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The flap of his tent stirred, and Valdemar stepped inside. He had cleaned himself, changed out of his clothes. He looked put together, almost. Changed clothes, and a changed man. Things couldn't have been going more according to plan.
"Well fought," Gunnar said from his seat in the dirt.
"I wish it had been under better circumstances, my friend." The expression on Valdemar's face wasn't what Gunnar had expected. He had expected pride, or happiness. Perhaps even mockery. The last thing that he had expected was disappointment.
"You won it fair. Command is yours."
Soothe his ego. Make him think that he had nothing to fear.
"And that's how I intend to keep it," he said softly. "Ragnar, Erik, come in here."
Ten
Deirdre barely registered what was happening as the boy started walking her back to the prisoners' wagon. She had been so close, little more than a few minutes away from being able to walk out a free woman. If Gunnar had only said the words to her, made the promise, she knew that one of the others present would have enforced it.
The way that they looked at him, she was incredulous that they hadn't just stepped in and prevented Valdemar from taking power the way that he had. Something about being strong, powerful men had stopped them, no doubt.
Damn them for that.
She was given more slack than before, presumably at the instruction of Valdemar. No doubt she was supposed to start making herself useful as a healer-woman. It was something she was good at, so at least she had that in her favor.
But on the other hand, the more that she healed these men, the more who would die by their hands. It put her in the uncomfortable situation of needing to decide, how far was she willing to go in the pursuit of the ideals that she'd learned?
She had to accept the reality now, if she was going to change it. That was the first thing that she'd learned, the only thing that really stuck with her through her training in reading entrails and tea leaves and the weather.
The future isn't written in stone—but you had to accept what the prevailing wind was before you could divert it. Otherwise you were just lying to yourself.
Deirdre wasn't going to be let free. That much was clear from the outset, they had no intention of ever letting her go. Either they would kill her, or they would keep using her to heal their wounded, but she had little hope of being let go under Valdemar's rule.
Saying the words to herself, even in her head, sent a shock of electricity up her spine. Words, thoughts, they all had power. Not necessarily the magical power that some seemed to attribute to her. Not the power of sorceresses and warlocks that they told about in the stories.
But certainly, they had the power to change men's minds, to poison their hearts. To incite terror and love at odds. To push them to think things that would never have occurred to them, ideas they would have pushed away… if not for the right words, at the right time.
She looked at the younger man, checking his body for wounds. He hadn't opened his eyes more than a few moments at a time for the entire time that he had been in the cart. If nobody intervened, she suspected that he didn't have long in this world.
The thought was strangely numb, and mixed in with the rest of her thoughts as if they were all one and the same. The realization that his death might be so near… yet, she didn't care either way. If she could save him, then she would, but if she couldn't, what would it change?
Would it make her free? Would it grant her some glory in the eyes of their barbaric Gods? Would the church suddenly welcome her with open arms?
The only wound she could see was in his leg, a deep gouge. The entire thing was red and puffy, and though he appeared to be asleep, when she touched it lightly, the boy writhed and groaned in pain.
An infection that bad could kill him, regardless of what she did for him. If she was going to do anything—the best time would have been days ago. The second best was immediately.
"Alcohol," she called out of the wagon, and she was surprised when someone poked his head in an instant later, quizzical. "Get me some alcohol, now. Go!"
He ducked back out and only a moment later, a bottle of something clear in his hand. She pulled the cork, and smelled—the strong medicinal smell came straight through. That was the right stuff.
She poured a generous amount, halfway enjoying the writhing agony that it seemed to send the boy into. She shook the thought out of her head. She had to think, and she couldn't afford to act like a shrew. She had to be smart, now, not emotional.
If she wanted to get away, how was she even going to do it? They were surrounded by two-score men, at least five of them standing guard around the camp at any time from what she could see.
The rest of them were looking around nervously, constantly at attention for something coming. It was easy for Deirdre to forget that they were soldiers in enemy territory. Clearly, for them, it wasn't nearly so easy, and it showed in the way that they made every effort to protect themselves from attack.
Sneaking past them would be impossible, and so would fighting. No, she'd have to try again to work her way into the group's good graces and earn her way out of here. Now that it was Valdemar instead of Gunnar, she was starting over.
Only, he seemed to be much more interested in her utility moving forward, and that meant that she needed him to be extra-fond of her. How on earth she was going to do that, she couldn't have begun to guess.
After all, she hadn't even been close to her teacher. The townsfolk had shunned her before she'd even begun living with the witch, and then they hadn't even spoken to her.
