UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel

by Alisha Klapheke

  The guard introducing the mercenaries bowed deeply and held up a palm, calling himself Erol. A thick, blue smoke that smelled like night flowers streamed out of a heavily guarded back room as he spoke in the desert language, adding in Ona’s name and Lucca’s.

  Ona mimicked the guard’s respectful movements, with a side-glance at Lucca. He wasn’t bowing. Or raising his hand. He stood there with his mouth hanging open.

  “Lucca,” she hissed.

  He swallowed and dropped to one knee. “Pearl of the Desert.”

  Ona muffled a laugh against her arm. Even the impossible was possible. The infamously unshakeable Lucca, finally flustered by a pretty lady. He’d better watch himself. Surely, they wouldn’t be too keen on a foreign mercenary making eyes at the kyros's lady.

  Ona cleared her throat, running a translation through her mind. “Akhayma is so beautiful, we have trouble…telling a story…no…speaking. Yes, speaking!”

  Everyone grinned.

  Lucca shook his head once and seemed to come back to his senses.

  The kyros's wife stepped forward and gestured to a bronze and blue enameled tray of small, cylindrical glasses. “Of course. You must be very weary after your long trip. Please sit and have some tea. Please forgive the ka’ud smoke. Kyros Meric is very ill.” Her gaze fell on Ona—her eyes were so sad—before falling away to focus on the servant pouring the tea. “The smoke helps his lungs.”

  AFTER A PAINFULLY LONG stream of pleasantries—during which Ona thought Seren was going to either nibble her lip off or tear that odd piece of cloth she kept—Ona pushed her untouched tea to the side.

  She looked at the man they called General Adem, an old fellow whose glare she admired. “Your kyros told one of the Silvanian kings that you all were willing to pay good silver if we train your warriors, right?”

  General Adem leaned forward, focusing the blaze in his eyes on her. “We don’t need training, Silvanian. We are the best fighters in the world.”

  Ona had to smile. “I have heard you’re the best with the steel. Making it and wielding it. But we have something you don’t. A way to improve the amazing skills you already have.”

  “So we can help one another,” Adem said. “We teach you our fighting techniques, bow and yatagan, and you teach us yours. We’ve heard stories about your successes. I’ve read the reports. I’d like to know specifics from your own mouths. Tell us about your abilities.”

  “Tell us more about yours first,” she said.

  Lucca kicked her under the table. She ignored it. The Empire had some way they used fire, some sort of blessing Lucca had mentioned. Refusing to blink, she held herself calm as the general weighed the force of her stare. He wouldn’t be finding her will lacking.

  Seren opened her mouth, probably to break the stand-off, but Adem’s lips slanted into a clever grin. “All right then, Onaratta Paints with Blood. If we summon Holy Fire, some of us receive ideas, strategies. Those with royal blood have been known to hear ideas from the Fire.”

  Seren looked at her hands, turning them over and running a finger over the veins. Why did she look guilty?

  Ona focused on the topic at hand. Getting ideas from fire, that was pretty impressive. “And your people still nearly lost all to the Invaders last generation?”

  Adem went very still. Seren paled, her mouth a line above her pointed chin, as Lucca’s eyes closed and he breathed out through his nose.

  “The Holy Fire gave…Kyros Meric the idea to hire you,” Seren said.

  Ona grinned. “Then it can be useful.”

  “Yes. Very.” The general looked ready to relieve Ona of her tongue. He took a breath, then sipped some tea. “When my kyros is well again, he will decide for certain whether or not to use your services.”

  Anger bubbled in Ona’s middle. The leader of their mercenary band would definitely do his best to kill her and Lucca if they failed to bring back a load of silver. She didn’t think she could give up Silvania’s forests for good and hide away. Her fist landed hard on the table. “Dom said it was all set!”

  Seren’s mouth fell open. Adem tensed like he wanted to strike Ona.

  Lucca smiled too wide at Adem and Seren. “How about I explain a little about our abilities, the power that seems to run in some Silvanians’ blood.”

  Adem’s gaze was flat. “That would be good.”

  “Our people pass down the talent of warrior chants,” Lucca said.

  “Like the magical symbols of the northern witches?” Seren asked.

  Ona grinned. “It’s slightly different. We don’t use lykill—symbols—in our work. Just the words. We, as you may know, have a fighting blood. There isn’t a day goes by that we don’t argue.”

  Seren’s smile lit her face like the sun had walked into the room to shine on her pretty features. “You are a passionate people. Much like us. We come from many places, but here, we come together with a love for family, honor, fine weapons we make with our iron, and…food.” She laughed, a quiet and unpracticed sound, like she hadn’t relaxed in a long while. “I’ve read about your struggles to hold the various sections of your lands, the fights between cousins, and your love of fine fabrics.”

  “Not that you can tell from our sad clothing.” Ona nodded at her plain long shirt, ripped short pants, and dust-covered tall boots.

  Lucca grimaced at his own outfit. Though he topped the ensemble off with that oddly attractive face of his, Lucca’s clothing was no better than Ona’s.

  “Mercenaries don’t dress as typical Silvanians,” Ona said. “We favor the freedom of living in the wild.” At least she thought she said that. She really needed to work on her foreign languages.

  “You still manage to look striking.” Seren’s curious gaze slid over Lucca’s mouth, then to the white streak in Ona’s reddish mess of hair.

  The slaves’ bells clanged as they dished out what smelled like lemon and cardamom meatballs, lamb-stuffed and roasted onions, and an eggplant and pine nut salad of some sort. Ona’s mouth watered like she hadn’t had a meal in days. She’d eaten a lot of Empire foods—sold at markets in each Silvanian town—lured by their spices. The dishes were as gorgeous as they tasted. Green and white nuts, red sauces, browned meats, and glistening honey. She licked her lips as the servants scooped a tiny amount of each dish onto her plate.

  The contrast between the large slave bell and the tiny, high-caste bell Seren wore wasn’t lost on Ona.

  There were slaves in Silvania too. Also in the northern isles—Ona had seen plenty of sad folks go to that snowy place where they’d probably never escape a life of hard, unrewarding work. She’d seen them on trading days at the ports. There wasn’t any caste system in Silvania or in the northern isles, so the poor souls couldn’t move out of their low position. At least here they had a chance to move up.

  The guard, Erol, who’d led Lucca and Ona into this tent hadn’t worn any bells. So, slavery and caste definition were for those with mixed heritage, like Seren and Adem, who didn’t look like they were only of the desert blood, their noses were a little different, less pronounced.

  “How do you use these chants you speak of?” Adem asked, plucking an eggplant from his platter. “My kyros will need to know the details.”

  Lucca took over and Ona let him. He spoke more clearly. “We say the words we’ve learned from those before us. The chant…its intent bleeds into us.” He curled his fingers into a fist and held it to his chest. “If it is a chant about strength and speed, we hit harder with our swords and fists and run faster. When we chant of agility, we can leap over opponents or twist in ways that wouldn’t normally be possible.”

  Seren pulled her hands together and edged forward. “To have a voice that holds so much power…”

  Adem glanced at her, but spoke to Lucca. “The kyros will be very interested to watch your training.”

  Seren put her hands in her lap, the light in her face going dull.

  Ona made a mental note to go ahead and hate this Adem fellow.

 
; “Yes, Pearl of the Desert,” Ona said. “Our throats hold more power than any sword or bow. Our words are our strongest weapon. We’ll be happy to give you a nice taste of it on your training fields later if you like.”

  Seren smiled. “I’d like that, Onaratta Paints with Blood.” She looked about ready to burst into tears suddenly. What was going on here?

  Adem stood and took up his helmet, bowing to Seren, then to Lucca and Ona. “I hope the chants serve as well as one thousand weapons. If the Invader wolves do come, we could be but dust on the plains by next moon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pearl of the Desert?”

  Lucca’s face clouded as he studied Adem.

  Ona knew that look. Lucca was guessing the general had a secret.

  “Do you know if there are any Invaders in the area?” Lucca asked, dangerously quiet.

  His own brother had run away at thirteen and had been taken by Invaders. She didn’t know the details. Lucca refused to talk about it and she didn’t want to push him.

  “You’ll receive military reports as we see fit, mercenary,” Adem said.

  Lucca pushed away from the table and bowed to the general even though Ona was fairly sure he wanted to make an obscene gesture instead.

  With Adem gone, Seren cleared her throat. “I…you’re welcome to rest in a guest tent closer to the rear gates, near the entrance to the training areas. I hope you’ll be comfortable there. If you’re not too tired, I’d love to see your techniques later this morning. At the hour of ten?”

  Lucca smiled. “That’ll be fine. Should we tell the general?”

  “Nah,” Ona said. “She’s the kyros's wife. Right, Pearl of the Desert?”

  Seren frowned and her eyes filled again. “You’re right, Onaratta.”

  “Call me Ona, please, Pearl of the Desert.”

  “Only if you call me Seren.” She glanced at Lucca. “And you as well. But only in private, please.”

  Lucca put a fist to his chest and bowed deeply before the mercenaries turned to go.

  Back in the sunlight, Ona smacked Lucca’s shoulder with the back of her fist. “You and I need to chat,” she said in Silvanian.

  He stared straight ahead as Erol led them to the guest tent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes, you do,” Ona said.

  “Fine. The lamb was a little dry,” he said. “But I still think this job is going to be fun.”

  Ona crossed her arms. “I’m not talking about the lamb.”

  “The tea wasn’t my favorite.” He pretended to study a merchant’s table of crockery as they passed through the last of the market.

  “Not discussing tea either, Master Lusty Eyes,” Ona said.

  “That is not my name and you know this.”

  “It is now.”

  Erol scowled and waved a hand to hurry them along.

  “No,” Lucca spat.

  Ona nodded. “Yep.”

  He glanced at Erol, the usual wariness wrinkling his forehead. “Seriously, Ona. Stop.”

  The man couldn’t understand Silvanian. “Fine, Master L.E. But don’t think I didn’t see how…that situation—” Ona fluttered her lashes “—affected you.”

  “Noted,” Lucca said quietly.

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  SEREN

  Thoughts and emotions tumbled through Seren, pricking and striking, as she stared at Meric’s body. With Meekra’s help, Seren had rolled him up in bed linens and she knew very well she was some kind of terrible soul to be able to do that without sobbing or passing out cold. She relit the ka’ud wood. The clouds’ resinous scent covered the odor she didn’t want to think about—the smell of Meric’s body longing to return to the air and earth. It was a small mercy that no one was permitted to enter the kyros's personal quarters because of Barir’s quarantine. Not that Adem wouldn’t necessarily barge in anyway. And if he did, well, Seren wasn’t sure what would happen. She could picture him dragging her into the courtyard and…

  “I am ready with your clothing, Pearl of the Desert.” Meekra’s voice was light and steady through the thick, woven doorflaps that led to Meekra’s smaller chamber. Seren had slept in the smaller bed in that separate chamber last night with Meekra at her feet on a cot.

  Pulling her shoulders back, Seren went to her and let Meekra dress her in a pair of sky blue pantaloons since she was headed to the training fields to see Ona and Lucca in action. Over the pantaloons, Seren slipped on a thin, dark blue kaftan with a bright orange hem and sash. Meekra held up several silver bangles that clinked lightly.

  “You’ll have to unclasp your fist, my lady.”

  “Oh.” Seren placed the tiny slip of parchment Adem had sent after the early morning meeting on her cosmetics table. The words glared at her in black ink. He’d thought Meric would read them.

  I will view the Silvanian mercenaries at their work, my kyros. No need to send Pearl of the Desert, my kyros.

  Seren set her jaw. He’d never liked her. Not since Father argued with the old kyros about her someday marriage to Meric. Father had seen the cruel streak in Meric. But Adem had called her and her family unfit.

  “Not respectful of the royal blood,” he’d said. “They have a burden to bear. The Fire sometimes speaks to them, tells them things… It is a burden of that blood, to know what will happen, to know what you must do despite your own fears and limitations.”

  He’d been so rude to Father. She’d been surprised Father stood there and took the verbal abuse. Now she understood. Father had retired at that point and Adem had taken his place beside the kyros. Adem held the power and Father had held none.

  But despite her non-royal blood, she’d seen a vision. She hadn’t simply heard something—that in itself hardly ever happened for a non-royal—but images of possibilities and ideas had poured through her mind almost as real as the world around her.

  If only Adem would believe her, that she was what Barir thought she was…blessed. But what if it was a one-time thing and she wasn’t truly blessed and would lead the Empire into ruin? Why would Adem ever believe she was blessed when she didn’t believe it herself? She knew the answer already. Adem never would.

  Well, she was going to the training fields to see the mercenaries. No matter what Adem thought about it. And she would ask him what he would do if Meric died. Maybe Barir was wrong. Adem might choose to wait to mourn and properly protect the city.

  That would mean your vision was false, a voice inside Seren whispered.

  As Meekra applied sparkling green cosmetics to Seren’s eyelids, Seren pushed the worry away. She’d question Adem. Carefully. One thing at a time.

  “Do you want to talk about all of this, my lady?” With a click of metal on lacquered wood, Meekra slid the cosmetics box closed and looked at Seren with patient eyes.

  “Can we think about something else? Is that horrible? It’s horrible. I know it. But I have so many things to figure out. And I have to watch the mercenaries’ demonstration to see if their efforts are worth our warriors’ time right now.”

  Meekra ran a hand gently over Seren’s hair and Seren couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

  “You’re human,” Meekra said. “It’s all right to need a change in focus for a breath or two.” She brushed Seren’s hair as she talked, her words and movements soothing. Seren was so lucky to have such a devoted friend. “My sister’s coming-of-age ritual is today.”

  Seren took a deep breath and let her mind wander from Meric and the Empire. “The blanket looked beautiful after Izzet and Najwa added that ring of bright green for fertility.”

  Meekra smiled sadly. “She loves it. If I may say so, my lady, you’re a rare rose among the flowers of the royal household.”

  “I don’t know about that. I do have fewer thorns than Qadira though.” Qadira never failed to mention her clan’s bloodlines in every conversation. She was a relentless snob, but her father, chieftain of their powerful clan, helped Akhayma’s economy stay strong with his keen business s
ense. Needless to say, Qadira soundly refused to join in on the inter-caste weaving.

  Meekra’s hands went to her hips. “A shawakk plant has less spikes than that girl.”

  Seren almost grinned, then reality tore at her chest. She fought a sob. Meekra rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Did your father tell you anything else about last night?” Seren asked.

  Meekra chewed the inside of her cheek. “No. Just…about the kyros. And how we must keep it a secret.”

  “Not why?” Seren asked, standing and going to the back door to check that the rotating guards were in place. “No one is to enter. No matter what happens. Do you understand?”

  The guards nodded and bowed quickly. “Yes, Pearl of the Desert,” they said in unison, worry tightening their eyes.

  “Even if there is an emergency. I will handle that. As will my personal guards. One of you go now to the men and women positioned at the front of my chamber and at the main tent’s entrance. Give them my instructions.”

  “Yes, Pearl of the Desert.”

  Seren ducked back inside and looked at Meekra. “So your father didn’t say why we must keep this tragedy a secret?”

  Meekra’s gaze drifted to the wrapped body. “No, my lady. If you want me to know, I’m here to listen. But I trust you. As does my father.”

  Meekra’s loyalty glowed inside Seren, warm and steady. “Thank you.”

  Seren would’ve asked her to stop with the my lady, but she’d given that up the first week. Meekra said General Adem would have her head if he heard her using anything less. He might not have been Seren’s ally, but tradition ruled all for that unbendable man.

  WHEN SEREN ARRIVED at the training field with her guards, three military units were practicing with yatagans, steel flashing in the red, morning sun.

  “Do you see General Adem?” she asked Cansu.

  The guard ran a hand down his long face as he studied the men dodging and swinging among plumes of dust and the servants coming in and out of the stables to the far right near the entrance to the archery course. “I don’t, Pearl of the Desert.”