István straightened and began speaking rapidly. “Your highness, I have returned from my reconnaissance mission with troubling news. I—”
All Alexander did was raise an index finger, but the gesture was enough to make István stop talking and close his mouth with an audible click. The prince turned to Rudiger. “You may leave us, Commander.”
“I think it would be best if I—”
“It’s not your place to think. Your place is to see that my orders are carried out on the battlefield. Do you understand?”
Rudiger looked at Alexander for a moment before bowing his head. “Yes, milord.” The knight’s voice was wire-taught with barely suppressed rage. He turned and walked out of the tent.
Alexander gave a small smile, clearly enjoying Rudiger’s obvious displeasure at having to submit to the prince, before looking to István once more. “When you rode out of camp a week ago, you did so alongside several others. Or have you forgotten?”
István’s eyes narrowed, and Malachite knew he was calculating how best to respond.
“Of course not, your highness! I merely—”
Another lift of an index finger, another click of a mouth closing.
“Tell me what happened, István.” Alexander’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the tone of command it held was undeniable. “Tell me clearly and concisely, and without exaggerating your own merits.”
István seemed ready to protest this last comment, but then he nodded and began relating his tale, precisely in the manner his prince had commanded. When the knight was finished, he stood quietly, back straight and chin up to preserve his dignity, but his trembling hands spoiled the effect.
Alexander stood and István flinched, as if he expected his prince to strike him across the face—or worse. But Alexander, an inch or two shorter than his subject, merely looked up into István’s eyes. “Did you have to slaughter the farmer and his entire family? The Tartar will take that as a personal insult.”
István frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, my prince. They weren’t members of Qarakh’s tribe; they were only mortal pagans.”
“The deaths of the kine mean nothing to that savage,” Alexander said. “It’s a matter of territory. We killed in his lands without his permission. Would you let others pick from your herd, István?”
“No, milord.” It was clear from István’s expression that he still didn’t comprehend how this had become his fault.
Alexander looked at István for a moment, as if he were trying to decide what to do with him. Malachite had the impression that the prince could just as easily dismiss him as tear off his head. In the end, Alexander chose the former.
“Dawn is near and you need rest after your ordeal.”
Looking as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune, István bowed low then withdrew from the tent without bothering to disguise his haste.
As soon as the knight was gone, Alexander said, “The entire party slain… and by a woman, no less.” He shook his head in disgust.
“István survived,” Malachite pointed out—not that he thought it any great compensation—”and from his story, it appears that Sir Marques did as well.”
“It has been two full nights. If Sir Marques were able, he would’ve returned by now.”
“István just returned. Perhaps Marques will too.
Marques is skilled, resourceful and truly loyal to me—far more so than István. I fear there are only two possibilities: He is being held captive by the savage, or he is truly and finally dead.”
Malachite remained silent and waited to see what Alexander would say next. He was surprised when the Ventrue smiled.
“This is not the way I would have arranged events myself, but perhaps things shall work to our advantage in the end.”
“Milord?”
“I had intended to approach the Tartar when the time was right, but now—thanks to Marques, István and the others—Qarakh will undoubtedly come to us. After all, that’s what I would do if our positions were reversed.”
“And if you were in his place, would you come to talk or to fight?” Malachite asked.
Alexander’s smile became a outright grin. “All existence is a battle, my dear Malachite. The only difference is what weapons you choose to fight with: words or steel.”
Now it was Malachite’s turn to smile. “I believe you are actually looking forward to the Tartar’s arrival.”
“Oh, I am.” A faraway look came into Alexander’s eyes, and Malachite knew the prince was already busy plotting his strategy. “I am indeed.”
Chapter Eight
“Do you really think this is wise, my khan? I beg you to allow Arnulf, Wilhelmina, and myself to accompany you.”
“I ride alone as a sign of strength and confidence. Alexander will know that I—and by extension, my tribe—must be mighty indeed for me to face him on my own. As well, it shall be a clear signal that we do not intend to war with him. At least, not yet.”
“Then permit us to follow at a distance, so that we will be close by should the need arise.”
“Your desire to ride with me does you credit, Alessandro, but the Ventrue will undoubtedly have scouts that would know if you came too near his encampment, and he would take your presence as a sign of weakness on my part. I need you and the others to remain here, for I would not leave the tribe unprotected while I am away.”
“Then there is nothing I can say that will make you change your mind and take someone with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Lost in thought?”
Qarakh turned to Deverra. The priestess rode bareback upon a piebald mare, the reins held loosely in her hands. She didn’t truly need them to control the steed and held them only because she didn’t know what else to do.
“Merely riding,” Qarakh lied. “On the steppe, the wind is often so loud that speaking is difficult, even when side by side. Because of this, my people tend to travel in silence, communicating only when necessary.”
Deverra reached up with one hand, pulled back the hood of her robe and shook out her long red hair. “Is that a hint?”
Qarakh frowned as he tried to determine whether the Telyav was truly
