Page 32 of Prize of the Warlord
When I can breathe normally again, I turn to face him. He’ll expect reciprocation—a fair exchange, my pleasure for his. Will he be satisfied with my hands, or demand entrance where I’ve never permitted a man to invade? Can I let the Warlord have all of me, when I’m promised to Prince Havil?
But before I can touch him, or offer myself, he leaves the warmth of the bed, wraps a blanket around himself, and goes out into the swirling blizzard.
37
Did I do something wrong?
Why didn’t he let me tend to his desire as he tended to mine? I gnaw my lips, left behind to huddle alone in the fading warmth of the blankets.
When the Warlord comes back, he stirs up the fire a bit and slides into the bed again. He isn’t erect anymore. He took care of himself, out there in the blistering cold.
Maybe he didn’t mind indulging the desires of his enemy prisoner, but he thinks himself too superior to allow my touch.
I can’t bring myself to ask. So I lie with my back to him, quietly seething until I fall asleep again. Until his deep voice, faint and frustrated, invades my dreams.
There is some magic in you that I cannot resist.
I can’t respond to his thoughts, because I’m buried deep in a cloud of purple dreams, and they mute my voice. I can only listen.
You hear me, don’t you, mouse? As I heard you when I was sleeping. But you don’t understand what it means, this ability of ours to commune through the ether.
I do understand, I want to scream.Your sister told me.
I wonder if we could talk to each other through the ether if we werebothasleep or unconscious?
There is a woman in my settlement,he continues.Someone I thought I would take as my wife one day.
An ache throbs in my heart, and I struggle against that deep, doleful voice. But he keeps talking.
She is right for me, and you are not, no matter what twisted chance connected our minds. Now that I have sated your craven lust, I will not touch you again. It was a foolish mercy on my part.
With a mighty effort, I break myself out of the dream and wake, sweating and panting, nearly sobbing. The Warlord lies propped on his elbow at my side, watching my face. A hint of alarm flares in his eyes at my sudden waking.
“Next time have the courage to say it to my face when I’m conscious,” I gasp, my eyes pooling with tears. “Tell me now, great Warlord. Tell me you think I’m disgusting, weak and pathetic, treacherous and worthless. Say it!”
He scowls at me for a long moment. Then he says, “The wind is dying, and the storm is slowing. Soon we will break camp and travel the remaining distance to our settlement.”
“Coward,” I hiss at him, and turn my face away.
He stays still for several minutes, then rises. I keep my back to him, listening to the swish and shuffle as he gets dressed and stamps out the fire.
After he leaves the tent, I dress quickly and go outside. I relieve myself behind a bush, and no one fusses about standing guard while I do it. We’re so far from my home that even if I did manage to escape, I’d die on the way back. The route is far too treacherous to survive alone.
It’s time to face the truth, that my prickly, tantalizing interludes with the Warlord were the only thing keeping my spirits up. The deliciously forbidden possibility of him tempted me, in spite of my better judgment. But he is committed elsewhere, as I am. Not that I ever truly considered a relationship with him—we are mortal enemies, and the very idea is absurd.
Now that he’s vowed not to touch me again—now that he has told me about the other woman—I have nothing to hope for, no forbidden future to imagine.
The woman he wants is probably strong, sturdy, and beautiful. She knows the land, and she’ll bear him healthy children, not sickly ones. She doesn’t have to be cradled and coaxed to breathe, and she can eat the coarse northern food without feeling sick.
I am simply a piece in a game my parents and Prince Havil are playing with the Warlord. I’ll be kept in this awful wasteland until a bargain can be made—and if one can’t be reached, then—
With a horrible shock, I recall what the Warlord said to his sister. How he plans to marry me if my father won’t agree to the ransom. How a life-bond between us will force my father to pay attention to his demands.
He clearly doesn’twantto marry me. He wants this other woman, the one he planned to join with. What if he takes me to wife, as a political move, and then sleeps with her, and never touches me again? I might live for years in this deadly place, without ever knowing the loving embrace of a man.
No, it’s unlikely that I’ll live for years. I’ll probably survive for a handful of miserable months before succumbing to the harsh climate, the fibrous food, and the monstrous dangers. I’ll die a virgin, touched only by my own hand except for last night.
It’s a desolate prospect, almost as distasteful as the cold, lumpy porridge I force myself to swallow. Getting out of this mess is looking less and less likely, and my heart feels heavy and sodden in my chest.
