Page 67 of Prize of the Warlord
She squeezes my fingers. “I’m beginning to believe that.”
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When Cronan, Zeha, and the warriors arrive, the peace talks begin, and they continue for three weeks. Word of the negotiation spreads south through my district and north into the Warlord’s lands. Thankfully, Cronan and my parents are able to establish a foundation of trust and a practical plan within the first two days, because tension mounts when the other warlords and village councils clamor to be involved. Everyone has a stake in the outcome; everyone has grievances and demands.
The Warlord and I are at the center of the negotiations for the entire three weeks, which is strange for me, as someone who was always left out of politics and never wanted to participate. But every time talks begin to break down, my parents urge Cronan and me to speak about our relationship and how it developed. It’s awkward, but it seems to work. We’re a strangely matched pair—my slight frame and his hulking one—and the leaders at the peace tables are fascinated enough to listen as we talk about ancestral wrongs and a better future.
It will be a painful change. Our district is more lightly populated than some others, so there is room for additional families to live; but most of the land is owned by the district government or by private citizens. My parents have many long meetings ahead of them, bargaining and compromising with landowners and town councils. But if everyone sacrifices something, we can create space for Cronan’s clan to join us here, and perhaps other clans in the future. And we won’t be dependent on Prince Havil’s kingdom anymore.
For those three weeks, I’m scarcely ever alone with Cronan. We’re always with people—my family, his sister, his clan members, the two other warlords who have come down for negotiations, their warriors, members of town councils from this region, the villagers of Hoenfel, the inn staff—people, endlessly, people all the time. He’s used to people—he’s a leader of his clan, after all—but I’ve always led a much quieter existence, and the constant presence ofpeoplegrates on me. I long for a quiet evening with a book, in a room I don’t share with Joss—or maybe a ride with the Warlord across the Bloodsalt. Strange how both of those wildly different scenarios carry a sense of comfort for me.
On the night that the three warlords, my parents, and several council members finally sign the historic Treaty of Hoenfel, there is feasting in the village like no one there has ever seen. Giant tables line the main street of the town, each one burdened with delights—whole roasted deer and hogs, shining with grease; dishes of syrupy fruit preserves; piles of fragrant bread; vegetables swimming in creamy sauce; heavy stews and soups in giant tureens; cakes crusted with sugar. There are round tables loaded with jugs and bottles, the best drink the region has to offer, and there’s a massive cask from which Hoenfel’s lead councilwoman fills foaming tankards and hands them off to citizens and warriors alike.
I’m recovering from a few days of stomach troubles, so I can’t partake of most of the food, which makes me grouchy. I wander along the tables, through the haze of lamplight and smoke. Bonfires have been built at intervals, offering warmth against the chill of the deep blue night. Everything smells of wood smoke and crackling roasted meat, of ale and hot sugar.
I know most of these people now, by face if not by name. Some of them nod to me, but they’re all occupied with their own merriment. One of the other warlords is engaged in a drinking game with my mother, and she appears to be winning. Olsa is chatting with a village councilman. Joss and Zeha are red-cheeked and guffawing, dancing arm in arm to a fiddler’s tune. When the music stops, they stand face to face, laughing, eyes shining—and then Zeha grabs Joss by the back of the neck and pulls her in for a hard kiss. Shouts of gleeful approval erupt around them, and the fiddling begins again.
The moment makes me glad—glad for them, and glad for our people. The more love connects us, the better.
But as I wander on, the smile slips from my face. I haven’t seen the Warlord all day, mostly because I spent the morning in the privy and then, once I recovered, I took a long bath, which is why I came late to the festivities.
I’m unsettled inside, and not only because of my health. I miss Cronan. I miss the excitement we had together, the push and pull between us, the dangerous, enticing thrill of his formidable presence.
I ask a few people if they’ve seen him, but they can only tell me that they glimpsed him earlier, when the feast began—so eventually I quit asking.
Farther I wander, past the end of the merry gathering and along the dark, quiet street. There’s an unused cottage at the very outskirts of the village, near the road to the mountain. That’s where the Warlord and some of his people have been staying, while the other warlords are camped farther out, in the fields.
My feet carry me to the wall surrounding the Warlord’s cottage, to the gate that leads to its door. The gateposts are built solidly of stone, higher than my head, and the garden beyond them is thickly overgrown, with leafless branches curling onto the paved path.
I push the gate open slowly. And then I hesitate, because I thought I heard a sound behind me—heavy footfalls on the road.
But when I turn around, nothing lies behind me except the shadows of a few trees, and the distant hum of merry voices and music.
Shrugging, I step through the gate.
A strong arm lashes around my body, pinning my arms to my sides, immobilizing me in a savage grip. As I inhale to scream, a palm seals over my mouth.
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I twist and thrash, trying to bite the hand over my mouth. A low chuckle rolls from my captor, vibrating my heartstrings. “Little mouse,” says the Warlord, in a voice rich with approval. “You haven’t forgotten your lessons. But you still have no chance against me.”
My body thrums with searing delight, and I relax against him. When he removes his hand from my mouth, I breathe, “It’s you. I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve seen me every day, in the meetings.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” he rumbles, his hand sliding across my throat. “It isn’t.”
Another thrill courses through me at the familiar possessive hold. And when his other hand moves down to hook between my legs through my skirts, I give a soft hitching sigh of satisfaction.
“Do you regret not marrying your Prince?” His voice is a predator’s purr at my ear.
“Never,” I whisper.
“Good. I’m told Havil has already found another prospective bride.”
“I’m glad of it,” I say. “I was worried we might have to deal with some sort of reprisal from him.”
