Chapter 17 #4
When they reached the courtyard, he stopped.
Azul watched him take it in properly for the first time—the weathered stone, the sagging roof, the faded hangings visible through open windows. The desolation compared to the rest of the palace must’ve shocked him.
"This is where you live," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
He was quiet for a long moment. "You're to be my Khatun, and they put you here?"
She shrugged. "It's far from the main palace. They don't have to look at me."
He turned to face her. "How did this happen?"
Which part? She almost asked. The isolation? The starvation? The attempts on my life? But she knew what he was asking.
"The Igwe needed a substitute for his daughter—the real princess is...too sick to marry. I am the right age and appearance. So they bought me, gave me a title, and put me here." She wished to twirl, but another wave of nausea hit her. "Now I’m stuck here until I get married."
Ragnar's expression was unreadable behind his mask.
"The night I was drugged," she continued, "the man who you killed was sent by the Ugoeze. He was supposed to find me helplessly willing. Then she'd have proof I was a whore. The marriage would collapse. I'd be executed. Perhaps my awful fate started when I was destined to marry you."
Ragnar’s fists clenched. The idea of her being this unwilling to marry him if not for her precious position had crossed his mind on the journey here, but he hadn’t felt so oddly guilty about it till now.
"When our contract is over," his words were stiff, "and you have fulfilled your debt…
I will let you leave. I did not realise you would despise the idea of being my wife so deeply. "
Azul smiled at him, and his eyes drew away from her lips.
"My Lord, I don’t think you realised no woman is crazy enough to want to wed you.
Your reputation as the Punishment of God instills fear in all men, women included.
It is a famous saying that a warlord’s wife is a hostage by another name; she is a symbol of conquest. Her home is a war camp, her life bound to violence, abuse, and absence.
Only slaves or the utterly desperate marry warlords.
It is not a burden any father who loved his daughter would wish upon her without absolute necessity. "
He flinched; a minute tightening could be seen around his eyes.
His fists clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking.
He could not argue. It was the truth of what he was: a man whose home was the saddle and whose legacy was written in the blood of battlefields.
The alliance had seemed strategic: to obtain a wife, to establish a safe trading route, to avoid Sisi.
There was no drawback to marrying a Borjigin princess.
He had not considered the human cost to the woman who would become its linchpin.
"And do you…" he started, stopped, then forced the words out. "Do you see only the warlord?"
Why did he ask? Ragnar knew what she would say; since they met, he had only spoken through blood and violence. How could she possibly see through that?
He was a man of little faith, but the faith was there nonetheless.
Azul grinned at him. The sunlight caught the gold in her eyes, elevating her status above the mortal realm.
"No," she said softly, her voice clear. "I do not. This time, the man is infinitely greater than his title."
She was only saying words he wished to hear; he knew that. He knew she was wrapping him around her finger, pulling at the reins around his neck, forcing him to see her and her alone.
And yet.
Her trap was sweeter than honey, so he failed to resist.
Perhaps his first mistake was ever looking into her eyes; he supposed ever since then, his heart had no choice but to yield.
The air between them had shifted again, merging with something warmer and more dangerous than the evening chill. Ragnar’s gaze was locked on hers, lost in the molten gold. "Your eyes, are exquisite." The eyes of death.
They widened at his words, glistening in the setting sunlight, and for a moment he considered what it would feel like to kiss her.
She smiled. "Then admire it for as long as our contract stands." She turned toward the shrine.
"Khatun."
She looked back.
Ragnar held out his hand. In his palm lay her silver hairpin—the one she'd used to stay conscious, to resist Somadina, and to mark her own skin rather than accept his touch.
"I found this," he said. "I thought you might want it back."
She took it, not bothering to point out his blatant lie. Their fingers brushed, sending electricity through his veins.
"Thank you," she said. "And, I know you worship Ukhel. If you like, you can pray at the shrine. The gods know I won’t."
He looked at her. She said her fate was not good, and yet he felt she was well guarded by her chi. He reached for her hand and brought her wrists to his mask.
"Have a lovely evening, Khatun."
His eyes glanced to the top right corner, to the tops of the surrounding trees. Azul tried not to look lest they find her performance lacking.