Chapter Two: Red

Olaia would not have slept at all if she knew the name of the man whose tumescence pressed against her backside early the next morning.

…

He woke. His captive lay quietly in his arms. She'd slept, but restlessly. He knew because every time she shifted, he'd stirred and tightened his arm around her. At one point, he'd rolled over and felt her turn too, pressing as much of her body as possible against his.

Goddess forgive him, he'd enjoyed the sensation of a woman tucked against him, her little sigh of relief when he turned and put an arm around her again. She buried her face in his chest and twisted a leg around his. The message was clear. He didn't move for the rest of the night, smiling despite himself. For all her forcefulness, the rebel queen was still human, still hungry for touch.

A wild animal, he reminded himself, loyal only to warmth.

Now he held her loosely, trying to keep her warm despite the unpleasant surprise he'd awakened to. He was uncomfortably hard, probably the result of sleeping beside a woman for the first time in…too long. Was he really so desperate for a woman's body that mere proximity could so rudely awaken him? She was his enemy, he'd known her for hardly a day, and she'd already set his own body against him.

All he knew was that he needed to take care of it before she woke. The alternative was too mortifying to consider.

Carefully, he pulled himself up and stepped over her, walking a few paces from the camp to relieve himself. The crisp air quickly put him right.

Returning to his tent with a fresh pitcher of water, he splashed his face and rinsed his mouth. He worked up a thin lather of soap and quickly shaved his head and face, more than ready for coffee, which he thought he could smell wafting from the Mess. He glanced down at the captive queen, curled up tightly now that the warmth was gone, still sleeping off what had been a punishing few days. Ten years ago, she'd been thrown into the midst of an upheaval, and now she was at the mercy of her enemies.

He pitied her.

…

She couldn't feel her hands, just the sting of the cord around her wrists. And then Egghead untied her.

…

The guard had changed halfway through the night. "She's unbound," he told them as he left for the Mess. "Let her sleep. Keep an eye on her until I return."

He hadn't gone five paces before he heard a scuffle and a yelp. "She's gone out the back!"

So much for mercy. "She'll go for the horses!"

…

She went for the horses and stopped dead.

"Red?"

A big chestnut stallion regarded her with dark-eyed suspicion, snorting nervously as she neared. Suddenly escape didn't matter. Olaia held out a hand and let him sniff her. Immediately Red's ears perked up. He nickered at her, recognizing an old friend. She stroked his neck with shaking hands.

"What are you doing here?"

Even as she asked her heart sank. The last time she'd seen Red, he'd carried her brother toward a battle he'd never returned from. So Red hadn't perished with his rider; he'd been stolen. By law of the battlefield, any of Annas' possessions rightfully belonged to the man who killed him, and Red wasn't a horse a good soldier would sell. She doubled over, feeling like she'd been struck in the gut. The man that killed Annas and stole his horse was there, in camp. Not a commander, the commander.

A Numair.

…

She didn't move as the commander cautiously approached, joined by soldiers who had come to investigate the commotion. He gestured for them to stay back.

That was his horse she was whispering to. Titan—a strong, loyal companion, but bad-tempered. He'd bite anyone except his rider.

But Titan only whickered softly as the girl stroked his forelock. The young queen slipped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his mane.

A few soldiers started forward, stopping only when the commander held up his hand, not taking his eyes off the girl.

Finally, she looked at him, limbs tensed like springs. The last time he'd seen her so keyed up, she'd shoved her palm up his nose.

"I know this horse," Olaia snarled softly. "You're the dirty bastard that stole him."

Despite his silent warning, one of his soldiers continued to creep toward the girl as she spoke. Lelana was young and eager, but she had little caution. A delicate hand might deescalate. Lelana's spear would do the opposite.

"Take a breath, child," he warned Olaia in a low, steady voice, drawing her attention away from Lelana. He held his arms open, hands down, but his legs were as tight as a bowstring.

"Don't talk to me, you filthy Numair! You killed my brother!"

Titan snorted and stomped his foot in warning, ears back. Olaia and the commander both looked at Lelana.

In an instant, Olaia was on her. The commander lunged. Too late. Lelana choked on her own knife and he stopped short with a spearhead pressed to his throat. The only thing that kept Olaia from bleeding him was the grip he had on the staff.

"Stand down!" he barked to his soldiers. "Put it down," he growled.

She fought, straining to tear the spear from his grip, but she'd lost the advantage of surprise, and in a contest of strength they both knew he'd inevitably win.

"Put it down," he repeated, softer this time.

"I'll…tear…your…throat out!"

He wrested the spear away; Olaia tore at him with her hands. Catching her firmly by the wrists, he hauled her away from the horses.

Two of his soldiers knelt at Lelana's side, feeling for her pulse. They rose with murder in their eyes.

She kicked and struggled. "You killed him!"

"Stop!" He shook her roughly. "For your own sake, child, stop!"

She'd managed to turn the entire camp against her in less than fifteen minutes and still she struggled.

Suske had arrived to investigate the commotion and stood nearby, ready for orders.

"Take care of this while I deal with her," the commander told his lieutenant, receiving a nod of confirmation. He dragged the girl out of earshot, growing angrier as they went.

He flung her to the ground, but she only sprang back up. Did she not realize he could break her? He wrenched her arm with enough force to snap it, but she twisted nimbly and brought her heel down sharply on his toes instead.

Damn the girl!

He caught her in a headlock with practiced efficiency, putting an end to their brief, unpleasant dance. Her torn, jagged fingernails carved trails of blood down his arm as she pushed and writhed to escape his grip.

"Stop!"

"No!" Olaia bucked wildly, but she had already spent most of the little energy she had left, each struggle weaker than the last.

"Stop," he said again, tightening his arm around her throat and jostling her, wanting her to realize how hopeless her struggle was, how easily he could snap her neck. "You killed one of my soldiers and now the rest are out for blood. Do you see how that could be a problem?"

"You…stole…" she gasped, still fighting to free herself even as he choked her. "You killed…!"

He remembered the prince, too small for his armor, sitting astride a big chestnut warhorse that he could barely control. A child. Knowing the king was dying and this young man would soon succeed his father. Thinking it was a mercy when he brought the blade down on the boy's neck.

He waited for her kicking to stop, her body hanging limply from his grip, before he let her go.

She collapsed, glaring at him and rubbing her throat as she gasped for breath.

"He fought well," he lied. "I gave him a warrior's death." That, at least, was true.

"Filthy Numair," she spat hoarsely. "If I'd known—"

He crouched in front of her. "My name is Solus, and right now, I'm the only one keeping you alive."

"Why? Are you afraid I'd be harder to kill than my brother?" Her hand darted at his face. If Solus' reflexes hadn't saved him, she would have had him by his very broken nose.

"Enough, child!"

"I'm not a child!"

Solus rose. "Get up." When she didn't move, he pulled her up by the arm. "We ride as soon as they've taken care of Lelana. That was her name, the soldier you killed."

"I've killed a hundred of your soldiers and I'd kill a hundred more for the pleasure of tearing out your throat."

"Then you really are a child."

"Fight me, Egghead!"

He dragged her back toward the horses while the soldiers struck camp around them.

Suske waited there, watching as two of his men carefully rolled Lelana in a fur. "Commander, about the body—"

"Tie her to the saddle and put the horse on a lead. We can bury her at the temple at least."

"It will be done. And the savage?"

"Bind her. Don't let anyone near her."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me there's still coffee," Solus muttered in a lower voice.

"The Mess has already been struck, I'm afraid."

Solus threw a baleful look at Olaia, who only glared back. How quickly she'd changed from a resourceful survivor to a petulant child. He stalked away, refraining from giving her a stinging slap across the face.

…

Olaia slid down the trunk of the tree she'd been tied to, watching as the soldiers silently tied Lelana's body to her horse. They pointedly ignored her, like she wasn't even worth a glance. She scraped a divot in the earth with her heel while soldiers packed up the cart and began to saddle their horses. Her gaze kept flitting at Lelana, just a pair of boots jutting out of the tightly rolled fur, a makeshift shroud.

Rana with an arrow in his eye.

Ohh gods, regret was an ugly feeling.

Solus returned with his horse tack, brushing and saddling his mount. He untied Olaia's lead from the tree and fastened it to his saddle.

"You'll walk," he said.

A stab of anger rose in her throat. "So the corpse gets a horse, but I don't?"

"Lelana was well-liked. Walk or be dragged."

"Why don't you just kill me and be done with it? What are you waiting for, Egghead?"

Solus grabbed her face, nose to nose with her. "Let's get something straight, girl. I'm under order to take you back to the palace alive. If I cared a little less for my word, I'd have your head on a pike by now. Don't. Test. Me."

He pushed her back and mounted his horse. Annas' horse.

The pace was quick but tolerable, no faster than the supply cart could manage. When she wasn't watching the ground, she glared at Solus' back, waiting for another chance.

Then a sharp crunch underfoot sent lightning up her leg.

…

Just as Solus was noticing how unusually quiet his prisoner was, a shrill string of expletives startled everybody in their saddles.

"Hey!" she shouted, hopping on one foot. "Stop!"

Don't engage her.

"I told you to stop!"

She threw herself back on her heels, making herself as heavy as she could. Confused, Titan stopped and looked back at the girl. The line went slack and she fell.

"Stand up!"

"I…have…a…cactus burr…in my foot!" she shouted back.

Solus nudged Titan into a slow trot, warning her, "I will drag you if I must!"

Damn that girl, she didn't even try to get up. She just let herself be dragged, kicking and trying to brush the burr off her foot while loudly announcing her progress.

"Gods damn it, it's on my trousers now! Ouch! Get…off…you little shit!"

Finally, Solus stopped, letting his soldiers ride on while he dealt with the savage. She'd stopped shouting by then. Kneeling beside her, he found her barely conscious, but her gaze still locked fiercely with his.

"Are you finally going to fight me?"

"You can't even stand."

"Coward."

He cut her free, hoisted her over his shoulder, and lifted her onto Titan. After digging through one of his saddlebags, he mounted behind Olaia and pressed an orange into her hands.

"Eat."

She threw the orange into a thicket of daggerclaw bushes. "I don't want your pity."

…

She regretted it in a few hours when the sun blazed at its zenith. Even in winter, the desert was hot. Slumped forward, she dozed, in and out of a feverish sleep.

Annas, smiling at her. Sneaking hand pies from the kitchens. Hanging a blanket from the branches of an orange tree, drinking hot, bitter chocolate and telling stories.

Solus, hot and solid behind her, the man she'd been betrothed to at twelve years old. The Numairs attacked the city when her ailing father passed. They'd never intended to keep their promise of peace.

The massive charger beneath her had once been a foal, difficult even then. Olaia had skipped days of tutoring to stay with Red night and day. She'd fed him, brushed him, cleaned his stall, sat with him, walked with him, and finally she'd ridden him. He'd trusted her, and she'd trusted him with her brother's life.

Annas in the saddle, his battle armor shining, never used.

She flicked Red's ear. "Traitor."

"Stop." Solus swatted her hand down. "Rest now. We're riding through the night."

…

With a few hours of restless sleep, Olaia had caught a second—or third—wind by the time they rode through the city. She felt groggy and grumpy, the insides of her thighs chafing. It had been too long since she'd ridden a horse.

The sun hadn't risen yet, the path lit by torchlight and large iron braziers, but people milled through the bazaar that never slept. Artisans sat behind their stalls, plying their trades, street vendors shouted and let the fragrant smoke of their food lure the hungry. Olaia's stomach grumbled fiercely. She regretted not taking the orange at midday.

"You haven't been in the city in years," Solus noted.

She realized she'd shrunk into him, away from the noise, the bustle. "I've never been to the city. I was shut up in the palace."

She gestured at the sturdy stone walls that loomed across the town square, the palace just a shadow against a dusky sky. Out in the desert, she could count stars for hours. In the city, not a single star brightened the heavens above the dark palace.

"What's going to happen to me?"

She felt Solus sigh behind her. "I don't know," he admitted.

"You—? Didn't your brother send you to find me? Didn't he tell you why?"

"I only make decisions on the battlefield. That's all he expects of me, and I don't ask questions."

"No guesses?"

Nothing.

"You think I'll be executed?"

Solus didn't speak until they'd crossed the square. Then, in front of the palace gates, he admitted, "I can't promise it won't happen."

"The champion returns!" a guard shouted ahead, a loud thump of boots and spear ends echoing in salute.

The gate squealed open. They entered the lower courtyard.

"Take the day," Solus told his soldiers, dismounting wearily. He helped Olaia down, walking her a few paces and beckoning one of the palace guards. "Wake my brothers," he said.

The guard nodded and hurried through the courtyard.

Solus looked at Olaia for a moment. "Come," he said. "Help me brush down Titan."

"You named him Titan?"

"Come."

Feeling like she didn't have a choice, Olaia followed him into the stable. He led Red to his stall and unsaddled him. She ran her fingers over the horse's neck, patting him gently. Solus gave her a comb and started to brush Red down. Olaia picked at the knots in his mane. He whickered and nosed her.

Solus regarded her over Red's back. "He doesn't take well to most people."

"I cared for him when he was a foal."

"I thought he was your brother's."

"He was mine first."

"But?"

"'Princesses don't ride warhorses.' And his name's Red, not Titan."

Solus patted the horse and regarded Olaia with a wan smile as she ruffled Red's mane one last time. "Let's go," he said, taking her by the arm again.

He led her from the stables and into the palace proper. Half walking, half dragged, she stared at the labyrinthine passages of her childhood. They'd hardly changed, as stark and severe as ever. It didn't feel real.

At least the floor was cool on her aching feet.

Too soon, they reached the great hall. Solus stopped and exchanged a glance with the footman, who nodded slightly. The heavy doors opened.

Olaia glanced at Solus. "Do you really think they'll kill me?"

He didn't meet her gaze. All traces of smile—of pity—were gone.

The great hall, familiar even in the dark. Servants had begun to roll up the tapestries to let in the first gray light of morning. The scent of vervain and salvia wafted from the gardens on a cold breeze.

Olaia shivered, caught in Solus' iron grip.

The great marble throne wasn't as big as she remembered, but the man on it loomed much larger than her father. Taller than Solus, but slimmer, King Eratos shared his brother's dead eyes and cruelly curved mouth. Three pairs of those cold, colorless eyes stared at her as the last brother Numair entered from the antechamber. Daravi.

"Welcome back, Solus," Eratos greeted him, though his eyes fixed on Olaia. "It's been too long."

"Clearly the past year hasn't treated you well," said Daravi. "Are those your undergarments?"

"You haven't changed at all," Solus greeted his younger brother coolly.

Daravi chuckled, slowly circling them, eyes narrowed at Olaia. "How does it feel to finally catch your wild rebel bride? Better late than never, right?"

Solus silently pushed Olaia forward.

She ignored the youngest Numair and stared up at the throne where the man who'd decide her fate sat.

"So the Wilding queen finally returns," Eratos murmured, leaning forward to scrutinize her. "You're much—"

"Taller in the stories," she snapped. "Why is everything about size with you Numairs?"

"That's your king, girl." Daravi's hand left a stinging red mark on her cheek.

"Touch me again, I dare you!"

Daravi raised his hand, but Solus' fist closed in her hair and yanked her back before his brother could strike.

"Don't," he growled in her ear.

Daravi turned to Eratos. "Her execution will draw quite a crowd."

The king hadn't taken his eyes off Olaia. "Should we kill her?"

"Why postpone the inevitable?"

Olaia stepped a little closer to Solus, as if she thought he might defend her, despite his broken nose, despite…Lelana.

Eratos glanced not a Daravi but at Solus. "You're the one who's lost good soldiers to her people. What would you recommend, Solus?"

…

He felt the distance close between him and the girl. She glanced at him, and he saw something he hadn't seen before, not even on the ridgetop. Fear on her face, a silent plea he wasn't sure she was even aware of.

Goddess, she was his enemy. She was dangerous. But he couldn't forget the smile she'd given him in the cave, her resourcefulness in the mountains, her strong grip as she hauled him out from under a boulder. Even Titan liked her, and Titan didn't like anyone.

He knew it would put him at odds with his brothers, knew it would win little favor with her, but she needed him now, and that felt better than it should. And, he reasoned, he owed her a life.

…

Silence for a moment, and when Solus spoke, his voice was quiet. "There's already unrest on the borders."

"There's always unrest on the borders," Daravi spit.

Ignoring his brother, Solus continued, "The outlands have been forgotten by all but the Wildings and their queen. Even you've heard stories. Kill a folk hero and you give them a martyr."

Daravi exploded. "Have you gone mad? Ten years ago, you would have slit her throat!"

"Ten years ago, she wasn't a rebel saint."

"It's your fault you didn't kill her properly in the first place!"

Solus' fingers tightened painfully on the back of Olaia's neck.

Eratos held up a hand. "Go on," he told Solus.

Olaia squirmed. Solus' grip loosened tolerably. "You don't have to silence her," he said. "Just give the rest of the Wildings a reason not to listen to her."

"How?" Daravi interjected. "Tell me, Solus, how exactly would you—?"

Eratos cut him off. "Let him speak, Daravi. There is wisdom in what he says."

"He speaks out of place, my king! He's a soldier, not an advisor!"

"How can you advise when you don't even know your own people?" Solus' voice dripped with disdain. "You sit here in the palace, twisting words and playing games while Qutania rots from the inside."

If her life weren't on the line, Olaia might have been intrigued by the brothers' squabbling. As it was, she didn't like the idea of either outcome. Execution or…whatever alternative Solus had in mind.

"Brothers!" Eratos raised his hands. "I will consider what you have said. In the meantime, Solus, take the girl to the dungeon. She can await judgment there."

"My king." Solus inclined his head. "Daravi."

Daravi scowled.

Solus jerked Olaia by the arm and dragged her from the hall, bristling furiously.

"Why did you speak?" he demanded once the doors had closed behind them.

"Why did you?"

"I shouldn't have. False hope is the last thing you need right now."

"You don't think they'll listen?"

"No."

He didn't speak again, leading her down the tight, narrow stairs to the dungeon and pushing her toward the jailor.

"Watch her," he warned the man. "If she escapes, I'll hold you personally responsible."

The jailor glanced between Solus and Olaia with nervous eyes. "Of course, champion."

Solus nodded once and left.

The jailor seemed to recover some of his confidence when the manacles closed coldly around Olaia's wrists. "I hope they leave your head out for the crows."

She said nothing as the jailor passed her off on a guard, who took her down another set of stairs and pushed her roughly into a cell. The door closed behind her with an ominous thud.

Old, damp straw lay scattered in one corner, two buckets tucked in another. Her feet had gone numb in the great hall, but they hurt on the icy stone floor. Down here, the damp clung like a wet robe, creeping into her bones. She slid to the floor near the buckets and wrapped her arms around her middle.

"There are two buckets," she muttered to herself. "One is water, one is shit." Sniffing, she coughed, "Both are shit."