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“Serjeant?” Though her voice rose nasally, as if she pressed the silk harder to her nose, with that single word she demanded to know what was being said.
Bright pink overspreading his face, the man closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before turning to her. “He wishes to sleep at your side, Your Highness. Beginning this night.”
“He knows that I must be a maiden at my wedding?” The query was followed by another wet gulping.
“He does.”
“Then he may.”
Fiery satisfaction rolled through Warrick’s veins. “I will wed her, then.”
Chin high, she gave a single, regal nod after Serjeant Iarthil translated Warrick’s acceptance. Then she turned and retched, spitting out a thin and stringy mess onto the stone floor.
“Her chair!” Iarthil barked, catching her crown as it toppled from her head.
The porters rushed forward with her litter, followed by a stout, gray-haired woman who fluttered like a ruffled hen around the heaving queen. The gilded monstrosity wiped her mouth and clambered shakily into her chair. Quickly the fluttering hen drew the curtains closed but could not shut out the sound of the queen’s gagging and gasping for breath.
“Escort the queen outside and into the fresh air, Nurse Chardryn. I’ll finish here.” With the crown tucked against his side, Serjeant Iarthil waited until the gaggle of attendants had disappeared into the passageway before turning back to Warrick. “I suggest that you bathe before you come to her.”
Warrick would more likely need to bathe after. His own stomach heaved at the thought of touching her. Her age was no impediment. But he had hoped to at least respect the woman he finally bedded.
Yet too much was at stake to let his revulsion show. He could not risk losing the jewels. And he need not fully fuck her. Only make her crave his cock so badly, she would make herself vulnerable.
“Did you find the axe?”
The warden spoke as one of the measly-faced guards appeared, lugging a sack over his shoulder. The straining burlap had been sliced open by the heavy object within, a curved razored edge gleaming in the lantern light.
His old friend. Warrick grinned.
The guard let the sack thunk to the stone floor. He flicked open the burlap, showing to the warden the head of a steel battle-axe.
Iarthil looked to Warrick. “This is yours?”
“It is.”
“It has no handle.”
Because one of Gleris’s guards had known some small spells and had crumbled the handle to dust. It hadn’t mattered. Warrick hadn’t needed an axe to split the man’s skull.
He also didn’t need a handle to swing the axe. Not when something just as useful was at hand.
Wrapping the heavy links around his wrists, Warrick hauled back on the chains securing him to the stone wall. In an explosion of gray dust and stone chips, the iron loop anchored in the wall’s mortar gave way. The warden cried out for him to desist, then scrambled back as Warrick approached the bars. The prison’s abundant rat population had kept Warrick well fed—and had given him fleas—but now served another purpose. Ignoring the fool warden, he swept up a rat bone from the floor. With it, he opened the lock on his cell, then his manacles. He tossed them aside.
The chains he kept, coiling the iron links before looping them over his shoulder.
Through it all, Iarthil stood his ground, regarding him impassively. Likely wondering why Warrick had remained imprisoned when clearly he could have escaped.
Yet he didn’t ask. Instead he tossed to Warrick a heavy purse. “Buy for yourself a horse, clothes, weapons—whatever you require for a long journey—but do not discard that axe. Bring it with you. When you’ve secured your supplies, there is a road that follows the river north out of the city.”
“I know of it.”
“We intend to make camp at the three waterfalls that lie a half day’s ride north—and will expect you before the evening star rises. Make no attempt to approach us after dark, for I will not lower the camp’s defenses and risk any threat to my queen’s safety. If you’re late, wait for dawn.”
Was he hearing aright? Warrick was to be left alone to buy what he needed and then catch up to the queen’s escort? By its weight, the purse held a small fortune. Much more than required for a good mount and clothes. What was to stop Warrick from taking this and riding his new horse in the opposite direction?
Only his word.
Which meant that this was a test.
Warrick had seen the serjeant’s relief when he’d learned Gleris’s slaves were freed. Iarthil likely considered himself a man of honor. But he could not truly be. Not if he bound his honor to someone such as his queen.
Warrick’s honor was not bound to anyone. Instead it was bound only to what was right.
At this moment, that meant doing whatever necessary to return the Stars of Anhera to the goddess’s temple and break the curse that afflicted an entire kingdom.
