Page 44 of Prize of the Warlord
“He’ll be sleeping off his liquor.” The Warlord sits on a chair near me with his own bowl.
Several spoonfuls into my food, with my hunger and my arousal lessening, I feel more prone to conversation. “You’ve had a difficult life. I understand now, why you are the way you are.”
“And what way is that?”
“Harsh. Cruel. A brutal warrior.” I savor another spoonful. This is the first food of his people I’ve thoroughly enjoyed. “You’ve lost much, and you’ve had to live and act a certain way to survive. I understand.”
“After a handful of days, you understand my entire life?” His green eyes narrow. “So prideful, just like all your people. Assuming you can grasp the depth of someone else’s pain.”
“I’m human,” I say. “Aren’t all human experiences somewhat related? We experience them in different degrees, but I canimaginehow you feel. I’ve been sad before—I can imagine that sadness multiplied a thousand times in the loss of a brother and mother. I’ve been angry before—I can imagine that anger so much more powerful, running so deep through generations that it sometimes blinds you to the real cruelty of your actions—keeps you from seeing how you are mirroring the very thing that was done to your people generations ago.”
“But we didn’t begin this,” he says. “Your people started it, by going to war with us and pushing us out.”
“That was long ago.” My voice takes on a pleading note. “No one who did those things is alive in my district today.”
“You are their descendants.”
“And so we should pay for their sins?”
“Yes!” He slams his bowl onto a table and rises, burly and thunderous. “Someone should pay. The wrong of your ancestors will be visited on their children. Onyou, little mouse.” He advances, seizing me by my braids again and pulling me up. My empty wooden bowl clatters to the floor.
His grip is tighter this time, more painful, and his face is strained with a violent clash of emotions. Something inside me stretches taut and brittle, humming with fear and anticipation, because I sense, in the deepest part of my soul, that this point is pivotal for him. Whatever he decides right now will impact my life and his forever.
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The Warlord holds me up by a fistful of my long yellow braids. I have to rise on tiptoe to ease the sharp pull on my scalp. Wincing, I look up into his eyes, into the agonized swirl of anger and indecision. In this moment, he is determining where we stand, he and I, and his choice will ripple outward, affecting both his clan and my people.
“When we take possession of that village in the Southern mountains,” he hisses, “it will be our first foothold. But we will not stop there. I have a plan, one that will spread our influence throughout your districts and shake the grip of your leaders. Your father and the other district nobles are already weak. We will infiltrate, erode them further from within, and then strike. We will take back our birthright, the land of our ancestors.”
“And my people?” I say softly. “Where will they go?”
“Those who resist will die. The others will be sent North. Let them live in the wasteland we were given.”
“You’re no better than my ancestors, then,” I whisper.
“No!” He shakes me, and I grimace from the twinge of pain along my scalp. “No, I’m not like them. I’m only reversing what they did. Setting it right.”
“How is this right?” Tears form in my eyes, and my voice rises. “How does more violence ensure a bright future?”
“Your people will not hear soft words!” he bellows. “All they understand is violence, and pain, and the theft of the comforts they worship!”
I reach up, laying my thin fingers across his wrist. “Some of them might listen. After all, I heard your words.” My lips tremble as I hold his gaze. “And yes, I had to have all my comforts torn away first. But I listened. I hear you.”
A muscle along his jaw pulses. “That’s because you’re different from the rest of them.”
“No. It’s only because you and I had time together. We were forced to see through the words we use to describe each other. I had to learn to look past ‘raider,’ ‘ruffian,’ and ‘warlord,’ until I could see you clearly as Cronan, heartbroken son of the North, compassionate man, fearless guide to his people.”
His grip on my hair slackens just a little.
“And you see me,” I whisper. “Don’t you? You see past the weakling, the mouse, the spoiled Southern child of entitled nobility. Who do you see now?”
He shakes his head, his eyes bright and wet, his teeth gritted.
I choke on a half-sob. “Cronan. Tell me who you see.”
He lets out a long, shuddering breath, and his hand on my hair eases. “I see a girl who annoys me with her whining, her constant challenge of my goals, and her ignorance of my culture.”
I swallow, more tears pooling in my eyes.
