by Jasmine Walt
With a sickening rasp, the blade severed skin and muscle. Beak gaping and eyes wide with surprise, the head tumbled as a spray of blood arched through the air. One of the ostrich’s legs collapsed, and the dying bird fell on its side, trapping Clay beneath its bulk.
Lynx held her breath.
Nothing moved but the swirling dust and the ostrich’s blood seeping into the sand.
The bird’s wing shuddered, then stopped.
Get up, Clay, Lynx pleaded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It’s not over yet.
Clay heaved the massive bird aside, emerging blood-soaked and shaking. Although his grimace betrayed his pain, he gave the air a victory punch.
Lynx wanted to yell and leap with relief and pride, but Clay had yet to bring her an egg. Hand pressed against a wound slashed open on his thigh, Clay hobbled to the eggs.
A clatter of hooves came from behind.
Lynx spun. A horse and rider streaked toward them. She wanted to shout a warning, but that would constitute interference. So, unable to breathe, she prayed the rider would swerve in time.
Clay had also seen the horse. He screamed, waving his arms, and pointed at the nest. The rider seemed not to hear—or to care—because she aimed for the clutch.
Lynx knew who she was. Only one Norin girl wore a veil as a fashion statement: their sister, Kestrel. Lynx suspected it was designed to hide the lack of feathers and beads in her blond hair. Unlike the rest of their family, Kestrel had never been brave enough to raid an egg, settling instead for a life as a server. She wore her ostrich-skin apron, the servers’ badge of honor, begrudgingly.
Swearing, Clay broke into a run, but before he could reach the clutch, the horse cantered to the nest. Kestrel wheeled the horse around and then pranced it over the eggs. Its hooves cracked every shell. Without a perfect egg, Clay had failed. He would never be given another chance to raid. Keening, he fell to his knees, burying his head in his hands.
Lynx sheathed her machetes, dove forward, and grabbed the horse’s harness. “Kestrel, by all the Winds! What’s the matter with you? Couldn’t you see the dead ostrich? Didn’t you see Clay going for the clutch?”
“You know I don’t care about wind or ostrich eggs!” Kestrel yelled as her horse reared.
Lynx tumbled to the ground. Kestrel rewarded her with a contemptuous flick of her veils.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Clay snatched up his bloodied machete and raced toward his sister and her prancing horse. “I’ll kill you, Kestrel!”
Kestrel shrieked and spurred her horse, sending it shooting forward. Safely out of reach, she called out, “Lynx, maybe I didn’t want my little brother copying you. Not every member of this family has to be a raider, you know.”
“I never said they did!” Lynx screamed, scrambling to her feet. “But those wanting to should get a fair chance. Just like no one stopped you choosing not to raid.”
“A fair chance? Try not raiding and see how it feels! Everyone treats me like dirt because I chose not to have feathers and beads in my hair!”
“That’s in your head. And even if it were true, it’s not Clay’s fault. Why punish him?” Lynx shouted straight back at her sister.
Kestrel scorned the code of honor, bravery, and fealty to the Norin king that set their tribe apart from the rest of the Chenayan empire. Her sister believed they should embrace Chenayan culture, not something any Norin in their right mind would ever consider doing. And as for Lynx, street sweeper or emperor, she despised all Chenayans equally.
“Oh, what does it matter?” Kestrel asked. “Father sent me to find you both. Lynx, you’re to come home, now. The imperial steam carriage brought a letter from the emperor.”
The blood drained from Lynx’s face, and she sucked in a panicked breath.
“Yes, that letter,” Kestrel yelled over her shoulder as her horse bolted away. “You’re to marry Prince Lukan! I hope you enjoy becoming a Chenayan!”
2
Lynx watched her sister until the horse veered around a craggy butte and vanished from view. But no matter how long Lynx stood staring after her, Kestrel’s words refused to connect in her mind.
How was it possible she had been chosen to marry Lukan? Kestrel was, by far, the better candidate to marry the crown prince. Her sister would have known that, too. Lynx guessed Kestrel had secretly anticipated the marriage—looked forward to it, even.
As for Lynx, the idea of marrying Lukan made her skin crawl. He was a Chenayan. She, a Norin. He was her conqueror. She, his conquered. He had been born and raised to lord over her. She had been born and raised to hate him. They might as well have been different species.
There was no winning here.
But fighting the summons was impossible. Emperor Mott, Lukan’s father, was too powerful to be denied. Emperor Mott and his Chenayan empire ruled two-thirds of the world, and no one could do a damn thing about it. He even had the Unity behind him, the ancient marriage treaty between their two nations, which stipulated that a Norin princess would marry the Chenayan crown prince. The marriage was unavoidable.
Still, the chances of her father sharing the letter’s content with Kestrel first, if Lynx had been the one chosen, were nil. It was possible her sister had been mistaken. Or had lied. Lynx wouldn’t put it past Kestrel.
Sighing, Lynx reached for the satchel hanging from her shoulder, containing her medical supplies. Then, a thought struck. She frowned, considering the idea from all angles.
Risky and manipulative, it would make her as unpopular with her family as Kestrel was right now. But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. If she had to marry Lukan, then she could use that marriage to manipulate her father into agreeing to let Clay raid again.
She grimaced. If her trade-off worked, she would be honor-bound to marry Lukan. To sleep with him. To bear his children. Could she? Her hand found her braided hair and feathers. She twirled them, deep in thought.
Marriage to Lukan would bring the title of Chenayan crown princess, followed by empress when Lukan came to power. He would expect her to relinquish her loyalty to Norin—and to her king, to whom she’d sworn fealty.
Lynx’s stomach contracted at the very notion, sending shafts of pain and nausea through her. The day she had come home with an egg, she had gone on bended knee, swearing fealty to her father, King Thorn. The wind, which had moaned softly around her as she knelt, picked up as she had uttered her oath. Without doubt, the Winds had delivered her pledge to the skies.
Since then, she had walked a tight line between defying her father and obeying her king. Now, thanks to Kestrel, she was trapped between filial responsibility and her oath of allegiance. It would take some careful crafting to traverse this potential snake pit. For a Norin, breaking an oath was a grievous sin, equal to murder, with a punishment equally harsh. At worst, the oathbreaker could be condemned to death, if the person wronged chose to inflict the ultimate penalty. At best, every Norin would know of the perfidy and would shun the culprit. In Lynx’s mind, death would be better than banishment from her home and the people she loved.
Clay’s voice broke into thoughts. “I’ll never wear the feathers and beads now.” He slumped in the dust next to the dead ostrich and the broken eggs, his head resting on his knees.
Lynx swallowed hard. With his infectious laughter and determined bravery, Clay was one of the most important people in her world.
Mindful of his wounds, she knelt down and gently embraced him. “It’s okay. The Winds will bring us a plan.”
“And if they don’t? I’ll be a server for the rest of my life . . . picking up ostrich dung for the fires.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it. I’ll—” She bit her tongue; it was premature to share her nascent plan with him. “I’ll plead with Father for you.”
Clay lifted his head to look at her, his eyes wrought with pain and sorrow. “I don’t know, Lynx . . . he’ll be furious that I raided without permission.”
“Leave him to me. I give you
my oath that I’ll do my best to fix this.” She sucked in a breath. There was no going back now.
The muscles in Clay’s face relaxed, and she knew she’d said the right thing, even if it trapped her into a marriage with Lukan. There’s no guarantee Kestrel was right about me marrying him, she reminded herself.
Lynx cracked a wry smile as she reached for her antiseptic tincture. “Now, come, let me patch you up. Father will be less mad if he doesn’t know how badly that ostrich tore you up.”
Clay sniggered. “It’s going to sting, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as sticking your head in a bee hive.”
“Great.” Clay winced as she gently rubbed the gash on his thigh with the clove-scented ointment.
The larger of the planet’s twin moons nudged the sky by the time Lynx had finished dressing Clay’s wounds.
“Wait here. I’ll get your horse,” Lynx said as he creaked to his feet. She trotted through the tuffet grass to the thorn tree where they had tethered their horses. Holding both bridles, she walked back to him.
Only when he was seated did she mount her own horse. They rode across the arid terrain, picking their way through clumps of dry grass and scrub as they headed back to the Norin encampment.
Lynx twirled her braid and feathers. Her mind was on her upcoming negotiations with her father. She caught Clay watching her.
“Did I hear the bitch correctly?” Clay asked. “Are you to marry Lukan?”
“Apparently so.”
Clay grunted. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“The Unity says a daughter of the Norin king will marry the Chenayan crown prince, not the eldest daughter. We all know Kestrel’s the better candidate. Mad as he is, Mott would be an idiot to choose me.”
Clay snorted a laugh. “Unless he likes the idea of you knocking Lukan’s teeth out.” He shot her a sideways look. “If what you told us about your meeting with Lukan is true, that’s how your marriage will go.”
“Oh, it was true all right. Father will vouch for me.” She grimaced at the memory of her first and only meeting with Crown Prince Lukan Avanov and his father.
That summer, she and her father had been summoned, along with the other leaders of Chenaya’s vassal states, to attend a meeting in the Chenayan capital, Cian. All started off well enough. Lynx had enjoyed her first train journey, a seven-day trip on the public steam train that dissected the empire. Matters had gone downhill quickly when she arrived at the palace.
To the blaring of trumpets, Mott had appeared, accompanied by Crown Prince Lukan and his brother, Prince Tao. Lynx had studied Lukan as he took his seat on the dais below his father’s throne. She grudgingly admitted he was good-looking, if one liked angular faces with blunt chins.
Lukan had noticed her scrutiny. His dark eyes had swept over her body, clad in her leather tunic, leather trousers, and boots, as if she were a wench serving beer in some low-rent tavern. A wench he could tumble for a handful of coins. His lust was so obvious, the other leaders in the hall had turned to stare at her. A few of them had even laughed.
The humiliation still made her cheeks burn.
Not only was she a Norin princess, her blood every bit as royal as his, she was also a warrior. The men she led and fought beside would never dream of looking at her with such disrespect. She had loathed Lukan ever since.
Only her father’s steadying hand had stopped her from marching up the dais to hit Lukan. Her father had dragged her from the hall before Mott even started his speech.
She knew the emperor was furious at their defiance. Both she and her father came away from the meeting convinced that Mott would never choose her to be a future empress. From that moment, Lynx had thought the whole encounter a roaring success.
Seems she was wrong.
“The whole idea of a Norin marrying a Chenayan is sick,” Clay said, spitting out the words like poison. “They’re our enemies and will be until we kick them out of Norin.”
“While I share your sentiment, I’m not holding my breath that we will be kicking them out anytime soon.”
Clay turned fiery eyes on her. “How can you say that? You, of all people?”
Four hundred years of Chenayan domination had made her cynical. Give Clay a year or two, and he would end up feeling the same way, too.
“Nothing would give me greater joy than to be free of our masters, but we have to be realistic. Even at our most ferocious, our rebellions against them are no more effective than ticks biting an elephant.” Lynx straightened her back and set her face in a hard line. “Still, we can’t stop fighting. To do so would be to lose . . . forever.”
They reached the signal fires protecting the outer ring of the Norin tents.
“Who goes there?” a voice called.
Lynx nodded with satisfaction; at least five crossbow quarrels were aimed at them in the darkness. “Heron, it’s me, with Clay.”
Heron stepped out of the shadows, crossbow hanging at his side. He strode toward their horses, his long, braided hair swinging as he walked. “You’re late, Lynx. I hate it when you’re out at night without another raider.”
Lynx sensed Clay bristling next to her.
“Clay’s with me, so I had all the help I needed,” Lynx said, loud enough for the raiders patrolling close-by to hear.
Clay grunted, but she could see from the way his shoulders straightened that he appreciated her effort.
They intercepted Heron at the edge of the tents. Blue eyes fixed on her, he brushed his hand along her leg.
“There was a letter from Mott today,” Lynx said.
“I heard.” Heron’s voice sounded strangled.
She squeezed his hand. “There’s a dead ostrich at Pinion Point. Please send out some servers and raiders to bring it in.” The bird would be butchered and preserved for Norin cooking pots. She looked over at Clay. “I need to get him home. And my father and I have to talk.”
Heron’s eyes flickered to Clay expectantly. “An egg?”
Clay shook his head.
A mix of sorrow and sympathy flitted across Heron’s face, and he stood aside to let them pass.
Lynx was about to knee her horse forward. A scream cut the air, and galloping hooves pounded nearer.
Hare, one of Lynx’s best friends, skidded past them, and wheeled her horse around. “The Chenayans are attacking! North gate. About fifteen guardsmen.”
3
Lynx stood in her stirrups and peered toward the northern gate. Above the steeple of Norin tents, smoke swirled in the air against livid flames. Something, probably a tent, exploded in a flurry of orange sparks. She swore.
“Clay, get home. Tell Father we’re safe and that I’ve joined the defense.” Heart pounding, she forced the façade of control expected of her as commander-in-training and turned to Heron. “How many raiders do you have here?”
“Six. With me, seven.”
“You come with me,” she said to Heron and then called to the rest of her troops. “The rest of you, hold this position. Do not let the bastards through if they attack here.”
Six raiders could do little to repel the Chenayans if they attacked this gate in numbers, but she had to appear confident.
Heron swept up behind her on her horse. He wrapped his arms around her waist—strong, protective arms she knew well. She started wheeling her horse around when she realized Clay was still there.
“I said go home. Now go.”
Clay fixed her with a hard stare. “If I were holding an egg, would you send me home?”
No, she wouldn’t. Damaged as he was, she would send him into battle to protect their people. But he hadn’t come home with an egg.
Another explosion rocked the sky.
“Clay, there isn’t time for this. Go.”
“No, Lynx. Please let me fight. Just this once.” Clay’s eyes were beseeching, his voice desperate.
It broke her heart, but Lynx shook her head. “You’re not a raider. Mother will kill me if anything happens to you.”
> Heron snorted a laugh. “Happens to him? It’s a bit late for that, Lynxie. Judging by the bandages, the kid’s already in tatters.”
High-pitched screaming—a child’s voice—pulled Lynx’s attention back to the fighting.
“There’s no time to waste.” She shot Clay a beseeching look of her own. “Get killed, and I will never forgive you.”
Clay gave a wild whoop and kicked his horse into action.
Lynx led them at a full gallop around the outer ring of tents toward the fires. Amid the screams and shouting, steel clashed on steel. There were only two official entrances to the Norin campsite, both guarded. The rest of the raiders on duty would be circling the perimeter of the encampment. Once through the barricades and into the camp, the Chenayans would find little resistance until the off-duty raiders rallied. Even then, it would be a rout.
Imperial guardsmen were unlike ordinary Chenayan foot soldiers: they had an extra edge no training or weaponry could give; they moved faster than any Norin; they never seemed to tire; their crossbow quarrels never seemed to miss; and—even more frightening—Lynx was convinced they felt no fear.
Twenty feet from the battle, she pulled up her horse to assess the situation.
The guardsmen had broken through the line of raiders at the barricade. Despite being shot at, they systematically torched tents. Not everyone escaped the inferno, given the nauseating stench of charred flesh that hung in the air. Bodies of the dead and wounded, all Norin, lay trodden underfoot, making fighting treacherous.
Screaming battle cries, raiders armed with machetes and axes converged to meet the enemy. The guardsmen surged forward, their steps unnaturally quick and light, their short-handled battle axes flashing faster than any Norin could move. The first line of raiders fell to deadly strokes. Still, the raiders came.
It was only a matter of time, and they would be cut down, too.
She shook her head in despair and whispered to Heron and Clay, “Attacking them from the front is futile. We need to flank them.”