The Warrior's Vow. Christina Rich

cheeks as she slipped between the folds of her tent and stepped in front of Suph. His jaw hardened. His chest rose and fell in harsh, rapid movements. She laid a hand on his shoulder. A gesture she’d often spied her mother do from the balcony outside her chamber.

      His gaze flicked to her hand before settling on her. He shifted his stance, dislodging her hand, and propped a fist on his hip. “What is it I can do for you, Abigail?”

      She straightened her shoulders, standing a few inches above him, and tilted her head. “My apologies if I wounded your pride, Suph. However, I believe you can see the wisdom of keeping the prisoner alive.”

      He firmed his lips. “Alive, yes. Being left capable of killing what few men we have to protect you, no.”

      Her gaze sought out the man carried by her soldiers. His wide shoulders sagged, his arms limp. He couldn’t even walk on his own.

      “Do not allow his condition to fool you, Abigail.”

      “Even hale I doubt he could do as much harm.”

      A harsh chuckle burst from Suph. His eyes bore a mocking yet dangerous glint. “Do not think to underestimate him, dearest. He’s an elite soldier trained in ways I can only imagine, as much as it wounds me to admit. Given the chance, he’ll kill me, kill my men.” He gripped her chin, the scent of blood heavy on his hands. “And he’ll kill you if only to save that child he claims is your brother’s. The child he helped set on the throne. Are you willing to risk as much?”

      She thought of the child and the varied stories that had whispered off the palace walls. She’d seen only twelve summers that awful year when word of her brother’s death reached them. At first, she’d heard her mother had gone mad and had had all of Abigail’s male cousins and nephews killed, but then her mother told her otherwise. It had been that priest Jehoiada who had infiltrated the princes’ chambers and annihilated them all.

      But then, only weeks ago, rumors of a surviving child began anew. Many said he had the look of her brother. Could it be he’d been spared Jehoiada’s wrath? Why would the priest spare him when he’d killed all the others? To instill the beliefs of their so-called god? Certainly the boy was not her nephew. “Of course not, Suph. However, my stance remains, do not cause the prisoner further harm.”

      His lips twitched as if he were about to defy her. “As you wish, but I will do nothing to ease his wounds.” Suph spit at the ground. “His wounds can fester until he dies. I care not. There will be other ways to remove the child from the throne.”

      She reached into her soul for courage. “Your grief over my mother credits you, but do not allow it to own you, Suph. You serve me now and will do as I bid. Even if it means cleaning the prisoner’s wounds.”

      “You surprise me, Abigail. Your mother claimed you were weak. However, your commands reveal your mother’s courage. Although, she never would have begged for a prisoner’s life such as you have.”

      “I do not beg, Suph. I demand his life be spared as I demand his wounds be treated.”

      Hatred fired from his eyes, burning through her. His nostrils flared. She halted the shiver of fear snaking through her limbs. She reminded herself that he would not kill her. He needed her. She recognized the moment when he must have realized the truth of the matter, for he rolled his shoulders and began to move around her, but she stayed him with her hand. His gaze dropped to her upturned palm. “What is it you wish, Abigail?”

      “The prisoner’s gem.” She arched her eyebrows, daring him to deny her request.

      A muscle ticked in his jaw. Fear increased her pulse. One thing she had learned from her mother was that trust should be held tightly within one’s own breast. Her trust did not belong to Suph. His lack of respect for her position proved as much, but if not him, then who?

      The sound of a hammer beating bronze caught her attention. She glanced to the temporary altar where workers had erected an image of her mother’s god. A soldier struck the back of the prisoner’s knees, forcing him to kneel before the statue. Another guard yanked his head back by his shoulder-length hair. Even from her position she could see the rebellion shining through white eyes. Working his throat and lips, he spit.

      Red-tinged spittle splattered over the man-made idol. The guard holding on to his hair forced his head back farther and uttered a few words Abigail could not hear. The corners of the prisoner’s mouth tensed in obvious pain and then he smiled in satisfaction.

      “Do you not see his actions?”

      Abigail shifted her gaze to Suph’s, and then to her empty hand. “The gem, Suph.”

      He held the jewel up to the light of the sun. It sparkled. The once dull brown caught fire before her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath as Suph dropped it into her palm.

      “Mind my words, Abigail, and tread with care. I see the way you watch the prisoner with curious eyes. He’s not to be trusted.”

      Suph pushed past her, and her gaze followed his retreat. “Neither are you,” she whispered to his back.

      She squeezed her fingers around the stone. It warmed the palm of her hand. Her gaze settled on the man being stretched out before the bronze idol. His life’s blood flowed freely from his many wounds. Strange how he seemed more alive in his beaten body than Suph did in his able one.

      Even the bronze statue, meant to be worshipped and obeyed, held more life than Suph. Odd, it did not breathe. It did not move of its own accord. It was not like the wind to come and go at will, yet her people bowed at its feet. Was there something to what Bilhah had said? Was there a living, breathing God? Was the God of her forefathers real?

      The stone heated further and she unclenched her fingers; orange fire glowed and ebbed, taking on a life of its own. Her lips parted; her eyes once again sought the prisoner. Could she trust him to tell her the truth about this God of his?

      She took a step forward.

      “Where are you going?”

      Abigail glanced over her shoulder. Her cousin gripped one of the folds of the tent in her hand, but she remained hidden in the shadows. “To speak with the prisoner.”

      “Do you think that wise?” Bilhah moved from the protection of their shelter and out into the sunlight, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Although the kohl had been wiped from her cheeks and repainted around her eyes, she still seemed shaken from their recent ordeal.

      “I do not see why not. I have questions about his cause.”

      Bilhah laid a hand on her arm. “The sun is waning. It is near time for the nightly worship. Trust me, Abigail, you do not wish to bear witness to such festivities.”

      Abigail scanned the camp. She hadn’t noticed the leather tables laid out on the ground, overflowing with bread and wine. Her attention had been on the hammering of bronze, Suph’s words and the actions of the prisoner. She’d not realized couples strode toward the altar. Heat filled her cheeks.

      “They cannot think to...to dance, not in front of the prisoner, Bilhah. He’s not used to our ways.” Not that Abigail was used to their ways, either. She’d been kept from the ceremonies. Not because her mother thought to protect her, rather because her mother was ashamed of her lack of curves and spindly arms and legs. Too ashamed of her pale complexion, and even more ashamed of Abigail’s green eyes.

      Bilhah’s gaze flicked toward the beaten man tied between the posts. Her lips curved upward. “You’re not much like your mother, you know?”

      Her shoulders sagged. No, Abigail was weak like her father had been. She’d heard that often enough.

      “Do not fret, Abigail. That is not such a bad thing.” Bilhah grasped Abigail’s fingers. “Come, let us go rescue your prisoner.”

      “And how do you propose we do that? Suph would not be happy.”

      Bilhah laughed. “You are a princess, his future queen, are you not?”

      The