The Silver Sparrow

Man to Man

The blow that followed sent her crashing against the wall to crumple at the prince's feet. She wiped the blood off her lips with the back of her hand before turning to glare at the giant who'd just slapped her with his massive palm, daring him to finish the job with that axe. It would have been a quick, painless death, and just what she needed had the beast been less sensitive to his master's need to keep her alive. He was, unfortunately, fully aware of such a need, judging from how hard he was struggling not to hack her to pieces.

"That's enough, Ghaul," said the prince with no more than casual amusement in his eyes. "Leave us. I will speak to this Bharavi alone."

"My lord...."

"Do as I say. Or do you find me incapable of defending myself against a girl?" The tone had been mild and considerate, one she hadn't heard him use with the others. They must have gone back a long way, these two. The giant Samarran—she figured from the red hair and the face tattoo—seemed to have held a special status among the prince's subjects and was apparently being tolerated a lot more.

"No, my lord, of course not," Ghaul replied. To her disappointment, he offered a quick bow, and headed reluctantly toward the exit.

"And Ghaul," the prince called him halfway through the door. "Have that wound on your arm looked after. We have a long ride tomorrow. You fought well today."

She looked at his arm, saw the blood seeping through the dark fabric, and wondered if the prince had possessed a prior knowledge of that injury or if he had simply been that observant. The latter being true could complicate many things for her.

Ghaul, beaming now like the fifth hurricane lamp at the compliment, sketched an elaborate bow and left the tent.

Power, intelligence, a highly disciplined army, and men loyal beyond his post who seemed to consider him a god to be worshipped. She was beginning to understand her father's words at that moment, why he'd considered this man such a threat. If he was difficult to deal with now, what would they have to deal with when he had full control of the Salasar?

"Can you stand?" He held out a hand.

She ignored it and rose to her feet.

The prince smiled. "Take a seat." He gestured at a chair by the table where food and drink had been laid. On it were a few flat breads, some cheese, a small serving of local fruits, and a pitcher each of wine and water, both made of plain, unadorned silver.

She swept her eyes around the tent and noticed the practicality of the furnishing. It offered comfort and elegance, but never to the point of being vain. He wore no jewelry besides a signet ring. His hands were those of a man used to wielding weapons on a daily basis. There was nothing soft about this prince who should have been no more than a sheltered, spoiled, over-privileged imbecile had he been raised in the Tower like all the others. Instead, they'd thrown him into prison, given him a reason to fight, and the hell of Sabha had spat out this exceedingly capable monster who had destroyed her home.

"Let us talk then," he said in a formal tone, "like two civilized people on equal grounds. Or should I say, man to man?"

She regarded him for a time, searching for a sign of mockery in his expression, and didn't find it.

Adjusting her robe to cover the torn dress underneath, She drew herself up straight and seated herself on the opposite chair from the one he'd suggested. He smiled at that, then picked up the pitcher to pour himself a drink.

"Do you take wine?" he asked but filled another goblet anyway. "It's the finest Samarran we have on reserve. The texture is superb, if a little too intense from being in the heat," explained the prince as he handed her the drink. "It washes down blood rather well. Perfect for the occasion, don't you agree?"