread was lost to her now.
She had rubbed it against a sharp edge of stone on the wall when she’d embroidered the poison protection into her neckline, but short of dragging Luc across the room to it, that wasn’t an option.
“Where is your Commander from?” She dipped a torn strip of sheet into the water and dabbed away the blood her needle had made, then began to bandage the cut up, more to hide the stitches than because it needed to be wrapped.
“You really haven't heard of him?” Luc asked.
She shook her head. “I've been here a long time.”
“Why?” He lifted his arm to help her as she wound the bandage around it.
“I heard something someone didn't want me to hear.” That was the truth, in a way.
But she didn't feel compelled to be more honest with him, when he was lying to her.
“You're Kassian?”
“My father was. My mother's people are from Grimwalt.”
He was silent and she wondered if it was because of the reputation of the Grimwaldians.
They were fey.
Some of them, anyway.
Some of them, like her.
But she had managed to hide it for a long time, and she could hide it again.
She rose up, backing away from him, and turned to the table with its plate of bread, cheese and a wrinkled apple from the summer crop.
First, she poured him some more water, remembering the way he tried to get every last drop earlier.
He took the cup from her, his gaze never leaving her face. “Grimwalt has shut its border.”
She raised her brows. “I hadn't heard that.”
“They cannot think their fate isn't tied up with the rest of the region. Who will they trade with, how will they prosper?” He drank the water, slower this time.
Ava gave a low chuckle. “You know who they will trade with, and as for prosper? We do not care for riches in Grimwalt. Prosperity is measured in peace and tranquility, not gold.” She took the cup back, filled it again.
“You first,” he said.
She hesitated, then nodded. She would have to be strong, able to run, when she escaped, with or without him.
Although she knew it would be with him.
She'd made her choice, even though she wished she had enough hardness in her to leave him behind.
He watched her drink, and then took the cup from her when she filled it again. “What is the plan?”
“The plan?” She kept her voice light as she turned away and began to tear the bread in half.
“To escape.” His voice was less raspy now that he'd drunk more water, and he had turned on his side, propping himself up on an elbow.
He looked better than he had when they'd dragged him in. She'd cleaned off most of the blood and his eyes were brighter now he'd drunk the water.
“The guards think you'll harm me. They're hoping for it.” She said it calmly, but the reaction in him was instant.
He looked at the door, face and body still. “Why are they hoping for it?”
“Because they want to claim my death as an accident. They've tried to poison me, but I don't think the food Banyon brought us now is dangerous. He says they want you alive, so we're safe to eat this.” She walked over to him and lowered herself in a smooth motion, sitting beside him, legs crossed. She set the plate between them and took up her half of the bread. “I was going to have to escape today, you see, because I haven't been able to eat for a few days already.”
He hesitated, but she motioned to him with her hand and he took the bread, broke off a piece of cheese and bit into it with strong white teeth.