Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

10. You Speak Illyrian

15th of Uirra, Continued

I didn't have so much as a moment to get my bearings before he shut the door behind us, locked it, then pulled me around and made me stand beneath the ceiling lantern over the map table.

My heart stuttered in my chest. I was alone. I might not have had much experience, but I wasn't completely naive. I knew very well what happened to the female captives taken by pirates, and Bloody NaVarre was one of the worst.

"What are you doing —" I quavered, but he cut me off with a firm, "Shhh."

He squinted at me, dark lashes nearly meeting. He took a step back and tilted his head, first one way, then the other, studying my face as though trying to decide if he recognized me. Then he reached out and took hold of my tangled braid, lifting it and coiling it on top of my head for a moment before he stepped back a little. "What's your name?"

Disconcerted, I tried to yank away, only to be brought upright again by his grip in my hair.

"You speak Illyrian with a cultured accent, but you're dressed as an Edonian day laborer," he growled. "Who are you?"

My eyes watered. "Why does it matter?" I asked, my voice scratching its way out of my parched throat.

He lifted an eyebrow, and a rakish grin curled one corner of his mouth. "You're in no position to be asking questions," he pointed out. Then he let go of me. "What's your name?"

I firmed my chin and looked away.

He 'tsked' his tongue. "That's not very wise. I'm Bloody NaVarre. I might make your friends out there walk the plank if you don't give me what I want."

I shot a glare at him.

His grin widened to include a set of perfect teeth. "All I want is your name. One little name, and nobody gets hurt."

I pressed my teeth together.

 He crossed his arms over his chest and quirked that eyebrow a little higher. 

I swallowed. He was waiting for an answer, and I didn't really want to find out what would happen if I didn't give him one. I had read the Dailies. Bloody NaVarre wasn't known for taking prisoners, and he had slaughtered people over less than a name. I very well might get someone killed if I didn't do what he said. Besides. We were all cold, starving, and exhausted, and this pirate had food and shelter. "Brenorra Warring," I croaked, looking away again, angry at myself.

"Do you have any proof?"

That struck me as an odd question, but I was too tired to think about it. Reluctantly, I unbuttoned Father's coat and pulled the satchel around so I could open it.

NaVarre straightened slightly.

I lifted the flap that covered the main section of the bag and was about to start searching for my identity papers when NaVarre said, bluntly, "Give it to me."

I went still. "It belonged to my father," I rasped, my throat painfully tight.

Without a word NaVarre reached out, his expression unreadable as he grabbed the satchel, unclipped the strap in one neat move, and yanked it away from me as easily as if I were a small child.

Dizzy and defeated, I watched him go striding over to a map cabinet on the far wall.

"Why are you doing this?"

That made him cough out a chuckle. "What, you don't appreciate my hospitality?"

I closed my eyes, swaying on my feet as he opened doors and drawers. "Not particularly, no."