But she had no time left for hope.
“I am certain,” Elina said. Completely, utterly certain that if she didn’t soon return to her kingdom, she never would. The prophecy mattered little now. While she wouldn’t ignore the witch’s words—Elina needed every advantage when facing her uncle—she also couldn’t afford to wait for a barbarian warrior to drop into her lap as her enchanted jewels had.
An imprisoned thief would have to do.
Despite her reply, Serjeant Iarthil pressed, “It is not too late to change course, but it will be once the proposal is issued. You will be bound by your vow.”
“The serjeant only humors your quest to retake your throne, my queen. By his own vow, never will he lead you back to Aleron.”
Unbidden, Lady Faraine’s warning echoed through Elina’s mind. Determinedly she shoved it away. Her mother’s former lady-in-waiting had proved herself a treacherous companion, betraying Elina to secure her own comfort. The lady’s words could not be trusted—and Serjeant Iarthil speaking his doubts and urging Elina towards caution was not an attempt to prevent her from returning home. Of course he shared his doubts about her marrying an unknown thief. He was protecting her. Keeping her safe. Just as she’d heard him vow to their dying queen.
So Elina would not heed that traitorous woman’s warning. If Serjeant Iarthil was not loyal, if Nanny Char was not, Elina would have no one in the world left to rely on. And surely she could not be betrayed by everyone she loved?
Better that the curse take her first.
“I am certain,” she repeated.
Though worry still darkened his eyes, Serjeant Iarthil nodded. “It will be as you decree.” Then he gave to Elina a faint smile that lightened the heaviness in her heart and the weight of the crown. “Onward, my queen?”
As he’d said every time they’d left a place or encountered a new challenge. Only the increasing stiffness of the queen’s face reminded Elina not to smile back.
“Onward,” said she.
It was just as well that Serjeant Iarthil would speak for her while she wore the queen’s face, because Elina could not have made herself understood. Though she’d learned several languages on this long journey, she didn’t have the gift for them that Serjeant Iarthil did. At the prison, the warden spoke a dialect of the southern tongue that she could barely follow, and he claimed that the barbarian spoke it not at all.
“It’s the only reason the beast hasn’t met the executioner’s axe.” Clearly disgusted by the delay, the warden seemed about to spit on the dingy floor of his chamber, then glanced at Elina—who stood as silently as a statuesque figure made of gold—and thought better of indulging in such vulgar manners. “Lord Gleris still hopes to learn what happened to his stolen cargo. But no one speaks the eastern tongue.”
“I will ask him,” Serjeant Iarthil said mildly.
“You know it?”
“I do.”
“Well, then. Gleris can’t cry too much about what happens to the beast if I’ve got an answer for him. And no doubt the thieving fiend resold the whole lot.” The warden glanced at Elina again. “Though I don’t know that I ought to release him, no matter what you’re willing to pay. He slaughtered the guards escorting the lord’s cargo.”
Yet he was imprisoned only for the theft and not the slaughter? What manner of priorities did these Torrathians have?
Elina’s eyes narrowed. Seeing that slight reaction, the serjeant asked, “What was the cargo?”
“Ah…” The warden’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Laborers.”
Trepidation skipped over Elina’s heart. Not laborers. They would never be called cargo. So he meant slaves.
She could feel no sympathy for this Lord Gleris or any guards who held people captive. Let them all be slaughtered. Yet she was troubled, for the warden assumed the barbarian had resold them.
They’d come for a thief. But was he also a murderer and a fleshmonger?
A look from Serjeant Iarthil said he shared the same worries. Yet they would know nothing if they did not meet this barbarian. And they would not meet the barbarian without the warden’s cooperation.
Elina gave the slightest nod.
“We still wish to pay for his release,” Serjeant Iarthil said.
“But at what cost to all of us, to release such a man? To let him loose upon this kingdom?” The warden dithered, shaking his head. “Such a decision should not be made so hastily. I must think of the people of Torrath. Of their safety, you see.”
“We’ll be taking the barbarian out of Torrath.”
“I must also answer to Lord Gle—”
Serjeant Iarthil tossed a purse onto the warden’s desk. When words were insufficient, Elina’s gold spoke loudly enough.
The warden scooped up the purse with a sly grin. “Well, then. Let us go see if the beast wishes to be free.”
As only Serjeant Iarthil and Elina had entered his chamber, the warden hadn’t seen the score of knights and attendants who’d accompanied them. He briefly started upon encountering the two armored men flanking his door. His eyes widened before he nodded appreciatively. “A dozen knights ought to be enough to hold the beast. So long as you don’t give him a weapon.”
Serjeant Iarthil’s brows rose. “Does he have a weapon? Were his possessions brought here with him?”
“They were. Horse and saddle. A few rags, some coin. And a big, bloody axe.” If the warden noted how mention of the axe made several of Elina’s knights and attendants exchange looks, he gave no indication of it. “The horse was sold to pay for his meals, the coin was…misplaced.”
“We will take the axe.”
“You’re welcome to it. You there!” he called to a passing guard. “Hie off to the blade chamber, bring the beast’s axe to Sir Ginarthil here.” The warden seemed oblivious to the serjeant’s dour stare upon the mangling of his rank and name. “Oh, I say—that’s a fine way to get yourself about, your worshipness.”
The last he said to Elina, who’d settled into her sedan chair, which was smoothly lifted by the four porters at the fore and aft poles. Chardryn fussed over her, making certain the skirts of Elina’s robe and underdress draped just so before arranging the chair’s curtains to best frame the golden figure sitting inside.
Elina despised being carried about in this way. But she had little choice. Simply walking from the entrance of the prison to the warden’s chamber would have sapped her strength. Attempting to walk the full distance to the barbarian’s cell whilst wearing her heavy crown and raiments would be near impossible.
The litter served another useful purpose, however, by declaring her status and her wealth. Elina hoped to tempt a thief. Showing the barbarian thief that she was absurdly rich could only help persuade him.
At a nod of her head, the porters started forward. From the attendants trailing behind, Elina heard whispered mentions of the axe and the prophecy—all spoken in tones of rising hope.
Elina didn’t dare hope. She did not dare. Yet her heart pounded ever harder the farther into the prison they went, her blood surging at a dizzying pace, the witch’s words spinning unspoken over her tongue with every breath.