You will know it is he, wandering queen, because from the moment he first lays eyes upon your face, his heart will forever after compel him to follow.
His heart. Forever after.
If the witch had spoken true, Elina would be loved.
And if this was the warrior she sought, Elina would be loved very soon. The moment he looked at her. She longed for such a love until she ached.
But she didn’t dare hope.
The warden led them into a dank, narrow passageway. A rotten stench filled Elina’s next breath. Gods, no. This was not how her warrior would first look upon her—puking onto her golden slippers. In years past, she would not have even blinked at such a smell. That was before the curse and the illness made her stomach turn inside out at the slightest provocation. She gagged and fought her rising gorge, then almost cried her relief when Chandryn pressed a perfumed kerchief into her hand.
Ahead, the warden and Serjeant Iarthil had stopped in front of a wall made of iron bars, while her chair had not yet been carried beyond the shadows in the passageway.
The prisoner inside the cell wouldn’t be able to see her yet.
“Hold here,” Elina choked out, then put the kerchief as near to her nose as she could without smearing the queen’s face. May the gods forever bless Nanny Char, for the nurse had not doused the silk with an overpowering floral or musky fragrance, but with peppermint that cut straight through the stench.
Her breathing eased. Her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the single lantern lighting the antechamber. Other cells they’d passed had narrow slits in the stone walls to let in air and light. But no slits opened the walls of the barbarian’s cell, and she strained to see beyond the bars.
Her heart leapt into her throat as movement in the shadows accompanied the slithering of iron over stone. No true sight of him yet. Only the impression of something…big.
Serjeant Iarthil had a better view inside. Disquiet marked his voice as he asked, “You keep him chained even behind bars?”
“We must.” The warden stepped forward to nudge one of the bars—which rattled loosely in its anchor of stone—before moving swiftly back. “One pull, and he nearly ripped that one out. The chains don’t let him near enough to grab hold of them. Or us.”
“I see.” The serjeant moved closer to the bars.
“Careful, Sir Ginarthil!” The warden urged before sharpening his voice. “Beast! Come and show your face! And don’t you give any trouble, for a goddess is here to set you free. They paid a heap of gold for you.”
Elina could almost feel Serjeant Iarthil’s exasperation. The warden must have, too.
Defensively the man said, “I’m just calling him forward. He doesn’t understand a word, but he understands tone just fine. Just like a dog does.”
“Yet I do not see him come forward.” Turning back to the bars, Serjeant Iarthil spoke in a language she’d heard a few times in port cities along the Illwind Sea. In his youth, the serjeant had sailed east of that sea—nearer to the Dead Lands, the home of the barbarian clans, though he’d never entered that barren realm.
“What did you say?” the warden demanded.
“Only that I wish to speak with him. That I have a proposal for him,” the serjeant replied. Elina knew he answered for her sake, not the warden’s. He would translate for her everything that was said.
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?”