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Another rattle of chain—louder, quicker. Then suddenly he was there, looming out of the shadows. Elina sucked in a breath. The cell was too dim to see him clearly, yet her impression of size held true. The barbarian was massive. Not only taller than Serjeant Iarthil by a full head but heavier, too. Wider shoulders, broader chest. All thick muscle that was impossible not to see, for a rag knotted at his waist provided his only covering. The lantern’s glow illuminated expansive swaths of skin smeared with dirt and the gods knew what else. Manacles gleamed dully at his wrists.
She could see nothing of his features or his eyes. Even if the dim lantern had allowed it, dark tangles of hair hung in his face.
Her skin prickled when the barbarian spoke. His voice was low and rumbling and deep, as if each foreign word came from the back of his throat instead of the tip of his tongue, as Serjeant Iarthil’s did.
The serjeant answered him in the same language, then said, “He asks what proposal I have. I told him that we could secure his release in exchange for a service done.”
A service. Elina wished to be more than a service. Or a duty.
But she did not dare hope.
“You offer release too hastily, sir,” the warden said. “Make certain he knows the executioner awaits unless he confesses what he’s done with Lord Gleris’s cargo.”
As the serjeant conveyed that, everything within Elina tightened, stilled—waiting for the answer. If the barbarian had resold the slaves, she would leave him to rot in his cage. Prophecy be damned.
The barbarian’s reply was short. “He asks what moon rose last eve.”
“The moon? What has that to do with anything?”
Serjeant Iarthil shrugged lightly before answering. He offered no translation but Elina knew what it was. Full. Last eve’s moon had been a full moon.
The lantern’s glow caught a flash of white teeth as the barbarian grinned. Amusement filled the rumble of his reply.
Relief filled Serjeant Iarthil’s. “He says that this dawn saw the cargo upon a ship, sailing back to their homes as free women and men.”
Constricting doubts eased their tight hold upon Elina’s heart. Happiness swelled within. For although she’d dared not hope, this barbarian was like Kael the Conqueror—and exactly the sort of warrior Elina needed at her side. He’d freed Lord Gleris’s slaves. Surely he would help free her people, too.
Elina hardly recalled commanding the porters to carry her forward and to set down her chair. Under the weight of her crown and robes, rising from the litter took all of her strength and left her trembling with effort—yet she would not let him see her weakness. Not yet. Soon enough he would know. But in this moment, she only wanted him to see the resplendent, imposing queen. Stiffening her spine, raising her chin, she stepped into the lantern’s glow.
He could see her face now. Though she could see almost nothing of his. Only the gleam of his dark eyes, narrowed upon her as he looked through his filthy tangle of hair.
Then the widening of those eyes…and the fierce joy within.
For the first time, she dared to hope. Stepping forward, she heard Serjeant Iarthil announcing her to the barbarian as the Radiant Queen of Aleron, who had a proposal for him.
Her proposal. Which according to Aleron custom, the queen had to make—it could not be spoken for her.
Elina prayed that she would not puke.
She moved the scented kerchief away from her nose and tried to speak the traditional words all in one breath. “Warrior of the Dead Lands”—truly she ought to have learned his name first—“I bestow upon you the honor of offering to you my hand in marriage, that you may be joined in glorious matrimony to the Radiant Queen and be named her splendid consort.” Oh gods, the stench wafting from his cell was worse than any she had encountered yet. Her stomach began to heave. Desperately she steeled herself to finish. “Warrior of the Dead Lands, will you vow to lovingly submit your flesh, seed, and heart to serve and protect the golden queen and all the citizens of her kingdom? Will you accept the honor of my hand?”
Warrick the Chained
Torrath
“Will you accept the honor of my hand?”
Marry this prideful, haggard monstrosity? If Warrick’s joy at seeing the Stars of Anhera on her fingers had not already bled into fury, he would have laughed in her golden horror of a face.
Best that he did not. Laughing before the queen’s man could translate her proposal would reveal that Warrick understood her northern tongue as well as the eastern tongue—just as he perfectly understood the warden’s southern tongue.
He hardly listened as the serjeant began relaying the proposal. Marry her? No. He would kill this gilded monstrosity for what she’d done to the people of Galoth when she’d stolen Anhera’s jewels.
