Olsa’s mouth pinches, and she throws me a vicious glare before wheeling her horse around and riding back to the others.
Zeha’s horse and the Warlord’s have just enough room to walk abreast as we pick our way down the mountain road toward the village.
“You’re really going to do this?” she says quietly to him.
“I am. It’s the right thing for our people.”
Zeha nods. “It is.”
I want to scream at both of them. I want to sob, and kick, and force them to take me back to the settlement—or force my people and the clans to get along. I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this—nor can I return to the North. Neither path ends well for us—so why can’t there be a third option? Some choice I haven’t seen yet?
I almost voice my grief and panic to the Warlord, but the rigidity of his huge body tells me he’s got enough on his mind. This is hard for him, too, and my protests and pleading will only make it more difficult.
Maybe this can be a temporary separation. Maybe I can talk to my parents, help them see his side of things. Maybe someday I can see him again.
I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
We’re entering the village from above, clopping along the cobbled street. I suppose they invested in cobbles to prevent erosion, given the placement of their town on the slope. The houses here are well-made, with coops and pens holding chickens, goats, and pigs. It’s chilly, but compared to the aching cold on the other side of the mountains, it feels almost balmy.
“A pretty place,” Zeha comments. “Our people will like it here.”
“Too bad all these families had to be shoved out of their homes,” I murmur.
The Warlord doesn’t respond, but I know he heard me.
“There they are,” he says.
Up ahead, the street levels out into the village square, with a well in the center. There’s a dark line of mounted soldiers stretched across the square, spanning its width on either side of the well, from one row of homes and shops to the other.
Glancing back, I see several of the Warlord’s people taking up positions along the street, bows in hand. A line of his warriors hold their swords ready, but they keep their distance behind us. Olsa is on horseback in front of them, her chestnut hair shining in the fading light.
My whole body is burning, blazing with nerves, and my inner voice keeps screaming,I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this.
57
When we’re close enough to see my parents’ faces, the Warlord dismounts and lifts me down. Zeha stays put, holding his horse’s reins as well as her own. Slowly the Warlord walks me toward my parents, his hand heavy on my shoulder.
My father’s face is pale with mingled anger and anxiety. My mother’s eyes blaze, and I think if she could incinerate the Warlord with her glare, she would. Beside them, Prince Havil stands amid his own guards, resplendent in gold brocade. Has he always been so short and slight? He wears an expression of haughty offense, not the caring kindness I remember. There’s no leap of excitement in his gaze when he sees me, no flicker of loving joy. Maybe he is pretending not to care too much, lest the Warlord’s people notice his eagerness and ask for a higher price.
“Here she is.” The Warlord’s deep voice rolls across the square.
Prince Havil lifts a white-gloved hand and speaks, thin and sharp. “Bring forward the money and take it to the brute.”
Two servants carry several bags of coin to the Warlord. He turns, gesturing to Olsa and one of his men, and they ride forward to accept the ransom.
“Now, give me my daughter.” My father’s voice—so dear to me, so precious. There’s a slight crack in it, the sign of his love. I smile reassuringly at him.
“Come to us, child.” My mother reaches out both arms.
The Warlord inhales, low and steady, as if he’s bracing himself. His hand falls from my shoulder. Leaving me free to move away from him.
I look up, but he’s not looking at me. His features are tense, and his fierce green gaze is fixed ahead. A muscle in his cheek flexes with hardening of his jaw, and his lips are pinned tight.
I place one hand on his chest, over the breastplate. Then I gather his hand and press my lips to his calloused knuckles.
My mother gasps.
My father speaks again, with a trace of horror in his voice. “Come here, Ixiana.”