“There are guards and spies all about Ianthe’s shop and living quarters,” Ivar informed them. “Whether they are from Mylonas, the Arabs, or someone else, I do not know. But they are there, and in the palace, too, of course.”
“I do not understand. I am no one of importance. Why would these people go to so much trouble?” Drifa’s brow furrowed with puzzlement.
“Actually, you are of much importance, dearling,” Sidroc said, and noted Ivar’s raised brows at the endearment. “Not you yourself, but what you represent as a tool of war.”
She still frowned with confusion.
“They would use you for leverage, Princess Drifa,” Ivar explained. “You would be of value to the Greeks in their war against the Moslems. You would be of value to the Arabs in uniting the tribes. And others have their own greedy uses for a woman of your stature.”
“What a mess!” she said. “What should I do?”
“I have removed all your belongings from the palace, and I managed to get into Ianthe’s home by the secret door Sidroc told me about to gather any items you left behind,” Ivar told her.
Secret door? Drifa mouthed at him. Then she turned back to Ivar. “Where are my things?”
“I stored them on Wind Maiden. I figured that is the safest place until we decide what to do next.”
She nodded hesitantly.
Sidroc and Ivar exchanged meaningful glances, and Sidroc understood that the longship was ready to sail on a moment’s notice. The only thing remaining was to convince Drifa to fall in with their plans.
“Let us go to your longship where we can discuss the situation in more detail,” Sidroc suggested.
“I would feel better if Ianthe and Isobel and the others were here, too,” she said.
They all would, but for the moment Drifa’s safety was paramount. And there was more.
He’d avoided for days now talk of the future. Their future. And that of his daughter.
In truth, he did not have any answers. Mayhap he would not know what to do until he’d met his daughter face-to-face. Mayhap even then he would be confused.
He had reached a turning point in his life once again, just as he had on his daughter’s birth. Which path he took was so important he could not act hastily.
Would he make a good father? Without love?
Would he make a good husband? Without love?
Drifa seemed to think not.
He was a soldier, a commander, who made decisions daily. There was black and there was white. No wavering.
Why then did his life feel so gray?
But how do I live without you? ...
Drifa was in the hold of her longship, checking over her belongings, making sure Ivar had gathered everything, when she heard a clunking noise. The vessel appeared to be pulling anchor. An accident?
She moved toward the ladder, and it was not there.
“What in bloody hell is going on?” she yelled up.
Sidroc peered over the edge. “You are going home, princess.”
“What? Nay! I am not ready yet.”
“Sorry I am to inform you, but the decision is out of your hands, sweetling.”
“Do not ‘sweetling’ me, you louse. Drop the ladder so I can climb up.”