Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,61

cut through every layer around me, slicing straight through.

The weather held for seven days, but now it’s broken into a million powerful pieces, sending shards raining down from the sky.

Outside, the storm seethes like a warning.

I’ll realize too late that I should’ve heeded it.

Chapter Twenty-One

The storm rages and rages.

Not like the Gale Widow blowing with the wail of her despair, but a scorned woman, raining down a frozen hell of vengeance, just as Sail predicted.

Three long days and even longer nights. Hail and snow and then a horrible downpour of rain that comes in biting rivulets, soaking our entire encampment, freezing wherever it lands.

Everyone, even good-natured Sail, is miserable. I think poor Crisp is even ready to revolt. The fire keeps going out too, no matter how many wooden lean-tos the guards build, trying to keep the wind and wet away.

They finally have to hack up one of the tent tarps and tie it tight between the trees high up to keep the pouring rain from falling directly onto the flames. It’s good for shelter, not so good for the men who have to bunk up in increasingly cramped sleeping conditions.

No one can hunt, and there aren’t any animals out in this weather anyway, which means all we have to eat is the dried meat and nuts. Nothing hot, nothing fresh, aside from the boiled water of endless melted snow. Everyone mostly just stays inside their tents, bored, cold, and cross, cursing at an indifferent sky.

Until finally, on the fourth day, the storm breaks.

I wake up to the sound of fire-crackling flame instead of wind or hail or rain. Peeking out of my tent for the first time in hours, I find that the muddy sludge is gone, and in its place is a new foot of snow glittering in the gray, waning light. Flakes fall gently from the sky in a lazy, peaceful dance.

“Thank Divine.”

Judging by the position of the sun, I’d say there’s only about an hour or so left of daylight.

I glance around, noting that most of the men are either out scouting or dealing with the still stuck carriages, while the rest are sharpening their weapons or eating. But I can tell that the mood is no longer bleak, several of the guards good-naturedly ribbing each other and talking with relaxed faces.

Most of them are used to me now that we’ve been traveling for days on end together, but I still get curious looks and stolen glances now and then. However, none of them attempt to talk to me or come near me, aside from Digby and Sail. Either Midas warned them off or Digby did. Probably both.

I clean myself up in my tent, waiting for nightfall, knowing that we’ll be getting back on the road as quickly as we can break camp.

I wash out of a water pitcher, with a cold, damp rag. Traveling isn’t glamorous, and I sorely miss the things I’ve gotten spoiled by like my bed, my pillows, my bath.

Just thinking about soaking in hot water makes me want to groan. Instead, I have to settle for this hurried rag-wash, going as quickly as I can with goose bumps pebbling over my skin, teeth chattering.

It takes some grit to force myself to pour the pitcher over my hair, and I nearly squeal at just how cold it is, but I manage to keep it in and scrub my scalp and strands hastily before my fingertips go numb.

I dress with my skin still slightly damp, using my ribbons to help re-braid my hair before they wrap around me, another layer to help insulate.

Just as I yank on my fleece-lined leggings beneath my heavy gown, a tray of food is shoved into my tent—probably Digby making sure I eat before we get back on the road.

I grab the tray and sit on my bedroll, dragging my furs over my lap while I eat. There’s an entire leg of roasted meat, and even though it doesn’t have any spices or seasoning, I devour it in seconds. It’s blessedly hot and fresh, leaps and bounds better than that chewy, dried stuff I’ve been choking down.

When I’ve eaten everything off the plate short of licking it, I help pack up the tent, rolling my furs, putting away my clothes in the trunk, dimming the lantern.

By the time I step out of my tent, the camp has already been broken down, the men suiting up in their armor and shoveling snow over the banked fire. The horses have