Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

the darkness while her pulse slowed. Her hair was damp and tangled from thrashing. Her chest hurt from the thumping of her heart, but that pain was minimal compared to the sorrowful ache of her spirit. Jarl had been so cold. He had looked at her as if she were nothing to him. How could he feel that way when her feelings for him were so strong?

It doesn’t matter. You are home. None of that matters anymore.

Nena doubted sleep would come to her again and was more than a little afraid if it did. She sat up in her disheveled furs. Slipping silently into her sandals, she moved toward the door. She felt her aunt’s eyes upon her before she could see them in the dim light of the last fire embers. Their worry for her was a clear question, though Jalla said nothing.

“I’m alright,” Nena whispered to her as she stepped out into the darkness, wondering even as she said the words if the assurance was for her aunt or herself.

She moved swiftly through the silent village to the horses. There she found the mare in the middle of the herd, dozing with one hind leg cocked. Nena straightened her forelock and rubbed her forehead absently, needing only to feel the mare’s nearness to draw from her strength. The horse turned and nuzzled her face, her delicate whiskers and warm damp breath caressing Nena’s skin. She held the side of the mare’s soft muzzle to her cheek. “It was only a dream. A bad dream,” she murmured.

Or perhaps it was the gods’ way of showing you your future had you not escaped. It would have been nothing but pain. You were his slave and he would have tired of you. The idyllic time you shared with him was not to last, either way. You did the right thing.

And now you must do the right thing again. You must put these thoughts behind you. You must not be weak. You were not raised to be weak. Look at Exanthia. She has lost everything, and yet she does not mope around and pity herself. You are Teclan. It is time to start acting like one.

Her father’s words about her memories strangling her spirit came once again to mind. She did not doubt his wisdom, but he assumed she was recovering from abuse. Was the path to recovery from abuse the same as to recover from...what? What was she recovering from? What left this pain in her chest? Jarl had never abused her—the opposite, in fact. So was the solution the same? Her memories with Jarl were still so fresh and vivid. Was it because they were they growing like the iron vine inside her? Was being alone nurturing them and condemning her to a lifetime of this pain and doubt? It was the only thing that made sense. Her dreams were a warning. She knew what she had to do.

She would choose Gentok tomorrow. She would let him know her choice in the morning. She would put this behind her. She would be strong.

AS JARL EXAMINED the looming red sandstone cliffs, it was easy for him to see how they had come by their name. The Bloodcliffs. Stained from centuries of the blood of those who tried to pass, Altene had explained. Even from where he stood, he could see the guards along the top rim. There was no sense attempting to go any further. Nena’s trail clearly disappeared within the protected narrow canyon between the walls.

“We’ll make camp here, rest the horses, and weigh our options.” Jarl announced the welcome news to his weary group. Their campsite was within sight of the opening, but safely outside of the Teclan bow range. While the others set up camp, Jarl pulled out his scope and walked toward the cliffs to take a closer look. After several minutes, Tryggr joined him.

“Found a way in yet?” Tryggr asked.

“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” Jarl replied.

“I take it there’s more than a few of them up there?” Tryggr asked as he looked up at the top of the cliffs.

“You could say that, yes.”

“You already know I didn’t bring a tent for her, so what do you want to do with her this time?” Tryggr nodded at Altene.

Jarl lowered the scope from his eye and frowned, irritated at having to interrupt his inspection for this. “We’ve been through this before, Tryggr. I don’t care. She can share your tent again, or one of the other men’s. The weather is mild; she can sleep outside—like we’ve all done for most of the trip. I don’t care. Just take care of it.”

Tryggr stood with one eyebrow raised. “You’re sure you’ll be fine with her pleasuring another man while you sleep alone in cold furs? And more importantly, you’ll stay fine with it?” Tryggr asked, not wanting to make any assumption where a woman was concerned.

“I’m sure,” Jarl said and resumed scanning the cliffs.

“Very well then.” Tryggr shrugged in disbelief and turned away.

“And Tryggr. As soon as the camp, for what it is, is set up, send out two hunting parties to gather food. We might as well be eating better if we’re not moving.”

Nena glanced at the woman’s weaving loom next to her. Though they had started at the same time, the woman had made ten times her progress with a far more intricate pattern than the simple rug Jalla had assigned to her. She watched the woman’s shuttle fly between the upright warp strings, watched her efficiently batten down the newly delivered thread with the wooden comb-like reed, then shoot the shuttle back in the opposite direction after shifting the loom frames. She made it seem effortless.

Nena looked back at her own loose sloppy work. She couldn’t understand it. This should be easy for her. Her mother had been renowned for the quality of her weaving, and Nena herself was dexterous with all forms of weapons. She and Jalla had