The procession went right to the steps of the palace. Eve patted the mare she had been riding and dismounted. The high stone walls blocked the sun, and she stood in the shade as the wind howled her return, evidence that her welcome would bring strife. She took in the thin air, needing two full breaths to feel full. She smelled the sweet yellow poppy scent. She felt an unbridled excitement to see her family again, but at the same time, the sadness of what she had to leave felt almost too much to bear. She worried for Michel—his body, his heart. She had kept away, afraid that showing him care and affection would rouse suspicion of their relationship. She did not want that to reach her father’s ears before she had a chance to weave her story.
Khuyag came around to hold her arm. She realized she had frozen in front of the high southern-facing doors. Inside, she could see the long-pillared room that led to her father’s high-backed chair, where he presided over meetings of the people. The juniper incense of her home reached out to welcome her, but she just wanted to turn and run back to Michel.
“Let’s go,Gonji,” Khuyag coaxed her through the entrance. “It won’t be so bad.”
At once, they marched down the corridor to her father’s study. There was no pause, no softness to her arrival. They traveled through the high hallways that were at once both French and Mongolian with a staccato rhythm to their feet. They climbed the stone steps to the second level. Through the open windows, she saw the family yurts in the valley. Eve knew she would have to speak very carefully to spare Michel’s life, giving her father the information he needed while avoiding the details of their relationship.
The soldiers believed Michel had kidnapped her. She said nothing, did nothing to dissuade their rumors, because to look desperate right now would only cause damage. The small directive she gave to Khuyag to treat Michel well, she knew, would be enough to keep Michel safe on their journey. It would be more difficult with her father. Having Michel to blame for her going missing and the death of the warriors would be the easiest solution in her father’s eyes, one that would avoid a war. Michel was not tribal, and nothing outweighed the wellness of the tribes.
Her father was not cruel, however. Eve felt confident she could express that Michel had helped her and deserved more than to be executed for the fault of others.
Her affection for Michel, however, he would not accept.
Too foreign, too far, even though they had French blood. Her father would never allow such a match. Her marriage, her union, would still be needed to heal the tribes. To her father, Michel and her feelings for him were expendable.
Shedid not believe their feelings were expendable, but her priority was to save Michel’s life by convincing her father to release him. Ill-timed emotions had no place now.
Khuyag rapped on the door. Eve prepared herself, and in seconds, the door swung open, and she saw her father—the solid, brilliant man she loved. He gripped her shoulders and ran his eyes over her face. She knew he was searching for any pain she carried.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Yes, father,” she replied.
At seeing him here once more, when she never thought she’d be again, a knotted ball of relief suddenly unspooled inside her. Tears came up and overflowed. Her father hugged her as though she were his young princess once more, the one who would cry her heart out to him at the unfairness of childhood things. It was always the case. Her strength would dissolve at the sight of her father, all her pain rising to the surface, waiting for him to soothe it.
“Eve,” he said once her shuddering sobs had subsided. “I am so sorry you had to face this all alone.”
“For most of my time away, I have been protected.” She chose her words carefully. She pulled back to look at him, to show him she was strong once more.
“Darling, I need to know everything that has transpired. Take a moment to compose, but we must discuss it all soon. I don’t want to rush you, but it is imperative that I take action. Timicin is here, and I must make a declaration.”
“Timicin ishere?” she asked, anxiety knotting her up once more.
“The eyes of the tribes are on us, my darling.”
“I can speak with you now, Father,” she said. “I do not need any time.” She hoped matching him with urgency could work in her favor.
He bowed his head to her. “I am proud of you, Daughter. I see your strength and your spirit have not diminished. I admire you as always. Whatever you have been through,” he said, taking her hands in his, “I know it has not been easy.”
“It’s been a trial,” she said with a conceding smile.
He dismissed Khuyag and closed the door before bringing Eve to the cushioned seats.
“Come,” he said. “Sit.” He guided her to a chair. “Start at the beginning, when you were taken from our land.” He paused, putting his hand over hers. “Do not leave out any details.” He gave her a knowing look. “Eve, I implore you.”
Eve nodded to her father. Calculating, she took a deep breath. She began her story.
ChapterThirty-Eight
That evening, Michel sat alone on a stone bench with his head hanging between his knees in a dark cell. There was a high, open cutout in the stone, and streaks of moonlight were coming into the space. He still wore the same clothes he had been wearing when they had been captured. He’d been given a blanket when he was left in the cell, which he had draped over his shoulders.
He had looked for escape every step of the way. Michel had lived a life where his future title gave him enough backing to avoid many situations. His skills with his sword and his ability to outthink opponents avoided the rest. This far east, though, nobody cared. He was no one. He had nothing. He meant nothing.
He felt hopeless. He tried to talk his way out of the cell, but the guards ignored him. Maybe they didn’t even understand him, and his skills with the language were as bad as Eve had said they were. He had tested his weight against the bars. They were more solid than him. He had no sword, no horse, no coin, no connections.
Worst of all, he had lost Eve.
He watched the moonlight change patterns across the floor as the minutes and hours drifted by. He did not have the will to lift his head. He only stared at the ground. At some point, he believed he ate something. At some other point, he drank. His body did not complain in those ways, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to remember. He had nothing to do or occupy him other than the tortured memories of Eve and the lights of his small prison slowly stretching across the floor.
