Laurell Hamilton - Never After

Time answers all things, said the little girl. They are tragic creatures, as are all who become imprisoned in the palace of the queen. But nothing lasts. Not even the queen. One day, perhaps a day I will see—though surely you will not—she will fall. But the Tangleroot will outlast her. She has dreamed too well. Magic has bled into the bones of that forest, into the earth it grows from. Magic that is almost beyond her.

But not beyond you, she added. You are your mother’s daughter. You are a daughter of the Tangleroot.

Sally stared down at her hands. “Did my mother know you?”

But the little girl who was the soul of the oak did not answer. Nearby, though, Sally heard a shout. Her father. Sounding frantic and angry. She tried to sit up, concerned for him, and saw the old man limping quickly down the path to the pond. She heard low cries of outrage behind him—gasps from the maids, and more low shouts.

Her father’s face was pale and grim. “Salinda, I am sorry. I have been a fool, and I pray you will forgive me. When you left, when I almost lost you, I realized… oh, God.” He stopped, his expression utterly tragic, even heartbreaking. “I will do everything… everything in my power to keep you safe from that man. I should not have agreed to such a foolish thing, but I was desperate; I was—”

Sally held up her hand, swallowing hard. “The Warlord’s envoy is here?”

“The Warlord himself,” hissed the old king, rubbing his face. “I looked into his eyes and could not imagine what I was thinking. But your mother… your mother before she died spoke so fondly of her friend and her son, and I thought… I was certain all would be right. It was her idea that the two of you should meet one day. Her idea. She could not have known what he would become.”

Sally held herself very still. “I would like to meet him.”

“Salinda—”

“Please,” she said. “Alone, if you would.”

Her father stared at her as though she had lost her mind—and perhaps she had—but she heard footsteps along the stone path, and her vision blurred around a man wrapped in darkness, flanked by a giant and a bear. Sally covered her mouth.

The old king stepped in front of the Warlord and held out his hand. “Now, you listen—”

“Father,” Sally interrupted firmly. “Let him pass. I’m sure you don’t want to test those homicidal tendencies that the man is known for. What is he called again? Warlord of Death’s Door? Or maybe that was Death’s Donkey.”

“Close enough,” rumbled the Warlord, a glint in his eye as the old king turned to give his daughter a sharp, startled look. “Your majesty, I believe I have an appointment with young Salinda. I will not be denied.”

“You,” began the king, and then glanced at Sally’s face and closed his mouth. Suspicion flickered in his gaze, and he gave the Warlord a sharp look. “If you hurt her, I will kill you. No matter your reputation.”

“I assure you,” replied the Warlord calmly, “my reputation is not nearly as fierce as a father’s rage.”

The old king blinked. “Well, then.”

“Yes,” said the Warlord.

“Father,” replied Sally, twitching. “Please.”

She felt sorry for him. He looked so baffled. He had tried to marry her off to the man, and now he wanted to save her. Except, Sally no longer wanted to be saved. Or rather, she was certain she could save herself, quite well on her own.

The old king limped away, escorted by the bear and giant, both of whom waved cheerily and blew kisses once his back was turned. Sally waved back, but halfheartedly. Her attention was on the man in front of her, who dropped to his knees the moment they were gone, and laid his large strong hand upon her ankle.

“Sally,” he said.

“Mickel,” she replied, unable to hide the smile that was burning through her throat and eyes. “I thought you might be dead.”

He laughed, but his own eyes were suddenly too bright, and he folded himself down to press his lips, and then the side of his face, upon her hand. A shudder raced through him, and she leaned over as well, kissing his cheek, his hair, his ear; spilling a tear or two before she wiped at her eyes.

“You’re not surprised,” he said.

“The pendant.” Sally fingered the chain around his neck with a great deal of tenderness and wonderment. “I had time to think about it, though I wasn’t sure until I saw you just now. I couldn’t believe. Why? Why the illusions?”

He rolled over with a sigh, resting his head in her lap. “When people hear there is a warlord passing through, they tend to get rather defensive. Pitchforks, cannons, poison in the ale—”

“They hide their daughters.”

He smiled, reaching up to brush his thumb over her mouth. “That, too. But you find the most interesting people when you’re a nobody.”

Sally kissed his thumb. “And the names? The reputation?”

Mickel closed his eyes. “My people are decent fighters. Really very good. You couldn’t find better archers or horsemen anywhere. But that doesn’t mean we want to fight, or should have to. So we lie when we can. Dress men and women in rabbit’s blood and torn clothes, rub soot in their faces, and then send them off into the night blubbering senselessly about this magnificent warlord who rode in on a fire-breathing black steed and set about ravaging, pillaging, murdering, and so forth, until everyone is so worked up and piddling themselves that all it takes to win the battle is the distant beating of some drums, and the bloodcurdling cries of my barbarian horde.”

He opened his eyes. “You should hear Rumble scream. It gives me nightmares.”

“That can’t work all the time.”

“But it works enough. Enough for peace.” Mickel hesitated, giving her an uncertain look. “You ran from the man you thought I was. You were so desperate not to marry me, you were willing to enter the Tangleroot.”

“And you agreed to marry a woman sight unseen.” Sally frowned. “You seem like too much a free spirit for that.”

“Our mothers were best friends. Growing up, all I ever heard about was Melisande and how brave she was, how good, how kind. How, when there was trouble, she was always the fighter, protecting my mother. And vice versa.” He reached beneath his leather armor and pulled out a pendant that was an exact mirror of her own. “I never knew. I never imagined. She was devastated when she learned of Melisande’s death. I think it hastened her own.”

“I’m sorry,” Sally said.

He tilted his shoulder in a faint shrug. “She told me that Melisande had borne a daughter, and that one day… one day she would like for us to meet. And so when your father advertised the fact that he was looking for a husband for his daughter—”

“Advertised,” she interrupted.

“Oh, yes. Far and wide. Princess. Beautiful. Nubile. Available to big strong man, with even bigger sword.” Mickel thumped his chest. “I was intrigued. I was mortified. I thought I would save the daughter of my mother’s best friend from a fate worse than death.”

“And if I had been a loud mouthed harridan with a taste for garlic and a fear of bathing?”

“I would have been the Warlord everyone thinks I am, tossed her aside like a sack of potatoes in a white wedding dress, and asked for the hand of a peculiar redheaded woman I met on the road.”

Sally smiled. “And if she said no?”

“Well,” Mickel said, kissing her hand. “I may not be the Warlord of the Savage Belly Ache, but I am exceptionally brave. I would fight for her. I would battle magic forests and sleeping queens for her. I would plunge into icy waters—”

“—and be rescued by her?”