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He’d taken her to the army’s camp instead. And now he’d taken her votif.
    Perhaps worse than all of these things, he’d made her hate. She’d always prided herself tha t she’d never hated anyone. She’d been born with a gift for healing, something that had set her apart, made her special. Something she could take pleasure in when her memories of loss threatened to overwhelm her natural good humor. Healers took care of people. They were filled with compassion and concern. They sought to heal and not destroy. They certainly didn’t hate anyone. Now she could never say that again. He’d stolen that from her too.
    Rundan stopped sudd enly and glared at her. He didn’t even bother to mutter at her in his own tongue, as if he couldn’t be bothered to speak. It didn’t matter; his meaning was clear enough to her.
    “ You’re the one who took me captive,” Solena protested, her voice wavering slightly.
    Earlier, as they’d hiked away from the army encampment, she’d noticed several soldiers following them at a distance. By sunset, the last of them had dropped off their trail and turned back, which was something to be grateful for. Only now, as the sky grew darker, a bitter chill crept into the wind. Umber and purple streaks painted the sky above them. Under different circumstances, Solena might have admired the rich colors, but now she felt only the clammy chill of fear. By nightfall, her wet deerskin would freeze against her skin. Which was likely the reason for her captor’s relentless pace, she realized with a slight pang of conscience.
    Solena plucked at her damp tunic. “Do you have dry clothes?” she asked and pointed to the saddle bags slung over the horse’s back. Although she doubted he cared that she was shivering in her damp gear, especially if his plan was to kill her, she had to try.
    Rundan plucked at his tunic too and pointed down the path.
    Solena nodded in defeat and followed after him. She could hardly run now in her wet clothing and boots, with no idea which direction led to freedom. Even if she did escape, what good would it do? Her votif was still tied to Rundan’s belt, which left her with no choice but to stay close to him.
    He came to a mound covered with tangled briars and pushed through the barbs to pull her into a small cave. After some hesitation, he left her inside. She stood close to the entrance, keeping a close eye on her captor—and her votif—as he tethered his horse and removed its burden. After tending to the horse, he returned to the cave, where he built a small fire and opened his bags, unpacking each as carefully as any good healer.
    Solena continued to track every move he made. She leaned in closer when he began to remove clothing from the sacks. First, he held up a long-sleeved linen tunic that would easily cover her from neck to toe and then a woolen cloak, which was dry, where hers, which had been stuffed in her sack when she dove in the river, was still wet. He assessed her in one long sweeping glance, making her squirm, and set these items to one side. He delved into the bags again and pulled out leather leggings, a short-sleeved leather tunic, not unlike the wet one she was wearing, but man-sized and a pair of boots suited to his larger feet. These he set to the other side. There was one nyka, with a soft worked hide on one side and lush black fur on the other, but there were no other clothes.
    Rundan scowled with evident dissatisfaction at the two piles.
    Solena gestured to the pile she thought was hers. “For me?”
    He handed the clothing to her and waited.
    She motioned for him to turn around, but he shook his head and waved impatiently at the clothes in her arms. When she still hesitated, he grimaced, fingered the votifs on his belt, and then struck himself on the head with an imaginary rock.
    “I wouldn’t,” she assured him.
    He merely crossed his arms over his chest and raised one brow. He couldn’t know she’d never hurt anyone, even if she hated