“And who do you think they’ll choose?” Drew scoffed. “It comes to the same result.”
True. The ship tilted and the rectangle of light seemed to be drawn farther away.
“She’ll need backing first, though, from people with real power,” stated the horseman. “Men who’ll want to see that key around her neck, not hear some naïve scheme.”
And support from those without power who won’t give a shell of spent ammunition for a key that symbolizes the line of succession. Robert began to climb, his compulsion to escape the hold stronger than any need to defend himself.
Aurelia was the person who deserved an explanation. He knew he was wrong to let her believe she was the only reason for his return to Tyralt. She knew how he felt about her. He had shared his feelings the morning they had departed from their homeland. But she had never spoken the words back to him. In an awful way, he had not wanted to hear them. Somehow, in a frustrating twist, her acceptance of his love—the kind that had come so close on the darkest nights of exile, when her strong shell had cracked and he had folded her in his arms for solace—had become equivalent to her giving up.
He did not know how to rectify that.
“Will she have your full political support?” Drew asked, following him up the bottom rungs of the ladder.
What political support?
“She’ll have yours,” Robert replied. At least the horseman had lived within the country for the past year and a half.
“Nay, lad. I’m not disembarking with the two of you at Darzai. I’m bound for Tyralt City.”
Robert’s boot missed a rung. “With the entire royal army there?” He adjusted his footing.
Even if Drew’s role in Aurelia’s return escaped the ears of her sister and stepmother, there could be no more hazardous location than the capital.
“I reckon her sister needs watching,” replied the horseman.
Drew would be risking his life for Aurelia.
Robert would have to accustom himself to that—to not being the only one. He eased back to the correct side of the ladder.
“You’ll have to give the Oracle my regards,” the horseman said. “He’s holed up there, you know, in Darzai. Him and what’s left of his desert followers.”
“But the treaty—”
“Treaty’s broken. That wall around Darzai was built for a reason. Guess the Oracle figured if it was made to hold back the warriors of the desert, the same stone could protect them. Wise choice. Anthonian army dropped their pursuit and headed west.”
Robert stalled for a moment. “How many men does the Oracle have?”
“Men? Or warriors?”
“Men who might fight for the frontier?”
“You think they would?”
Again Robert climbed. “Tyralt is their country as well.”
“Not sure they’ll see it that way.”
“And they’ve no love of Anthone.”
“Ah, there, starting to use that head of yours. You show the Oracle that when you see him. He’ll be expecting you. I left a certain bay stallion under his watch.”
Horizon! Robert had been afraid to ask about his former mount. Hadn’t wanted to imagine his magnificent red-brown friend as another victim of his homeland’s chaos.
Drew continued, “And a bronze mare fit for a queen.”
The beautiful chestnut Robert had given Aurelia on her birthday. He quickened his pace, anxious to tell her she would soon be seeing Falcon. But his steps slowed on the final rungs.
Folly, his mother would say about his love for the young woman on the deck.
Aurelia was a princess.
He was no one.
She was a born ruler.
He was no one.
She was a political pawn who had been raised in a sea of lies, deception, and betrayal.
His uncle was the queen’s adviser; his father, a former royal spy; his great-grandfather, an aristocrat who had been hung for treason. But Robert, who had left the palace at the age of fourteen when his parents had chosen to move to the frontier, was not any of those things.
He was no one.
She was more.
He stepped onto the deck and faced that reality. Her hands were on the rail, her hair blown back, wild in the breeze, flowing like the beige cloth of her simple blouse and skirt. The planes of her cinnamon-brown face glistened in the sun, her eyes on the horizon. Alight. Focused with unwavering intensity upon that distant shoreline.
Home. Robert’s heart flooded as he gazed over the ship’s rail at the emerging coast. The steep black cliffs of the Quartian Shelf, their obsidian heights obscured by morning clouds, the dramatic stone coming to an abrupt halt at what he knew must be the mouth of the Fallchutes; though from this distance, he could witness neither the river nor the sandstone outline of the city of Darzai. Only the magnificent sculpted expanse of the Geordian Desert, crimson sand stretching north.
All the way to Anthone.
His throat clenched.
Footsteps came from behind, and again the horseman’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Will you support her return, even if it means losing her?”
Yes.
Robert knew now—what had become of her when she was torn from their country. The hurt that had swirled behind her eyes, the sobs that had come as she slept, the need he could never fulfill by holding her.
She needed Tyralt. As much as it needed her.
He understood that. Had pledged her his fealty even before he had pledged her his heart. He had boarded this ship, committing his support to this insane mission that held no lesser goal than to save their entire country.
And he understood that nothing had changed with regard to the danger.
Her life was still forfeit as soon as she stepped on that shore.
• • •
Aurelia took a deep, shuddering breath and climbed out of the small skiff onto the empty wharf of Darzai. There were no soldiers. She had feared they would be here waiting for her—that the same men who had patrolled this wharf the day of her departure would suddenly come swarming out of the alleys, tunnels, and shadowed balconies around the port. She had imagined those soldiers’ grips clamping down on her limbs, draining her control, and dragging her off to the capital for execution.
All in the name of the law.
For the slanderous charge of treason.
Her breath held. Not a sound came through the early morning air save the shifting of the skiff’s oars into their locks. And the splashing of water against the wooden slats beneath her. Not a crate, cage, or barrel rested on the once-crowded docks. Not another craft was tied to the mooring. And not a soul moved.
Except for Robert behind her. She heard his feet hit the dock and felt the slat boards vibrate. He thanked the sailor in the boat for manning the skiff. Polite. When she herself could not even tear her gaze from the emptied site of her nightmares.
The seaman gave a gruff response, then oars scraped out of their locks and again splashed into motion.
Robert stepped close, and she felt the brush of his shirt against her back.
Aurelia did not dare look at him yet. She had not told him her fears of being captured on the wharf. She could not afford to show doubt. If she wavered … if she voiced her fears, others might use them as an excuse not to support her mission. Which meant she had to suppress the skittering questions that ran through her chest. What if she was wrong? What if she gave people hope and then led them to destruction? What if she failed? As she had failed at everything else.
Robert’s hand touched her shoulder. She inhaled quick breaths, as though the faster she breathed, the more moments she might count in Tyralt. She could not go back. Would not exchange a single second here for a thousand in the Outer Realms. This wharf might haunt her, but it was part of her homeland. The sandstone was cut from the deep crimson formations of the Geordian. The sea molded the dramatic scope of the coastline. And the sky stretched over all of Tyralt.
Emotion suddenly burst within her,
and she whirled, flinging her arms around her companion’s neck. “Robert, we’re home!”
He did not respond. Did he already regret the choice to follow her?
If he could not support her mission, she would be lost—a voice without her heart. As torn as she had been in the Outer Realms. Slowly she drew back and sought her fate in his gaze.
Then she knew. Understood the reason behind his silence.
There was no regret. No reproach. No anger glistening in those deep, blue eyes.
Only tears.
• • •
She and Robert spent most of the day in the long trek from the wharf, across Darzai, and up the obsidian cliff toward the camp of desert refugees. The city, like the wharf, had changed. Darzai had once struck Aurelia as alive—a dozen languages flying out windows, soaring over bridges, crisscrossing streets, and splashing into canals. Now the windows were closed. Shuttered. Minthonian lemon and mandarin orange trees still grew along the walkways, but no one traversed the paths.
“Where are the rest of the people?” Aurelia whispered while crossing a massive circular plaza, its surface a mosaic of desert horses amidst ocean waves. A mere handful of citizens cut across the space, their heads down, covered in shawls, hats, and turbans.
“Some are gone”—Robert pointed toward a barricade of stones within a gateway—“but most …” His eyes rose toward the row of distant city guards lining the high, red wall that defended Darzai. “I think they’re just waiting.”
The thought disturbed her. Tyralt was under attack, and these people were waiting?
The idea continued to dig into her mind as she and Robert climbed the path etched in the cliff that served as the city’s backdrop. Of what point was that high wall if no one lived beyond it? If the grain that flowed down the river ceased? Without trade, nothing would sustain Darzai’s rich port and diverse population. If Anthone took control of the frontier, he would hold this city and all its people hostage.
Aurelia picked up her pace. The sun had long since passed its zenith, and she had yet to accomplish anything. She scrambled her way past the final sandstone buildings along the cliff. And froze.
A young girl, no more than six or seven, sat listlessly across the path, one of her thin legs folded beneath her soiled garment. Her other leg stuck out awkwardly, a giant red scar slashed across the knee. A stick in the shape of a crutch lay at the girl’s side. And from her right shoulder, a rag draped down like an empty sleeve. Over nothing.
Beside her sat a man with no legs, his back propped against a canvas frame. A few feet from him stood a scarred, burned woman who had lost all her hair. Her fingers traced the cloth of a torn doll.
Aurelia staggered. Drew had told her in his wry, glancing fashion about the destruction of the tribes. But even though she had witnessed the violence of an Anthonian raid herself, she had not fully comprehended this horror.
Robert’s hand tightened on her elbow.
She regained her balance, enough to force herself beyond the injured trio, to confront the eyes of all the other men, women, and children she had left behind. At the hands of Edward of Anthone. The eyes were empty—as empty as the streets below and the wharf below that. Lone figures hovered in pockets of space between scattered tents. She saw nothing resembling tribes or families, no women holding children. These people held no unifying bond.
Except to the Oracle.
Robert’s hand motioned to a black tent, its entrance ringed with a dozen armed warriors. Who other than the desert leader would maintain the loyalty of these men in the face of such tragedy?
She stepped toward the entrance.
And arrows aimed straight for her heart.
“We are here to see Barak ze Geordian,” she said. The name held power, though she had not understood the value of the gift when the Oracle had first given her the right to use it.
The bows tilted downward.
“He is … mourning,” stated one of the sentries, his tone falling with a desert accent. “His daughter—”
“Mirai?” Aurelia’s heart skidded. The young woman she remembered as her first acquaintance among the tribes had been beautiful. Strong. Determined.
“Her newborn son … the next Oracle. He die four days last.”
Not Mirai, but the future of the desert. Aurelia’s stomach churned.
“How long …” Robert spoke. “How long will your spiritual leader be in mourning?”’
The same warrior responded, perhaps the sole sentry who spoke Tyralian. “Six month.”
No. Aurelia could not wait half a year to see the Oracle. Her country could not wait. And neither could the people around her. They were all in mourning.
“I need to speak with him now,” she said.
Again the arrows cocked in her direction. “Your name,” the sentry demanded.
She had used false names in the past, for safety. But there could be no deception on this journey. Not if she wished to accomplish her mission. “My name is Aurelia Lauzon.”
The weapons lowered and the sentry motioned for her alone to enter the tent.
She stepped into a web. An ebony net draped from the black canvas ceiling. The weave divided her from the figure at the tent’s center—a solitary figure in white. His legs crossed upon barren rock; his head bowed. His partially unwound turban hung like a curtain in front of his face, the cloth pinned to the ground with a stone.
“Aurelia Lauzon,” he said without moving. “I had thought you dead across the waves.”
The pronouncement sent a shudder through her shoulders. Mirai had told her that the Oracle could see the future. And the past. This then, Aurelia tried to convince herself, was proof of the reverse. Unless he meant the deathlike hole that had lain within her throughout exile.
“I am sorry for the death of your grandson,” she whispered.
“The death of a people spares no one.”
She closed her eyes, thinking of the young girl with the crutch, then forced herself to face him. “I would ask your forgiveness, Barak ze Geordian.”
His head came up, though the white curtain remained over his face.
Aurelia swallowed. “I pledged to take the needs of your people to the capital, and I failed.”
“I also … have failed.”
She recognized the sorrow in his voice. He bore the hopes, the lost dreams, and the responsibilities of his people. This she understood, for they were her people too. This city was exile to them. And they could not remain here. The city itself could not remain suspended. She had not returned to Darzai to wait. “I wish to lead a force west to save the frontier.” Aurelia splayed her fingers. “But I need your help. And that of your people.”
His hand clenched the stone at his side. “The warriors of the Jaheem, the Nysane, the Ai-Van-Ayse. Nine in ten did not survive. The father of this child I mourn also did not live to endure the shame of hiding behind a wall.”
She remained silent, unable to express sorrow for the death of the scout who had tortured Robert. Or a sorrow great enough to reflect the loss of almost an entire people. All she could offer this man was a purpose. And an escape from that wall.
“We have not been great in number for many decades,” the Oracle continued, “since two kings chose to split our tribes between their kingdoms. In exchange for peace. And a treaty your sister and the King of Anthone destroyed. Your men of the frontier stepped not to defend us when Anthone crossed the desert. Why should my people help them?”
She had only her own answer. “For Tyralt.”
“Tyralt betrayed us.”
“The tribes are part of Tyralt.”
“The tribes of the southern Geordian are dead.” Again his head bowed. “Those of us which remain are only fragments.”
“And without them, Tyralt itself is not whole,” she stated. “When we learned my sister had given Anthone permission to steal the magnificent horses of the Geordian …” And wreak havoc in the desert in exchange for my death. “I promised to take the word of your struggl
e to my father. After he died, I fled. By doing so, I failed your people. I do not wish to fail the rest of Tyralt.”
Aurelia thought about the families she had met on the frontier—people so desperate they had sold all they owned to start new lives. Homesteaders, blunt and coarse in their talk of what survival required. Desperation filled her voice. “Please help me.”
A long silence met her words. The Oracle did not scold or argue or disdain her request, but neither did he lift his gaze.
She knew his answer would be a judgment upon her.
At last he shook his head. “This country does not need war, but a healer.”
Which meant that again she had failed. Her stomach ached with inadequacy. She had come all this way, fighting nightmares and denial, to convince herself she could make a difference. That even if she died, her return would be worth it. And now she had lost before she had even begun.
A scuffling came from outside the tent; then suddenly Robert entered behind her. “Tell him your mission, Aurelia.”
She had tried. And the desert leader had rejected her plea.
Robert’s hand slipped within her own, as though the solid grasp of his fingers could renew hope. “For the future,” he said.
And then she realized her error. She had offered condolences, empathy, grief, but she had yet to complete the task for which she had sailed. She had come with a message—a vision she had not even remembered to convey. “I wish Tyralt to be free.”
The stone in the Oracle’s palm sliced a hole in the turban’s cloth. “Freedom and Tyralt have no crossroads.”
“But they should,” she said. “The people of Tyralt should choose their own leader.”
“Which people?” His stone scraped the cliff rock.
“All the people who live here.”
The scraping stopped. “You would forfeit your crown if someone else were chosen?”
“Someone else would be chosen,” Aurelia explained. “Every several years. Throughout one lifetime there would be many leaders.”
He pulled aside the net divider.
“And no rulers?”
“The people would rule.”
Redemption Page 2