"It's all right, Tram," I say. "No one but my aunt and uncle know that we're here."
"This is my job, Miss Zilara," he says, continuing the sweep.
A hoverpod breaks off from the stream of traffic flowing along the nearby street. With a throaty growl, it glides up to us and pauses at platform level. The glass roof retracts, and my uncle steps out. He's tall, like my father, but heavier, with layers of muscle and fat. His hair is still holding its dark color, in spite of some gray streaks.
"Zil." He clasps me in a hug that smells of grease and dirt and herbs. "I'm so glad you're here."
"Uncle Gant." My throat clenches, tears materializing in my eyes. "I'm glad to be here. And this—" I back up and pull Rak forward. "This is the man who saved me, in Emsalis."
My uncle reaches for Rak and folds him into a tight embrace. "Thank you, son."
A flicker of deep emotion passes over Rak's face. When my uncle releases him, he doesn't seem to know where to look or what to say.
"Well, climb in," says Gant. "Your aunt is dyin' to meet this boy. She wanted to come with me to pick you up, but two of the fertilizer drones for the back field malfunctioned this morning, so she had to fix them up."
"Can we keep the top down for the ride to the farm?" I ask as we climb into the pod.
"Anything for you, Zil," says Gant. "Everyone in?"
He kicks the pod into forward mode, and we zoom into the flow of traffic, weaving through town between wheeled vehicles and other pods until we break off from the mass and soar away, out into the fields.
"Don't know how it is in Emsalis, Rak, but here, we have to follow the road," calls Uncle Gant. "It'd be a ruttin' sight less time to get home if we could cut across fields, but people got their auto-tillers and weedbots and fertilizer drones flying around, so we stick to the old tracks. Doin' otherwise is considered rude."
"Makes sense," Rak replies. "What do you grow out here?"
His question launches a long discussion about planting and irrigation. Apparently Rak's mountain village was one of the chief suppliers of produce for the area, so he understands the complexities of bio-seeds and the argument against genetically spliced crops. He's never heard of weather alternators, so my uncle begins a detailed description, to which Rak listens with interest in his dark eyes.
Watching Rak, listening to him and my uncle converse like old friends, my love for my rebel is growing stronger and deeper every second. Like the spring sunshine on my skin, warming me to my very bones.
Glancing over, I meet Ridley's eyes. She's been watching me, and her eyes shine as she smiles.
As we crest a rise, I lean forward eagerly, because there, spread out before us, is my uncle's farm—weather control towers standing like sentinels over wide fields dotted with pale-green sprouts. Irrigators and fertilizer drones hum over the rows like mechanical bees, while auto-tillers churn soil in the areas that haven't yet been planted.
A grid of paved tracks connect the outbuildings and bot-lots to the central hub of the farm, where my uncle's house dominates the scene, its white stone and tall windows gleaming in the sunlight.
The pod zooms into the paved courtyard of the house, and I swing down from it, straight into my aunt's arms. She's lean and strong, with honey-colored skin, narrow dark eyes, and night-black hair with a natural gloss I've always envied.
"You're too thin," she says, feeling my arms. "Did they starve you over there, in Emsalis?" She looks straight at Rak, her mouth thin and straight.
"I'm fine, Aunt Chila."
"I'll be the judge of that." She approaches Rak, glaring. "You're him. Not much to look at, are you?"
To my surprise, instead of being cowed, he smiles at her. "Not much."
"What makes you worthy of our Zilara?" she snaps.
"Aunt Chila!" I protest. Oh stars, this is not going well.
"I never claimed to be worthy of her," Rak replies. "But she's the smartest woman I know, so if she sees something good in me, I have to believe in it myself."
Aunt Chila gives him a short, sharp nod. "Good answer." She spins on her heel, stalking toward the house. "Come on, all of you. We'll chat for a while. Oh, and I packed the things you asked for, Zilara. The satchel is by the back door."
"Thank you."
For the next hour we talk—about my cousins, living on the southern coast; about Emret's growing role in the government, about the farm and its struggles. At last my aunt raises her eyebrows at me, and I give her a tiny nod. It's time to enact my plan—ditching my bodyguards so I can run off for a while with Rak.
"Gant," says my aunt. "Weren't you going to ask Tram to look at the new set of perimeter sensors?"
"Yes. Yes!" says my uncle, eyes lighting up as he catches on. "I'm having trouble with the settings. If you're willing, we can take a quick spin around the farm and check them out."
"Go ahead, Tram," I say. "We're fine here."
As soon as they leave, my aunt says, "Ridley, I had a question for you, too. Our night security drones keep flaking out, and I'm not sure why. Would you have a look for me? It would save me the trouble of hiring someone."
"I'm not sure—" Ridley begins.
"Ridley, please help her out," I say. "It would mean a lot to me. Rak and I will relax till you get back." I stare at her significantly, hoping she'll think that I'm planning a heavy make-out session right here on the couch.
"Of course, Miss Zilara," says Ridley. "I'll be back shortly."
"Wonderful!" says my aunt. "The drones are over in Shed 7. I have no idea what is going on with them—" Her voice fades as they leave the house.
The second the front door closes behind them, I seize Rak's hand. "Come on!"
We race through the house to the back door. Propped against it is the satchel I asked my aunt to pack, along with the code transmitter for my cousin's old field crawler. The crawler itself is parked right outside, ready for us.
"What are we doing?" asks Rak.
"Escaping. Don't ask questions, just get on!" I toss the satchel into the crawler and press the code transmitter, starting the engine. "Here we go!"
We rumble along the track between two newly planted fields, headed for the forest in the far distance. I push the crawler as fast as it will go, eager to reach the cover of the trees before Ridley or Tram realize we're gone.
"Your bodyguards aren't going to be happy with you," Rak says, leaning forward, his hands gripping the edge of the dust shield.
"They won't even know we're gone for an hour or so. I asked my aunt and uncle to keep them busy. And once they do realize we've left the couch, they'll search the house and the sheds before they think of trying the woods. By then it will be too late to find us."
The forest rises ahead, piles upon piles of dark green leafy trees, mounded against the blue sky. We park the crawler under its eaves and plunge in, following a faint track that's so overgrown, no one would ever see it unless they already knew it was there. I know it, because I've followed this path with my cousins a hundred times.
The forest envelops us in its coolness, its delicious greenness. Damp brown leaves cushion the earth underfoot; thick green mosses creep over rocks and carpet the damp hollows. Lacy white fungi festoon a dead log by the path, turning its decay into beauty. Plants and saplings cluster between the columns of older trees that reach up, up, towards the sun, toward the arch where leaves form a translucent green ceiling above our heads. When the path grows narrow and lumpy with roots, I lead the way, because this is my land. My beautiful Ceanna.
In spite of the heat and the sand, I could see the beauty of the Emsali desert—a wild, fierce, untamed glory. And the rocky foothills and mountains near Rak's home village had their own appeal, too. But to me, nothing can match the impenetrable depths and lush stillness of a Ceannan forest. These forests have secrets, and I'm about to show Rak the best one I know.
The path turns sharply and climbs upward, and I know we're getting close. I quicken my pace, but when I look back, Rak is still sauntering along behin
d, unhurried.
"Come on!" I say.
"Don't rush me," he says, smiling. "This place is amazing."
"It gets more amazing."
"Always so impatient."
I growl at him, and he laughs. In a few strides he has caught up with me, and I take his hand, pulling him along until the tree-line breaks.
I can hear its voice, the thing we have come to see.
"Stop!" I throw out my arm, and he halts just in time.
12
Before us, the ground falls away. We're on a ledge overlooking a glorious waterfall, sprays of white water hurling themselves incessantly off the rocks and crashing down, down, to the swirling eddies below. The river runs away to the east, between rocky banks lined with tall trees.
The expression on Rak's face thrills me. His mouth is open, eyes wide.
"A waterfall," he says.
"Have you ever seen one?"
"Small ones, after a heavy rain in the mountains. Never one this big."
I let him stand there, drinking in its magnificence, until I can't stand it any longer. "This isn't the biggest surprise. Follow me."
"Wait." He catches my arm and grips my waist with his other hand, drawing me to him. His kiss burns through my lips, down into the very soul of me. He breaks away, looking into my eyes. "Thank you for this."
"You showed me yours, I'm just showing you mine," I say.
"Actually you've seen more of mine than I've seen of yours."
He's talking about the time I accidentally saw him naked at the inn, at Saghir.
"Such a dirty mind you have!" I exclaim, smirking. "I was talking about my country, of course. Behave yourself, Maraj."
I shouldn't have said the word Maraj, even in teasing. The smile freezes and falls from his face at the reminder. He's been excised, cut off. Technically, he's no longer Maraj, although he still insists on claiming their antiquated religion as his own. A religion that requires many things and forbids many things—including sex, unless it's with a blood-bonded life mate.
This time together is supposed to be fun. Happy. Not tinged with the sorrow of his recent past.
"I'm sorry, Rak," I say. "Please, forget I said that and try to enjoy yourself, for me."
He nods. "You mentioned another surprise?"
I can almost feel the effort it takes for him to stay cheerful, faced with the memory of what he has lost. Brave, sweet man. I want to leap on him right here and kiss him till he forgets his own name. But instead we slip and scramble down a steep path to the rocks right by the river.
"Be careful," I warn him. "The rocks can be slippery."
Lightly I leap from one rock to the next, arms outstretched for balance, moving toward the waterfall. I glance back occasionally to make sure that Rak hasn't tumbled into the river. He's right behind me, keeping up as easily as if he has done this all his life.
We're so close to the falls now that the thunder of the crashing water drowns out any words, so I motion to him to follow me, and I edge along the cliff face, my back to the stone, till I'm right next to the tumbling sheet of frothy white water. Then I sidestep through the pounding rush into the hidden space behind the falls.
It's a damp, dim, but surprisingly deep space, with more than enough room for a few small children to sit cross-legged and tell secrets here, the way my cousins and I used to do. Eagerly I wait for Rak to enter.
Abruptly the waterfall shifts, like a curtain being swept aside. Rak steps through the gap he created into the cave, completely dry.
"Not fair, water-boy." I have to raise my voice over the noise of the falls.
"If you'd told me what you were up to, I could have moved the water for you as well." He looks around at the slick greenish walls and the damp floor, edged with soft moss. "This is a great hiding place."
"Yes. No one can find us. No one knows we're here." I take a deep breath of relief. "No friends, no family, no guards, no vid lenses, no devices. Just you and me."
We move deeper into the cave, where we can hear each other better. The rock of the mountain encircles us on every side, except where the white wall of water lets a soft light into the hollow.
Here we are. Me and him.
Why has it suddenly become hard to breathe normally?
I set down my pack, pulling out the packets of food I brought, the bottles of drink, a glow-lamp, two thick blankets. Rak helps me spread the blankets out, not saying a word.
"Come," I tell him, seating myself and patting the spot beside me. He sits, but instead of unwrapping the food I swing myself onto his lap, facing him, my thighs astride his hips.
I kiss him deeply, my fingers laced through his hair. I kiss along his jaw, and then I bite his lower lip ever so gently and cover his mouth with mine again. He presses me to him, and we kiss harder, more desperately. My hands travel the planes and slopes of him, daring to dip to the notch below his waist—
Startled, he leans back.
"What are you doing?" he says, his breath uneven.
"I have the power to create heat," I whisper, caressing his cheek. "And I intend to make you melt."
He catches my chin in his hand before I can kiss him again. "You want to be the ruin of my soul, Zilara?"
"Pretty please."
His eyes are dark fire, conflict and desire. "Light help me—I might let you."
"You're not Maraj anymore, Rak. You don't have to follow all their rules. Besides, no one will know."
"And that makes it all right?"
I wince. "No, but—"
"You promised me, before I came here with you, that you would respect my culture and my religion." His voice is hoarse.
"Even if it's a silly rule?" I pout at him.
"Even then. The choice has to be mine, to break the rule or not."
My eyes snap to his again, hope igniting in my heart. "The choice is yours."
"But you're not playing fair." His hands travel to my back, sliding up to my shoulder blades. "When you're here, like this, I can't think of any reason not to be with you."
"That's the idea." I lean forward, my lips nearly touching his.
"If our places were reversed, would you want me to keep pressing myself on you, even if you weren't sure about doing this?"
I jerk back from him. "No."
"Well then."
I'm out of his lap in an instant, scooting far away from him on the blanket, my heart and eyes stinging from the rejection. But he has a point. If it were me with the moral objection and him pushing me to give in, I would be furious and indignant. Or I would let him have me, and then regret it later.
We both have to want this, no obstacles, no pangs of conscience. Nothing held back.
"Zilara," he says, his eyes soft, his tone penitent.
"Don't." I look away. "Give me a minute."
"It's not that I don't want to. I think you know that."
"Yes, I could tell," I say dryly.
"I've given up so much. I have to be sure I don't lose myself, or my faith. And besides that, I—I have trouble with—"
He's twisting his hands together, won't look at me. His voice, rough as stone, his cheeks pale under the tan. He's struggling with something immense and painful, fighting to put words to it.
"Rak, what is it?"
He shakes his head, gnawing at his scarred lip.
"You have trouble with what?"
"Memories," he grits out. "My family. The Vilor."
The Vilor raiding party that raped his mother and sister. Oh stars.
He buries his face in his hands, and I scoot closer, aching to comfort him; but he's so fragile right now that a touch from me could shatter him. Maybe that would be all right, and then we could put back the pieces, together.
I lay one hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee. And he breaks.
I have never seen a man cry as he does. Great, fierce sobs, torn up from the bottom of his soul. With my hands I hold him together, even as my heart beats faster, faster, because seeing him like this frightens me
. This suffering has been held in, swallowed down, and crushed to make space as fresh sorrows were added. He's crying for his father, his mother, his sister, his country, and himself.
It's only a few minutes. He's a soldier, and he drags the shattered pieces of himself back together much more quickly than I could have, if it were me. I press my cheek to his shoulder as he quiets, and when I pull away his sleeve is wet. I didn't realize I was crying, too.
"Rakhi," I say, so quietly I can barely hear myself over the rush of the waterfall. "You brave, beautiful man, I will wait as long as you need me to. I will do anything you want, anything you ask. But you have to do one thing for me. You have to talk to someone about this. Maybe the psychologist General Binney called in to evaluate you and the others. Please."
He shakes his head.
"Rak. You need to do this. You're so strong, but these memories are still inside, and they're eating you alive. You need someone to teach you how to deal with them."
He draws in a huge breath. "All right. But it won't work."
"It's not a magic fix," I say. "You need tools, ways to cope with the trauma when it comes back up."
"And how do you know all this?"
"My mother. She has—complex issues. And I took a psychology course in upper levels."
"I'll speak to the doctor," Rak says, roughly wiping his face with his sleeve. "But for now, can we talk about something else? Anything else."
"How about the weather?"
"The weather is beautiful. Move on."
"Politics?" I suggest.
"That'll work."
"Tell me what the Fray faction would do if they gained power. Do they want to overthrow Unity, or work with them?"
The ensuing discussion serves as a mental workout, and by the end we're eating, and laughing, and we feel as if we've solved all the problems in Emsalis—or most of them, anyway.
"You and I should be ruling the world," I say, pulling off a piece of bread for myself. "We would do such amazing things, if everyone would give us complete control."
Rak laughs. "Zilara Remay, Empress of the Globe."
"Mmm, I like it. And what would your title be, Rakhi Masdar?"
"That would depend on whether you still wanted me around."
Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2) Page 13