UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel

by Alisha Klapheke

  The guards practically jumped away from the door. “Please, yes. Kyros Varol will want to hear your message.”

  “You bet he will.” As she passed, she glanced over her shoulder and waved a feigned farewell to their groins. They winced in unison and Ona barked a laugh, sauntering into the meeting.

  Varol’s men barely looked at her as she walked the plush rug path to their table. None made a move, only shifting their gaze back to their leader.

  “This meeting is short one Silvanian mercenary,” she said.

  Varol’s mouth lifted a fraction at one side. He stood and his men copied the gesture. “Indeed?”

  “I’m sure you want to hear how the chanting units are evolving. Adem told you about this, yes? Also, you especially need info from someone who traveled through the Empire, listening to tales of past sieges like the one that is about to start up at our front door.”

  He ran a finger over a dirtied sword that looked familiar with its twisted hilt. “You served a fine helping of information already.”

  “That was only about what I could do. It wasn’t the sum of what I know.” The back of her neck prickled. She was pushing her luck. Varol could order these men to kill her with one word—a word she might not even understand. If she chanted, she could most likely best six men, but getting out of the city, that would be a feat. And if she did, an ocean of Invaders could be waiting outside the pale stone walls.

  “So tell me what you know.” Varol’s words were quiet as a well-sharpened blade slicing through skin.

  His men’s eyes were cool, appraising. They were nothing compared to their leader though. Mere stars beside the sun. Every one of them would’ve already had her taken away. They had closed little minds. No new ideas. Their Holy Fire probably did nothing more than warm their hands when they passed their palms over its flame.

  “My unit is coming along. There are five men who can chant and improve their speed on foot. It won’t be long until they’ll be better in battle.”

  “I already know all of this,” Varol said. “Anything else?”

  She cleared her throat. “The Invaders are blind with arrogance. If you slay their king as you plan to, then attack from the opening to the mines behind them, they’ll be confused twice over. They won’t believe their king could die or that we could surprise them. We’ll come at them from the back on horses, with those small bows you all have, the ones shaped like a calligrapher’s stroke.”

  “We don’t have enough horses.”

  “You don’t need too many. Just enough to appear serious about the attack. They will rage at us with their proud chins high and we’ll pretend to retreat. Instead, the warriors will shoot backward and cut them down. I’ve seen what your fighters can do with the bow. It’ll be easy for them and it’ll muddle the Invaders’ minds. We’ll paint the plains red as a field of poppies.”

  Varol rubbed his hands together. “So we split our forces. Fighters on foot at the gates and on the parapet. Horseback archers at the back in a false retreat. I like it.” His gaze went to her mouth. “I like you.”

  Smiling a little, he dismissed his men with a flick of a hand.

  They were alone. She was alone with the man who was going to humiliate, then annihilate the ones who’d ruined her life.

  He walked toward her. “Tell me your story. Why are you like you are?” He raised one sharp, black eyebrow.

  Stars burst under her flesh, waking her up. She was so alive with this man. His amber eyes glowed, invited her to lay her soul in his hands.

  And so she did.

  When she’d told him about her aunt and the palette knife, she stepped closer. Light from the tent’s ornate ceiling spun a web over Varol’s swept-back hair, his wide shoulders.

  “For the first time, I truly believe the Invaders have enjoyed their last victory. You, Varol.” His gaze cut her for using his name. “You will restore my ruined life. Not the innocence, but the beauty. Seren can’t do it. She is too weak. Right now, she’s developing a weapon with an Invader engineer. No one who thinks they can be trusted is good for our cause. You, Kyros Varol, are our savior.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then tell me your story,” Ona said.

  “I shouldn’t waste my time.”

  She shrugged. “Your choice.” He could whistle the tune of Old Goat, New Hen for all she cared. Just being this close to a person so powerful was heaven itself.

  His gaze went to the door. She couldn’t let this talk end now. She’d go back to the guest tent and Lucca would be gone, going after Seren. She wanted something of her own. Not just something. She wanted Varol.

  She took another step. Varol’s breath touched her cheek and neck. Her heart kicked like a spirited horse. “Tell me about the worst moment of your life.”

  “Aside from my brother’s funeral.”

  “That wasn’t the worst. I saw your face. You’re angry it was out of your control, but you don’t miss him.”

  “You really don’t care if I kill you, do you?” Varol smiled. He untied and retied a second sash at his waist. Odd he wore one creased with dirt over the fine brown he already had on. Must’ve been part of the mourning.

  “You won’t.”

  “You’re a bit of a fool.”

  Ona shrugged. “Or courageous. It’s a fine line.”

  “I think you crossed that line long ago.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Talking alone with the most powerful person in the Empire?”

  “You should work on the art of conversation.”

  “My own style has gotten me pretty far,” Ona snapped.

  He laughed. It was a pointed sound that would always be aimed at someone. She had to lean her head back to look him in the eye, but she was all right with it. After all, she could gut him if he became a problem.

  “I was a second son,” he said, “in a family who only had need of one. I was more cunning than my brother. Smarter. But none of it mattered. My brother’s smallest feat was echoed through the world. My greatest accomplishments were lost in the noise of my father ordering me around.”

  “That’s what gives you your will though. Your strong will.”

  He smirked. “A blade sharpened in the fire, hm?” His tone bit the air.

  “Trite, but true.”

  “You’re so young.”

  “I’ve seen more than most old women. And you’re only twenty? Twenty-one?”

  He nodded. “How would you draw me?” He took her hand and put it against his cheek. A shiver rolled down her back and stomach.

  She traced the fine bones around his snake eyes, the hook of his proud nose. “I’d concentrate here and here and here. This is the center of your power.”

  “It’s where I feel the Holy Fire’s ideas when they come.” A sheen of sarcasm pooled around his words. Ona didn’t think he held too tightly to the almighty fire.

  He closed his eyes as her palm slid over his cheek, to his trim beard, and down his sinuous neck. He was so warm.

  “I’d show the world the lines of you,” she said. “How your Will holds the Empire up toward the heavens.”

  His hands gripped hers and heat flooded her body. He cupped her skull and dragged his thumbs over her shivering lips. His mouth found hers, and she dissolved into a wash of red, black, blue, and green, the world a buzz around them. His lips forged a path down her neck, and she blinked, catching a glimpse of an elegant jawline, a peek of tendons wrapped around a strong shoulder under the edge of his fine, harvest-brown kaftan. Head moving down, Varol found her collarbone. She tried to say something saucy, but gasped instead.

  If he thought she’d tell him to stop, he was wrong. Minutes or hours passed, Ona wasn’t sure about the time. All she knew was Varol’s power and the way it made her mouth feel, her body feel, her heart feel. This was how it was supposed to be. A man powerful enough to challenge her, to frighten her a little. In his strong arms, his cobra eyes on he
r, she was the person she’d longed to be for what felt like forever. She was steel and he was flint, and together they burned the hurt out of her soul.

  A VOICE SHOUTED beyond the tent walls. Whoever it was called out in the desert tongue, then finally in the trade language.

  “Fire! In the city! The training fields! Fire!”

  They pushed away from one another, and Varol tucked his kaftan into place. He pulled the door open to trade words with his guard in his quick native tongue.

  He turned to her, eyes still hot, and Ona said, “Go.”

  In the quiet of the tent, Ona’s mind returned to the sword on the table.

  26

  SEREN

  Throwing worried glances over his shoulder, Cansu led Seren to the sacred bowl. Varol and Adem waited. They stood beside a row of Adem’s loyal followers, three lines of warriors behind them. The moon bleached their faces into the white of picked bones.

  Seren’s heart fell into her stomach.

  Adem’s eyes, ringed in purple, held defeat instead of triumph. Maybe he agreed that the planned flaying of the king was the wrong move. Maybe he’d support her.

  Cansu, Hossam, Erol, and Seren stopped at the edge of the pool. Water lapped against the sides, a drop splashing Seren’s sandal, cooling her heated skin. Before Varol could say a word, she bent, dipped both sets of fingers, and stood to draw the water over her forehead and down her cheeks. A blessing from her city, her water, her people.

  “Pearl of the Desert,” Varol said, his voice like a heavy bell. “You’re charged with the murder of Kyros Meric.”

  Varol held out the water bowl that they’d used to dig Meric’s shallow grave. Varol tipped it over. Sandy dirt and a tassel from Meric’s favorite sash ghosted into the air.

  Seren’s body turned to water. She stumbled, Hossam and Erol catching her. She was no longer kyros, or the kyros's wife, no longer untouchable.

  They must’ve left the bowl and tassel under the bed, with the extra dirt. That—along with the information Varol had probably gained from Adem and whoever else supported him—would be plenty to sentence her for murder.

  This was it. This was her end. I’m sorry, sisters, Father.

  Ona walked out from behind Varol, her face washed of any emotion. She stopped for a breath, eyes on Seren, and started toward her. To speak up for Seren? To further crush her? To stand by her side? But before Ona could move away, Varol put a hand to Ona’s waist, keeping her there, by his side. Her body almost seemed to melt into his.

  Seren gripped her guards’ arms, heart hammering. Every conversation with Ona—since Varol’s arrival—unraveled, then wove itself into a new pattern. The people gasped at the break in tradition, at the touching between Kyros Varol and a woman who wasn’t his wife.

  This was Ona’s secret. She and Varol had been lovers.

  A crack cut through Seren’s heart and a shudder ripped through her limbs.

  Her friend had lied. She cared for her enemy, taken into her arms the man who would take Seren’s people from her and endanger their lives. When Adem had sent for Varol, Seren had felt a sting, but he’d done it because tradition was in his bones. He’d done it because that was what was expected of him. Ona had sided with Varol because she believed he was the better ruler. She believed he could save them from the Invaders, not Seren.

  It was a bleeding, burning rendering of Seren’s heart.

  True betrayal.

  Varol raised his hands. “As your kyros, I’m here to comfort and protect you in this trying time. I promise today will see our victory against the Invaders. I’ll kill their king before their very eyes. And to avenge your former kyros and my brother’s death, I condemn Seren, Pearl of the Desert to death.”

  Seren couldn’t breathe, let alone beg Varol to listen to reason. Or ask for help.

  He turned to her. “Take her to her cell. She, along with that Invader pig, hangs from the walls at dawn.”

  The moon bled silver into her eyes, blinding her as strong arms dragged her away from her people. “You can’t hang their king from the walls. It’ll only anger them and make them fight harder!”

  But Varol wasn’t listening. Adem glanced her way, face unreadable.

  27

  ONA

  “You aren’t going to kill her, are you? She didn’t kill your brother.” Ona followed Varol into Adem’s tent. The walls were darker than Varol’s quarters or Seren’s. The place was like a cave and Ona swallowed, suddenly feeling like she was being buried alive.

  Varol spun. His eyes blazed. “She hid my brother’s death from General Adem. From me. She never sent word. Adem did. After the fire that she started, the general told me the whole story. I believe it because, although he never approved of Seren, he didn’t want to see her dead.”

  But Adem couldn’t have told him everything. If he had, Lucca would already be dead.

  Varol stormed toward Ona, step by thunderous step, and she backed up, a little bit enjoying his venom.

  “Adem told me she hired some unknown person to pose as Meric in my brother’s own bed,” he spat. “Seren is a devil.” Varol’s hips pinned hers to the lotus pillar that supported the tent’s heavy fabric walls. The stone chilled Ona’s bones. “I will not permit her to live on after making a mockery of my family and our line of rule. She will die and she will die in pain.”

  She shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with attraction. She decided she only liked his venom aimed at her enemies. Seren wasn’t quite an enemy. She didn’t want to see her die either. She only wanted her…out of the way. Out of the way of revenge. If she proved to be a barrier again, well, that’d be her fault. Nothing mattered more than making the Invaders bleed.

  “Fine. All right. I understand.” Ona ran a hand up Varol’s chest. “But kill their king first. Not at the same time. He doesn’t deserve to die beside one of yours.”

  “She is not one of mine.”

  “The people don’t see it that way. Neither would the Invaders. They’ll see one of ours dying and think it’s chaos within our ranks.”

  Adem walked through the door. “It’s time, my kyros.”

  “What do you think of Seren dying beside the Invader king?” Varol kept to the trade tongue.

  Adem’s lip curled for a second. It was so quick, Ona thought she might’ve imagined it. “You meant to say Pearl of the Desert, my kyros,” he said, giving Seren his version of a proper title. “And your will is ours, my lord.”

  “Onaratta Paints with Blood says if I kill her beside him, the Invaders will think there is chaos within our ranks.”

  Adem shrugged, but his eyes didn’t match the carefree statement of his body language. “So what if they do? They’ll only become more arrogant, or more confused. Either way, it won’t be true. You are the kyros and no one will speak against you.”

  “They won’t speak against me, but will they act against me, General Adem? Have you heard rumors?”

  He swallowed. “Those born in the Green Mountains like…her, they may wish she was given more honors.”

  “You are of her blood.”

  “But I never lived there. I was born to middle-caste soldiers who raised me to fight for the Empire, not for one of its tiny borderlands.”

  “I’ve seen your loyalty. Don’t fear me.”

  Adem gave a small bow. “As you wish, my kyros.”

  “We’ll take Onaratta’s advice. Now, let’s go kill a king.”

  His words thrilled Ona’s blood. She flexed her hand on her sword hilt, ready to see her enemy die.

  VAROL, Adem, and two fighters had the Invaders’ king on the parapet right above the main city gates. The heavy wood doors were shut tight against the enemy army. It was something of a risk for Varol to be up there. If an Invader could slip past their archers, he could let an arrow loose and bring their kyros down. But she guessed risk was part of the show. They wanted to confuse, enrage, stir up the pigs.

  Men, women, and children jostled around the ranks, bumping the lines into disa
rray with their pointing and shouting, their kabobs of peppered, green-herbed goat, and their caste bells jingling everywhere. The atmosphere was celebration with a bright stripe of fear.

  Ona had bought Seren some time with the whole not proper to die beside the king thing. Ona wanted to get her out and persuade her to flee. The plan for success was in place—trick the Invaders and outmaneuver them. They didn’t need Seren’s unpredictable weapons. Her instability. And Ona needed Lucca focused too.

  Speak of the devil. Some ridiculous half cloak and hood shadowed Lucca’s face. Nuh walked beside him, eyes on the parapet.

  “What are we doing about Seren?” Lucca said into my ear.

  “What is this?” Ona picked at the half cloak’s ratty edges.

  “Who cares? Focus, Ona. No one knows where they took Seren. He hid her somewhere. By sundown, she’ll be dead.”

  “He’ll wait until we destroy the Invaders.” He was the one who needed to focus.

  “What if he doesn’t?” Lucca’s eyes were wild. “Or what if we lose and she is trapped?”

  “I don’t know where her cell is,” she said. “How can we get her out if we don’t even know where to look?”

  Lucca growled and leaned left and right, like he might burst right out of his skin.

  “It can’t be that hard to find,” she said, giving Nuh a look. “Try the farming district. It’s the only area that isn’t stuffed with people. I’d hide someone there and set a guard. You can ask around. Someone will talk. A wife who likes your eyes. A child you can bribe…”

  “Well then, let’s get to it,” Lucca said.

  “I’m watching the king die.”

  “Ona. Please.” He pushed fists against the front of his brigantine like he was trying to keep his heart in his chest.

  But Ona’s empathy only glowed so bright. Inside her, revenge blazed like a beacon fire. “Absolutely not.”

  A woman with green eye cosmetics like Seren wore bumped into Lucca and Ona. The lady craned her neck to see Adem’s men fitting the king with a noose.