Page 16 of Hunting the Warlord's Daughter

A bolt of recognition shot through him.

Awrenkka.

He crushed the compulsion to run across the road.Be calm. Be methodical. Do not allow emotion to get in the way.He had not achieved all that he had by being impulsive. He refused to start now. “Ten years has changed her, but aye, Kaz, it’s her.”

Ten years had changed him too. Fates knew in how many ways.

His insides twisted at the sight of her small frame swallowed up by dusty, oversized clothes and thick boots.My wife.Tenderness with a protective edge knifed through him.

No—he wasn’t to think of her that way. The situation was already complicated enough without adding feelings to the mix. They would be married in name only.

In the next breath, she disappeared in the crowd, the memory of her violet eyes burning like the afterimage of a too-bright light.

He nodded at Kaz. “It’s her.”

They exchanged nods and crossed the road. He would find her—in the streets or in the tents. There was nowhere else for her to go.

CHAPTERTEN

Wren usedher small size to weave through the bodies, looking to put as much distance as possible between her and the pair of officials. She’d seen no sign of them following, but she wanted to be sure.

The male officer had looked right at her, his gaze sharpening, as if he recognized her! He bore an unsettling resemblance to Battlelord Mawndarr from long ago—the handsome widower Ilkka had long wagered would marry her, but who had thankfully never followed through. Same wide forehead, same intense stare, and same square jaw line. Karbon, the father of shy Aral, the teenage cadet who’d captivated her as a girl.

Aral of the ruthless Mawndarr clan.

Wren, that’s ridiculous. No battlelord would dare traipse through a Triad refugee camp.Her panicked mind was playing tricks. Word was that the Triad had already killed or sentenced to death most of the warlord’s High Command. That likely included the real Karbon Mawndarr and his son too, if Aral had followed his sire’s path and climbed the ranks to a command position. Nonetheless, this battlelord look-alike reminded her of another, very real danger: loyalists on the hunt for her—just as Ilkka had intended.

Over the loudspeakers, an announcement blared. Excitement rippled through the encampment. It was time for the daily news-stream. On a nearby wall, a large, bright display illuminated, and a striking older man with bracing blue eyes filled the screen. He sat at a desk, his hands folded, wearing a galaxy of medals on his uniform.

The scrolling text read:Priority Announcement from Prime-Admiral Mick Zaafran, Commander-in-Chief, Triad Alliance Space Forces,and then the commander spoke: “The existence of a surviving child of the warlord presents a grave threat to galactic peace. Be vigilant. She remains at large and may be hiding in plain sight. Any citizen with information leading to her arrest will receive a generous reward of fifty-million queen’s credits.”

A roar went up. “Bounty” and “millions” rang in Wren’s ears. People plotted and planned how they might spend their share of the reward, never imagining the very woman they sought was in their midst. Refugees and guards alike searched each other’s faces, wondering if this girl was the one—or that one. The bounty for her arrest had turned everyone in the camp into a potential captor.

A composite image of “her”—she supposed based on her parents’ likenesses—appeared: a tall, buxom, attractive blonde with green eyes. How long before someone figured out the mistake? Her heart galloped sickly.

Ilkka’s warning rang loud and clear:“Do you know what will happen if they discover who you are? They’ll make you suffer in the most gruesome way in retaliation for what was done to them—centuries of genocide.”

A sweet, smoky scent doused her near-panic. A priestess had walked near, incense drifting in her wake with her robes. Pale gray and pearlescent, the fabric billowed around her body from head to slippers. Wren breathed deep. The scent of the incense was somehow familiar, yet she couldn’t place where she had smelled it before. Certainly not on Barokk.

“May the Goddess be with you,” the priestess said, bestowing blessings on all within reach.

“And also with you,” others called back. They made the sign of the Goddess, circling their hand over their chests. Wren had been raised to think very few believers existed on the Drakken side of the border, but there were billions of them. They’d worshipped in secret like Sabra, forced underground, generation after generation. People like this, devotees of the religion her father and the rest of her Rakkuu ancestors had worked so hard to eradicate.

The sister continued on. Wren followed the sister on her rounds, and right up to a large tent. The door flap was tied partially open. Inside the sanctuary, women spoke in hushed voices, sipping tea and reading books. Some sat in quiet, solitary meditation. A deep sense of peace stole over her. It reminded her of the serenity she’d felt on the water on Barokk, something she’d feared she’d never experience again.

“May I help you, child?” The priestess’s eyes were serene, kind, and paler than the heat-bleached sky. Her skin showed the lines of a long life, and there was strength beneath her silk robes. She smiled a little at Wren’s open-mouthed stare and opened the flap wider. An invitation.

As she moved closer, the pendant began to hum, vibrating against her breastbone. She jumped backward, her heart leaping. The pendant had never done that before. Usually, she forgot she wore it.

But it brought her back to her senses. She couldn’t enter the sanctuary. How could she be so callous as to join these pious women after the horrific, violent acts her family had committed against their kind?

“Are you well, my dear?” The sister’s gaze bored straight into her, as if she could see all the way into the dark pit of Wren’s soul.

Wren bobbed her head then scurried away, pausing to catch her breath in the rear of the tent. She followed the perimeter like a hungry stray, yearning to be inside yet knowing it would be impossible.

The usual signs of day-to-day life were scattered around—large containers of drinking water, assorted boxes, and in the rear, freshly washed robes fluttering in the breeze on drying racks.

Disguises for the taking.

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