A young warrior steps forward, white-faced. “It should have been me. The Warlord offered to take over my watch so I could sleep.”
“And he failed in his duty,” Zeha snaps. “You both did. If you had stuck to your task and sat up with him—if there had been two pairs of eyes instead of none at all, this might not have happened. And if certain people had stayed where they were put—” She throws me a savage glare.
The Warlord accepts her chastisement without a word. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and his face is taut with pain. I rise and creep closer despite Zeha’s stormy presence, and I touch his good arm. “Thank you for saving me,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could fix it.”
“You are worth any pain,” he answers between gritted teeth.
“We’ll have the healer fix him when we reach the Lower Bloodsalt.” Zeha’s tone is slightly less strident. She shakes her head at both of us like we’re irresponsible wayward children.
Someone brings the Warlord a bottle of liquor, and he gulps it eagerly while Zeha and Olsa splint his arm. But mine is the hand he grips while they work over him.
Zeha sets two men on watch and marches me back to her tent, where we catch a few more hours of restless sleep before setting off again. I ride behind the Warlord, holding the reins for him, taking care not to jostle his broken arm. He’s been drinking more, and he sways in the saddle, droning an off-key tune.
“This pain is nothing,” he slurs once, around noon. “The real pain is yet to come, mouse. You are going to carve out my heart and take it with you.”
I press closer to his back. “I would stay with you. But then—”
“I know,” he mutters. “No ransom. No land. You would die in the cold wastelands. I’d rather you lived, mouse. I want to know that you’re running around in a Southern kingdom, free and well cared for.”
Free? I’m not sure being pampered in the Prince’s quarters for the rest of my life is freedom. It won’t taste like the kind of freedom I feel now, as the Warlord’s captive—the keen, icy, bright, savage liberty I’ve enjoyed in his presence.
We camp again that night, and travel for another day before reaching the edge of the blood-veined forest. Zeha leaves our camp and rides away to fetch the healer herself, rather than sending a hawk. “He may need some persuasion,” she says.
Indeed, when the healer arrives, he’s scowling. “Again?” he grumbles. “Again I am expected to serve you without pay, with only the promise of coin. You are fortunate you’re my favorite of the warlords. I will do this for you, but I am coming with you to wherever you’re accepting the ransom, to ensure that I get my rightful due before you give it all away.”
“I won’t give it away,” growls the Warlord.
“You will. Generous to a fault. That’s why you never have any coin to pay me.” The healer’s eyes sparkle with golden lights as he lays his fingers over the Warlord’s arm. Within moments, the Warlord can move the limb painlessly. He flexes his fingers and rolls his shoulder, testing it.
Zeha enters the tent with a hawk on her arm. “The girl’s parents will meet us at the mountain village,” she says. “And the Prince himself is coming, with some of his men. They have laid out the instructions for the exchange.” She passes a slip of paper to her brother.
The Warlord inspects the letter. “We leave before dawn, and ride across the Bloodsalt and through the mountains,” he says. “We should reach the village around sunset tomorrow.” He looks up at his sister, his eyes burning. “The girl stays in my tent tonight.”
“No.”
“I won’t jeopardize the arrangement, I swear. She will remain a virgin.”
I flush, twisting my fingers together.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, the healer shuffles out of the tent.
“I can’t trust the two of you together,” Zeha says. “This connection makes you both foolish.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” the Warlord replies, and for a moment I hear an echo of childhood arguments in his tone.
“You may be the oldest, but I’m the wisest.” Zeha gives him a tight smile, tinged with pity. “She’ll be in my tent. Come, Ixiana.”
Meekly I rise to follow her out.
“A kiss first.” The Warlord leaps up and drags me to him, crushing his mouth to mine, inhaling as if he longs to breathe me in. His hands cup my body tenderly, and I lace my fingers behind his neck.
“Gods,” Zeha says, exasperated. “Enough.”
With a final firm kiss, the Warlord lets me go.
56
That night, lying in Zeha’s tent in my bedroll, I dream that I’m searching for the Warlord. I’m wandering through a forest of white trees whose razor-edged leaves drip blood on the snow. There’s a figure ahead, massive and broad-shouldered, glazed with glossy red blood. I run toward that shape, my heart thundering—but Prince Havil steps into my path, cool and composed. Behind him stand my parents, looking dreadfully disappointed in me.