A Guardian's Destiny: Guardians of Light, #5

By Renee Wildes

On what should have been Verdeen's proudest day, she is blocked from advanced warrior training because no war mare chooses to bond with her. Burning with humiliation, she accepts a lesser assignment to the Isle of Ice, serving as bodyguard to human riever, Daq Aryk.

 

Verdeen's never paid much attention to men, so focused was she on her training. But she quickly realizes hieing off into a distant wilderness with Aryk is a bad idea. He makes her lose all focus and perspective.

 

Aryk faces a difficult task: molding six warring clans into a peaceful whole. He's got nothing against women warriors, but Verdeen is young and inexperienced, her beauty a potentially fatal distraction. She's a shield-maiden, not a bedmate. But the way she melts at his every touch erodes all his good intentions…and sense.

One kiss unleashes the kind of feverish desire that should occur only once in a lifetime—with a mate. But as their quest takes ever more dangerous twists and turns, their bond could be the one thing that unites a nation. Or make Aryk's worst nightmare a blood-soaked reality.

 

Warning: Contains fire and ice, never-gratuitous sex and violence, sword play and self-play, spying and lying, noble intentions and betrayal. In other words, a rollicking good roll in the proverbial hay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Sep 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781897445457

Book preview

A person in a green cape holding a bow Description automatically generated

Champagne Book Group

Presents

A Guardian’s Destiny

Guardians of Light, Book 5

By

Renee Wildes

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A Guardian’s Destiny was previously published as Riever’s Heart.

Champagne Book Group

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2019 by Renee Wildes

ISBN 978-1-897445-45-7

September 2019

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Produced in the United States of America

Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay, OR 97341

USA

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not buy it, or it was not bought for your use, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books by Renee Wildes

Guardians of Light Series

A Guardian Redeemed, 7

A Guardian Betrayed, 6

A Guardian’s Destiny, 5

A Guardian’s Dream, 4

A Guardian Revealed, 3

A Guardian’s Hope, 2

A Guardian’s Heart, 1

Standalone

Seditious Hearts

Love’s Timeless Journey

Dedication

To all the women, past and present, who have served in the armed forces, standing toe to toe with men defending our great nation, both here and abroad.

To all the women in law enforcement, past and present, serving on the home front to keep our communities safe. Warriors all. I salute you, and THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE.

Acknowledgement

To the gals behind the scenes—Jo for the awesome website, Carolan for the amazing taglines and blurbs, Una for the editing help, and Lex for the beautiful book trailers. And to Cassie, for keeping the dream alive.

Dear Reader:

The argument over the role of Destiny in people’s lives goes back to the beginning of time and has been addressed countless times in literature before I decided to tackle it in my Guardians of Light series.

The elves believe in the Destiny Hand, that some things (such as lifemates) are predestined by the Lady of Light. Queen Dara takes the opposing stance, that we create our own destinies by the power of our own thoughts, words, and actions.

Verdeen was raised elven, but having spent time with Queen Dara and working her way through the Warrior Academy has empowered her to tackle and shatter all preconceptions of the Destiny Hand.

What does this mean for you? Do you move, or are you moved by, Destiny? There are no right or wrong answers to this philosophical debate—it just makes for interesting conversations on social media, and a veritable fount of ideas for present and future characters to wrestle with in stories! LOL

I hope you enjoy how Verdeen and Aryk tackle this age-old dilemma!

Prologue

Daq Aryk’s gaze swept the icy battlefield as he stood at the edge closest to his village. Too close. The accursed rievers had brought the fight to his doorstep this time.

Were it not for the scouts’ warnings…?

He eyed the scattered sod round huts, picturing the women and children who huddled within, awaiting the outcome, and rubbed the back of his neck with a shaking hand. Aftereffect of the lia, the temporary surge of battle energy. Corded strands of tawny hair, sticky with blood, clung to his fingers. Every muscle ached. He clenched his jaw at the number of dead littering the frozen ground, including the rival daq, Ulryk. Another attack thwarted. Another day still standing. The constant interclan raiding—what a waste. Would it never end?

Aryk shook out his tattered, crimson daq cloak and frowned at the stiff layers of bloodstains that never came out of the woolen cloth. ’Twas not how he imagined his new reign progressing. There must be more to life than this. Could his son, Joro, look forward to naught else than a future of endless combat?

His second, Valkyn, approached, boots crunching in the trampled red snow. Aryk frowned at the drying blood splashed into his friend’s braided beard and oft-repaired, rust-streaked mail shirt—none of it Valkyn’s.

He shouldered his—new?—axe. Ulryk’s second can’t use it anymore. His eyes gleamed with the lia’s lingering bloodlust, his smile a wolfish flash of teeth.

He always got more energized after a battle. Conversely, Aryk just felt burned out.

Aryk waved his warriors in, tallying the fallen. Just three of their own for the funerary pyres. Of the wounded, Valkyn’s younger twin sister, Erlynda, was the worst off. He eyed the bleeding wound on his former lover. Tisht. The sword slash to her ribs could be sewn, though, thank the gods. Aryk’s daughter, Birgit, wouldn’t be motherless this day. If the wound didn’t sour, Erlynda would recover to fight off the next wave of marauders.

So, it went on, year after year. Aryk eyed the heart of his windswept territory—Svaaldur, a fair-sized village at the foot of Widowmaker Mountain. Eking out a living, fighting off others who’d steal what was theirs—how long could they continue like this?

"Kyra Erlynda, we owe you our lives. Aryk bowed his head slightly in homage. Were it not for your warning, ’twould’ve been worse."

Her blue eyes were glacial in her rawboned, windburned face. ’Tis my home too.

Go see the healers about your cut, he said.

She hissed in pain as she tightened the blood-soaked binding cloth around her injury. What of Ulryk’s villages? What of the Blood River women and children who no longer have his protection?

She’d always been stubborn when it came to defending what she believed to be right. ’Twas why he favored her so. Creataq help him, Birgit was turning out to be like her.

You’re not on Warrior Council, Woman, Valkyn said. You must have a sponsor to challenge a daq’s order.

If looks alone could kill…

I’m her sponsor. I give Kyra Erlynda leave to speak. Aryk frowned at Valkyn. His second refused to use the title kyra for the women warriors who earned it, not even for his own twin sister. She’d proven herself this day.

Aryk jerked the daq’s medallion from Ulryk’s thick neck and placed it over his own head. The fool should’ve stayed home. Now his overweening ambition doubled Aryk’s responsibilities. He sighed. Gather handcarts. We return their dead and claim Ulryk’s villages.

The men cheered.

Erlynda’s eyes spat fire. Aryk, you promised. I hold you to it.

He raised a hand, quelling the celebration. No claiming the women. They deserve to mourn and burn their dead in peace. His troops weren’t the ravening riever beasts outlanders named them. He’d restrain the celebration. We slew fathers, brothers, and sons. Though we but defended our own and they struck first, we gain more by embracing their kin into our fold. First man lays a hand on Ulryk’s women, I cut it off and leave him bleed in the snow. His glare caught each warrior’s gaze in turn, held it ’til one by one they yielded. They’re now under my protection. We show mercy to Blood River.

He singled out Erlynda. Kyra, it shall be done. Now go see those healers afore you fall.

Aryk had won leadership of the Widowmaker Clan by the strength of his sword arm and sheer force of will. None challenged him now. Valkyn wouldn’t confront him before the men, but he’d restate his own opinion in private. ’Twould be yet another heated discussion. Claiming conquered women was but one tradition Aryk hoped to change. Valkyn liked women in their place. He opposed them—Erlynda in particular—taking arms, blocked their attempts to join Warrior Council. Doubt gnawed at Aryk. Did Valkyn believe in Aryk’s vision at all, or did he make a show of support for the sake of ties stronger than blood?

Aryk’s mother, Gefjun, greeted him at the entrance to the village. Leave it to her not to stay hidden as ordered. Her calloused, scarred hands crossed her swords over her belly. Silver braids encircled her head like a crown. His red seeker dog, Fiske, sat at her feet, plumed tail sweeping the trampled snow.

Stand down, Mother. Aryk bent to rub the dog’s pricked ears. ’Tis safe for them to come out now. We held the wolves at bay.

Pity. Her green eyes glittered in the twilight as she sheathed her swords and whistled the all clear. I rather anticipated a good fight. Been too long.

Not long enough. The children?

Safe, although Joro snagged a knife to go help you.

The women and children emerged from their homes, looking around for familiar faces. Uncertainty and fear lingered in the air. ’Twas no way to live.

Tell me you disarmed him. Aryk shuddered at the notion of his mischievous five-year-old son in the conflict.

Stuffed with grand tales of heroic warriors by his mother, Dagmar, Joro yearned to join the men. Aryk pictured his sole surviving heir lying dead on some future battlefield, those sparkling blue eyes forever vacant. A nightly terror.

Nay, he’d find a way to end this madness. Joro and the other children would enjoy a better life than their parents, with more options than raiding, bloodshed, and death. Nice, long, peaceful lives.

"Acourse I disarmed him. Come." Even a daq heeded her tone.

He followed her through the milling flocks to her sod-and-stone round hut, dropping the hide door covers for privacy. Smoke from the peat fire undulated around him. He took the cup of schnae she held out, let the bite of the spirits clear the melancholic fog. I’ve but a moment. We go to Ulryk’s village.

How’d the men take the news?

They don’t get to enjoy the spoils of war? He grunted. How do you think?

Find Ulryk’s captive Shamaru lass from my vision and bring her here. Make no mistake—allow your men free rein and lose your one hope of success.

Hope. Such a frail, mighty word. You’re certain we’ve still hope for peace? Even after today? Daq Beloq comes south with the thaw. This year decides it.

There’s always hope. If we continue as we are, we destroy ourselves. Things must change. Shamar can help us. His mother studied him across the undying flame, the hearth fire that never went out. We can’t keep burning our dead children.

The flames danced in the dark as he weighed her truth. The fire kept the dwelling livable, an oasis of warmth on a wind-blasted plain of bone-shattering cold. But ’twas more. The light in the darkness symbolized the stand of reason against savagery.

We can be better men than we are now. Myrtaq died for naught than a senseless raid like the one today. ’Tis no honor in it.

The younger brother he failed to protect. How many more must they burn, lose to battle, disease, privation? When would the body count be too high?

I miss him too. The pain of losing a son never fades.

How well he understood her truth. Two lads and a lass he lost before the age of three, ’til but Joro and Birgit remained.

Joro lying in a pool of his own blood, slain with his own sword…wielded by a black-haired woman with one green eye and one brown eye…

Gefjun cleared her throat, jerking Aryk back to the present. When you reach Ulryk’s village and find this Shamaru woman I spoke of, how will you get her to listen to, much less trust, you?

I’ll prove to her I’m naught like Ulryk. Gods, he wanted a bath. He reeked of battle, of blood, sweat, and spent rage, but Ulryk’s village beckoned.

Gefjun’s eyes blazed as she pinned him with her gaze, held him as she circled the fire to within a handspan of his face. "You’re exactly like him, born and bred of this land. She spun away. You hide it better than most."

Her truth cut him to the heart. Hai, lia sang fierce, an elation during battle which blocked all else. It flowed in his blood, through his bones. Lia replaced pain, fear, doubt.

Men who succumbed to that sweet siren song lost all reason, as apt to turn on their comrades as the enemy. As savage as wounded snow bears. Aryk stared at the flames, tossed back the last of the schnae, then rose to his feet.

Men were more.

He was more.

Time to prove it. To his men, to himself. To the rest of the clans on Isadorikja, this frozen iceberg of an island. Mayhap someday to the rest of the world.

A man had to believe in his dreams. What else was there?

"Stovak nos briel, Warrior." Gefjun held open the door.

Destiny awaits.

~ * ~

We should’ve tossed them in the nearest crevasse and been done with it. Valkyn glared at Aryk. We’ve our own dead to see to.

It had been a long, cold trek to Ulryk’s main village, made doubly hard by having to lug home the freezing bodies of Ulryk and his men. They’d trudged across the rugged rock-strewn landscape throughout the night, under the swirling skylights of the ancestors, and now the once enemy settlement came into view.

We must inform Blood River of their fate first. These men had families, same as us, trying to make life easier for themselves and their own. Winter’s hard on us all. Aryk led the way into the midst of the round huts, where a scattering of women and old men awaited them. Their faces were pinched and weathered, their eyes flat, resigned. If there were children, they were well hidden. ’Twas what he’d have done in their place.

He displayed his medallions. I’m Daq Aryk. I defeated Ulryk in combat and now claim Blood River as my own. You’re under the protection of the Widowmaker banner, and I return your honored dead to you.

Yield or join them, Valkyn said.

An old man tossed his sword aside to approach in ragged furs. He knelt before Aryk in the snow. We yield to Widowmaker.

Aryk swept his clansmen with a hard glance. Remember your oath.

They relinquished the bodies to their Blood River kin.

Aryk caught the arm of the woman who claimed Ulryk. She flinched. You’ve naught to fear from me and my men. We mean you no harm. My men could use some food.

By your command.

Which lodge was Ulryk’s?

She pointed to the nearest one to their left.

Ulryk’s Shamaru captive, the woman Gefjun had seen in her visions, would be kept there. If Aryk freed her and returned her home, would the rulers of Shamar be willing to hear him out? So much rode on the next few minutes.

He scrubbed his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, and motioned for Valkyn to follow him, leaving his men to oversee the funerary activities as he ducked into Ulryk’s lodge. It took a moment for his sight to adjust to the change in lighting. A shadow bolted past him. Valkyn snared it before it reached the door.

So young, the lithe beauty writhing in Valkyn’s restraining grip. No more than sixteen. The stench of old sweat and spent lust, the sharp new reek of fear clung to the lass. Seeing her, Aryk wanted to slay Ulryk all over again. Her long ebony curls whipped around her as she flailed.

Easy. We mean you no harm. Valkyn’s knuckles whitened as he struggled to hold on to her.

He’d have better success restraining a wild snow cat. She responded to his reassurance by trying to slam her head back into his, but as short as she was, she bounced off his chain mail and got her hair caught in the blood-gelled links.

Be still. Valkyn rolled his eyes. You’re making it worse.

She kicked him in the shin.

Naught they said calmed her. If she didn’t settle, Valkyn would bruise her wrists. From the looks of her, his marks wouldn’t be the first. Neither would they win her to Aryk’s side.

Hold still or you’ll make yourself bald. The bearded giant clenched his jaw around a muffled curse.

Aryk fought a grin at his second’s exasperation and closed in to extract her hair from Valkyn’s armor. Do you know who I am?

She spit on him. "Edimar. Riever pig." Her dark eyes blazed in her flushed face.

Hardly blame her for that sentiment. He tamped rising anger at the double slur. He was no lia-drunk savage. I’m Daq Aryk. What’s your name?

Ildiko. She hissed at him like a snow-cat kitten.

He eyed her. What if I take you home? South to Shamar? Back to your kin?

She froze. Yearning flashed in her hard, bitter eyes.

Sympathy, admiration arose in him. Whatever Ulryk had done, he’d not broken her spirit.

Valkyn released her, eyeing her like a hawk as he retreated.

Ildiko rubbed her wrists. What would you demand in return for such a gift?

Aryk read the expectation on her dusky face and shook his head. I’m not Ulryk. We take you to my village. My mother feeds you, bathes you, and gives you new clothes.

Your mother? A bath? Her tone was wistful before she withdrew, back to suspicion and caution. In exchange for what?

I go with you to Shamar. I would speak with King Berend and Queen Tzigana. If we free you and return you to your kin, I hope you might intercede on our behalf so they might grant us an audience. These battles must cease.

One

Now what? The swirling wind blurred his vision as Aryk stared at the watchtowers and impregnable stone walls of Ravenscroft, the northernmost fortress of Shamar. It stood high atop the bluff overlooking the Northern Sea. Personal estate of the native Shamaru queen and her Shamari king, according to Ildiko. Aryk picked out armed men on the wall, murder holes for archers, raised drawbridge, moat, and portcullis. ’Twas more fortress than palace.

He rubbed his stubbled jaw and weighed their limited options as they crouched in the snow. Standing between him and Valkyn, Fiske yawned and shook himself. Ildiko had gleaned from the keeper of last night’s inn the royals were in residence. Queen Tzigana would welcome Ildiko. Aryk prayed the queen wouldn’t skewer Ildiko’s northmen companions where they stood.

He glanced at the lass he rescued from Ulryk’s village. She’d proven invaluable. Whatever she and Gefjun had discussed the first night back in Svaaldur, Ildiko had emerged the next morn a changed person. She taught them the rudiments of her native Shamaru language on the moon-long journey southward and hadn’t abandoned them—nor betrayed them.

What do you suggest? he asked her.

Approach the gate as common travelers. They’ll take you in under Guest Law.

They’ll confiscate our weapons, Valkyn said.

Unsettling reality. Isadorikjans slept with their weapons from the time they could wield them. To make true, lasting peace a reality, ’twas a sacrifice they must endure. They’d never be permitted near the Shamaran royals with a blade in hand.

Ildiko flashed Valkyn a scornful look. You’ll surrender them. Wolf’s no one to cross.

The Wolf. Von Berend. One of the civilized Shamari. Former Lord Marshal, now king.

They’ll meet with us, your king and queen? Aryk asked.

I’ll introduce you. Her eyes blazed. "A voice of reason from the north, an opportunity to end the raids? They will hear you."

Who was she to guarantee such a thing? Death or imprisonment were risks they’d have to run.

Good enough. Let’s go. Aryk rose, wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, then began the treacherous climb to Ravenscroft.

Fiske bounded ahead of him. Not as fit as her warrior companions, still recovering from her rough internment, although most of the visible bruising had faded, young Ildiko had a tougher time of it. Aryk observed with quiet amusement as she allowed Valkyn’s assistance. At least Ildiko now realized not all Isadorikjans were rievers.

Tisht, how he hated even the word. They were more than bandits and looters. They would be. They had to be.

A banner snapped and fluttered overhead—a black raven holding an oak branch with leaf and acorn in its beak, imposed on a gold background. The gateway loomed before them, a heavy portcullis of wrought ironwork set into its stone. A blond Shamari sentinel, standing this side of the moat, snapped to attention as they advanced. Approaching the edge of the moat, Aryk let Ildiko take the lead.

State your business, the sentinel said.

Ildiko drew back her hood. The light played up her olive skin and high cheekbones, revealing her native Shamaru features in the torchlight. These men escort me home to my family, but darkness falls, and we request shelter for the night.

The sentinel’s eyes narrowed. Aryk figured he recognized them for what they were. The braids in Valkyn’s gold hair and beard were distinctly northman. You’ll be searched and disarmed upon entry.

We mean no harm. Our weapons were for protection on the road. Aryk relaxed, his arms held from his sides, but the warrior wasn’t fooled. The stance and movement of a trained fighter were impossible to hide. Aryk had cut his teeth on fighting. The reputation of rievers preceded them.

Remove your weapons, the sentinel said.

First test, an opportunity to disarm before the guards conducted their search. Aryk sensed ’twould go bad for them if the Shamari discovered any hidden weapons in their follow-up search. They’d be lucky to meet the royals from within a dungeon.

He caught Valkyn’s eye and gave a brief nod. Aryk dropped his spear and shield, then unbuckled his sword belt, He had to remove his coat to reach the second sword slung across his back. Only then could he shrug off his heavy mail shirt. He unstrapped his knife sash and a knife from each thigh, then withdrew the throwing knives from his own boots. Last, he unlaced and removed the gauntlets that bore additional throwing knives. Without his coat, he stood shivering in the trampled snow.

Valkyn packed double the weapons Aryk did. He grinned at the sheer number of knives and four-pronged throwing cheqs Valkyn extracted from his hair, clothing, gauntlets, and boots.

The guard’s eyes widened at the pile of weaponry on the ground. Step back, the sentinel said.

The drawbridge lowered, and the portcullis rose with a groan. Two more guards joined them. While the others watched, the first conducted a thorough search, taking naught for granted. Aryk gritted his teeth at where the man’s hands traveled. A blade there would make walking nigh impossible. Even their mouths and ears were searched. He half expected them to order him to strip in the cold, but they didn’t.

The guards confiscated their weapons and escorted them into the fortress.

They made their way through the courtyard into the main hall. A fire crackled at either end. A long wooden table stood atop the dais, with bench seating for mayhap twenty or so. Colorful tapestries and another raven banner hung from the walls. Valkyn’s unease was palpable. Aryk too braced against the weight of the place… Stone closed in around them… He eyed the exits, the shadows.

If the native Shamaru were wanderers, as Ildiko said, how had they fared living in the stone-bound towns built by the more recent immigrant—some would still say foreign invader—Shamari?

A giant of a Shamaru leaned on an ornate walking cane as he neared.

Ildiko raised a shaking hand to her mouth. Father?

The man’s jaw dropped. Ildiko? He limped forward and snatched her in a fierce hug that made her grunt. We believed you dead, Lass. His dark eyes glistened with unspoken emotion. Welcome home, Daughter.

She clung to him, sobbing as if the reality of her return now hit her.

He summoned a fair-skinned Shamari servant lass who was sweeping a nearby corner. Fetch Tzigana.

The lass blinked and scurried off.

Tzigana? Queen Tzigana? Tisht, Ildiko said naught about living here as part of the royal family. She ranked higher than Aryk had assumed. If Gefjun knew, she’d kept her own counsel. He hated when she did so. He could’ve used the information. Had Ulryk made a princess a whore, there’d be blood-restitution before any hope of peace. Shamar had such in common with Isadorikja.

A stunning and hugely pregnant Shamaru woman in purple robes came running, a younger version of her a half step behind.

The consistent Shamaru appearance—black curly hair, dusky skin, and dark eyes—was evident in the three women, along with an unmistakable familial stamp. The Shamari, on the other hand, varied in hair and eye color. Interesting how invader and invaded had found peace, living and working together.

By Creataq, if they could do it, so could he and his people.

Ildiko! The younger lass launched herself across the hall with a shriek. You’re back.

Jana. Ildiko spun in her father’s arms and braced herself as the lass hurled into her for a fierce hug. Oh, I missed you, Cousin.

The pregnant Shamaru woman’s gaze narrowed on Aryk and Valkyn, even as she rubbed her lower back with both hands. My thanks for returning our cousin, but I’m curious. Where’s she been these past several seasons, to return in the company of —she paused— you?

Had to be Queen Tzigana. Aryk took her measure as he bowed. No woman to trifle with, for all her girth and puffing. I’m Daq Aryk, and this is my second, Valkyn.

Ildiko, Tzigana restated, where were you?

Ildiko stiffened. Daq Ulryk of the Blood River Clan abducted me in a summer raid and kept me as a slave, ’til he attacked Daq Aryk’s village and lost. When Aryk returned Ulryk’s dead to their clan, he claimed their villages and freed me. He and Valkyn brought me home. They wish to speak with you and Wolf.

Tzigana’s lips tightened, dark eyes condemning. Aryk suspected she’d guessed what type of slave Ildiko had been.

She also read her older cousin’s face. Neither of these men touched me. They rescued me, and they’ve been both kind and courteous on the journey here.

What would you say to us? A white-haired warrior with a craggy, weathered face and murky green eyes entered the room. He had the loose-limbed, rangy stride and rough, shaggy hair of his namesake. He wasn’t as old as his hair would leave one to believe. A simple circlet of gold rested on his furrowed brow. The Shamari king Von Berend?

Aryk studied him. Old eyes, battle-scarred. This was someone who’d weathered unspeakable loss and lived to regret it. He hoped seasoning and leadership had granted the man an open mind. Aryk read caution and curiosity but no hostility.

Tzigana addressed Ildiko’s father. Andorjan, clear the hall. Wolf and I would speak to these two.

Everyone obeyed with alacrity, but gossip assuredly would run rampant through the keep.

Aryk bowed to the pale-haired king of Shamar and weighed his next words.

I know the manner of slavery my cousin endured, Tzigana confirmed. She mayhap carries that baby-raping riever’s bastard even now. So, tell me, Riever Daq, why should I not gut you on the floor where you stand?

He bristled. His fingers itched for his nonexistent sword should he have to defend himself. Their long journey and charitable overture counted for naught? Had they returned Ildiko only to be slain for their trouble, simply based on their birth?

Wolf laid a hand on her shoulder, and the queen reined herself in. So, the king was the reason for the two, the queen the emotion. Aryk studied the other man. He’d heard tales of the legendary warrior who’d fought for peace. Who better to understand his own hope? Mayhap there was a chance.

Come. Sit with us. Wolf led the way to the table on the dais and, with utter lack of ceremony, poured all of them a deep-red wine. You risk much to return a captive lass to her family, entering enemy territory to do so. You travel in winter. Interesting.

Winter’s for unobserved travel. Aryk took a seat. I’ve plans for peace I request aid with.

Tzigana glared. Peace? Your kind’s been our enemy since the beginning of time, Riever. One good deed can’t undo generations of death and destruction.

If I succeed, the raids will cease. For their children’s sakes, they must.

Wolf’s eyes narrowed in a face of stone. You’re as clannish as the Arcadian borderers of the Dragons’ Back Mountains. You’ve no central leader to make such a claim, let alone enforce it. Have politics changed on the Isle of Ice, Northman?

Not yet. Valkyn shifted on his bench. It creaked.

Wolf raised a pale brow. I’m listening.

Tzigana’s smoldering gaze singed Aryk. He displayed his two daq medallions of hammered copper disks—one of a rounded pyramid for Widowmaker Mountain and one with the undulating serpentine pattern of Blood River. My territory now traverses the southern coast of Isadorikja, from Widowmaker Mountain to the Blood River. Double the warriors answer to me, but twice the mouths to feed. Raids keep children from starving. Our growing-and-gathering season’s short. I tire of seeing folk go hungry, but most of all I tire of being treated as riever. We’re folk same as you.

A touch of softness graced her dark eyes, mayhap at the mention of the children. She curled slim arms about her round belly. "What do