by Jess Granger
Xan kicked a rock then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He dropped his hands suddenly and glared at Cyn. “If I ever ask you for anything, you do it. Understand? As soon as I speak on the river, my people will know a prince exists, and it won’t take long for Krona to find out. If I need your help against the Kronalen, you will aid me. Azra will aid my people. I hold you to that promise.”
Cyn balked at the open nature of a promise like that. He could barely speak for himself. He had nothing. Now Xan wanted a promise of protection from all of Azra, not just him. How could he commit to such a promise? He didn’t even know if there would be an Azra once he was done with it. He had to trust fate. He didn’t even believe in fate. What would he have to do to save Yara?
What did the freedom of Azra mean to him?
What did she mean to him?
Xan turned from him and began to walk away.
“I’ll do it,” Cyn promised, even as his fear ate at his insides.
The prince turned back and gave him a single slow nod. “Then let me focus.” He circled the hilltop, wandering amid the weeds and muttering to himself. Finally he stopped in a small clearing of ashen dust. Scuffing the ground with the side of his boot, he closed his dark eyes and lifted his hands to the night sky. The clouds rolled back as if Xan had unleashed some sort of impossible magic. As the stars glittered above, he began to sing.
Maxen offered Cyn the oily rag, and Cyn pressed it against the split in his lip. The sour taste of mech-grease touched his mouth, and he decided he’d rather bleed.
Xan’s voice remained low, so low Cyn almost couldn’t hear it. He strained to listen to the words, to gather a little piece of Hannolen history. He wanted to guard it for the lost people within his mind, the way he protected the Hannolen artifacts he’d found.
“What’s he doing?” Maxen asked. “What is this river you keep talking about?”
“All the Hannolen are connected by a psychic link they call the river. At all times, they hear a collective thought. It sounds like a song in the back of their minds. When enough Hannolen think the same thing, the thought gets added to the song, and so it records a history of their ethnic experience across thousands of years,” Cyn explained, handing the bloody piece of cloth back to Maxen.
“That’s weird.” He took the rag, looked at it, then tossed it under a bush.
“Yeah,” Cyn continued. “Xan can connect deeply to the song and speak over it in his mind so all the Hannolen can hear his voice. If he wants, he can send a message to every Hannolen at once. He’s never done it before.”
“And they can answer?” Maxen looked concerned.
“Yeah.” Cyn watched as Xan’s voice dropped to silence. The prince hung his head then fell to his knees with his shoulders shaking.
“What happens when they all answer at once?” Maxen’s silver eye flashed. Xan roared a terrible cry of pain.
Shit.
“Xan!” Cyn shouted, running to his friend. Xan collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Cyn grabbed him, lifted him up, then punched him across the face.
He didn’t wake.
“Shock him!” Cyn ordered. Maxen’s hand glowed white, and he touched it to Xan’s chest.
Xan jolted awake and let out a hoarse shout. He clamped his hands over his ears and curled over.
Cyn grabbed his hand, squeezing his friend’s fist until he thought the bones in his hand might break. “You’re back here. You’re with us.”
Xan pulled heavy breaths into his thick chest and blinked his eyes.
“Are you with me?” Cyn shook his shoulder.
Xan swallowed then nodded.
“Hork,” he rasped out, and followed the peculiar curse with a string of equally colorful words.
“Need a drink?” Maxen offered him a flask from the interior pocket of his tanskin coat. Xan snatched it and took a long, heavy drink of whatever was inside without flinching.
“Did you find out where she is?” Cyn grabbed the flask, but it was empty. He tossed it back to Maxen.
Xan rolled his head back. “Sorry.” His body shook with tremors as he stumbled over his words. “Too much.”
No.
Cyn stood and paced on the hilltop. The thick clouds closed in, blocking out the light of the stars from above. What was he going to do?
So much for stars and prophecies. It was a load of crap. He had to find her. There had to be a way. There had to be. Once again he focused inward, searching the vast collection of thoughts stored away in his useless mind.
There was nothing.
There couldn’t be nothing. There had to be some way to find her. They could fly to Krona and hack the arrays to listen to the com traffic. And they’d be caught. They couldn’t stay linked up to the Kronalen array long enough to hope that someone would mention an Azralen slave. They’d end up slaves themselves.
They could search the pits.
No. There were fourteen active slave auctions that Cyn knew of and probably more he hadn’t found yet. She could be in any one of them. She’d sell quickly, then go to any one of the numerous betting pits between Krona, Garu, and Flosch.
If he didn’t find her, she’d die.
A connection in his memory snapped into place.
Damn it, he didn’t need this.
He fought the rush of memory, the ripping anguish and helplessness it made him feel.
Yarlia looks at him with such innocence, a rare and precious treasure in their dark world. He wants to kiss her so badly, his love feels like a fire within his heart. She’s a shining light in his dark world. She watches him, the first bud of feminine awareness shining in her golden eyes. Cyani screams in the distance, snapping him out of his lovesick stupor. His sister’s too far away to help. He tries to protect Yarlia, but the four men close in on them fast. Each blow the men rain down with their clubs, their boots, pushes his body deeper into a well of agony. He can’t let them have her. He tries to reach her. She screams for him as he watches the mudrats carry her away, knowing she’ll be raped and sold as a whore. Bleeding and broken, they leave him to die in the mud.
“Cyn!” A jolt of electricity shot through his heart.
He jumped to the side, clutching his chest. “Damn it, that hurt!”
Maxen scowled at him. “Don’t be a baby. What, are you lagging out or something?”
“No.” He rubbed his chest, thankful to be free of the memory that had gripped him before he had to face his final memory of Yarlia. “We have to find her. I don’t care what it takes.”
“Yeah, well, I got nothing.” Maxen shrugged. “How about you, Xan?”
Xan pressed a palm to his head. “I couldn’t make out anything. They all clamored for my mind at once, shouting for me to help them.”
Cyn sat down next to him; his face still throbbed and now his chest ached from the shock. “I’m sorry,” he admitted.
“Yeah.” Xan picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness. He jolted then furrowed his brow. “Wait.”
Cyn’s heart nearly jumped through his ribs. Xan closed his eyes and went very still.
The staccato screeches of a colony of bats carried over the rhythmic hum of insects in the rustling grasses. The rumble of a docking ship rolled in the distance, but Cyn knew Xan was listening to something deeper, much deeper than anything his ears could hear.
“There’s a boy,” Xan finally said. “Others are trying to reach me, but I can hear him now. He’s strong.”
The throbbing beat of Cyn’s anxious heart joined the night sounds as Cyn waited while Xan listened to the spirits of his people.
“He’s with her on the ship.” Xan got to his feet and jogged toward the runner. “A Rasso-Ancarlen is going to buy her at the auctions in Ungar.”
Relief seemed to radiate out from the center of his gut as Cyn followed Xan. Xan jumped into the passenger seat, then shouted in pain.
He cursed as he fought to remove Tuz from his shin. Cyn had to grab the cat and haul him into the car
go bed.
“When?” he asked.
“No time. We have to leave now or we won’t beat him there. Maxen, alert my crew,” Xan commanded.
“Got it,” Maxen affirmed as he started up the runner and launched it down the steep path.
“What, you’re helping now?” Cyn couldn’t hide his shock.
“I’ve got the fastest ship,” Xan shouted as they bounced over a rut in the trail.
“You’ve got the only ship. His isn’t going anywhere,” Maxen interjected, throwing a mocking gesture back at Cyn.
“Will you keep your damn hands on the controls?” Cyn didn’t want to admit he had a point.
“You’re only going to have one shot at getting them out of there,” Xan warned.
“Them?” Cyn asked. When was it them?
“You get the boy out, too, or I don’t take you there.” He didn’t pause for a counter-offer. The negotiation was closed. “You speak Ankarlen?”
“Yeah, well enough to fake the accent. Do you still have an Ankarlen crewmate?” Cyn asked. If he was going to pass himself off as Ankarlen, he’d need to dress the part. “I’m going to need his clothes.”
“What about their eyes?” Maxen interjected. “I’ve never seen an Ankarlen with dark eyes.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.” Cyn clung to Tuz as Maxen hit a bump in the road that nearly sent them flying out of the back of the runner.
Cyn focused his mind on every bit of information he knew about the Rasso-Ankarlen. Fortunately, he had dealt with them quite a bit during his stint as a Union liaison. While their physical mannerisms would be tricky, he could play the part. He couldn’t give anything away. He could not fail.
“If you’re not convincing, we’re dead,” Xan pointed out.
Cyn gripped the back of the seat harder. “I know.”
9
YARA’S EYES FELT GRITTY AS SHE CRACKED THEM OPEN. HER HEAD THROBBED, and for a moment she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pounding in her head. She didn’t have the strength to sit up, so she remained still, her skin pressed against the cold, black floor. She had to fight through this. She had to wake. Nausea ate at her insides as insistently as her fear.
She couldn’t see. The dark room blurred. Rolling over on her back, she tried to focus. Chains rattled against the icy floor while she trembled, her naked skin exposed to the frigid air.
Yara eased onto her side and pulled her legs into her body. As she held her bare legs she realized fully that she was naked and chained.
Hard shackles dug into her wrists and feet, and the cold steel of slave bands circled her biceps.
Her heart raced and she couldn’t breathe. Panic choked her, squeezing her chest as tightly as the shackles. She curled into a tighter ball as a hot tear fell against her arm.
She desperately wished she could feel Tuz’s warm fur brush up against her shoulders, or his hard head push insistently at her cheek.
No, she was alone, alone and enslaved.
She had to gather her strength. She needed to think clearly, take each moment as it came. Her life was at stake.
Performing a slow mental check of her body, she assessed her strength and any injuries. She felt sick. Her head pounded as if she’d been struck with a club. She couldn’t see clearly yet, and it was too dark to see much anyway. The only light seeped in from a pair of vents near the ceiling.
Her skin crawled at the thought of someone stripping her while she was unconscious, but she didn’t feel anything to indicate she’d been raped yet.
“Don’t move.” She didn’t recognize the voice. It belonged to someone young. A boy. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
She felt a small rush of relief. The wound on her shoulder throbbed, aching. She flexed her arm and felt the hard pinch of the needles from the slave bands embedded in her muscles.
Her head spun and her mouth watered. She thought she was going to throw up, but thankfully she managed to quell the feeling.
“Stay calm,” the boy urged. “Keep your heart slow, or the bands will knock you out again. Tell yourself you’re sleeping.”
She wished she were sleeping and this was all some terrible nightmare. Concentrating on her body again, she willed her heart to slow. She breathed deep, picturing the air like warm water rushing through her body and filling her toes. She let the slow intake of air soothe her as she tuned in to her body, focusing, calming calves, thighs, back, stomach, heart. The boy was right—she didn’t need any more drugs in her system.
“Who are you?” she asked. She looked up just enough to see a shadow of a skinny teen boy with gangly limbs, sitting in the corner.
“I’m Hannolen,” he said as if that explained everything. It explained enough. He was a slave, just like most of his people.
Just like her.
The crush of helplessness pressed her, but she couldn’t give in to it. She had to live in the moment, control what she could. She had to survive.
“Do you have a name?” If she could focus on something, she could keep her body under control. Her mind still felt sluggish, too sluggish.
“No.” His young voice sounded quietly defiant. He was strong. They hadn’t broken him yet, even though he’d probably been enslaved his whole life.
“Do you know where we are? Where we’re going?” Yara pulled on the chain tying her foot to the floor. She had to test each of them. She couldn’t take anything for granted.
“We’re being sold.” The boy fell quiet again.
Yara felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. Whoever had her intended to sell her. He wouldn’t harm her until after the deal was done. If she was unspoiled, she’d be worth more. She had time, only a little time, but it was all she had so she clung to it.
She tested the length of the chains holding her arms. She had about double her arm span free. The chains rattled against the floor again as she scooted back to the wall. The brief exertion caused a new splitting pain to blossom in her head, so she curled back up into a ball, careful to position the chain just right in her hand.
If someone bent over to touch her, she could wrap it around their head and snap their neck before they had a chance to set off the bands. If her captors wanted, killing her would be as easy as saying the word, and the bands would inject her with poison.
She had to keep them from speaking. Her only weapons were her hands and the chains.
If only she could land a heart-strike. One blow to the chest and they’d drop dead.
Why was she even thinking about any of this? It wouldn’t do any good. What was she going to do? Kill everyone one by one? They’d have to get close enough for her to strike them. One word and she’d be dead. It was impossible.
Once again, the darkness of the room seemed to press in around her. She couldn’t give in to despair. So long as she was breathing, she could fight. She would fight, even if she died doing it.
She was not helpless. She’d take them down with her. If they touched her, she’d kill them.
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
The question snapped her attention back to the boy. “My name is Yara,” she said. It was one thing they’d never take from her. She wouldn’t let them take her name.
“That’s a nice name,” he commented as if nothing were wrong. The thought sickened her. Was this all he’d ever known in his life? Was this normal? Or worse, was this good?
“Why does he want you?” the boy asked.
“I don’t understand.” Yara felt sick again. She rested her head on the hard floor. The chill of it soothed her aching temple. She closed her throbbing eyes and continued to breathe slowly, carefully.
“The prince.” The boy scooted to the right. No chains rattled as he shuffled along the floor. He was banded, but he wasn’t tied.
She might be able to use that to her advantage.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she admitted.
The sounds of heavy footsteps and conversation drifted through the vents as a couple of men c
ame closer to the solid black door.
“Pretend you’re asleep,” the boy whispered as he curled in a ball in the far corner of the room.
Yara did as he suggested, cracking the eye nearest the floor just enough that she could see shadows through her lashes.
“You’d better hope you’re right,” a man with a low voice warned in lilting Kronalen. Yara had to concentrate. She had learned Kronalen as part of her war training and had used it during the three years she’d worked in intelligence. Still, it would take all her effort to translate what they were saying.
“The Bacarilen assured me she’s a trained fighter,” a second man answered. He had a high and raspy voice, as if he’d spent too many days in Kronalen smokehouses.
“You know how the Rasso are. He wants a star for his betting pits.”
Yara fought the urge to move as the one with the low voice stood in front of her, his pointed boot only centimeters from her eye. The edges of dark red robes trailed on the smooth floor. He was wealthy and dictating the conversation while the other answered to him.
He was the leader.
Smoker laughed. “I do know how the Rasso are. He’s probably looking for a star in his bed as well.”
The leader pushed his boot forward, digging the hard point under Yara’s jaw. She stayed limp and kept her eyes shut as he lifted her face with the toe of his boot.
“She’s fair enough.” He let her head drop back to the floor. Yara forced herself to go even more limp. “But she’s scarred.” The point nudged her tender shoulder. She had to fight to keep from jumping up and breaking his neck. She couldn’t move. Not until her life was at stake.
Be careful.
Patience.
She tried to remind herself not to feel fear, but the thought was ridiculous. Fear ate at her insides, clawing at her thoughts and ripping through her heart. She could taste it in her mouth and smell it on her skin.
“That proves she’s a fighter,” Smoker insisted.
“A bad one.”
Yara clenched the chain tighter.
The leader walked toward the door. “The Rasso will try to use the scar to bring down her price. We’ll just have to tempt him with some of her finer assets.”