“I…I saw something.” It was like a stranger said the words. She felt detached from her own body.
Barir took a shuddering breath, the ka’ud smoke clouded around his black hair. “A vision. You had a vision.” His hand went to his mouth.
She swallowed. “Maybe. I…” She was coming apart, her ears buzzing, the world spinning.
Suddenly she was in Barir’s wiry arms, his graying beard brushing against her head and his shushing sounds in her ears like she was still a child.
“Do you want to tell me what you saw? It may help us all in this terrible moment. No one has seen a vision in the Fire in, one, maybe two, centuries.” He held her away from him enough to look into her eyes. “You are blessed. Chosen.”
Focusing on his face, the face she’d known as long as her own, Seren told him what she’d seen.
Barir’s eyes sharpened. “The Invaders approach. Kyros Meric is dead so General Adem will send for Varol, Meric’s brother and heir of the royal blood. But you can’t let that happen.”
She’d only really heard one word. A name. Varol. She swallowed a bitter taste rising in her throat. “What?”
“General Adem will send the city into mourning. Invaders or not. He will. He is arrogant. That shroud you saw? That was the city mourning. The Invaders triumphed while we mourned.”
The traditional mourning song slithered through Seren’s head.
The soul is heavy,
Three days, three days,
Your shoulders are free,
Take up the weight of Death.
The soul is tired,
Three days, three days,
You slept through the night,
Give your sleep to the Dead.
The soul is starving,
Three days, three days,
Your table is full,
Give your food to the Dead.
The soul is heavy,
Three days, three days,
Your shoulders are free,
Take up the weight of Death.
Her people would be weakened. Her warriors weakened. Her adopted family weakened, and at the mercy of the merciless.
“But he can’t force everyone to mourn,” she said. “If everyone stops eating and sleeping, we’ll be easy to defeat. He would know that.”
“You saw yourself pushing the mourning away. Then you saw our city at peace. Seren. Pearl of the Desert. You must claim leadership of the Empire. You have been chosen.”
“No. That’s not…”
“Then how do you see it?”
“We must announce the death and tell everyone to wait until after the attack to mourn.”
“And if we survive, which we won’t, General Adem will call for Varol and he will become kyros.”
She hugged herself. Meric’s younger brother was so much worse than even Meric had been. The way he used people…
Father had saved a slave working for Varol. Because of the woman’s skill with the horses, Father had paid for her apprenticeship with the stables here in Akhayma. She’d been raised to middle-caste before he retired. But she still carried Varol’s scars. Thick, clawed fingers of raised skin striping her back and shoulders. Seren’s stomach clenched.
General Adem’s voice came through the door. “May I enter to see the kyros, Pearl of the Desert?”
“I…”
Barir whispered in Seren’s ear. “I will claim the kyros has something that may be contagious. I will keep everyone away. That will give you time.”
“Time for what?”
“Pearl of the Desert.” Adem rapped on the door.
Barir put his hands on Seren’s shoulders. “It will give you time to fight off the Invaders. Then, you can decide whether or not to embrace your fate.”
“My fate? No. That can’t be what I’m supposed to do.”
“Why not? You are a general’s daughter. You traveled with him. You learned from him.”
“I’m not of royal blood. I’m not even fully desert blood. General Adem would never support me.”
“He isn’t fully desert either. Not many are.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I whispered. “He’s ruled by tradition. You’ve seen him. He worships the royal blood nearly as much as the Fire. And if he finds out I hid Meric’s…condition, he’ll have me beaten to death.”
“The Fire showed you what to do. You know you trust in it.”
“About this though…this is madness.”
Adem knocked again. “I must insist to see my kyros.”
Seren hugged Barir again. He kissed her forehead like she was Meekra’s sister, another daughter.
“I’ll keep everyone out,” Barir said. “We can talk about the rest later. And my dear Seren.” His eyes softened but were no less unblinking, his stare no less steady. “Fate rarely waits until we’re ready. How many times would we say No in preparation for something great? Every time. We would never feel fully armed. You are more ready than most and you must believe you are enough.”
Wisdom glinted in his eyes. But he wasn’t right about this. There was no way he could be right about this. Mind humming, she followed him out of the room.
Shutting the door behind them, Barir bowed to Adem. “General, our kyros has contracted what I believe to be a contagious disease of the respiratory system. We must keep everyone out, except Pearl of the Desert, Meekra, Cansu, and myself since we have been in close contact already. We’ve all taken a ka’ud potion, so we may come and go without danger to others, but no one else should be risked. It could lead to an epidemic.”
Seren bit her lip. They were lying to the highest ranking military man in the city. To Meric’s right hand. Cansu looked confused, but he held his tongue.
“It is…for safety,” Seren said. “We must be very careful. Especially now that we’re under attack. I will tell the rotating guards to keep all of this to themselves, and to make certain no one, including them, may enter the chamber.”
Adem looked to the door, blinked. “Can you heal him?”
“I can’t say yet. It is…” Barir glanced at Seren. “Too soon to tell.”
Adem’s body tensed beneath his armor, and his jaw sharpened—a warrior trained to absorb a strike when he had to. Though this blow had nothing to do with fists or steel. It was Adem’s loyal heart taking the news that his beloved royal was seriously ill. Seren had never been close to Adem, but sympathy flooded her nonetheless.
“Fine,” Adem said. “I will pray for our kyros and lead the troops as best I can until tomorrow when, Fire make it so, I may speak with our kyros for his final decision on what action to take.”
With a curt bow to Seren, he spun on his heel and headed for the Holy Fire bowl at the main tent’s door.
Meekra’s eyes couldn’t get any wider. “Should I go in with you, my lady?”
The guards and fighters standing watch shifted their weight, looking like lost children instead of people trained to kill.
“Yes, Meekra. We’ll tend to the kyros.” She waved, indicating Meekra should join her inside.
“I’ll announce the quarantine to the criers so everyone will know to keep their daily supplications to themselves for the time being,” Barir said before they left.
Seren turned, knowing the tears at the corners of her eyes made her look too young to give orders. “Tell the scribe too. He must take hold of the business side of things while we…until the kyros is well.”
“My lady.” Barir bowed and held Seren’s gaze for a heartbeat. “Remember, you are blessed.”
Seren rushed into her personal chambers, wanting nothing more than to run away from the burden Barir’s beliefs and her vision had stacked onto her shoulders.
ONA
The kyros's famous capitol wasn’t what Ona expected. The city’s name itself meant tents. Last she checked, tents were not made of rock. Slowing their horses, Ona and Lucca reached out—his hand rough with one broken finger; hers smaller and scarred at the knuckles—and touched the nearest section of the wall. Smoky, white
stone lay in between layers of rock the color of dead leaves.
Lucca’s sudden hm made Ona jump in her saddle. “Never seen anything like this. Even in the most decadent villas.” He looked back. “Did I startle you? Excited about meeting a kyros? Nervous you’ll want more than he can give?” He wiggled his thick eyebrows.
The kyros and his kin were known to be the most handsome men in the world. “The kyros and I want the same thing,” Ona said. “Dead Invaders.”
A memory of her aunt’s eyes going glassy iced her. She remembered the palette knife, gripped in her own hand, dripping Invader blood, the blood of the man who’d slit her aunt’s throat. Ona could still feel her innocence flying away like a frightened bird.
She flexed her hand around her sword’s hilt. The promise of revenge warmed her belly.
Someday. Somehow.
Lucca’s normally cool gaze, held an edge of worry. He ran a hand over his curly, dark hair. “I wonder what they’ll think of us.”
Ona’s saddle creaked as she leaned back. “We might have to prove ourselves.” One young man and a nineteen-year-old didn’t look like much.
Until they started fighting.
The city’s walls went up, up, up, and the child artist hiding inside Ona wanted nothing more than to study the honeycomb design above the city’s bronze doors. Shoving that part of her down, she bumped the horse’s sides with her heels.
At the doors, guards stopped them with spears to the face. They wore helmets shaped like upside down acorns and vests Lucca called jerkins. Once Lucca and Ona explained—well, Lucca explained more because he spoke the trade tongue a lot better—that they were mercenaries here to serve Kyros Meric, the guards hurried them through, one man coming along as escort into the city proper.
And when Ona saw it, she gasped.
Now this was what she’d had in mind.
Impossibly high towers shaped like lotus flowers sprung up between swathes of suspended fabric that protected canals of rushing water from the sun. The tents, lightly rolling like waves, were every color in the world. Gray as a goose’s feathers. Yellow like lemons. The greens of olives, spring grass, and the lakes near home at midday. Some were the bright red of an enemy’s blood and others the purple of old wounds.
Black goat fur striped and framed all the tents, even the ones inside another ring of walls. The tents reached higher than any in the rest of the city. The colors used in the dye looked darker too. Richer. Ona bet the kyros lived there somewhere.
“When it rains, that fur swells and seals the stitching,” Lucca said, switching back to their own tongue. “Everyone stays nice and dry, and the rainwater drains into rigged barrels. Ingenious. I assume you need to soak this in.”
“Ha. Ha.” Ona slapped her knee dramatically, ignoring the bite of how well he knew she still wished to enjoy art and be a part of that world.
The life she’d imagined—working as a fresco artist with her aunt—was barred to her now. To take pleasure in colors and lines, shapes and creation would be an insult to her aunt. Revenge had to come first. It’d always come first. Life was no longer paints and charcoal. It was blood and bone, pain to answer the pain.
“Please tell me you’re not comparing all this fine color to something violent.” Lucca loved to fight, but he appreciated the technique, not the blood. He justified every battle, whispering their enemy’s crimes under his breath before every battle.
“Only the red and purple,” Ona said, shaking off her stillness to joke.
“You mean the pretty rose and the nice eggplant?” Lucca said in a nasal voice.
She gave him a look.
As they trotted along behind the guard, Lucca pulled out a skin of watered wine to drink. “It wouldn’t ruin everything to ease off the killing mindset a hair. We are more than mercenaries.” He patted his saddlebag where he kept two small books of history and numbers. “You should look to the peaceful side of yourself once in a while.” He handed Ona the drink.
The wine tingled over her dry mouth. “You should stop being such a dainty little mushroom.”
“Mushrooms can kill.”
“Only the poisonous ones.”
“And they do it so well, residing peacefully in the forest until someone bothers them. Then,” he snapped his fingers, “death as needed.”
Ona pretended to shiver. “Is that your plan for a new chant? We will ruin you! But only as needed!” She punched a fist into the air.
Lucca laughed then, loud. She grinned, proud to pull it out of him. “Yes, I suppose that could be my motto.”
Ona snorted. Grinning, Lucca slapped his gathered reins lightly against his gray-spotted gelding, and the horse trotted on. Ona’s chestnut mare hurried to catch up.
Blacksmith forges lined the road, emitting sparks and blistering heat. Ona and Lucca leaned from side to side, surveying the making of the finest swords in the world.
“I have to get my hands on one of their swords.”
“Yatagans.” Lucca nodded at two of the skinny, slightly curved versions of a sword sitting on a table at the back of the forge.
“Right.”
“They mine the iron ore over that way.” He pointed to another walled area attached to the southwest side of the capitol.
A group of men and women walked by, laughing and talking really fast in the desert tongue. Some were light-skinned like Lucca and Ona; others had darker skin. Most had black hair and eyes, but some had brown braids and green or blue eyes. A blend of the people originally from this desert, fighters from border towns brought in young to defend the Empire, and others from the borders whose families had served as slaves before rising through the castes. They all wore sweeping kaftans or military leather vests. Jeweled daggers hung from their sashes, fighter or not.
Two in the approaching group had bells jingling at their sashes, but the rest appeared to be purely of the desert blood and not required to wear the caste bells. Bells or no bells, there were some seriously beautiful people in this varied city.
At an open market, the canals’ gurgled and the bang of blacksmiths’ hammers competed with camel grunts, tea hawkers shouting, and the tempting call of the baker with his mound of cookies topped with pistachios. Ona bought one with a silver piece that had to be foreign to the seller, but didn’t make the man blink an eye. Seemed Akhayma had plenty of visitors from far away.
Ona waved her cookie at all the gorgeous tents, the food, the children playing in well-stitched clothing. “See all this? They have wealth. Power. Smarts. With the kyros and his army, the Invaders will be crushed into nothing. Now, if we can just get them to attack.”
“Your wishes are my wishes, Onaratta Paints with Blood,” Lucca said wryly, prompting their old joke and using their mercenary titles.
Ona bit into her treat. The pistachios’ salt argued happily with the dough’s sweetness. “As long as yours don’t war with mine, Lucca Hand of Ruination.”
The two canals bordering the marketplace flowed into a huge pool lined in yellow and blue mosaics. A silver gilt bowl that could easily hold three fat men stood on a pedestal above the water. The kyros's graceful language poured over the sides. Ona wished she could read it.
She touched the guard on the shoulder. “What’s the bowl for?”
“The Fire Ceremony. We held one last night, small girl.”
Ona flexed her sword hand. “You mean scary woman.”
Lucca urged his horse between them. “At the end of every quarter, tiny face,” he said with a teasing smirk that she determinedly ignored. “They pull back the tents, build a bonfire in the bowl, then after the kyros blesses it, they use the branches to light the family fires in town. The Holy Fire keeps the city’s inhabitants close to true wisdom.”
Whatever that meant.
“This past ceremony was…difficult,” the guard said as they walked into the inner ring of stone walls. Two more guards raised their palms to him as they passed. “Normally, it is the most beautiful night. Once the fires are lit, all sit quietly
and pray and reflect.”
They just sat? Boring. “It sounds—”
Lucca jabbed Ona’s arm with a fist. “It sounds perfect,” he said.
At an enormous black and blue tent, the guard stopped, his face holding some quiet sadness. “Please wait here, Silvanians,” he said before disappearing inside.
Silver stars dotted the outside of the tent and a red rug ran under the entrance flap to where the horses’ hooves sunk slightly into the gritty earth. Lucca and Ona dismounted and waited under the sun.
“How long will we have to wait?” Ona asked.
Before Lucca could answer, two women and a man—each with seven bells on their tunics’ sashes—gave them a mint leaf, then took the horses.
“What is the story?” Ona held up the leaf, then tucked it behind her ear and did a makeshift dance, swiveling her hips and rolling a shoulder.
“Maybe it’s for our breath?” Lucca shrugged and ate his.
Ona snorted and popped hers into her mouth as the guard appeared to lead them through the flap.
The tent was even more beautiful inside. It was like being inside a structure made wholly out of the colored glass Silvanian priests used in the cathedrals. The sun glowed through the blue, turning it lighter, but richer. The red of the rug sparkled with silver threads and the fabric stars twinkled in the muted light.
Their guard-guide fellow gestured to a copper bowl of green leaves that burned a deep orange.
Lucca spoke in Ona’s ear. “Fire is their way to connect with a higher power, remember?”
“And?”
Slinging his most withering look, Lucca stepped toward the fire bowl and passed a hand over the flame. “Do what I do, Ona.”
She tried to appear serious as she did the same movements, but the heat did nothing to inspire her to prayer.
At the end of the room, a tall, weathered soldier, five bells on his sash, stood at attention, holding his helmet. Beside the soldier, a woman with black eyes ringed in green cosmetics wore one bell tied to a ribbon across her forehead. As she tilted her chin, studying Ona and Lucca, it rolled along her smooth skin. She worried a little scrap of wool at her sash like she was nervous. But she shouldn’t have been. This had to be Seren, Pearl of the Desert, wife to Kyros Meric.
UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel Page 2