Page 76 of Crown of the Dunes

“General Warrick,” I cut in, making both the archons start. “Perhaps Doran would be interested in initiating an exchange as well. Surely there are farms in Doran as well?”

He folded his arms across his broad chest. While sweat glistened on his forehead and dampened the shock of copper hair falling across his face, he still wore a gray and white pelt draped over his shoulders.

“We do have farms,” he admitted. “But winter in Doran is long and hard, and we have no grain to spare. Our people also must rely on hunting, and times grow even leaner with armies to supply.”

Calix shot him a sidelong look of annoyance at the mention of the war between the two nations, which seemed to have reached its fingers past the walls of Kelvadan.

I breathed out heavily through my nose. “Tell me. If Doran is unwilling to send men to fight for Kelvadan or food to feed our people, why did you bother to come at all? You’ve spoken of trading for horses, yet you don’t have anything you’re actually willing to give us in return.”

Malachi, the Archon of Justice, stepped forward, already opening his mouth as if to repair damage caused by my words. Warrick cut him off with a huff of amusement.

“My king has authorized me to use one bargaining chip.”

I raised my brows at him, resisting the urge to tap my foot in impatience.

“Doran has made machines of war—devices that would not be useful to nomadic clansmen who fight man to man in small skirmishes. But they would be invaluable in the defense of a walled city.”

I leaned forward in my chair. While hunger was an enemy that already pounded at the city gates, Izumi might still lead the nine clans against Kelvadan. She was not as formidable a threat in my mind as Lord Alasdar or Erix had been, but with the people hungry and divided, an attack would be devastating. As terrifying as these machines of war sounded, I could not turn away a promise of safety for Kelvadan.

“And why do you only mention this now?” I asked.

Warrick uncrossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Because I have decided not to trade them to you. I prefer to bet on the winning side, and you are not a true queen.”

It was as if I had stepped under one of the cold streams of water that poured down from the icy tops of the mountain. The wooden arms of the throne creaked in my grip.

“If I recall,” I gritted out between my teeth, “the clans that attacked were driven back by the riders of Kelvadan. That makes me the winning side.”

“They were not defeated,” Warrick argued. “Their leader surrendered to you, despite clearly having the upper hand. I have waged war long enough to know that one retreat does not mean the enemy is vanquished. No more than it makes you a queen.”

I stood abruptly. Calix and the archons took a step back, but Warrick did not budge. My hands trembled where I balled them into fists at my side, and I grit my teeth. Despite the gold jewelry decorating my ears and the intricate cuffs around my upper arms—the fine green tunic and the embroidered red sash—the way Warrick stared up at me in defiance told me he saw past the trappings of a queen.

He saw the filthy exile beneath my skin. The wild, caged thing that had scared my parents away and may yet frighten the people of this city.

But if that part of me knew anything, it was how to fight back.

“If you doubt my ability to protect this city, perhaps you would like to test it for yourself,” I said, my eyes flicking meaningfully to the axe hanging from his belt.

“You offer to duel me yourself?” he asked.

“I offer to duel anyone who threatens the safety of this city,” I confirmed.

A nervous chuckle escaped from Calix, who had been watching this exchange with wide eyes. “Perhaps these negotiations have gotten a little out of hand.”

“On the contrary, I think Queen Keera and I are finally starting to speak the same language,” Warrick declared, his icy gaze not leaving me.

I walked down the stairs from the raised throne, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous stone room, and stopped just before him. Despite my height putting me at eye level with most riders in Kelvadan, I had to raise my chin slightly to meet Warrick’s eyes.

“If I defeat you, you must recognize me as Kelvadan’s rightful queen,” I said, voice deathly quiet. The challenge came straight from the dirty exile hiding beneath my fine clothing—the one who would go to any lengths to belong. The one who’s blood boiled at Warrick’s insinuation that I would remain an imposter—an outcast—forever and wanted to force him to eat his words.

Warrick offered a jerky nod. “And if I emerge victorious, then Kelvadan must swear to never supply Viltov with horses.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. He had goaded me into a fight, and by the laws of the clans, if I backed out now after issuing a challenge, my power would be all but forfeit. While not all in Kelvadan ascribed to the ways of clans, my claim to the crown was shaky enough as it was.

The corner of Warrick’s mouth twisted up, telling me he knew what he had done. If I agreed to his promise and lost, I would lose the most powerful bargaining chip Kelvadan had in securing food for its people.

I swallowed. “I agree.”

Titters ran through the assembled riders and archons. It was almost as if the crack that ran through the floor widened, and Warrick was the one with a hammer and chisel, prying it open.