Page 36 of Tristan
“We will, but we’re not done talking.”
“What more is there?”
“You need someone like me,” he declares. “You just don’t know it yet. You are better off with me than without me.”
Arrogant bastard.“How can you know that?”
“Elves cansee. We have visions.”
“I don’t believe in hocus pocus, Corrik.”
“Wait until you get to Mortouge, D’orhai. You will wonder why you didn’t. And Tristan? You aren’t nobody to me.”
I want to ask more questions, but one of the men from our guard barrels into the forest.
“Prince Corrik, come quickly, your sword is needed.”
CHAPTER 9
“Once upon a time, in the beautiful kingdom of Markaytia, there lived a young Warlord. He would get up every morning at sunrise to practice, not stopping until the last ray of sunlight would disappear from the sky. There were times he would travel with his father and his father’s men. Together they would protect Markaytia and the provinces surrounding Markaytia. Now, the young Warlord does nothing but sit on his arse while others do the fighting—like a maiden in distress.”
Using two rocks, I make like one rock is telling a story to another rock. “Why isn’t he a Warlord anymore?” I make the purple rock say to the green rock. “Because his husband is an overprotective, unreasonable, lout,” I respond to the purple rock, with the green.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew of the dangers we face,” the stone-faced warrior left to “protect” me says.
“We’re not yet outside the province of Dhrystone, I know the dangers of these lands.”
“And do you also know the dangers that follow us, youngWarlord?”
I glare at him in return but say no more. He shouldn’t be callingme that. No. I didn’t realize dangers followed them or us I suppose. What sorts of dangers follow Elves? Silence passes between him, and I until I can’t stand it. “What’s your name?”
His face breaks into a wry smile. “Diekin.”
“At least that one’s easy to say—Diekin,” I repeat to test it out.
“Very good. Now be a good little boy and go back to playing with your rocks.”
I deepen my glare. He may look at me as a faux prince, but I was Markaytian royalty once and I still think it brazen for him to speak to me like that. Besides, even if I am a concubine, I’m aroyalconcubine.
“Just who do you think—” It dawns on me mid-sentence, he’s been speaking fluent Markaytian all this time and that becomes more important. “How did you come by my home tongue?”
“Elves are proficient in many languages.”
“I know that, but why are you so fluent?”
His eyes smile thinking of something he’s not going to tell me. “I have known Markaytian a long time, but Corrik made all in the royal court master it when he knew he was to marry you.”
“Royal court? Who are you?”
“I thought you would never ask—I’m Corrik’s brother-in-law. I am married to his twin sister.”
“Brother-in-law? Corrik has a twin?”
“Yes, only she’s prettier.”
I doubt there’s anything prettier than Corrik. “How many siblings does Corrik have?”
“Five hundred and seventy-four.”
