Five days’ travel from Dacre across the King’s Gorge to catch up with the Chieftess in Sarikar. This land had trees. Bizarre yet beautiful. Mreegan’s camp hid in a canyon. Charlon dismounted and handed her horse to Vald, number Three. Ordered Torol to take Prince Wilek to her tent. It felt good, ordering the men. But she had failed. Could not lie with the prince. Could barely touch him.
Now she must confess.
Reluctantly she approached the red tent. No hillock in this canyon. The men had erected the Chieftess’s tent on a cliff. Charlon climbed rocky switchbacks. Felt the prince within. The soul-binding allowed him to see what no man should. He knew her heart. Her desires. Her fears.
She could sense him as well. His frustration and anger choked her. His wrists burned from the ropes holding him. He cursed his stupidity. He must escape. He could not.
Magon help her. She pushed his thoughts down. Tried to ignore him. Approached the tent.
Rone stood guard outside. Opened the tent flap. “Welcome back, Mother.” Kindness and respect for the Mother, fueled by fear.
No time for pleasantries. She entered. Knelt before the throne where Mreegan sat.
The Chieftess lit up with a smile, stroked the pale newt on her lap. “You have him?”
“Yes,” Charlon said. “All went as planned.” Almost.
Mreegan cocked her head. “You pity him.”
The words pinched Charlon’s heart. “He is sad.”
“Good. If he is beaten, he won’t cause trouble.”
Charlon’s quest was trouble enough. “His emotions cut deeply.”
“You must rule him,” Mreegan said.
Charlon bowed her head. “Yes, Chieftess.” If only it were that easy.
Mreegan slipped off her throne. Squatted in front of Charlon. Set her hand on Charlon’s abdomen.
Charlon stiffened. The cold place inside flared. Get away! Charlon’s heart said. But she fought to remain still.
Mreegan muttered. Searching. The newt crawled down to Mreegan’s wrist, its tongue tasting Charlon’s tunic. “There is no child in you.” Mreegan stood and returned to her throne.
Of course there was no child! Charlon had barely been able to touch the man. Why had Magon put this before her? It was a mistake. She could not. Heaviness pressed down.
“What is the problem?” Mreegan asked.
Hide the truth. “He hates me. His sadness saddens me. His fear frightens me. His anger angers me. I cannot control it.”
“That’s what it means to be soul-bound,” Mreegan said. “Make the magic work in your favor. Force his emotions to mirror yours. You must be his master, not the other way around. We remain in this canyon until you conceive. Dismissed.”
Despair! “Yes, Chieftess.” She left. So heavy. So burdened. How could she succeed? What had been done to her . . . she must do. Do to another. She could not! Not do it. Not—
She must! She was new. Reborn by Magon. No longer a victim. And this was a man. The enemy. How many had he abused? In the name of pleasure? How many? She would do to him what he deserved. She must!
It was the only way. To become Mother.
In her tent, the prince. Alone. Hands bound behind to the center pole. Head hanging low. Sorrow swelled off him. Like heat from a fire. Charlon staggered under its power.
Focus. Time to work the magic. Bleeding him would pain her. She had taken hairs the first time. Hair would work again. “We must cut your hair,” she said in Kinsman. So strange to speak her childhood language again. “Only women are permitted long hair.”
The prince glanced up, eyes bloodshot. “A warrior’s braids are a matter of honor in Armania. Cut them, and you make me a laughingstock.”
Tears welled. She forced them back. “I need part of your body. To cast my spell. You’ll miss your hair less. Than a finger.”
An arrow of hatred stabbed within. “I’ll die before I let you touch me again.”
“Give me a son. And you can die anytime you like.”
He sputtered, confused, frustrated. “What kind of a person are you? To take Lebetta’s face and voice and smell.” Great anguish stretched between them. “Do you even care how you played with . . .” Voice trailed off in a tremble. He panted through his nose. “Why am I trying to reason with a witch?”
Charlon couldn’t bear his grief. She must get away. At least find help. She yanked the door flap aside. “Torol!” she cried in Tennish. He stood outside. Obedient, always. “We must cut this man’s hair. Apply the rune. Call the First and Third. And someone to hold him.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Torol returned with Kateen, Roya, and two lesser men, both carrying shard clubs. The women prepared the tattoo ink. The men held the prince. Torol came at his braids with an obsidian knife. Prince Wilek turned his head, and Torol’s blade sliced his cheek. The prince growled. Thrashed his legs. Trying to kick someone. He pulled against the center pole. Screamed. Twisted his shoulders from side to side. The tent bobbed and shook. His fury pooled in Charlon’s gut. So much anger. She fought back a scream.
The men grabbed him. Forced him down. Held his head. His arms. Torol sawed his braids until they were severed. Handed them to Charlon.
The prince saw them. Anger melted to despair, defeat. Bloodshot eyes met hers. “Bind my hands. Cut my hair. Use magic to force me to your will. But I’ll never be Magonian. I’m a sâr of Armania.” Rage grew within. “I don’t recognize our marriage. Nor will anyone in Armania. You waste effort on a plot that will fail.”
“Once I carry your child, the Armanian king will accept our marriage,” Charlon said.
The prince laughed. Ironic joy swelled through Charlon. “You don’t know my father. He’d sacrifice any child of our making to Barthos, just to protect his throne.”
She sensed his honesty. “Not his own grandson.”
“Are all Magonians so ignorant of history? My father killed three of his sons before my very eyes. I was nine. He is a ruthless man who cares only for his superstitions. You cannot blackmail him. You cannot trick him. He is the master of all evil games.”
Charlon had no words. Failure would become her doom. She carried the prince’s warrior locks to her altar mat. Cut some hairs. Sprinkled them into a bowl. Drank ahvenrood juice.
A quick spell ended the prince’s obstinance. The men carried his limp body to Charlon’s bed of furs and laid him on his stomach. Torol held the prince’s head. Roya knelt at his side, bowl of ink in one hand, needle in the other. She dipped it and pressed it against the prince’s neck. A groan. A twitch. Torol held him steady. The pain irritated Charlon as well. She gritted her teeth. Focused on the shadir who were curling and smoking in the Veil. Magon stood beside them, proud, confident.
Roya worked slowly. Meticulously inked the slav rune. When she finished, Charlon cast a spell of obedience. Now he would be compelled. To obey the command of any mantic. Her task would be simpler now.
The trance did not stop his thoughts. His mind was active. Dreams of fear and pain. Longing for his dead woman. His thoughts nauseate me, Charlon told Magon. I hate being soul-bound. No man belongs within. Nor do I want to see what lies in his soul.
If you want to succeed, you must do this for me, Magon said. Then you may someday take Mreegan’s place.
So Charlon wore an expression of indifference. Pretended to be brave. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.