The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(13)

“Good.” He sighed and resheathed the dagger at his belt. “Means I don’t have to hurt him.” He turned back to Odd Eyes—Hafgan—and said, “Bring her up on deck. Unscathed.”

He pushed past Hafgan and stalked toward the ladder. “Now, Hafgan.”

I scrambled in the semi-darkness for my boots, but they were gone. Stolen while I slept. None of the other slaves would look at me as Hafgan muttered darkly, unfastening the chain attached to my collar and yanking me roughly to my feet. Up on deck and blinking in the watery sunlight, I could see off in the distance the white chalk cliffs—sacred to the goddess, guardians of the Isle of the Mighty—soaring above the breaking surf. I had never seen the shores of my home from so far out on the sea before. The sight of the cliffs diminishing as the sails billowed in the wind and the ship gathered speed made me want to weep.

Hafgan prodded me forward across the deck toward the canvas tent near the stern. He reached out in front of me and slapped aside the flap. I squared my shoulders and cast a black glare at him before I ducked my head and stepped into the interior. The slave master sat in a low backless chair in the middle of the tent, watching me with a frown. He was younger than I’d thought, perhaps only in his mid-to-late twenties. But his full, neatly trimmed beard and rich garments—and the cool look in his eyes—made him seem older. He carried himself with an air of authority and must have been utterly ruthless to have achieved an elevated station among his gang of brutes at such a young age.

He had my sheepskin travel roll resting across his knees, and I swallowed against the knot of fear in my throat as he dismissed Hafgan with a cursory wave. The silence that followed stretched out between us as he regarded me wordlessly. Eventually, he seemed to come to some kind of decision about me. His lip twitched, and he looked down at his loosely clasped hands.

“They call me Charon,” he said finally. “I’m from Macedonia. I don’t expect you would know—or care—where that is.”

I shrugged. He was right. I didn’t know where Macedonia was, but it sounded very far away.

“And who are you?” he asked.

I hesitated, surprised. Were slave traders always so curious about their property?

Charon’s eyes flicked back up to my face. “What’s your name?”

Perhaps, I thought, if I told him who I really was he would ransom me back to my father. But the stirring of hope in my heart was extinguished with my next thought.

Why would he believe you?

There was absolutely nothing I could do to prove my identity short of demanding they turn the ship around and go knocking at the doorpost of my father’s great hall to ask if he’d been missing any wayward daughters of late. And if—say, by the capricious will of the goddess—that actually happened?

In running away, I had no doubt humiliated Virico, and I was certain Aeddan’s snake-tongue had already poured poison lies into his ears. My father would probably just give me back to Aeddan and be done with it. He’d made it plain in his feast hall last night that he didn’t really care what happened to me. I watched Charon warily as he reached for my sleeping roll and unfurled it with a sharp tug. My few possessions spilled out across the deck between us, and my sword dropped to the planking with a dull clank. I stared at its decorated bronze and doe-skin sheath, a twist of longing tightening in my chest.

“Where did you get that?” Charon waved a hand at the blade. “Did you steal it?”

“I didn’t steal it!” I glared at him. “I’m not a thief like you.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “And what is it I’ve stolen, exactly?” he asked.

“Me.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the ship’s hold, where the other slaves were chained. “Them. We don’t belong to you.”

“And who do you belong to, little slave?” His dark eyes glinted.

Again, I closed my mouth, still unsure of whether or not to reveal my identity. The sword rested inches from my toes, and my fingers itched to reach for the weapon, but I knew that would only get me killed.

Charon stood and crossed the space between us, reaching for the blade himself. He pulled it free of the scabbard, and his thumb swept back and forth over the markings engraved on the blade, just below the hilt. The beauty of its clean, lethal lines still took my breath away. That sword, and the destiny it represented, meant more to me than anything. The design was a knotted triple raven—the mark of the Morrigan—and I remembered with stark clarity the day Sorcha had taken me to the blacksmith. I had perched on a high stool in the firelit forge and witnessed, for the first time, the birthing of a blade.

Sorcha had left the sword behind, hanging on the wall of our house, when she had ridden into battle. When she didn’t return, I had claimed it for my own, promising to honor her legacy as a warrior.

“Whose sword is this?” Charon asked again.

I felt suddenly as if my fate hung, suspended, on the cusp of tipping one way or another. The shadow of a seabird flew across the tent wall. Or maybe it was one of the Morrigan’s ravens.

“It’s mine,” I said in a dry whisper.

“Who gave it to you?”

I bit my lip and stayed silent.

“Tell me,” he said. And then, after a long pause, “Please.”

There was something about the way he said it that compelled me to speak the truth. Maybe it was just the unexpected “please,” but it seemed as though it went deeper than mere curiosity.