Her hawkish eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Beside Amar, Saya stiffened and raised her chin a little higher as if to brace herself. Perhaps this was some of the humiliation she’d spoken of, the discomfort of being treated as a guest in her own home and by her own mother.
She started toward a large slab of rock where food had been laid out in woven serving baskets and earthenware dishes. Amar followed, and Mitul, Kesari, and Lucian soon joined them. Saya showed them how to use one of the large pieces of flatbread to hold their food. There were several different kinds of vegetables, all seasoned with colorful spices whose aromas melded together pleasantly. Little cakes topped with a pale pink fruit had been arranged in a basket, and steam wafted up from a bowl of rice prepared in traditional Kavoran fashion, a gracious gesture from their hosts.
A ghayat had been cooking on a spit nearby for most of the day, and Amar’s stomach rumbled as he drew closer to the savory smell of its meat. A Sularan man sliced a few pieces from the animal’s haunches and laid it on top of his flatbread, which was now so full he had to carry it with both hands. Only after they had all walked away from the rock slab did the rest of the Sularans approach to get their own meal.
Saya led them to a spot near one of the many campfires that had been set up throughout the settlement. They sat on the cooling sand with their food in their laps and dug in. Amar hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, and his appetite was voracious. He ate like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, and to be fair, he hadn’t—not compared to this. It was some of the best food he’d ever tasted, at least as far as he could remember.
Mitul watched him for a few seconds, then shook his head. “How can you be older than I am and still have the appetite of a teenage boy? It doesn’t seem fair.”
“He still has the body of a teenage boy,” Lucian said. “Is it so surprising that he eats like one, too?”
“But where does all that food go?” Saya asked. “It’s not like he’s using it to get any taller or put some more hair on his chest.”
“I’m perfectly happy with my height,” Amar mumbled through a mouthful of rice. “And my chest hair is none of your concern.”
Kesari stifled a giggle behind her hand.
“Where did you wander off to earlier today?” Mitul asked Saya. “You missed out on some terrific musical performances, if I do say so myself.”
“I was visiting someone,” she replied, glancing up. Her face brightened, and she pointed to something out past the rocks and the campfires. “Him, actually.”
It took Amar a moment to spot the dark figure silhouetted against the night. He stood apart from the settlement in the empty desert beyond, alone except for the horse beside him. His body was swathed in loose-flowing fabrics that fluttered around him in the breeze.
“Who is he?” Amar asked.
“Zefar,” Saya replied. “He’s an outcast.”
“Someone who didn’t finish his haseph?” Kesari asked.
Saya nodded. “He worked as a mercenary in Kavora for a time. Now he lives alone, close by but not fully a part of the tribe. He taught me to fight when I was younger. I used to love listening to his stories.”
The man had left his horse with some of the other animals and was now skirting around the edge of the settlement, disappearing behind rocks only to reappear somewhere else a few moments later. It was a little unnerving, how quietly and quickly he moved, like he was made of nothing more than smoke and shadow. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the top of the sash around his waist.
“Wait,” Mitul said with a frown. “You’ve told us about this man before.”
That must have happened before Amar’s last death because he couldn’t remember ever hearing about Saya’s mercenary mentor. Then again, he hadn’t made an effort to pay attention to much of anything his companions had told him until recently.
Saya nodded and stared down at her food, suddenly bashful. “Yes, well, he’s actually the one who told me about Amar.”
Mitul gaped. “You mean he’s…”
Saya nodded, but Kesari and Lucian looked as confused as Amar was.
Before he could ask for clarification, the man himself stepped out of the shadows mere paces from where they were sitting. Several of the nearby Sularans cast dark glances in the newcomer’s direction and began to mutter amongst themselves. A few even picked up their food and walked away.
The man didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. His eyes were the same gold as Saya’s, and he fixed his stare on Amar, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth beneath a stubbly mustache. The thick scars that marked his face gave him a grisly, ferocious appearance. One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, and Amar’s fingers itched to grab his own blade. If only he hadn’t left it in a tent with his other things, but he hadn’t expected to need it here, and it had seemed rude to carry it around when their hosts had been so welcoming.
“Well,” the man said in a voice as smooth as polished steel. “You’re still alive and well, I see. And not a day older than the last time we met, you lucky bastard.”
“Be nice, Zefar,” Saya said coolly.
“I’m always nice,” he replied cheerfully. He was still staring, a cold recognition in his eyes.
Amar bristled. Something about the man felt wrong, though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Do I know you?” he growled.
Zefar’s smile widened, and he rubbed the top of his thumb over the hilt of his dagger. “You mean you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember much these days. Tell me who you are.” He said it as much to Saya and Mitul as he did the stranger. They both seemed to know something of his history with the man, and as usual, annoyance at this critical gap in memory flared within him.
“Who am I?” Zefar tossed back his head and laughed. “I’m the man who killed you.”
Amar scowled and mentally ran through what he’d been told of his previous lives. Mitul claimed to have seen Amar die three times. The first was at the hands of thieves in Jakhat who’d come to rob them. The most recent time had been that incident with the Visan woman. But his second death—Saya had only said it was a run-in with a mercenary, one of her people. Amar had never heard the full story, but this man had to be the one responsible.
He stood up and squared his shoulders to Zefar. The Sularan was a good head taller than him, and his teeth gleamed wolfishly in the firelight. Amar crossed his arms. “Explain.”
“You truly don’t remember, do you?” Zefar said, a hint of mocking in his tone. He glanced at Saya. “It’s just like you said.”
The last of Amar’s patience fizzled out. “Skies above, will someone tell me what you’re all talking about? Or do I need to beat it out of you?”
Zefar’s grin widened. “Is that a challenge?”
Mitul stood and put a hand on Amar’s arm. “Please, let’s all sit down and have a civilized conversation.”
Amar took a step back, still eyeing the dagger at Zefar’s hip. The man let go of the hilt and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. Amar waited until he’d lowered himself cross-legged onto the ground before returning to his own seat.
“Well?” he said, glancing between Mitul and Zefar. He didn’t care who did the talking as long as somebody did it soon.
“It happened five years ago,” Mitul began. “By then we were already travelling throughout Kavora, searching for a Tarja who could tell us about your immortality. We stayed out late one night, and you joined in on a game of dice with a few other travelers.”
“Where were you?” Amar asked.
“I was…occupied elsewhere.”
“You told me you’d wandered off to flirt with a handsome man,” Saya interjected.
“Well, yes,” Mitul replied sheepishly. “If I’d known what was going to happen, I never would have left your side, though that may have been what saved my life. You left the tavern with a friend you’d met there, and you were both killed. Brutally.” He cast a dark glare at Zefar.
“K
illing’s always brutal,” the mercenary replied with a nonchalant shrug. “It wasn’t anything personal, you understand. I was simply doing a job.”
Amar’s jaw tightened. “You murdered me.”
Zefar let out a longsuffering sigh. “Yes, that’s what I said earlier, isn’t it? Have you not been paying attention, or are you just dense?”
Amar lunged at him, and they both went toppling into the sand. He pinned Zefar’s neck against the ground, but the mercenary only let out a choking laugh, amusement dancing in his eyes. Fiery heat surged through Amar. He let out a wild roar and punched his killer in the face.
Someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. Zefar seized the opportunity to throw him off and stood. In the blink of an eye, his dagger was in his hand, but Saya put herself in front of him before he could use it.
“I should kill you!” Amar yelled, straining half-heartedly against Mitul’s strong grip. Kesari had taken hold of his other arm, her eyes wide. She was terrified, but not of the mercenary—of him.
Amar swallowed and tried to slow his racing pulse. His anger may have been justified, but he’d crossed a line attacking Zefar like that. What was he going to do? Kill the man in the middle of a meal prepared by people who’d shown him only kindness and hospitality? His cheeks burned as he looked around at the staring faces of dozens of Sularans, their expressions troubled by the scene he’d created.
He wrenched his arms free and glowered at Zefar. The man wasn’t even in a fighting stance anymore. He’d returned the dagger to its sheath and stood calmly with crossed arms and a smug smile on his face. It was only Amar who looked like the troublesome instigator now, outraged and disheveled while the outcast mercenary appeared the picture of composed dignity.
He sat down with a huff. The last bites of his food had scattered onto the ground, and a dog had wandered over to pick up the pieces. Zefar returned to his own seat, and after a few wary glances between themselves, so did the others.
“I understand you’re upset,” Zefar said as the usual chatter around them resumed. “But you didn’t actually die, so I don’t see what the real harm is.”
“You have no idea what I lost!” Amar snapped. He was half-tempted to finish his fight with the man but managed to stay seated.
Zefar raised his eyebrows and waited a few seconds. “Would you like to hear my side of the story? You might find it interesting.”
“Go on, then,” Amar muttered.
“Oh, that wasn’t very polite. I think I’d like to hear a please, if you don’t mind.”
“Zefar,” Saya warned in a low voice.
“Fine,” the mercenary said with a sigh. “As your friend here was saying, five years ago, you were brutally murdered by a devilishly handsome mercenary. Of course, this man had no other motive than to make a decent living for himself, and thus cannot be faulted for his actions.”
Amar rolled his eyes. “Just get on with it.”
“All right, straight to the point then. You should know that I was especially well compensated for this particular job, but that wasn’t the only reason why it was so strange.” He paused here, and Amar waited a few seconds for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“Why was it so strange?” he asked grudgingly.
Zefar’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I’m so glad you asked. You see, my employer wanted me to wait a while after the killing was done so I could watch the bodies. She wouldn’t tell me what I was supposed to be watching for, only that I would know it when it happened. I was to report straight back to her about whatever I saw.”
He paused to uncork a flask strapped across his shoulder and took a long drink. Amar waited silently, clinging to the last remnants of his patience, until Zefar finished drinking with a satisfied smack of his lips.
“There you were,” he continued at last. “Lifeless, bloody, your body growing colder with each passing hour. You were absolutely dead—I’d made sure of it. And then suddenly, you weren’t. Come sunrise, you started to breathe again, and then you simply sat up, looked around like you were confused, and wandered off. It was the most unbelievable thing I’d ever seen.” His lips twitched up in another grin. “And can you guess what my employer’s reaction was when I returned to her with this absolutely unbelievable piece of information?”
Amar shrugged.
Zefar leaned forward conspiratorially. “Nothing,” he breathed. “She had no reaction at all. It was as if that was exactly what she’d expected would happen. She didn’t even care that you weren’t dead, which was what she’d hired me for in the first place. She paid me a little extra for my trouble, and that was the end of it.”
A strange response indeed. Amar’s curiosity about the death itself shifted to something else—something far more important about Zefar’s story. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I never found out, and it’s not uncommon for my employers to want some measure of secrecy.”
“You must know something,” Amar said.
“Information like that usually comes at a price.”
Amar was really starting to regret not strangling the man, but before he could speak any of the dozens of threats running through his mind, Saya stepped in. “You killed him, Zefar. You at least owe him some answers.”
“I don’t think it actually counts as killing someone if they don’t stay dead, so I’m not sure—”
“Please,” Saya said, exasperation heavy in her voice. “For me. Tell him what you know about the woman.”
For a moment, Zefar’s carefree expression faltered, and he shrugged. “She was a Kavoran Tarja, from Jakhat. She used magic to hide her face, but she was always dressed in very fine clothing. The way she spoke made me think she was used to ordering other people around. I always assumed she must have been a noble or some member of the imperial court.”
“We’ve never been able to figure out who she might have been,” Mitul said. “To be honest, we haven’t put much thought into it. We only heard that part of the story when we met Saya.”
“When Zefar told me about you,” Saya said, “I knew I wanted to find you for my haseph. But learning the cause of your immortality always seemed to be more important than learning who this woman might be. Whoever she was, she seems to have lost whatever interest she had in you.”
“It happened so long ago,” Mitul added. “And we haven’t had any more run-ins with mercenaries or hired assassins since.”
“What about the girl who killed me last time?” Amar asked.
Saya shook her head. “She’s a skilled Tarja, but she’s no mercenary. I doubt they’re connected. A wealthy Kavoran noble wouldn’t hire some young, untrained refugee to hunt you down.”
Mitul nodded in agreement. “If that noblewoman knew of your immortality, she may have shared that knowledge with others. It’s more likely our Visan huntress heard some rumor and decided to come after you.”
“Which means there could be others,” Amar said. He scowled at Zefar. “Especially if the rumor spreads.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m responsible,” Zefar said. “It’s not a story I tell often. Saya’s the only one I thought would be crazy enough to believe it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied.
“As it was intended.” He gave her a wink. “I would certainly never want to disrespect our future most esteemed Masahi.”
She shoved her shoulder against his with a grin, and Amar tried not to let himself be unsettled by the fact that she was so friendly with a man who’d once murdered him.
He stared into the dying embers of the fire, trying to fit these new pieces of information into what he already knew. Who was this woman who’d hired Zefar to kill him, and why would she do that? Had she really lost interest in him, or had she simply lost track of him over time? Perhaps she was someone from his past, or perhaps—
He sighed and kicked a little sand onto the coals. He might have been able to come up with clearer answers to those questions had he known more about his past, b
ut there was no point dwelling on it now. He would only frustrate himself following those thoughts in endless circles. He needed more information. He needed his memories back, but that wasn’t going to happen until they reached Atrea, found Jameson, and figured out what to do about this curse. And there was no guarantee Jameson would actually be able to help him.
But he couldn’t let himself dwell on that, either. He couldn’t afford to lose hope when it was the only thing keeping him going.
23
Aleida
Aleida and Valkyra kept up a steady pace, following the Adrati River southwest toward Chatanda and making far better progress on horseback than they had on foot. The closer they got to the town, the more apprehension Aleida felt about seeing her brother. How would he react to her unannounced visit? How would she react upon seeing his condition? Would his body’s deterioration be worse than she expected after more than a year apart, and if so, would she be able to conceal her emotions? Should she? Would Tyrus be truthful with her about the state of his health, and if he was, what was she supposed to do with that information?
On sleepless nights when these questions and others kept her awake, she busied herself with refining the drawings she’d made of Amar and his companions. She would close her eyes and try to recall every feature from their confrontations, sometimes retracing the lines on a new sheet of paper to add more detail or alter the parts her fingers hadn’t gotten quite right the first time. She’d have to ask around about them again once she and Valkyra reached Atrea, and she wanted to make her representations of them were easily recognizable.
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