by Ronie Kendig
Haegan, where are ye? If he was able, he would come for her, save her. But that just made her worry because he hadn’t come. Which meant he was in trouble.
Tili. Where was her brother? He might chase her through Nivar Hall with a spoonful of honey in hopes of getting it in her hair, but he loved her as any brother would. He was also as protective as the night was long. So there—another worry. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?
Or had they, and somehow the Ematahri put them off? Tricked them? Killed them?
Defeated by her own thoughts, Thiel sank into her dreams and the coldness. Ached. Bones ached. Thoughts ached. Heart ached. Even when she had been on her own before, at least she’d been with Cadeif. They’d been friends.
“You were mine!” he had declared the last time they’d been among the camp, when Haegan retaliated and wiped out one of Cadeif’s clans. The Ematahri had demanded a blood price. Cadeif demanded Thiel stay.
Their only salvation then had been the Lucent Riders. Deliverers. Two sent to free Haegan.
Two. Had Abiassa’s Guardians known then that the Ematahri would align themselves with the Sirdarians?
“Bring her!” The barked order snapped through Thiel’s thoughts and the weight of near-sleep.
As thudding feet drew closer, she glanced around. Ruldan and Raleng, the twin warriors, stalked to the cage. Fierceness glowered from their ridged brows and hooked noses.
“Up!” Raleng commanded as his brother released the cage lock.
Thiel eased from Laertes, who was rousing at the commotion.
“Wha—”
“Quiet,” Thiel whispered, motioning for him to stay. “’Tis well.” Though she knew not the truth of her own words.
“Now!” Raleng grabbed her arm and jerked her up.
A low, heated growl came from the corner.
They both turned, feeling the brush of hot breath on their backs. Chima rose, and with an elegance that belied her size, she unfurled her wings. They expanded, filling the cage. Her eyes glinted—first gold, then the red of warning.
Raleng’s iron grip on Thiel’s bicep tightened. “Tell her to stay back.”
“Ye know nothing of raqine if ye think I can order her about. They only do Abiassa’s bid—”
Jav-rods slipped through the cage slats.
“No!” Thiel threw out her hands toward the warriors—not Ematahri. Silvers. “Fools! Anger her and ye’ll have the whole nest on ye.”
Narrowed eyes glittered from Colonel Jepravia, who commanded the encamped Sirdarians. “You know a lot about the creatures, Princess.” Dark hair shorn to his round skull, he exuded hatred that made her skin crawl.
Thiel snorted, even as Raleng eased her from the cage. Chima’s fiery eyes never left Thiel, though one strong flap of her wings—a taunt—sent Jepravia stumbling back with a startled gasp. “Ye know nothing! They are independent of all man and suppositions. They answer to Her will alone.”
“Wrong,” Jepravia said. “It’s written they answer the Fierian as well.”
How did he know what was written? “And is not the Fierian the will of Abiassa delivered?”
“You know your Verses.”
“The Desecrator, it seems, is not the only one who has read them.”
“I love an intelligent woman,” he leered.
“Ye don’t know the meaning of love.” Her words were meant as a taunt, a jibe, but the vile colonel merely watched her as the twins secured the cage and ushered her toward the main tent.
Jepravia sent a sidelong sneer to the Ematahri. “I want proof that he has bed her this eve. If he does not break her now before she undoes all his work, Cadeif will feel the full measure of my wrath, and I will break her myself!”
His oily threat followed her into the main tent. Most of the warriors had gathered here, as they had so many months ago when Haegan was pitched at the archon’s feet.
Bodies and smoke thickened the air and formed a stranglehold around her throat. She swallowed as they marched her through the crowd and shoved Thiel to her knees at the dais, where the archon and someone else sat ominously in similar thrones.
She peered up—and felt a sharp prick at the back of her neck. Hissing, she dropped her gaze, all too aware of a blade or jav-rod pressed there.
“You brought a violent beast into our camp.”
The voice was Cranna’s, an old hag who’d turned Cadeif against Thiel and convinced him that anything between them would be the destruction of the Ematahri. She’d been why Thiel had fled so long ago. Why Cadeif let her go and did not give chase. But because of Haegan, Thiel returned to their camp those many months past, and the hag warned Cadeif that Thiel had returned to bring about the violent end.
And then the Lucent Riders came. What happened after the Deliverers sent her away with Haegan?
“To be clear,” Thiel said, “Chima goes only where she senses Abiassa wants her. If I guided her one way and she felt compelled another—”
“With your presence,” Cranna barked, “there is an obvious threat from the Nine, from Nivar, and from the mountains.”
“Mountains?” Thiel’s voice cracked, thinking of her eldest brother. “There is no threat—”
“Break or kill her, Archon,” Cranna said, shaking her craggy head. “It is the only way.”
Thiel swallowed. Break wasn’t a nice term. Yes, it sounded less . . . final than killing, but it wasn’t. She’d seen them break people. She didn’t worry about the Sirdarian general’s idea of breaking. But an Ematahri’s? She shuddered. People became hulls of what they’d once been.
“Cadeif—Archon,” she said, correcting herself in hopes of gaining his ear. “I came to warn ye, but as ye so aptly pointed out when I lan”—no, don’t mention Chima—“arrived, ye are aware of the condition of the lands and the”—her gaze hit the contingent of blood-red uniforms in the corner—“presence of certain armies. Since ye have heard my missive, sent by the Council of Nine, I would beg ye release me, so that I may remove the so-called threat from yer camp.”
Cadeif’s brown eyes were molten, the planes of his face hard and angular as he sat rigidly on his throne. He’d always been fierce with his large, powerful build and little hidden behind dyed leathers. Where once there had been warmth in his rich, dark eyes now lurked . . . something darker. More ominous.
Thiel swallowed hard, realizing this was no longer the warrior she’d called friend, the one who’d protected her, sheltered her. Kedardokith. The ritual of accepting a person, claiming them in an act of protection. He’d claimed her beneath that tradition when she stumbled into their camp, bloodied and beaten. Scared. Scrawny. He’d trained her. Laughed with her, taught her the Ematahri ways. Then Cranna.
The hag had convinced Thiel that Cadeif’s path was better without her. Despite her fondness for the man who eventually became archon of the Ematahri, Thiel must confess she never loved him. Not like she did Haegan.
“The traitor is where she belongs,” Cranna crooned. “At your feet. Your property to do with as you please.”
As he pleased? Thiel’s heart thudded a little faster. She considered the old woman and her malicious sneer, then Cadeif, who slumped in his chair, hand propped over his mouth as he stared back with hard, unrelenting black eyes. His skin was so dark, the firelight skittering over sculpted muscles in his chest and arms. But the darkness of his expression . . .
Why had she ever thought she could convince this warrior?
She hadn’t. But Gwogh had said she must. “I know not why I thought ye would listen,” she whispered, then looked again at the Silvers clustered far too close to him. “But I never thought ye capable of this madness, aligning yerself with bloodthirsty savages. They’ve wiped all that’s good from the land.”
Cadeif launched out of his chair with a roar. “And what of Fut and Fortari?”
Thiel arched back to look up at him, but again felt the prick of jav-rods at her nape, which steered her onto her feet.
He stopped short of knocking her to
the ground. “You came with that scourge, and the Lucent Riders killed two of my best men. Because you”—his nose pressed into her cheek—“brought him here. To my clan. You shamed me. Shamed this clan. We gave you food. We protected you. We claimed you.”
A thundering shout from the warriors rattled the tent beams.
Adrenaline coursed, leaving her limbs trembling and weak. “I . . . please—I didn’t know—”
“Please,” he repeated, his breath hot against her face. “Yes, Etelide. Beg.” His nostrils flared and his lip curled. “Take her to my tent.”
Another raucous shout went up, this one shrieking and mocking. Raleng and Ruldan dragged her back violently, lifting Thiel off her feet.
To his tent? There was only one reason they would do this. “No!” she shouted. Writhed. “Cadeif, please!”
“She begs for him,” came a sick taunt.
The twins hauled her through the camp, past curious onlookers. Pulling her, their hands bruising her arms.
Thiel thrashed. “Please—please, no. Ruldan, ye’d never want this for yer sister.”
“You’re not my sister,” he snarled, throwing back the flap of the archon’s luxurious tent. Pelts, lounges, and pillows embraced a fire pit in the middle. Beyond, drawn-back tapestries revealed a feather bed, torchlight glaring at her.
Two female slaves froze and dropped their gazes.
“Out!” Raleng barked at the younger slave, yanking Thiel inside. Then to the other slave, “Wash and prepare her for the archon’s bed.” He cast her forward.
“No,” Thiel said, stumbling, her fingers grazing one of the pillows. She spun around, reaching for a dagger she no longer had. Futility snaked through her. “This isn’t right.”
“You belong to him,” Raleng growled. “Kedardokith gave him all rights.” His thick, strong hand swung toward her. “You accepted before the clan. Then you shame him, endanger everyone who protected you, including me! Fut was the fiercest warrior and most loyal to Cadeif. You robbed us all when you left the second time.”
Ruldan scowled. “It’s a wonder Cadeif never took what was his in the first place.” His beady eyes hit the slave. “Get her ready. If she gives you trouble, we’ll be outside.”
“Etelide.”
When Raleng spoke her Ematahri name, Thiel felt defiance rear.
“Resist, and the slave will be punished, too.”
Sharing a wide-eyed look with the girl, Thiel hesitated. Defeat clung like water, weighting her courage. It was one thing to endure beatings, but it was entirely another to cause someone else pain. As the slave girl came at her an apologetic look, Thiel struggled between defiance and dejection.
She forced her mind from the preparations. Away from the thought of what was coming. The ministrations were far too thorough and humiliating, especially when she scrubbed Thiel from head to toe with scented water, then stuffed her into a gown with many sheer sections. “Please,” Thiel whimpered. “Is there another dress . . . ?”
The woman gave a quick shake of her head, nodded to Thiel’s hair, which had finally grown below her shoulders. She had it shorn to conceal her identity while traveling the Nine with Praegur, Tokar, and Laertes.
The servant guided Thiel to a chair and went to work on her tangled knots.
Another woman entered with a tray of a steaming drink. She offered it to Thiel, who refused, knowing she’d most likely throw it all up again. The woman persisted. Pressed the warm cup into Thiel’s hand. “It help you forget.”
Thiel considered the drink. Did she want to not remember? No, she wanted to, so she could never forget what he’d done. What he forced.
Tears blurred her vision.
Hands framed hers as the woman lifted the cup. “Drink. Trust me.”
Chin quivering, Thiel allowed the woman to guide it to her lips. She tasted it, felt the strange, tingly sensation. Hesitated. Then gulped.
The woman nodded, her features marked with sadness. “It better this way.”
Thwap!
The women gasped and jerked back, then dropped their gazes and bowed.
At the sight of Cadief’s formidable frame hovering there, Thiel came to her feet, unsteady. Nervous. She mustered the remnants of her courage and shut out the strange chill from the half-sheer gown.
“Leave us.” His deep voice rattled down Thiel’s spine, heating her face.
She fisted her hands and stayed in place, staring at the fire. Gritting her teeth did not steel her, for she twitched when the tent flap closed. She froze, sensing him drawing closer, his shadow stretching toward her, slowly, intentionally.
She wanted to hear his voice. Wanted him to talk, tell her this was a joke. “Ye are stronger than this, Cadeif—than them. The Silvers are using ye.” Could she talk politics and intrigue to distract him so he wouldn’t violate her? She closed her eyes, willing courage where there was none.
The heat of his presence pressed in on her.
Her heart thudded anxiously as his breathing grew heavier, closer. “Please,” she whispered, shaking her head.
His hand slid around the back of her neck.
Thiel shot out a hand to brace herself, and nearly cursed when her palm met his firm, sculpted chest.
His grip tightened. He tugged her forward. There was something in his eyes. Something she couldn’t understand. Something she’d not seen before. Something that scared her.
“Please, Cadeif . . . please don’t—”
His mouth was on hers, hungry. Demanding.
Thiel stiffened. Placed her hands against his abdomen. “No.” She’d seen his anger before, and she dared not tempt it, but neither would she be bedded by him. It took effort to pry free of his grasp. She stumbled away and felt the wood pallet of the bed at the back of her legs.
When he moved in again, a wild look hardening his gaze, she jerked her face away. “Stop. Don’t do this.”
Rage exploded through his expression. He reared, his hand landing with a cruel blow. She fell across his bed and he was atop her.
12
NORTH OF CAORI
“Subdue them!” Negaer shouted.
Before Tili could comprehend the actions, the death of the colonel, a sea of white and green overcame them. Rushed Tili in one direction and the Tahscans in another. Jujak and Pathfinders alike barreled over the warriors.
Men shoved Tili backward, a flood of warriors filling the small void and protecting him. Yet no further blade flashed. The still-mounted Tahscans sat unmoving. Tili struggled against the hands pulling him away, trying to see. To understand. To move beyond his shock.
Nay, he understood full well—Vaqar had killed Colonel Chauld. Right in front of him. The warmth he’d felt on his face? He dragged his hand over his cheek and stared at the crimson staining his fingers.
Shouts pounded Tili’s ears as he glimpsed, through the tangle of his own warrior’s legs and arms and steel, the lifeless face of Marz Chauld forever frozen in antipathy. He’d never known what was coming.
Neither had Tili.
Ye fool, allowing them into the camp, thinking ye could tame them. Ally with them.
But thoughts, facts began to churn through Tili as he recovered, Draorin and Tokar pushing him into the Command tent, where they secured the entrance. Numb, baffled, Tili moved to the table. He wiped his hands on his tunic and stood over the map, fingers grazing the edge of the wood. What had he missed? How had he not seen the true nature of the Tahscans?
Vicious. Negaer had tried to warn him.
“Why would he kill the colonel?” Tokar asked, his thoughts mirroring Tili’s. “And the lightning speed . . . Blazes, he could have taken you as well.”
Tili looked at him sharply.
“Perhaps there is something we should learn from the Tahscan,” Draorin offered, his gaze speculative but also warning.
“What?” Tokar snorted. “How to steal into a camp and kill the enemy in broad daylight? They must be fools.”
“Guard yer words,” Tili snapped at him, nodd
ing to Draorin. “He’s yer superior.” He met the colonel’s eyes and stilled. Saw something vast, wise.
Listen to him.
Tili had been slow to pay that voice heed before. He would not now. “Have ye a guess why Vaqar acted thus against the Nine? I would have ye speak freely, Draorin. I need yer counsel.”
Shoulders relaxed, gaze serene, Draorin cocked his head. “Perhaps he does not act against the Nine.”
Tili frowned, turning that idea over in his head. “If Vaqar didn’t act against the Nine, then what would ye call killing Chauld? Ye would trust a Tahscan over a Jujak?”
“In the war against Sirdar, I would trust those who have surrendered their will to Abiassa over anyone, Nine or otherwise.” Draorin’s words were laden with reminder. “It is easy to lose sight of the true battle when exhaustion and weariness turn allies to enemies and enemies to allies. There is only one truth that remains unchanged.”
Tili felt the answer in his bones. “Abiassa.”
Draorin nodded. “We must not forget nor abandon that truth in the course of our fight to stop Sirdar’s army.”
A half-dozen Pathfinders, stark in their now-dirtied white cloaks, delivered four Tahscans into the tent. Where Tili expected resistance and anger from the warriors, he found only submission. They were allowing themselves to be brought. So, why had Vaqar targeted the colonel?
Negaer stalked past his men as they forced the Tahscans to their knees on the thick carpet. He nodded to Tili and offered the bloodied Tahscan scimitar. “The instrument, sir.”
Tili studied Vaqar. Dark eyes swam with conviction but no regret. No apology. Abiassa, guide me.
Tili accepted the blade, rounded the table, placed the scimitar there, and his palms on either side as he slowly lifted his gaze to Vaqar. Not the one who’d posed as his leader. A tactic that likely served many purposes, two of which Tili understood: to protect Vaqar from an unexpected attack, and to allow Vaqar to witness how those they encountered treated the leader and the lessers. The lightning-fast strike of his blade was naught compared to the quiet, calm confidence lurking in his golden eyes. Vaqar Modia was not to be trifled with.
Tili had little doubt that Vaqar and his men could slaughter every Pathfinder and Jujak in this tent—Tili included—before anyone could act, should the leader deem it necessary.