Prisoner by Megan Derr Page B

snow started. Though it had been suggested, Salhara had never taken advantage of that opportunity to take the Disputed Lands.
    The Regenbogen, the Krians called it. Not that they ever did anything with it, just hoarded the miles and miles of field, relished in destroying the arcen that grew there whenever the fighting stopped long enough. Stars forbid the Krians do something so crass as negotiate. What did they need the land for? They already had more than they knew what to do with.
    He turned his thoughts away from the question that had plagued him for years, for dwelling on it never did any good. What had started the war? Because the Disputed Lands had come later. Arcen was hard to grow, for the ground had to be rich and the season just right. The last few seasons had been hard; arcen was not as readily available. The Disputed Lands, even after being ravaged each year, somehow managed to recover over the course of the long Krian winter. If they could drive the Krians out once and for all, the fields would provide them with a reliable place to harvest arcen for years. Whatever was in the soil there, arcen loved it.
    Which reminded him quite forcefully that he was still feeling the pangs of withdrawal from arcen. The headaches were not as bad as they had been, and those he could tolerate. No, it was the crawling sense of needing, wanting, and aching for the tingling burn of arcen in his blood that was slowly driving him mad. Beraht snorted—hardly slowly. Between the withdrawal and his intolerable captor, insanity must surely be just a day or so away.
    The snow was definitely not helping. He muttered a few curses under his breath—in Krian, so that von Adolwulf would know exactly how he felt. Let the man beat him, throw him around, and continue to force him on in this abominable weather. The last laugh would be Beraht's.
    Laughter startled him from his grousing. "Salharans are soft," von Adolwulf said. "If you think this is bad wait until winter arrives."
    "This is winter," Beraht snapped. His voice was eerily loud, because, for all that the snow fell in mass quantities around them, there was little noise. Not even a strong wind; just the relentless fall of soft, thick snow. It muffled their words, but they still seemed loud.
    Von Adolwulf laughed again. "Nonsense. This is merely the end of autumn. True winter does not begin for nearly another month. We should, in fact, be returning just in time for the festivities."
    "Festivities? To celebrate foul weather? How typically Krian."
    "Think as you like."
    Beraht subsided into silence. On the one hand, an end would mean he would no longer have to endure day after day of von Adolwulf's company. On the other, what would happen to him once they reached their destination? Would he be back in chains? Locked in a dungeon? Tortured for information?
    He couldn't repress a shudder and hoped von Adolwulf attributed it to the cold. They'd existed in a sort of stalemate for the past few days. Though he'd said nothing, it was clear that von Adolwulf was more interested in making good time than in torturing his prisoner.
    Though he never missed a chance to torment Beraht, either. Just hearing the bastard say his name set Beraht's teeth on edge, and von Adolwulf knew it. Patience was all it took. One day he'd have the satisfaction of hearing his name rescinded, never to be spoken again. Then von Adolwulf would die, and he would return home to be given a proper name by the Brotherhood of the Seven Star.
    A name and a place—and more besides—for all the information on the Krians that he would be able to provide. Those thoughts alone made the enduring of the thrice-cursed snow more than bearable.
    Well, almost. He'd give a lot for fire and blankets and something hot to drink.
    Ahead of them was a steadily growing darkness, peeking between the flurries of snow, indistinct and looming. As they drew closer, Beraht realized they were approaching a forest. Only the second one he'd seen since their