Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART TWO
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART THREE
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Book
‘My word and my life are yours. This is my absolute vow.’
In the land of Darhan promises are bound by magic, tied into knots and worn with pride. Those who break them are physically scarred, cast out into the desert, and tormented by vengeful shadows of their treachery. So when Raim agrees to give his life as a warrior to the future Khan, he knows. He wondered if bloncentrate that he must honour his word until the day he dies.
But on the night he takes his vow, Raim accidentally breaks a mysterious promise that he has worn since the day he was born. But how can he break an oath he has no memory of making?
With the dark mark of a traitor seared into his skin, and forced into exile, Raim flees on a journey that will reveal the true meaning of honour, and u/>
This book is dedicated to my family.
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Raim sat in the crook of an old, cracked tree, one leg dangling in the breeze, his head leaning back against the trunk. Long, needle-like leaves shaded him from the oppressive heat and hid him from the view of his grandfather, in case he was looking to assign Raim yet another chore. He just wanted a moment to himself. From his vantage point he">They walkedItwo could see his clan’s settlement of yurts, the dome-like tents that made up his home, and watched as smoke lifted lazily out of the circular holes in the centre of the roofs.
A rustling at the base of the tree distracted him. He looked down and spied two of the younger clan boys, Lousha and Nem, huddled around a small parcel wrapped in white paper.
‘Do you swear you’ll guard this for me?’ Nem whispered to Lousha, while keeping one chubby brown hand on the goods.
‘Yes!’ said Lousha.
‘Cross your heart?’
‘Yup.’
‘Suffer like a traitor in Lazar?’
The other boy shuddered, but nodded.
‘Will you make a knot for it?’
‘A knot?’ There was a moment’s hesitation as Lousha chewed on his lower lip. ‘Fine, let’s do it.’
They scrabbled around for something to tie it with. Lousha ripped a loose thread from his tunic while Nem plucked a long, dark hair from his head. Then, with solemn determination etched on their faces, they folded one thread on top of the other and held them in a loose loop.
‘Do you promise me you’ll guard this until I return, and will you seal your vow with this knot?’ said Nem.
‘I promise, and I seal it with this knot,’ said Lousha, and then they both pulled until the two threads became one. Nem nodded before jumping up and disappearing into the village of yurts beyond.
A corner of the paper lifted in the breeze, and a hint of sticky sweet honey aroma wafted into the air. Honey cake. A Darhanian delicacy, it was baked only for special occasions, like this afternoon’s ceremonies. The scent tantalized Raim’s nostrils, as if he could taste the pastry already, sense the flakes crumbling and melting in the heat of his mouth – and he knew the boy below was feeling the same temptation. Lousha waited until he was sure his friend had gone. Then he inched forward for a closer sniff, putting his nose right down next to the ground and taking a deep breath. One finger, and then another hesitantly stretched in the pastry’s direction.
Don’t do it, thought Raim. Almost as if he had spoken the words aloud, something seemed to hold the boy back. He stared down at the tatty piece of knotted hair and thread in his hand. He bit his lip. Raim bit his lip too, and dropped to a lower branch, sending showers of needles to the ground.
Lousha snatched the parcel and held it protectively to his chest and craned his neck to look around, brow furrowed in suspicion. Look up, Raim silently pleaded. If Lousha knew he had an observer he wouldn’t be so quick to break his promise. But with the cake now in his grasp, so tantalizingly close to his mouth . . . the boy flicked the thread as far as he could. Then he ripped the paper off as fast as his little fingers could manage and stuffed the cake into his mouth.
Raim sighed and began counting inside his head: One, two . . .
The discarded knot began to fizzle. A flame sparked to life, then quickly dissolved into a puff of black smoke.
. . . three.
Before the first of the honey cake crumbs had dissolved on his tongue, the smoke blew back over Lousha’s hand and seared a bright red mark in a temporary settlementmentfeto his palm.
The boy screamed in pain and clamped his hand into a fist. Then he screamed in fear as the smoke refused to leave him alone. He tried to beat it away with his hands but it wouldn’t budge. He got up and started running in circles from it, but the smoke followed him like a swarm of angry bees.
The noise attracted the attention of the nearest yurts’ residents. A small crowd gathered around, laughing at the sight. Unable to help himself, Raim started laughing too. The boys were still at an age when a scar from a broken promise meant nothing except for an hour’s nuisance.
Lousha spotted his grandmother in the crowd and tried to run to her, wishing to hide from the shadow by ducking behind the long folds of the woman’s dress. But she backed away from him, unable to let him near, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She let her voice be heard, though, as she herded the boy back to their yurt with her angry shouts.
‘What’s going on here?’ A familiar voice carried over the laughter of the crowd. It was Khareh, Raim’s best friend – and the heir to the Khanate.
‘Your pardon, Prince Khareh.’ The boy’s grandmother bowed low. ‘My grandson here has broken a vow and must be punished.’
An amused smile played on Khareh’s face. ‘Is that so? Come here, little boy.’ Lousha took a few sheepish steps forward. ‘Who did you make this vow to?’
‘To Nem.’
‘And where is Nem?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Nem?’ said Khareh, louder. ‘Are you here, Nem?’
The crowd parted, and the other little boy appeared. Tears streaked down his face. ‘Lousha ate my cake! He promised he wouldn’t!’
‘Lousha, are you sorry for what you have done?’
Lousha nodded.
‘And Nem, can you forgive him?’
‘No!’
At that, the shadow swirled more violently around Lousha and he let out a cry of distress. The smile still didn’t leave Khareh’s face. ‘I suppose you really wanted that cake, hmm?’
Nem nodded.
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br /> ‘But I’m afraid you can’t let your friend endure this torture any longer. A cake is just a cake, and someday your vows will be worth more than that.’
Nem scowled a little, but as Khareh’s smile slipped from his face, even the little boy understood the danger. He looked over at Lousha. ‘I forgive you.’
At that, Lousha’s shadow swirled into the air, and his scar faded to nothing. Lousha’s grandmother ran up to Khareh, dragging Lousha with her, and fell to her knees. ‘Thank you, Prince. You are most magnanimous.’
Raim could barely suppress a laugh. Khareh could hardly lecture on forgiveness. Just a few years ago, that little boy would’ve been Raim. He and Khareh used to constantly push each other to see who could endure the most scar torture. Khareh would force Raim to promise to score a goal during a game of gutball and they would tie the knotted piece of string around his neck. If the other team saw the knot, they would hound him, doing whatever they could to prevent him from scoring. If he failed, if he ‘broke’ his promise, the Western Eye of Shebaettodhen the curse would descend upon him. He would scream in pain as the scar appeared and a dark shadow would haunt him, just as had happened to Lousha. For an hour or so he would be a repulsive figure, unable to make contact with anyone. Then, once the curse had subsided enough for his grandfather, Loni, to take him home, he would be scolded, and punished hard – first for accepting such a useless promise, and then again for breaking it. Khareh would also be punished for forcing a promise upon him and making him endure the torture that followed – but Khareh would never forgive. But then the elders would stop scolding and smile a little to themselves, for they knew it was important for young children to test the consequences of their actions, so that they knew what to do when they were ready to make real promises.
It wouldn’t be until they reached the Honour Age – sixteen – that a true promise could be made. And a true promise had serious consequences. Breaking a knotted promise meant excommunication to the desert in Lazar, with the community of exiled oathbreakers known as the Chauk.
There was no escaping this fate. If it was just a scar you could hide it, as Raim had watched Lousha do, clenching his palm tight. But it was the shadow that you could not escape. It was the shadow that others saw, judged and sentenced the oathbreaker to exile. It was the shadow that followed you all the way to Lazar and made sure you stayed there. Just the thought of it made Raim shudder.
The tree shook violently, sending a shower of sharp needles onto Raim’s head, and he grabbed hold of the trunk to stop himself from falling. He spun round to see a familiar set of mischievous dark eyes clamber up on the branch beside him. Khareh was wearing an ornate black tunic with a high collar, richly embroidered with gold silk dragons in mid-dance. It was probably worth more than most villagers’ entire possessions, but Khareh didn’t care if he ripped it climbing up trees. Khareh was the Prince of Darhan. He was allowed not only to own expensive things, but to ruin them as well. ‘I’ve been searching every tree in the camp to find you,’ he said.
‘It’s called a hiding place for a reason. Plus, there’s a good view from up here. Especially of that little show – what was that about?’
Khareh shrugged. ‘Can’t have a shadow hanging about today, can we? It would be bad luck. Come on, I’ve got something to show you. You’ve got a few more hours before your brother’s sacrifice, right?’
‘One hour,’ said Raim, unable to hide the massive grin on his face as Khareh referred to his brother’s wedding as a sacrifice. He tried to stay serious. ‘And I can’t be late. My grandfather will kill me.’
‘Oh, old Loni won’t mind. That’s plenty of time,’ said Khareh, with the small half-smile and glint in his eyes that meant he had no concern for Raim’s schedule.
There was no way Raim wouldn’t go with Khareh, however, and Khareh knew it.
With a shrug, Khareh leaped off the branch and Raim followed awkwardly, landing with a thump on the dusty ground. Even he wasn’t dressed for tree climbing today.
They were high up in the Northlands, in a tiny village where the plains of Darhan met the Amarapura mountain range. The only time any of the tribes came to the village was if one of their members was marrying into the Baril, the scholars of Darhan. To Raim and Khareh, being Baril was to live a life of interminable boredom. It was the only class that did not prepare in softened. ‘You should nicCC b any way for warfare, despite danger lurking at almost all of Darhan’s borders – and sometimes within.
As the brother of the Baril entrant, Raim was not only forced to sit through the entire hours-long ceremony, but also to do so wearing the most elaborate (and most uncomfortable) formal clothes he owned. His indigo tunic was as stiff as unboiled rice and reached down to the top of his ankles. It closed across his body, fastening with three clasps at the neck – too close to his face in the sweltering heat – three on his shoulder and three more under his right armpit. A wide belt, dyed in the deep green of the Moloti tribe, wrapped around his waist. He wished he could wear his normal clothes, loose-fitting trousers and a waist-length tunic made from wool instead of the heavy, poor-quality silk. Unlike Khareh, though, Raim had to take care of his clothing. Any caked-in mud meant an hour of scrubbing for Raim later; every tear meant pricking his fingers with his awkward, fumbling sewing. Not his idea of a fun evening in the yurt.
Worst of all were the shoes. Instead of his normal well-worn, fur-lined, thick-soled boots, he was in delicate slippers with pointed toes that curled backward. On the tip of the curl was a ball that jingled when he walked. By the time they had clambered over a rocky ridge to reach the edge of the glade, the annoying golden bells were crammed deep into his tunic pocket.
They broke into a run, feeling the short mountain grass crunch under their heels. They passed by a herd of goats, their bleating urging them on. Then Khareh stopped. ‘Wait here,’ he said, as he ran on a bit further. He was standing over what looked like a stick beaten into the ground.
‘Ready?’ Khareh yelled. Then he appeared to pull something with all his might. ‘Get down, now!’
Raim fell to the ground and put his hands over his turban, just in time to feel the wind slice overhead. He flipped round and sat up, watching the object as it veered towards the goats, scattering them. It made a sharp U-turn in the air and came straight back at Raim.
‘Vows alive!’ He scrambled to his feet and rushed towards Khareh. By the time he reached his friend, the object had lost steam and skipped onto the ground, snipping the blades of grass. It was large and round, with tiny spikes that were sawed down almost to the edge.
‘What in Sola was that?’ Raim spluttered, catching his breath.
‘Oh, I stole the disc from one of the workshops back in Kharein. Don’t worry; they were going to throw it away anyway. But this’ – Khareh gestured to the pole in the ground, his eyes sparkling – ‘is my newest invention. Marvel, Raimanan, marvel!’
Khareh was the only person who called Raim by his full name, and only when he was feeling particularly proud of himself. Raim hated it, but was so used to hearing it from Khareh’s mouth that he barely cringed. He only suffered Khareh’s use of the name because, even though he was his best friend, he also had the power – as Crown Prince – to order Raim about as he pleased. Thankfully he didn’t abuse it too often.
Khareh was Crown Prince despite not being the son of the current leader, Batar-Khan. But when the Seer-Queen had not produced an heir after the first five years of marriage, a prince had to be chosen. The council of Darhanian warlords had convened and chosen Khareh, the son of the Khan’s brother, as the official heir. So now, whatever Khareh wanted to do, he did, no matter what the consequences. Raim admired Khareh’s independence, but dI’m so sorrydos didn’t covet it. Khareh was always experimenting, innovating, testing the boundaries of what he could get away with and questioning the rules if he was told they couldn’t be broken. He had big dreams about how to improve Darhan, to make it a real force to be reckoned with.
Raim recognized the pol
e – it was identical to the ones used to build the frame of a yurt. He wondered whose yurt was tilted after Khareh had sawed off this piece. When Khareh was inventing, nothing could stop him. Once he had even cut up the Seer-Queen’s prized headscarf in order to get material of the perfect tensile strength for his goat parachute – ‘in case bandits attack and we have to drop the goats off a mountain,’ he’d said. That was the other thing about Khareh’s inventions. They rarely made any sense to Raim.
Khareh picked the disc up off the ground and placed it delicately on top of his contraption. In his hand he held a long, thin metal rod, which had little grooves on it all down the side.
‘Not quite enough nicks,’ Khareh said. ‘Do you have your knife on you?’
‘Here you go.’ Raim lifted the hem of his trouser leg and pulled out a small dagger from the strap around his calf. The blade was pitch-black, matte, and made from ochir, a translucent metal that seared black during the forging process. Owning one marked him as an apprentice of the Yun, Darhan’s elite guard, the sworn protectors of the land and all of its inhabitants. When he received his acceptance, he would be given his own sword, one made especially for the Yun. They had perfected a method of preserving ochir’s translucent quality and it resulted in a sword that was harder and clearer than diamonds. It was near indestructible. When wielded properly, it dazzled the eyes of opponents, confusing them with tricks of the light. Battles between the Yun of Darhan and their enemies were magnificent to behold, the near-invisible blades striking against ordinary metal.
But before he could even hope to be accepted, he had to pass one final test: a duel against a fellow Yun apprentice. He was to face Lars, the second son of one of the eight noble Darhan warlords – and one of the most fearsome young warriors in Darhan.
Khareh took the blade and scratched more notches into his metal stick. When finished, he threaded the stick through the eye cut into the hollowed-out wood and pulled back with all his strength. For a second, the disc jumped and hovered above the invention as if surprised to be mobile. Then it spun off hastily over the field. This time, it didn’t come back.
Khareh looked delighted. ‘Don’t have to be a sage to make things fly!’ He flipped the blade back to Raim.
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