Manuel turns around and I have to blink at the sight of him. Sweat drips from his brow, and his arms are corded with muscle. He towers over me, grim and silent, appraising me not as his sovereign, but as a weakness he’ll have to compensate for.
“I can defend myself,” I say.
His gaze drops to my slim hands, the blisters gone, the skin soft once more. I drag them behind my back. Embarrassment sweeps across my cheeks.
He swears under his breath.
“I’ll keep up.” I lift my chin, pride demanding it of me, even as the blood rushes to my face. “Try not to worry.”
“This is the height of stupidity,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“It’s not that bad of an idea.”
“You’re right. It’s the worst.”
“Then how else will I help my people, Manuel? Hmm? How else will I take back the throne? I don’t have an army. Do you want to help me, or don’t you? Don’t you want to avenge your mother and sister?”
He flinches. “Try to understand something for me, por favor: Above all else, my mother would have wanted you to survive. Aside from securing allies, I had one other job. And that was to watch over you. Make sure no harm came to you inside the Illustrian keep.”
“Who would have hurt me?”
“Hundreds of Illustrian refugees, hungry and near starving? Desperate and bored? Without your title, you were just a girl among hundreds. Anything could have happened to you.”
Memories of the few moments we were alone together resurface. I thought he just enjoyed my company. Thought of me as a friend. “All those years … I was just a job to you?”
His brow rises. “What else would you be?”
I shrug, my cheeks flaming. Again, the memory of our kiss sweeps all other thoughts from my mind. He’s completely forgotten. “It doesn’t matter. We should keep going.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Follow close behind me. We must always stay together. Don’t touch or lean on anything. Don’t wander away, even if you have to relieve yourself. Not every predator can be seen or anticipated. Do not talk until I say it’s safe. I need to listen to the jungle. Understand?”
I nod and try to keep my face neutral, because his tone isn’t one I’m used to, especially coming from him. He’s always been respectful, but now he’s erected a careful barrier between us, reminding me that I’m his sovereign and the only thing I should be thinking about is acquiring an army.
He whips around and plunges into the mat of trees and hanging vines as thick as his arm. I stumble forward and through the tiny path forged, my gaze trained on the strong lines of his back. He’s uneasy; I can see it in every one of his movements, the hard press of his feet on the tangled mess of leaves, the downward motion of his hand as he cuts into the face of the jungle, thick with heat and the scent of mildew and rotting mushrooms. We are enveloped by the various shades of greens and browns under our feet and over our heads. There’s no sunlight under the canopy, only the chronic gloom cast by the broad palms and tangled branches. More vines unspool at my feet. I carefully step around or over each one, minding for a snake—or worse.
This is the same way we’d gone two days earlier, but the path has already been swallowed by the ravenous jungle. By now, the trail leading out of this place is long gone as well. He must know that. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. The trickling sound of water comes softly at first, but with every step closer, the noise transforms into a gentle roar.
Manuel stops at the tree line, looking from one end to the other and back again. His machete is an extension of his arm. Every few minutes he looks back to see if I’m still trudging along in his footsteps, or to check if I’m hurt. I scramble down the bank and for once we walk alongside each other, toward the cliff I thought I’d left behind.
My expression sours. More climbing.
“That won’t be the worst of it,” he says, and then he quickens his step until we are at the base of the cliff. It’s nothing like the wall we climbed, with me on his back and the howling wind tousling my hair. But it’s still steep. The boulders are jagged and large, emitting a sweet smell. “Step where I step.”
I’m not used to following orders. Not used to being looked at as if I were a burden, an annoying nuisance. Back home, I’d been a favorite. Everyone’s friend, the person they turned to for a listening ear or encouragement. While in public, I was free to be myself, but even then I knew that no one could order me around.
Manuel lifts his foot high, hooking it between the rocks, and hauls himself up. I follow, surveying his technique, where he places his hands and feet. We’re halfway up when the distinct sound of thunder rumbles overhead. Seconds later raindrops plop onto the rocks, splattering and dripping down the craggy surface. The rain is relentless, a steady pattering that infiltrates every line and curve of my body. If I ever make it out of here, I’m going to stand in the sun for an eternity, I swear it.
Manuel reaches the top first and then bends to help me up the rest of the way. I consider ignoring his offered hand, but my legs and arms are shaking too much. I reach up, and he clasps my palm, his callouses rubbing against my skin. As soon as I’m upright, he lets me go, then he yanks out his machete and slices a way through. I follow close behind, his dutiful shadow, until we arrive at the pit he found me in.
The jaguar has been picked clean; all that remains are chewed-up bones half hidden by thick twigs and branches. Manuel studies the area and places a light hand on the log I’d climbed over. “You came from the direction of the cliff.”
My breath comes out in pants. “But I was moving toward it at first. Trying to get away. I didn’t run far.”
He takes this in and then heads away from the pit. Once again I follow him. He stops every so often to examine crushed leaves still attached to their stems, overturned twigs, and any tracks on the ground. We’re at it for what feels like hours, without a word spoken between us. It finally stops raining, but then the heat is stifling. I sip hot gulps of air while birds chatter close by, only stopping to listen for the sounds of an approaching predator.
I can’t take the silence or my growing thirst. All I can picture is a frosty glass of water, something I’ll never have in here.
“Manuel,” I whisper. “I need water.”
He glances at me from where he’s crouching, examining a nondescript patch of jungle floor that looks exactly the same as all the rest. In fact, I think it is the same as all the rest. “Yo también.”
“Don’t you carry any?”
“There’s plenty if you know where to look.” He stands and surveys the area for a long moment. He points with his machete. “This way.”
I trail behind him, the familiar thwacking noise of his machete ever present, like my own heartbeat. Manuel leads us into a swampy grove where bamboo shoots up from the ground, towering above us, over double his height. The bamboo shoots are perfectly segmented and parallel to one another. He hacks off a piece exactly at the joint, two segments high, and then grabs a leaf, proceeding to wipe down the bamboo from top to bottom and all the way around.
He hands the heavy column to me. “Some bamboo can irritate skin. Safer to wipe it down with something.”