That was it, then. The loyalty Amarande had worried over now out in the light, a truth. A danger. Osana was with Luca—the Warlord’s spy and the Warlord’s target, together—and the princess was the one who had allowed it. Encouraged it. Vouched for it.
Amarande was going to be sick. Bile rose from her gut, the stench cutting through her nostrils as she swallowed. She couldn’t show weakness to this girl, not like that.
“Do not look so betrayed, Princess. Osana has always been good at telling tales, and the best tales have some truth to them, from what I understand.” The Warlord swirled a hand in the air, moving on. “Anyhow, today was nicely done as well. Not nearly as successful, I’m afraid.”
The Warlord gestured to their bound bodies and forced postures. Taillefer coughed, punctuated by a pained wheeze and a dribble of blood on the fine rugs. The Warlord sighed at the sight of yet another ruined carpet and set her shoulders at a haughty angle.
“And one might wonder, knowing as gifted as you are…” Amarande felt an eyebrow lift. “Why, after escaping the Warlord’s caravan, would you come back here? With a guard in Ardenian colors, no less?” She let those questions hang, lilt mocking. “Is it pure ego? Stupidity? Or perhaps motivated by something more palatable yet still idiotic in its pure form—love?”
Though she’d braced for it, it took everything Amarande had not to look away as Luca’s presence barreled into the room.
It didn’t matter, though; the Warlord’s voice veered from lilting to joyfully cruel. “Tell me, Princess, you wouldn’t happen to know much of the pro-Otxoa rebels, would you?”
Again, Amarande said nothing. Though the first rolling drip of fear slid down her spine.
The Warlord swept closer, but not in range for a head butt, shoulder strike, or hip thrust. Her voice warmed with her guest’s cold shoulder. “Come now; surely you have something to say on the matter.”
Amarande glared ahead. Giving nothing. She would be stone until the end of time, or until this girl dared to come within striking distance.
“Perhaps your guard can help persuade you to answer.” The Warlord drew a blade from her hip—a dagger with a slight curve. Grabbing a fistful of short blond hair, she wrenched Taillefer’s head back, exposing the length of his neck. She placed the sharpest arc of the knife edge against the pulse beneath Taillefer’s chin.
A move like that was meant to garner a visceral reaction.
Amarande did not flinch.
Focus unbroken, Amarande gave Taillefer the only leverage he might get in this situation, though she was not convinced it would keep him from turning on her. “That is not my guard—he is worth more to you alive than dead in the name of persuasion. This is Prince Taillefer, the heir to the throne of Pyrenee.”
The Warlord did not remove her blade. “Interesting. I thought you would lie.”
“I do not lie.”
The tyrant laughed. “Yes you do. We all do. Even if you are untruthful because you want to protect someone, it is still a lie.”
When Amarande said nothing, the Warlord pressed harder and red slashed across the knife edge, his skin nicked. That is when the prince started to laugh, the sharp edge catching his skin more with the movement.
“Warlord, you misunderstand our relationship,” Taillefer clarified. “The princess has been wishing me dead for days now. She isn’t protecting me; she’s simply alerting you to the fact that you do not have the leverage you think you have. Slit my throat and she won’t blink an eye.”
“From what I have heard about you, Princeling, I am surprised you have lived long enough to face my blade.” Again, her attention turned to Amarande. “But I suppose perhaps even the Warrior King’s daughter might spare the greedy prince who rescued her.”
She knew of the rescue?
Amarande ground her teeth together. She would not be baited.
The Warlord removed her dagger only to use its tip to lift Amarande’s chin so that the princess had no choice but to look her in the eye. The Warlord knew what she was doing. The pressure was enough that any sudden movement from the princess—even a careful attack—would drive the point into her windpipe. Amarande’s pulse bucked against the cold steel, Taillefer’s blood marring her skin, but she did not glance away.
“Princeling, I did not think she was protectingyou.Rather, she is protecting herlove—lying by omission.”
Amarande’s skin throbbed against the blade, blood thundering past, under pressure. “If you do not lie, Your Highness, you must tell me what you know of the resistance and their newfound leader. Luca, the lowly stableboy with an auspicious tattoo, who moved acertainprincess to abandon her kingdom, and now is asking the foolish to die with him as he tries to build a throne of his own.”
Defiant, Amarande did not look away as hot tears whispered in her eyes, first as a gleam, then enough to well.
The Warlord’s face covering shifted—a definite smile.
“Yes, I know all aboutLuca,the much-awaited Otsakumea. I know of his great height, golden eyes, handsome dimples. I know of the wolf over his heart. And I know he seeks his destiny not for himselfbut for you. To be the prince you can marry to gain your crown, besting those inconvenient laws that stand in the way.”
The blade pressed harder, forcing Amarande to arch her back along with her neck, the Warlord purposefully setting her at an impossibly uncomfortable angle. “I can only assume he expected you to join him. But you arrived home to a welcoming committee that did not appreciate the sight of your face. I know that this princeling rescued you for his own gain. And that he is too late.”
“You know nothing,” Taillefer answered, lips curving into his fox grin.
