Just like the first night I met him, he’s a mass of intimidation, but even more so in full armor. I don’t envy the blacksmith that had to fit him for a chest plate.
Today, his usually unkempt shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His beard though, that’s as wild as ever.
He looks down at me, a sword at either hip and a helmet under his arm. He’s wearing his signature scowl, and his brown eyes are hard. He’s the epitome of a Fourth army soldier, right down to the wood piercing in his lip and the gnarled branched hilts of his blades.
“What happened?” I ask, though I can barely talk with my heart in my throat. My ears strain to listen, but I hear no sounds of battle. Everything is still quiet. “Is it going to be war?”
“Don’t know yet,” he says. “King Ravinger requested a face-to-face meet. Midas sent an envoy.”
My heart leaps. “So a negotiation, then? They might not fight?” Hope clings to my limbs like it wants to make sure it doesn’t get dragged away.
“Possibly. But Midas made a request too.”
I pause. “What request?”
“An offering to be made by us ingood faith.” He spits the term, like he doesn’t think it’s in good faith at all. “The bastard should be givingussomething. We’re the ones with the upper hand.”
I already know what the request is.
“Midas wants me.”
Osrik nods. “He does. The envoy had a very specific message from Midas. He told us, and I quote: ‘Bring me my gold-touched favored, and I shall let your King Rot have an audience with me.’” Osrik’s face twists in displeasure. “What a slimy, arrogant prick,” he says.
I’m not surprised by Midas’s message, just like I’m not surprised by Osrik’s disdain.
“And your king actually agreed? He’s handing me over, just like that?”
“Yep. Just like that.”
Now thatdoessurprise me, but I can’t even try to guess the way King Ravinger thinks or what he may be planning, though it makes me feel uneasy. It can’t be this simple, can it?
I let out a slow breath. “Well, it’s a good sign, right? That the kings are willing to negotiate terms? Anything is worth it to stop a war from breaking out.”
Osrik sighs at me, like I’ve just disappointed him. “I’ll never get how you fucking stand it.”
It. Midas. Being kept like a pet.
“I know,” I reply, and I also know that my voice sounds numb, because that numbness surrounds me.
Osrik grunts. “Ready?”
Yes. No.
The pendulum swings.
He leads me away from the tent and the camp, his stride so long that I have to take two steps for every one of his. We go up to the same embankment I stood on earlier, where five horses wait at the top of the slope, three with soldiers on them, two without.
“Can you ride?” Osrik asks.
I tug my gloves up, heart pounding, palms going slick. “Yes, I can ride.”
“Take the dappled one,” he says, and I smile at the black horse, admiring the sprinkle of gray spots on her chest. My mare is much shorter than Osrik’s horse. Honestly, I wouldn’t even be able to get up in the saddle of his stallion without a stepping stool.
Stopping in front of her, I give the mare a stroke before leaning down to make sure my leggings are tucked into my socks. “Need a leg up?” Osrik offers.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
He gives a terse nod and then seats himself on his horse, waiting for me to do the same. I carefully step into the stirrup and hoist my leg over, checking my skirts once I’m settled in the seat.
