Christina Rich - The Warrior's Vow

“I do not beg, Suph. I demand his life be spared as I demand his wounds be treated.”

Hatred fired from his eyes, burning through her. His nostrils flared. She halted the shiver of fear snaking through her limbs. She reminded herself that he would not kill her. He needed her. She recognized the moment when he must have realized the truth of the matter, for he rolled his shoulders and began to move around her, but she stayed him with her hand. His gaze dropped to her upturned palm. “What is it you wish, Abigail?”

“The prisoner’s gem.” She arched her eyebrows, daring him to deny her request.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Fear increased her pulse. One thing she had learned from her mother was that trust should be held tightly within one’s own breast. Her trust did not belong to Suph. His lack of respect for her position proved as much, but if not him, then who?

The sound of a hammer beating bronze caught her attention. She glanced to the temporary altar where workers had erected an image of her mother’s god. A soldier struck the back of the prisoner’s knees, forcing him to kneel before the statue. Another guard yanked his head back by his shoulder-length hair. Even from her position she could see the rebellion shining through white eyes. Working his throat and lips, he spit.

Red-tinged spittle splattered over the man-made idol. The guard holding on to his hair forced his head back farther and uttered a few words Abigail could not hear. The corners of the prisoner’s mouth tensed in obvious pain and then he smiled in satisfaction.

“Do you not see his actions?”

Abigail shifted her gaze to Suph’s, and then to her empty hand. “The gem, Suph.”

He held the jewel up to the light of the sun. It sparkled. The once dull brown caught fire before her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath as Suph dropped it into her palm.

“Mind my words, Abigail, and tread with care. I see the way you watch the prisoner with curious eyes. He’s not to be trusted.”

Suph pushed past her, and her gaze followed his retreat. “Neither are you,” she whispered to his back.

She squeezed her fingers around the stone. It warmed the palm of her hand. Her gaze settled on the man being stretched out before the bronze idol. His life’s blood flowed freely from his many wounds. Strange how he seemed more alive in his beaten body than Suph did in his able one.

Even the bronze statue, meant to be worshipped and obeyed, held more life than Suph. Odd, it did not breathe. It did not move of its own accord. It was not like the wind to come and go at will, yet her people bowed at its feet. Was there something to what Bilhah had said? Was there a living, breathing God? Was the God of her forefathers real?

The stone heated further and she unclenched her fingers; orange fire glowed and ebbed, taking on a life of its own. Her lips parted; her eyes once again sought the prisoner. Could she trust him to tell her the truth about this God of his?

She took a step forward.

“Where are you going?”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder. Her cousin gripped one of the folds of the tent in her hand, but she remained hidden in the shadows. “To speak with the prisoner.”

“Do you think that wise?” Bilhah moved from the protection of their shelter and out into the sunlight, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Although the kohl had been wiped from her cheeks and repainted around her eyes, she still seemed shaken from their recent ordeal.

“I do not see why not. I have questions about his cause.”

Bilhah laid a hand on her arm. “The sun is waning. It is near time for the nightly worship. Trust me, Abigail, you do not wish to bear witness to such festivities.”

Abigail scanned the camp. She hadn’t noticed the leather tables laid out on the ground, overflowing with bread and wine. Her attention had been on the hammering of bronze, Suph’s words and the actions of the prisoner. She’d not realized couples strode toward the altar. Heat filled her cheeks.

“They cannot think to...to dance, not in front of the prisoner, Bilhah. He’s not used to our ways.” Not that Abigail was used to their ways, either. She’d been kept from the ceremonies. Not because her mother thought to protect her, rather because her mother was ashamed of her lack of curves and spindly arms and legs. Too ashamed of her pale complexion, and even more ashamed of Abigail’s green eyes.

Bilhah’s gaze flicked toward the beaten man tied between the posts. Her lips curved upward. “You’re not much like your mother, you know?”

Her shoulders sagged. No, Abigail was weak like her father had been. She’d heard that often enough.

“Do not fret, Abigail. That is not such a bad thing.” Bilhah grasped Abigail’s fingers. “Come, let us go rescue your prisoner.”

“And how do you propose we do that? Suph would not be happy.”

Bilhah laughed. “You are a princess, his future queen, are you not?”

The corners of Abigail’s lips curved upward even as she choked on the knot forming in her throat. She nodded.

“Then behave as such. Come, I’ll walk beside you. Your people will not deny your request, not with a shrine priestess at your side.”

“If you will give me but a moment.” Abigail ducked into the tent and placed the prisoner’s gem and the leather strap tied around it into an ornately carved wooden box. She wiped her palms down the front of her tunic, straightened her spine and then stepped beside Bilhah. “I am ready.”

They wove through the throngs of people preparing for worship. This time they dropped to a bow as Bilhah glided past them in her purple robes. Her earlier sullenness was gone. “I see your rest has done you well,” Abigail whispered.

Bilhah inclined her head. “Very much so. However, for reasons even I do not understand.” She halted her steps, bringing Abigail beside her. “When this—” she waved her hand about them “—is done, when you are on the throne, I intend to leave my position.”

Air caught in Abigail’s lungs. The thought of losing the last of her family, her only real friend in this uncertain world, churned her stomach.

“Head high, Abigail. You are being watched. We will discuss this matter later, but be certain I weary of performing for the masses. I weary of worshipping false gods made of bronze.”

Abigail glanced at the bronze statue and then back to her cousin. “I do understand.” Abigail had often witnessed the sadness in Bilhah’s eyes when she sought refuge in Abigail’s chambers.

“Princess,” Micah’s voice sounded ragged, as if he’d run a great distance. His eyes downcast, he shifted from one foot to the other. “You should not be here.”

She smiled and patted him on the head. No more than ten summers, his concern warmed her. Would he remain faithful to her no matter what fate directed for her future? “I am well, Micah. Please fetch Dara the Healer and bring her to my tent.”

His eyes shifted to hers, his mouth agape. “Abigail—”

“Go, Micah.”

The child dipped his chin and left to do her bidding.

“Nicely done.” Bilhah’s purple tunic swirled around her feet. She clapped her hands above her head. “What is this?” she screeched, like the commanding priestess Abigail knew her to be. “You dare risk our god’s wrath with the presence of this heathen?”

Bilhah spit toward the man, missing his stomach by inches. The people swarmed around, begging apologies, even the soldiers tying the knots at the prisoner’s hands and feet. Her beauty had nothing to do with their fear of her. No, they feared her because they believed she held sway with their bronze statue and if they angered her they’d be cursed.

“Untie him.” Abigail motioned at the soldiers. “Take him to my tent.”