The sun burns bright overhead. It stings my eyes when I open them. For a moment, I think I'm dead. Then I feel the wood beneath me. The shaking of the cart. The ache in my back.
But the ache isn't too bad today. It's the first time in a while I've woken up without pain shooting down my legs. I sit up, groggy. My arms reach for the bundle before I even look.
Nothing.
The child is gone.
Panic crawls into my chest. I throw open the back flaps of the cart.
We're stopped in a clearing. Smoke rises from a new campfire. The cart is surrounded by trees and half-packed bedrolls. A few men mill around the fire. One of them, the tall one with the deep voice, holds the baby. He rocks it gently. The child looks calm.
I breathe out, long and heavy.
Behind me, one of the mercenaries calls out.
"Well, well. Sleeping beauty's awake."
I turn. It's the short one, all scrunched face and quick grin. He waves a strip of meat at me like it's a prize.
"Didn't hear a thing all night," another adds—the red-haired one with his feet kicked up near the fire. "Not even when the baby cried. Damn near ruined our sleep."
"He drools when he snores," says the handsome one, smirking.
I wipe my mouth without thinking.
"You all take turns watching me?" I ask, voice still rough.
The tall one chuckles, still bouncing the child. "We thought about selling you. But then we saw your boots and figured you weren't worth much."
The others laugh. The short one tosses me a piece of dried meat. It hits my chest and falls into my lap.
"You're generous," I say, chewing slowly. My jaw hurts. I didn't realize how long it'd been since I really ate.
"No thanks needed," the red-haired one says. "We're saints."
The boy comes from the trees then, holding a stick with three small rabbits hanging from it. One of the mercenaries—broad-shouldered, with a scar across his cheek—follows behind him, carrying a knife.
"Look who finally caught something," the short one says. "Three of them. He's turning into a real hunter."
The boy grins and sits near the fire. The scarred one begins skinning the rabbits, laying their insides on a flat rock. Salt is poured over the meat, rubbed in deep.
The tall one hands the baby back to me without a word. I take it gently, cradling the bundle in my arms again. Still warm. Still safe. The baby doesn't cry.
We pack up after that. The fire is stamped out. The meat is wrapped. Bedrolls rolled up. The cart creaks as we all climb on. Two of the mercenaries take the front to handle the horses. I sit in the back with the child in my arms. The boy sits beside me. The short one and red-haired one join us too.
The forest passes slowly. Trees sway in the wind. No one speaks for a while. The sound of hooves and wheels fills the silence.
"How long to the next city?" I ask.
"Sonnenridge," says the red-haired one. "We'll be there before sundown if the roads stay dry."
The short one spits out the side. "They won't."
"It hasn't rained," I say.
He shrugs. "Doesn't need to. These woods breathe water."
The handsome one chuckles from up front. "He's superstitious."
"I'm right," the short one says. "You'll see."
The boy leans toward me, looking at the child in my arms.
"She sleep good?"
"She didn't scream," I say.
He nods. "That's good."
After a long silence, I ask quietly, "Which god do you follow?"
The cart slows slightly. Everyone goes still. The red-haired one tenses. The short one frowns.
"Why're you asking that?" he says.
"Just curious," I say.
"Curious gets you killed."
The boy interrupts, cheerful and loud. "They follow the God of Land. That's why they use metal weapons."
The red-haired one mutters something under his breath. The handsome one calls back, "Don't talk about faith with strangers."
I keep my eyes on the baby.
"I follow the God of Land too," I say. "Or I did. My faith's not what it used to be."
The boy tilts his head. "Why?"
I don't answer right away. I rub my thumb gently across the baby's cheek. It's soft. The child breathes slow, small chest rising and falling under the blanket.
"Because I asked for help," I say, "and nothing happened."
The short one looks at me for a long time. His mouth opens, then closes. He says nothing.
The red-haired one turns away, arms crossed.
"We don't talk about gods," he says. "Not in this cart."
We ride the rest of the way in silence.