The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom, #1)(114)

Picking up her bottle, Lara swayed over to the table and set it down among their mugs. “Here I am. Now, what was it you were saying?”

The man patted his knee. She shook her head. “I’m fine on my feet, sir.”

“I’d be better with that fine ass of yours on my lap.” His hand swung in a wide arc, cracking against her bottom, where it remained, his meaty fingers digging into her flesh.

Lara reached behind, taking a firm grip on his wrist. The idiot had the nerve to smile. Pulling hard, she twisted, slamming his palm against the table and, a heartbeat later, embedding her dagger in it.

The man squealed and tried to pull away, but the knife blade was stuck in the wood beneath his hand.

One of the others reached for it, but fell back, nose broken.

Another swung his fist at her face, but she dodged easily, the toe of her boot catching him in the groin.

“Now.” She rested one hand on the knife and gave it a gentle twist. “What was it you were saying about the King of Ithicana?”

“That he was captured in a skirmish with the Maridrinians.” The man was sobbing, squirming on his seat. “He’s being held prisoner in Vencia.”

“Are you certain?”

“Ask anyone! The news just came in from Northwatch. Now please!”

Lara eyed him thoughtfully, nothing on her face betraying the terror rising in her guts. Jerking the knife free, she leaned down. “You slap another ass, I’ll personally track you down and cut that hand off.”

Spinning on her heel, she nodded at the barkeep and strode out the door, barely feeling the rain that drove against her face.

Aren had been captured.

Aren was a prisoner.

Aren was her father’s hostage.

The wind ripped and tore at her hair. The last thought replayed endlessly in her mind as Lara strode toward the boarding house, people leaping out of her way as she passed. There was only one reason her father would keep Aren alive: to use him as bait.

Taking the steps two at a time, she unlocked the door to her room, slamming it behind her. Guzzling water straight from a pitcher, she stripped off the simple blue dress she wore and donned her Ithicanian clothes, swiftly packing her meager belongings into a sack. Then, a chip of charcoal in hand, she sat down at the table.

The necklace was warm from resting against her skin, the emeralds and diamonds glittering in the candlelight. She had no right to wear it, but the thought of the necklace being stolen, of it being worn by anyone else, was unbearable, so she never took it off.

She did so now.

Laying the necklace on the paper, Lara traced the jewels with the charcoal, the haze from the wine slowly receding as she worked. When the drawing was complete, she returned the necklace to her throat and held up a complete map of Ithicana, her gaze fixed on the large circle to the west of the rest.

This is madness, the logical part of her mind screamed. You can barely swim, you’re a shit sailor, and it’s the middle of storm season. But her heart, which had been a cold, smoldering thing since she’d run from Aren on Midwatch, now burned with a ferocity that would not be denied.

Tucking the map into her pocket, she belted on her weapons and stepped out into the storm.





It took Lara three weeks to get there, and she nearly died a dozen times or more during the journey. Violent storms chased her onto tiny islands, her screaming into the wind as she dragged her little boat above the storm surge. She fought off snakes who thought to hide under the cover of her boat; freak gusts of wind that tore at her singular sail; and waves that swamped her, stealing away all her supplies.

But she was called the little cockroach for a reason, and here she was.

The skies were crystal clear, which likely meant the worst sort of storm was imminent, and the sun nearly blinded her with the glare off the waves. Her boat, the sail lowered, bobbed just beyond the shadow of the enormous volcano, the only sound the waves crashing against the cliffs.

Lara stood, her knees shaking as she held on to the mast for balance. There was a glint of sunlight hitting glass from the depths of the jungle slopes, but even without it, she knew they were watching.

“Open up,” she shouted.

In answer, a loud crack split the air. Lara swore, watching as the boulder flew through the air toward her. It hit the water a few paces away, soaking her, the waves nearly flipping her boat.

Climbing back to her feet from where she’d been cowering in the bottom, she dug her fingers into the mast, fighting to master her fear of the water all around.

“Hear me out, Ahnna!” The other Ithicanians would’ve hit her on the first shot. Only the princess would bother to terrorize her first. “If you don’t like what I have to say, you can throw me back into the sea.”

Nothing stirred. There was no sound other than the roar of the ocean.

Then, a rattle split the air, the distinctive sound of the gates to Eranahl opening. Picking up her paddle, Lara maneuvered her way inside.

Familiar faces filled with cold fury met her as the boat knocked against the steps. She didn’t fight as Jor jerked her out by the hair, the stone stairs biting into her shins as he dragged her up, snarling, “I’d cut your heart out here and now if not for the fact Ahnna deserves the honor.” He pulled a hood over her head, obscuring her vision.

They took her to the palace, the sounds and smells painfully familiar, and as she counted the steps and turns, Lara knew she was being taken to the council room. Someone, probably Jor, kicked the backs of her knees once they entered, and she fell, palms slapping against the ground.