You woke me.You are my Host.It is your right to name me.
Azul looked down at the pale coils on her arm, at the emerald eyes in the small serpent head.
"I'll think about it," she said.
In truth, she had contemplated, but no name had come to her.
Chapter 8
Thebenefitsofhavinga warlord on your side were many.One being that it would deter other tribes from interfering as long as he stood on your soil.Rumours of his protection would spread and linger long enough to give an Igwe a few years of peace.And because of this, the Igwe of the Ameachi tribe was in an especially good mood.Having yet to see war—only inheriting his title—confrontation scared him greatly.
The Ameachi tribe's great hall blazed with light and laughter as torches flickered against walls draped in indigo and gold.The Igwe, a broad man with grey threading his temples and eyes that missed nothing despite the jovial slump of his shoulders, raised his cup yet again.
"To the Great Khan!"he proclaimed, his voice carrying over the musicians and courtiers."May your journey through our lands be blessed by Anyanwu himself!"
Ragnar Valthorne raised his own cup, silver, and inclined his head in acknowledgement.Around him, his men sat scattered among Ameachi nobles like wolves among sheep.They ate little, drank less, and watched everything cautiously.
"The Igwe honours me," Ragnar said."I shall remember this hospitality."
The Ameachi ruler beamed, already deep in his cups, and gestured expansively."Sit, sit!You are too formal, Khan.We are all brothers here, are we not?What is a little drink between men of power?"
Ragnarlifted the cup to his mouth, pulling up the mask and letting the liquid wet his lips without swallowing.Beside him, General Thane did the same, his large frame somehow managing to appear relaxed despite his usually strict disposition.His brown hair was tied back, fairer than his Khan.Kasimir drank idly beside him, dark eyes scanning the crowd.Thane had barely touched his cup.
"She's getting bolder," Thane said finally, his voice low enough that only Ragnar could hear.He didn't say Sisi.He didn't need to.
Thane went on."One day the boldness will kill you, but you still won't move against her."
"I can't."The words came out flat, stripped of feeling.A son could not move against his father, and Sisi stood in her father's shadow.As long as the Great Kuraltai Khan lived, she was untouchable—and Ragnar's hands remained tied by the same blood that had taken him under his banner.It was merely an expensive, murderous tantrum.It hadn't killed him yet.
Not yet, as Thane would say.
Kasimir refilled his cup."The women of Tarsyn don't lose to the women of the Steppe."His eyes tracked a dancer across the room with cheerful appreciation."Now I understand the journey."
Thane rolled his eyes.
Ragnar leaned back and watched the dancers spin.
The evening wore on.More toasts were made.The Igwe's sons circulated among the guests, playing the role of gracious hosts with varying degrees of skill.
Ragnar watched them all.
The eldest—the Okpalaeze, by the deference shown him—glided through the crowd with a sensible smile, nodding and listening attentively to the noblemen that spoke to him.A handsome man, Ragnar noted.Charmingly so.The kind of charm that made women overlook the coldness behind his eyes.
Beside him walked a woman, veiled by a beautiful amber-jewelled fabric.She didn't speak nor meet anyone's gaze and simply floated at his side like a well-trained shadow.Her hands were clasped so tightly together, shoulders tense, bowing her head multiple times whenever anything was said to her.
Ragnar's gaze lingered.
Thane leaned close, his voice barely above a murmur."That one is a Borjigin princess.Married to the heir three months ago.She has her husband wrapped around her finger; he hasn't even impregnated his concubines because of her."
"Borjigin."Ragnar turned the word over."Are all their women like that?"
"Seems so.This one was a gift to cement an alliance.They say she's beautiful, but no one's seen her face since the wedding.I suppose she must be beautiful to be such a shrew."
Ragnar grunted, unimpressed.
The Igwe grew increasingly drunk, his laughter louder, his gestures more uncoordinated.His courtiers matched his pace, eager to please, until half the hall seemed in danger of falling off their cushions.
Ragnar, who had consumed only three sips of wine all evening, waited for the right moment.
