“What if he’s unfit to rule? He is Rajah Tarek’s son.”
“Not every son is destined to become his father.”
Deven drops his pleading gaze and glowers at his boots. His distrust of the prince is unlike him. He believed serving the rajah was his fate, but that changed when we planned to run away . . . the act that led to his accusation of treason.
Gods, does Deven blame me for Tarek stripping away his military command? I cannot handle yet another toppled fate on my conscience.
Deven’s gentle voice breaks our silence. “I’m worried for your safety.”
I step closer and run my fingers up his neck. I feather the silky locks beneath his turban, trying to remember the last time we kissed. “We’re so close to freedom.” My entreaty sounds like a desperate prayer, but my optimism swells within him through his softening mouth and loosening shoulders.
“All right,” he says finally.
I squeeze Deven nearer in thanks, and his arms come around me. I inhale his calming sandalwood scent, masked slightly by the campfire smoke, and soak in his sweet warmth. As I burrow into his cozy arms, the frown line between his brows eases and his dark eyes soften. For an idyllic moment, the strain between us lifts away.
The brother and sister Galers rejoin us by the fire. “We, ah, couldn’t help but overhear you’ve made a decision,” Rohan says.
Deven lets me go and threads his fingers through mine. We step back into the firelight.
“We’re going to meet the prince,” I say.
“How about we go right now?” Opal suggests.
“Why?” Natesa challenges. “Will you be paid upon our delivery?”
“We aren’t being paid,” Rohan says. “The rebels are on their way.”
Deven drops my hand and stalks to the cliff’s edge. A storm gathers in the distance.
Brac glares at the Galers. “You were followed?”
“We thought we lost them,” says Rohan, ducking his head in chagrin.
My skin tingles with the first ominous stirrings of wind blowing through camp. No one need give the command; we all rush to pack up at once.
“Rohan and I can each carry up to four additional people on our flyers,” Opal says.
Stronger drafts battle us, building one powerful strand at a time. Across the valley, a wind tunnel careens our way, throwing a curtain of dirt and heaving silver lightning bolts. Thunderclaps roll across the grassland valley. The camels squawk in alarm and kneel, hunkering down for the storm.