Page 19 of The Warlord’s Princess (Warlords of Tempest #3)

He glances askance at me, sneering as he pulls off another piece of meat. “You protect the weakest of them. One with no value that covers herself in spice nonsensically. Even annoying Kairi has some value in her, and will eventually be able to mend wounds and soothe bellies.”

I open my mouth to bark back at him, but what is there to say?

Asha weaves. Day in, day out, she sits, working threads into blankets and other things that have no real value among us.

I could repeat the line Grixis so often says, ‘strong in different ways,’ but in Asha’s case, it is a lie.

Why does that make my chest feel tight?

Especially when I am so close to getting back Princess Kasmina?

The truth is almost too much for me to bear.

Waking to Asha in my arms made me forget myself, and for a moment, I saw a future that shames me. One where I slept with my face nuzzled in her golden hair, our children favoring her light skin over mine.

She wore smiles for me, spent her days weaving, and her nights in my bed, mewling as she did when I tasted her flesh.

I dreamt of her in a way I never did the great princess, with such primal passion, I leaked seed all over my bedding.

Yet I know it is folly to have such thoughts, as Asha is not a worthy mate.

I storm away before coming to blows, stalking toward the outer edge of the village, where I find Krek.

Once a powerful warlord, he was chosen to train fledglings in the barracks, as his strategies were unparalleled.

Unfortunately, a miscalculation that occurred with a mission that could not have even been his fault led to his exile.

Many looked to him as leader when we first arrived, but after a devastating encounter with a Veriskan left him without the use of his legs, he turned into a hermit, living away from the others.

Most believe he should have chosen an honorable death over continuing as he now is, but Krek lived on, to the consternation of many others who saw him as weak.

Although I have long wondered if he still has a place in the tribe, I saw strength in him, as he works tirelessly and has never once asked for assistance.

He greets me with a grunt before going back to the fletching in his hand, trimming the feathers to give the arrow the desired effect.

When he realizes I am not just passing through, he asks, “Is there something you need from me?”

I have many and more questions I wish to ask, though I wonder if it is even my place to ask anything of him.

He sets down his blade, his head tilting to the side in question. “Never have I seen you look so troubled before.”

“Why do you think I am troubled?”

“You are not one to be indecisive. You are quick with your tongue, always getting to the point of your words before many have even formed an opinion. Yet you stand here, looking lost.”

“That is a lot to assume.”

He returns his gaze to the fletching, turning it in his hand.

As I am about to leave, he asks, “Is it about the women?”

My jaw tightens. “The women?”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “What else could it be?”

“Again, you assume.”

“Before your fury rises and you stomp away, let us look at what has been assumed: that you are troubled, and that it concerns the women.”

He is speaking to me as he would a fledgling, which prickles my pride, but stomping off would only lend credibility to Krek’s assumptions.

“Well?” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It is clarity that I seek,” I finally confess.

“Then pull up a chair.”

I sit across from him, on the other side of the worn barrel his tools are set upon, his small house at our backs. He holds up the arrow he had been working on, his fingers moving deftly over wood and feather.

“It is not often anyone comes out here except to gather the arrows I have crafted.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No, I prefer it that way.”

“I understand. The village has grown loud, as of late, and I seek a clear mind.”

“Those Penticari are not subtle.”

After finishing the fletching, he works the nock, moving fast, with precision.

Since his injury, the quality of the arrows has gone up considerably, and I can only guess that the other men lack the patience that Krek has gained from his accident. Which is a strange unexpected blessing indeed.

“Mind sharing a drink?” He nods over to a cask at the corner of his small hut. The quality of his intoxicants has also gone up over the years. Another blessing.

I fill two glasses and return to the barrel.

He swirls his cup until the liquid climbs the sides and sniffs. “Ah, I distilled this saersoot myself, and I must say, there is no better.” He takes a sip.

I bring the glass to my lips and the smell hits me. I scrunch my nose. “You serve me your harshest blend?”

“Strong it is, warming the belly when it is cold, killing a fever when needed.”

“Does Orvell know you are now a cleric?”

He chuckles.

I take a small sip, forcing it down.

“I used to brew back on Tempest. The fledglings were always excited for their first sip, thinking themselves more a man than they were.”

“Please tell me you gave them your paeroot mead and not this.” I hold up the cup.

“Oh, I gave them the worst, and it made more than one belly ache.”

“I did not take you for cruel.”

“It was a good lesson, and it served them well.”

“How so?”

“How many young men lose themselves the first night they partake? Sometimes the loss of honor is so great, they are sent to the front lines, where the insolent go to die.”

“And how does torture help?”

“It made them slow to drink, becoming familiar with the intoxicant’s effects, and, as time went on, when they partook during celebrations, they knew their limits well, and drank more lightly for it.”

I see the wisdom in his words and feel shame for the low thought I had of him.

“What is on your mind?”

“I thought my honor was lost long ago, and that the path to redemption was clouded in haze. Now, I am not so sure.” I do not tell him that my honor was never lost because then I would have to explain things I feel I cannot.

And now that I have coupled with Asha, I cannot say my honor is still intact.

“If I may be so bold, sometimes redemption is not what we think it is.”

“Redemption is bringing glory to Tempest,” I assert.

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“If you say.”

His careless words spark anger in my chest, but I cannot help but want to hear more.

“If that is not redemption, what is?”

“Letting go of ego and doing what needs to be done.”

Surely he cannot mean this. His injury has warped his mind, putting silly notions into it.

Yet I remember what weak Asha had said. That honor was found in duty. Which is remarkably similar to Krek’s words.

“Do you have nothing to say to that?” Krek asks, smoothing the shaft of a new arrow.

“I can see where you might think I say that only because my accident leaves me duty bound to making these arrows and distilling intoxicants, but let me ask you this: if I had died and was not here, day in and day out, working as I do, who would make these arrows? Or brew intoxicants, many of which find their way into the cleric’s hut? ”

While his logic is self-serving, I know that we would have to pull men from other obligations if he were not here.

“I feel I have dishonored myself more than I can bear,” I confess, though I know not why.

“Is it with one of the Penticari?”

I say nothing.

“No need to answer. I know I am right.”

I lift my gaze from my glass to his cocksure grin. “How?”

“Of all the men here, you have always been the most conflicted. We all long for honor, but our work quiets the storms raging within us. But it was never that way with you. Nothing quieted the fury in your chest and mind.”

“You speak truth, but that does not prove you right.”

“For you to have gotten to this point, where you are questioning honor and redemption, it can only be because something has challenged you to change your way of thinking.”

His insight surprises me because he seems to know more about me than I know about myself.

“The Penticari are frail, but some, not so much. There is Meg who is hearty and will give you the rough side of her tongue if you look at her crossly, and Nori, whose logic could rival Jacek’s. But there is one who is so weak, she once cried and fell because of a crab.”

“And yet?”

“I am drawn to her in a way I do not understand.”

“That does not surprise me.”

My brow narrows. “It should.”

“Where we come from, we were never given a choice. We mated who would take us, and we did so gladly. Here, it is different. There are choices with the Penticari, and with those choices comes burden. Do you take one to bed? Or do you deny yourself due to honor? And if you deny yourself, how will it feel when you are around the others who do not?”

“You are wiser than I gave you credit for,” I admit.

“Then heed me when I say that honor need not only encompass one path.”

“That sounds more like treason than advice.”

“To some, it might, but our conversation need not end with that. About your dilemma, this weak girl. You say she lacks strengths that others have?”

I nod.

“Is it possible you overlook her strength?”

“She is thin as a reed, small, without means to defend herself, lacking sharpness of words except when aggressively pushed.”

“Has she done anything to impress you?”

I think for a moment, hoping to discover something I may have overlooked, only coming up with, “She wishes to go out to collect bugs at the outer edges. It is a trip that will have her away from the village overnight.”

His brow narrows. “Collect bugs?”

“It is for dyes she wishes to make.”

“You say she is willing to risk the wilds of Melgrim to make dye?”

“Yes.”

“Then she is at least brave.”

As I go to refute him, I think of her standing up to Amber and how fierce she looked with her pretty pink lips snarled.

In truth, it was more adorable than savage, but I wanted her all the same.

More than I find myself wanting the princess.

My life would have been easier without such choices.

“Wanting her as I do dishonors me.”

“Tell me something, Ramsey. Who holds more honor: a man, thick and hearty, who runs away from battle, or someone slighter in size, who picks up a sword and charges at their foes?”

“Both are lacking.”

“That may be, but is honor a physical manifestation or a way of the mind?”

I think on his words, which are unlike any I have heard said. What is this honor of the mind? In a way, it reminds me of what honor is to Asha: duty.

But honor should be more than that.

“I fear I have forgotten myself…” My words trail off, as I cannot trust myself to think.

“Over the years, since my injury, the world has shown me things it had not when I was more physically capable. It has shown me strength in places I never expected it to be, and honor among the smallest of the land, with the tiniest of bugs.”

Desperate for answers and knowing that only he might understand me, I ask, “What should I do?”

“That is not for me to say, but I will suggest you go on that bug hunt. Allow the small Penticari to show you a different side of herself. You might be surprised.”