Page 45 of Prize of the Warlord
“And I see a woman, stronger than anyone knows,” he continues in a hoarse whisper. “A survivor. A warrior who battles every day and wins. I see a sly trickster, an enchantress who could turn my heart into a lush garden, or into a wasteland as barren as the Bloodsalt.”
His fingers slip from my braids and slide along the back of my neck, flexing, urging my face to tilt up as he bends. With a soft cry I throw my arms around his neck and meet his mouth.
Harshly he kisses me, hungrily, his lips and mine sensitized with the pain of all that we carry, with the harsh truth of what this moment means for both of us. I still can’t see a future in this, only agony.
I pause to breathe, and then I kiss him again, softly.
“I can’t ask you to stay with me,” he murmurs, brushing back strands of my hair. “You’ll die up here, in this wild land.”
“And I can’t ask you to come live with me,” I whisper. “My people would kill you.”
His hands cup my shoulders, tightening. “Why is my life like this? One loss after another. Some days I don’t think I can bear it.”
The stark hollowness of his tone frightens me. “You have to bear it, because I can’t live in a world where you don’t exist.”
He pulls me in, against the leather and fur of his chest. “I can’t let you go to that prince and marry him.”
“But if you don’t, you’ll lose the ransom you were promised. The little village in the Southern mountains, and the money for your people’s welfare.”
Groaning, he wraps me tighter. “I don’t see a way out of this, mouse.”
A shout outside startles us both—but it’s answered with a merry call. There are people near the lodge, probably getting ready for our journey.
“You have to take me back home,” I mutter into the savory warmth of him. “Maybe on the way we’ll think of something.”
51
The band that leaves the settlement is somewhat different this time. First of all, there’s a fresh batch of shaggy northern horses to replace the weary ones. Twice as many warriors accompany us, and their faces are all new—with the only familiar ones being the Warlord and Zeha. The white tiger doesn’t seem inclined to come on the journey this time—she pads along near us for only a handful of minutes before bounding back to the village.
The woman with chestnut hair, Olsa, rides with us too, and I’m unhappy about it. In fact, I’m unhappy about the entire situation. Strange as this wilderness is, I have the feeling I could have stayed in that spacious lodge with the Warlord and been happy for a long time—until one of my illnesses caught up with me, of course.
I do miss my family. I miss my brothers’ cheerful, open faces and my mother’s sweet cleverness. I miss my father’s weary brow and kind smile. I even miss Joss’s wry expressions and her disdainful comments about my physique. Sometimes she can be kind. And even when she isn’t, I think her harsh, prodding remarks are her way of trying to help—to push me to be stronger, as if by will and words, she can make it happen.
On the first day of our journey, we cross the narrower northern band of the Bloodsalt, but the Warlord guides us around the pale forest infested with ice-wyrms. Instead, he moves our company into an area of low hills and twisted bushes. He claims he’s taking this route because he doesn’t want to lose anyone else, and I’m sure that’s true—but I also suspect he wants more time with me.
When we make camp that evening, among scraggly bushes glazed with ice, Zeha sends out one of her snow-hawks again, to let my people know that the terms are acceptable, and we’re on our way. I watch her murmur to the bird before she lets it go, crooning to it with tiny chirps and the rippling words of her language. When it takes flight in a flurry of white and scarlet feathers, I can’t help a tiny gasp of awe.
“How does it know where to go?” I ask her. As usual, I’m standing near the Warlord’s horse, holding the reins and waiting while the others set up camp.
“It is another gift of my people,” she says. “Some of us are born with the ability to commune with the creatures of our land. I am a hawk-speaker, and so is the man your people are holding prisoner. We can tell snow-hawks where to go, and they can sense our whereabouts. They have a unique love and loyalty for us.” Shading her eyes against the setting sun, she smiles fondly at the receding shape of the bird.
“Your messenger,” I say tentatively. “Is he part of the ransom deal? Did you negotiate his freedom?”
“No,” she says. “He volunteered for this, knowing how important it is to our people’s future. He is loyal to the Warlord, ready to lay down his life, his freedom—whatever is required of him. And truth be told, he is also a master of locks and stealth. Once the bargain is complete, I doubt any cell will hold him for long. He will find his way back to us.”
“I hope so,” I murmur. “I would hate to think of anyone dying on my account.”
Zeha looks at me sharply, and then she steps closer, lowering her voice. “Tell me in truth—did my brother bed you? Because if he did, and your prince discovers it, we will all pay a heavy price.”
“He did not,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good.” She nods, relieved.
Just to unsettle her, I add, “But he came very close to it.”
“Gods, why?” she exclaims under her breath. “I cannot understand the attraction. You are pretty, yes, but he has always insisted he would marry a warrior, someone strong and bold, one of our proudest daughters. Why this fascination with you? Have you spoken through the ether again?”
“Yes.”
