CHAPTER39
AMARANDE’Sjaw tightened as the gilded tentpole of the Warlord’s home came into view, smoke curling around it, reaching for the brightening sky.
The princess spit grit from her fight back to the earth.
Fear, blood, loyalty—not a one should be owed to a person who would poison her own and corral them in their encampment under penalty of death if noncompliant. This Warlord, this person who shared Amarande’s mother’s legacy, who was threatened most by Luca’s every breath, was everything a leader should not be.
The Warlord was not a monarch. The people did not kneel. But they were on their knees no less, “free” as they were from the shackles of royalty.
And now that Amarande knew the Warlord and caravan knew of not only the resistance’s plans but also Luca’s name—there was but one way to solve that.
Her father’s saying—Survive the battle, see the war—rang in Amarande’s ears as they made their final approach, but at that very moment in time she could see nothing else other than running a blade straight through this person’s heart.
Killing the Warlordwasthe war.
For the people, for Luca, for the future of the Torrent.
There was no way around it.
Their captors brought them straight into the entrance of the large blue tent, no introduction. It was not a surprise that the Warlord expected them.
Amarande and Taillefer were deposited on their knees in front of a roaring fire.
The tent seemed empty save for the silhouettes of the finer things in life, positioned around the corners that were not burned from view by the fire before them. Beneath them was a rug, finely woven, andsofter than anything either of them had touched since the wedding night.
Without a word, the guards swept out back the way they came, surely within striking distance at the first sign of distress. Still, Amarande’s mind was already running through ways to get free despite her arms tied behind her back and her legs lashed together at the thighs.
Head butt, shoulder strike, hip thrust—any could push this person off-balance enough to send them into the fire, where the flames could do the rest. A combination that stole consciousness before the flames hit would be best—one scream would ruin any chance she had to clear the binds at her legs that sapped the possibility of a speedy escape in the chaos that was sure to follow.
Taillefer would likely be no good to help, even if he wanted to.
Shoulders shaking in their binds next to her, he wheezed and coughed, blood in it splattering onto the fine weave of the rug. That cracked rib of his had caught the base of a lung—Amarande was sure of it. And, given his affinity for the natural arts, Taillefer likely knew it, too.
The slightest dark movement wrenched Amarande from her thoughts.
“The Warrior King’s daughter, in the flesh.”
The Warlord’s voice stretched across the space, from somewhere beyond the flames. It was feminine—and Amarande wasn’t surprised that her mother had passed along the title to another woman, too. Somehow, the voice seemed familiar, though it was not one Amarande recognized.
After a long moment of carrying the weight of a stare she could not see, Amarande blinked as the Warlord stepped out of the shadows and into view.
Though in the private confines of her tent, the Warlord’s face was covered, muslin draped about her head the same shade as her flowing robes of sea blue. The secretive identity was meant to intimidate, as all masks were. But Amarande felt an immediate sense of relief that this Warlord did not share her face because it might mean they would live long enough to attack.
The Warlord’s chin dipped, as she made a show of inspecting the princess. The filthy trousers and tunic, caked in a paste of blood,sweat, cinnamon dirt, quicksand, and creek water; hair a tangled and muddied mass at her shoulders; her face—obviously recognizable despite a layer of grime and wear of sleepless nights. “I’ll admit, you’re much smaller than I expected.”
Unblinking, Amarande addressed her faceless opponent with a strike disguised as the truth. “I am told I take after my mother.”
She watched the muslin, hoping this successor might stumble into an admission. But Geneva had trained her to avoid the truth much better than she’d taught Ferdinand.
“Indeed.” The Warlord’s voice gave no hint of understanding. “I was hoping we would meet in person, as I’ve only previously met the ghost of your presence, bloodying up our guards and setting the whole line of captives free—quite the performance.”
Amarande said nothing.
“I’ll admit I initially did not believe it could be you. But when you convincedmy sisterto abandon us, I knew it could only be this myth of a girl—the Warrior King’s daughter.”
A drop of recognition buzzed in the princess’s throat. It could be a lie, of course, but it felt like a boast. And a confirmation. “Osana.”
“As intelligent as you are violent. Of course.” The way this girl said it did not seem to be a compliment. “She spied for us, of course. My men would take her out and ‘capture’ her every few days. Then she would sit in our pen for a day or two—eavesdropping on the girls as they rotated through. She was not my only trusted hostage, but she was the only one who took her role too seriously when she escaped with you.”
