Page 65 of Prize of the Warlord
Swinging upside-down behind Cronan, I can’t see my father’s face or the actions of his guards, and that terrifies me. What if they decide to attack the Warlord, even while he’s carrying me? Lucky for him, none of Prince Havil’s guards are present, or he’d likely have an arrow through his eye by now.
But he walks unmolested down the road, heedless of my feet kicking and my hands clawing at his back.
When he sets me down, I’m flushed and flustered, tangled in my own hair, and very angry at not being heeded.
“What in the gods’ names is going on?” barks my father, his hand on his sword. “I wake this morning and Prince Havil is gone, with all his men, and there’s a letter telling me the wedding is off and our alliance with his kingdom is over—and then I discover that my daughter is missing once more. My wife is riding after Havil as we speak, to try to mend the situation. What happened? Did you steal Ixiana again?”
“Does it look like she was stolen against her will?” the Warlord snaps.
“No,” says my father slowly. “It does not.” He surveys me, confusion and anger mingling in his eyes. “You went to him, then.”
“I want to stay with him,” I blurt out.
“She cannot stay with me,” Cronan interjects. “The North is a dangerous, barbaric place. She won’t survive, and I cannot allow her to die. She belongs with you.” He pushes me forward.
I turn, sharp words ready to fly from my tongue. But they dissipate when I see the Warlord’s face, taut with restraint, his eyes brimming with bright pain.
My father sees it too. He clears his throat. “You care for her,” he says gruffly. “As she does for you.”
I stay quiet, watching the two warriors. Neither of them is comfortable speaking of this—that much is clear—but they’re trying. The battle-ready tension in the air has eased, leaving only a warm, tenuous awkwardness.
Cronan’s face reddens, and he forces out a few words—beautiful, vulnerable words, spoken to his greatest enemy. “I love your daughter.”
My father grimaces. It must be so hard for him to accept those words—and yet he does. I can see it happening—the softening of his mouth, the relaxing of his brow. He’s tender-hearted, and when Cronan stands before him, weaponless, having delivered me back safely, speaking a vow of love—my father can’t resist.
“Well,” he says. “Perhaps we should have a talk, you and I.”
Cronan opens his mouth to protest, but I clamp a hand on his arm. “Please,” I say urgently.
He looks down at me. Nods.
“Stay where you are,” my father tells his men. “And keep an eye onher.” He points to me before striding a little way into the woods with the Warlord.
They stay within sight, barely, but they speak low. I want to know everything they’re saying to each other, but this conversation isn’t mine to hear.
It’s a long talk, nearly an hour. By the end, Cronan and my father are sitting a few paces apart, one on a rock and the other on a nearby log. Their gestures are slow and casual, not tense or threatening. The Warlord’s shoulders aren’t as rigid as they were at the beginning; they’re relaxed now, bowed slightly forward. My father’s hand is nowhere near his sword-hilt.
At last they return to the road, side by side, and the hope I’ve been nurturing tightens in my chest. I rise from the stone I’ve been resting on and limp a few steps toward them.
My father walks up to me and folds me into an embrace. He holds me close, rubbing my back without speaking, just letting his love flood over me. My lower lip wobbles.
When he releases me, I have to whisk away a few tears. “Well?” I ask.
“I can’t decide anything without your mother, you know that,” he says. “But I am open to talks with Cronan’s clan. If this connection to Havil’s kingdom is really over, there may be a way to ally with Cronan and his people—safe haven for them on this side of the mountains, while they act as liaisons with the other clans of the North. There is much to be discussed, of past wrongs and future changes, but—I am open.”
Careless of my ankle, I leap for him and squeeze him around the neck, so tightly he wheezes, “You’ve gotten stronger, my dear.”
“A little.” I move back. “What does this mean for me and Cronan?”
69
My father puckers his lips and glances at the Warlord. “It seems the two of you are connected. He explained this ether-speak to me, this soul-bond. It’s strange, yes, but I’ve heard a little about it before, from Northern prisoners. We’ll talk with your mother before this is all settled, of course, but I believe it would be cruel to keep you two apart for very long. So if all goes well with our negotiations, you and he can—” he winces, “you can be together, and live on this side of the mountains.” He keeps talking, but I barely hear anything else… something about reparation from each side to the other… I will listen more carefully later but in this moment I can’t. I simply can’t.
My vision, my mind, my entire being consists of the Warlord, as he stands with the morning breeze ruffling his yellow hair. He’s still a little blood-stained in places—he hasn’t washed thoroughly since the events of last night—but to me he’s the most glorious man who ever walked the earth.
He draws me to him just by his existence—without moving, without speaking, with a single magnetic look he summons me, and I’m in front of him before I realize it. I can tell by the heat in his eyes that he wants to kiss me, but he won’t, not with my father there, not with this truce still so new. Instead he clasps both my hands in his.
We separate then, for a while. I go with my father to Hoenfel, and the Warlord returns to Three Bridges.
