The three riders approached. With his wounds screaming, Tol struggled to a sitting position. Cold air swirled in, making his single open eye water.
He said her name and held out his hand. Three of his fingers were bent and broken.
Valaran’s face contorted when she saw his condition. “He allowed me one favor, to say good-bye,” she said, choking.
“You agreed to be his empress? Why?”
“I had no choice,” she said, lowering her eyes. “My family would have perished, root and branch.”
Tol tried to lean forward. “You don’t have to do it, Valaran! Break loose! The sisters and I will protect you!”
She wiped tears from her eyes. Her glance shifted to the column of warriors behind her. “You can’t protect me. No one can, any more.”
She urged her horse forward. When one of the black-clad riders tried to grab her mount’s bridle, she lashed at his face with her riding crop. He let go, and a squad of men came running forward, nocking arrows in their short bows.
Valaran closed the short distance to the wagon and put a gloved hand to Tol’s battered face.
“He’ll not have me,” she whispered. “I too have ambitions. I have a knife, and one of us will die!”
He caught her wrist, awkwardly because of his injuries. “You must not! Whatever happens, you must live- because I will return!”
She looked away. Not even the famed luck of Tol of Juramona could overcome the emperor of Ergoth.
“Believe it!” he urged. “If you believe nothing else in your life, know I will come back, Valaran. Nazramin will ruin the empire with his cruelty and greed, but I’ll return. You must try to live for that day, Val. You must!”
Her minders interceded, pulling Valaran away. At the last moment she leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were cold.
Straightening again, she lashed at her captors with her crop. “I am to be the empress of Ergoth, and you’d better keep your filthy hands off me!” she said, a fierce, aristocratic mask dropping over her features. “You know what happens to anyone who defiles the empress?”
They did indeed. The two men dropped back a full pace. Valaran brought the crop down against her horse’s flank. The white gelding reared, but she kept her seat. She galloped back to the city, sending snow flying and scattering the ranks of the foot soldiers. Wind tore her hood back, releasing a cloud of chestnut hair to the brittle sun.
Tol stared after her until Miya closed the rear curtain. “Cold air isn’t good for the baby,” she said.
It was an effort to pull his mind away from Valaran, but there was genuine fondness in his tone when Tol asked, “Boy or girl?”
“Boy. Eli.” Tol got a glimpse of dark hair, and two enormous brown eyes peeking out from the swaddling.
Kiya cracked her whip, and the team got moving. Tol didn’t have to ask where they were going. Miya and Kiya were returning home, to the distant forest known as the Great Green. They would be welcomed by their own tribe, and Tol would find a haven to heal and rest.
“It’s not done,” he murmured, as fatigue and Miya’s wine claimed him.
“I know,” Miya said, but Tol was already asleep. Not even baby Eli’s crying disturbed him.
