It was not ideal, but he’d worked for six years to have this meeting. And he would have it. Unarmed and alone was worth it for a chance at peace. To finally negotiate with this person who had orchestrated the murder of his royal friends. Whose very leadership led to bandits and raiders crossing into Ardenia to steal from people whose peaceful existence made them a target.
“Koldo” He nodded to his general, a lock of sunset hair falling forward, the words both a good-bye and an order. No matter whathappened inside that tent, the general would keep Ardenia safe. Keep Amarande safe.
Two of the Warlord’s women moved before him, an escort. He walked between them. In twenty paces, the escort split on either side of the entrance, stepping beside twin torches driven into the soft earth, and pulled open either flap of the curtain, revealing nothing but blinding light and palpable heat.
The Warrior King stepped into the tent. A figure stood so close to the fire it almost appeared to be formed of smoke. Backlit. Black. Swathed in the blue and white of the hottest flames.
The figure turned. Stepped forward.
The king’s knees weakened. Something that could have been fear stabbed straight through his heart.
Real. She was real.
“Hello, Sendoa.”
Under several days of ginger scruff on the Warrior King’s cheeks, all color drained until only the blush of a Torrent sunburn remained atop his nose and cheekbones.
He stared at her uncovered face, cataloging features mirrored upon his own young daughter. Clear eyes, full lips, tapered chin. What’s more, her frame was commanding though it was slight—his daughter would be this way, too, as she grew.
Sendoa tried to speak. His tongue shriveled in his mouth. All the moisture in his body seemed to turn to dust. He could only utter a single word.
“Why?”
The woman smiled at him, the disdain in it sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
She began pacing—her steps as powerful and cutting as the edges of her tone.
“Why did I leave you? Why am I here? Why in the stars would I agree to meet with you and show my true face?” She strode up to him, close enough to reach up, place her palms to his cheeks, and smile into his eyes as she’d used to. She’d always been petite, more than a foot shorter than he, and yet at that moment, Sendoa felt she’d surpassed him in stature. “Or should it be ‘how’?How did I build this? How did I do it under your nose? How did you not know?”
The Warlord felled the Otxoa eight years before. This woman, the mother of his child, the so-called Runaway Queen, Geneva of Basilica, had left little more than six years before. Voice still strangled, he spit out the question she wanted to hear. “How?”
“The Warlord is an idea, not a person. A shame you never suspected.” She cocked a brow at him. “You came here to meet with the Warlord. The person who killed your regal black wolf friends and burned their castle to ash. The person who rose up on a wave of support from those sick of monarchy, sick of not having a voice. I am not that person, but I am no less beloved.”
“Beloved?”It came out as a curse. One word and his full voice returned. The pressure retreated from his eyes. “The Warlord’s rule has made the Torrent uninhabitable to anyone other than bandits, thieves, mercenaries. You are not beloved—you arefeared.”
The Warlord did not blink.
“Untrue. As you leave, look around this camp, Sendoa. Families live here. Children play and sleep tight. They are free.” She bared her teeth. “I keep them safe with perception and reputation, not unlike yourself,Warrior King.Is your army truly the world’s best, or is that reputation simply armor forged in whispers and not actual battle?”
The Warrior King did not take the bait.
“Is it true what you do to maintain your reputation?” he spit, gaining steam fed by righteousness. “Forcing your people to always move, never put down roots? Burning dissenters alive to spark your fire pits? Cultivating a culture where stealing is better than a hard day’s work? You create chaos and purposeful interference—your people can’t sit long enough to realize the faults in their way of life.”
“‘Purposeful interference’—quite the phrase.” She tilted her head at him and the length of linen tossed over her shoulders—a covering for her face anywhere but this tent—went with it. “Let us go back to the beginning. You are surprised to see me, yes, but there is more than one reason you did not expect my face.”
Again, Sendoa’s cheeks drained of their color.
With new eyes, he tried to read this woman she’d become.
A smile cut across her beautiful face. “Oh yes, Your Highness, I know exactly who you expected to be in this tent. Jericho Talmage, bandit of the red sands, rebel rouser, enigmatic organizer. His reputation, like yours, is one of legend.” Sendoa looked away. “But you know all of that. Becauseyouinstalled him.”
The Warrior King did not reply.
“Why did you need to conscript your men and women into the ‘world’s greatest army’? Not for some altruistic reason that allows your people to feel powerful and safe. No, because you needed bodies. Why did you need bodies? Because you were busy overthrowing a vulnerable kingdom.”
Sendoa’s jaw worked as the facets and angles and possibilities flashed through his mind. There was no strategy for this. He was behind the curve. Finally, the king asked, “Where is Talmage?”
