Warprize

He was in formal dress, standing stiff and straight in front of the huge window. His hands were clenched behind his back. I glanced around. It seemed that the entire council was crowded about the room. Lord Marshall Warren was there, along with Archbishop Drizen. Drizen was seated by the hearth and dressed in formal vestments, with Deacon Browdus beside him. Everyone looked tired and worn. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught side glances being exchanged. There was a tension, as if everyone was avoiding looking at me. Something was very, very wrong.
    “Xylara, the Warlord has named his terms for peace.” Xy-mund did not turn. He made his announcement as he stood looking out the window. His hands tightened around one another. I looked over at General Warren, who grimaced, and looked down at the floor.
    “That is good to hear, Your Majesty.” I swallowed, sensing a problem. “Are they acceptable?”
    Xymund still did not turn. “I and my nobles are to swear fealty to him. The kingdom will remain under my control and the taxes and tithes that are to be paid are reasonable. All prisoners and wounded, if there are any, will be exchanged.” There was a bitterness in his tone. Maybe because they had more of our men then we had of theirs. Xymund continued. “But he has claimed tribute.” My brother’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon.
    My fears for a peace grew. If the Warlord claimed something of Xymund’s, his pride would forbid acceptance of the terms.
    “What does he claim?” I took a step toward Xymund. Still, he did not turn. I looked around, but no one would meet my eyes.
    At last, General Warren drew a breath. “You,” he cleared his throat. “He claims you as tribute.”
    “Me?” My voice squeaked and sounded like it came from a distance.
    Xymund did not turn. “As a slave.”
    I stared at that broad back, certain that I had not heard that right. “Me? But…”
    Warren nodded. He glanced at Xymund’s stiff back, but when there was no response, continued on, “
    The Warlord has sworn for a true peace. No pillaging, no looting.” Warren swallowed. “He offers a true peace in exchange for you, Daughter of Xy.”
    The Archbishop raged. “He takes a Daughter of the Blood as a whore. You cannot allow this, Majesty.”
    He and the deacon both wore similar expressions of horror.
    Protocol be damned. I sank into the nearest chair, body and mind numb. “You have misunderstood. He can’t want…”
    Xymund’s hands twisted around each other, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The light caught the gold brocade of his tunic as he moved. Always the regal one, my brother. “He would take you as his possession, a slave to his desires. He would not explain what your ultimate fate would be. He just repeated that he claims you, that you must be promised to him.” He moved his head slightly, but did not turn. “I offered him lands, cattle, or gold. He just shook his head no. ‘For a true peace,’ he said. ‘I claim her.’”
    I stared at him, blankly. From childhood, I had been drilled in my responsibility as a Daughter of the House of Xy. That a marriage of alliance would be expected of me. But as the years had passed, and I had gained my mastery, it had seemed a dim prospect. Yet here it was, the obligations of my birth and my house, in a form far different from any expectations. I licked my dry lips and tried to remember to breathe.
    My legs managed to get me up out of the chair, and over to stand next to Xymund at the window. Father had chosen this room for its view of the length of the valley. The river, the lake, the farms and cottages. Now I saw what Xymund saw. Campfires. Hundreds of them outside the walls, scattered over the valley. The Warlord’s men. I leaned my head against the cool stonework and looked out in despair. Xymund shifted slightly and turned. For a brief instant I saw it in his eyes. Deep within, hidden from the men in this room, was his utter and complete glee. “You have already promised him his tribute,” I whispered.
    Xymund tilted his head to the side.
    Rage filled me in an instant. I wanted to strike out hard and hurt him. Warren could rule better. Othur could rule better.
    The rage drained away as quickly as it had surged, leaving me shaken. The glitter of those campfires reminded me of what faced us.
    “Xylara.” Warren was standing behind us. “No one can ask this of you.” I turned to face him. He did not look at the King.
    “We do not