The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(78)

The first two caravans had already been loaded with prisoners and sealed by the time the officers dragged her and Nok over, so they’d been thrown into the third, alone save for a few wilted heaps of soiled hay. It was a relief, albeit a small one, Lu thought.

She glanced over at Nok. He was sitting in the corner, an arm’s length from her, his head resting against the caravan’s rear wall. Each bump and pit must have sent a hard knock to his skull, but he seemed not to notice. They’d been on the road for a while now, though how long or how quickly they were moving, she couldn’t say. Their rolling prison was windowless, and whatever landscape they were moving through was silent, giving away nothing. Nok hadn’t said a word the entire time.

Lu stood, crouching low to keep her balance, and shuffled over to him. She did her best to ignore the stinking muck the toes of her boots dug up along the way.

“Hey,” she said softly. He looked at her, black eyes so distant that she couldn’t read them, even if she squinted.

“You don’t know what the camps are like,” he said flatly.

She sat slowly beside him, leaving space between them. “No, I don’t.”

“We’re never getting out of there, you know,” he told her.

“We’ll find a way.”

“No one gets out of there alive.”

“You did.”

“Did I?” The words should have been hostile, but his voice sounded vague, unstrung. Come apart. As though he didn’t quite remember who she was.

Lu frowned. “You did,” she insisted. “You survived. You escaped.”

“No,” he said softly. “Someone—that man, Yuri—he’s the one that saved me. He was there.”

“Well, I’m here now. You’ve got me.”

“Do I?”

Not knowing what else to do, Lu slid one arm down in the narrow gap between their bodies as best she could given the narrow width of her chains, and took his hand in her own. Nokhai looked down, startled away from the edge of his terrible, empty reverie. For a moment she thought he would pull away, but he just rested his head back against the wall. Sighed, swallowed.

Lu’s gaze went to his throat, watching the muscles work. Then she looked away, squeezing his hand in her own, hard enough for it to hurt. Just a little. Just enough. Like a fraying rope thrown down that familiar well he kept falling into.

She had almost given up on getting a response when he squeezed her hand back. She met his black eyes, watching her almost curiously. Questioning. Like he was seeing her for the first time.

“Did you know?” he asked, his voice catching on the hoarse edges of his words. “When your family toured the North, when you met my Kith, did you already know?”

He didn’t have to elaborate; she knew what he meant.

“No,” she said quickly. “I was only a child—”

“But your father knew,” he threw back. “He came to the North and made us promises—but all along, he knew we were all going to die.”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. Had he? She’d never really asked herself that question in the five years since. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to know the answer. “I think that he believed he was offering you a choice between leaving and fighting. But maybe he was too afraid to recognize that wasn’t really a choice at all.”

“He was a coward.”

The words should have hurt, but Lu found herself nodding. “I suppose he was.”

“What did you say when you learned what had happened to us?”

“I wept,” Lu said, surprising herself with the memory. “Min cried, too.” She’d nearly forgotten. “It was odd—she’d been so shy around you all. I think perhaps she was afraid. But when we learned what—she cried.”

“Tears are easy,” he said. He looked down at their joined hands as he spoke. She expected him to pull his away, but he didn’t. “Tears don’t cost anything.”

“No,” she agreed, following his gaze. “I suppose not.”

He was silent for a moment. Then in a different sort of voice, he said, “You could have run, back there. Why didn’t you?”

It hadn’t even occurred to her. She wasn’t sure how to answer. “We’re . . . we have to stick together.”

“No, we don’t,” he said flatly. “You’re a princess. You could leave me any time.”

“I need you,” she said honestly. “I won’t make it to the North alone.”

“You could,” he insisted. “You’re strong, and even though you don’t always act like it, you’re smart. You don’t need me.”

“Well, who would cut my hair?” she said lightly, but her voice held an edge of embarrassment. For what? She wondered. A compliment? Stupid. “I won’t leave you.”

“You might once you see the camp.” His voice was dry, but there was a tremor in it.

She frowned. “Nokhai, I won’t leave you.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

There was a long pause. He didn’t respond, but she could hear the answer all the same. Everyone else has. She opened her mouth to protest, but—what did she know of it?

“Not me,” she said at last, her voice more ragged than she’d intended.