Beyond the Shadows

by Jess Granger

  Yara strode to the center of the platform, holding her fist high. A cheer rose from the crowd, heartening her. She had support. She had the love of the people.

  The crowd suddenly hushed, and Yara felt the hair on the back of her neck prick up.

  Fira smiled as two temple attendants removed the mantle of power and two more carried in the ancient ceremonial blades. The curving bone blades made from the rib of an ancient felam beast had been sharpened and hardened with a special resin and treated to make them as strong and sharp as steel.

  They rested within their clean blessed cloths, the attendants forbidden to touch them.

  Fira took the master blade and smiled. The bone had been stained with the blood of generations of challengers. “You’re a fool, girl. And you’re going to die.”

  “Not by your hand,” Yara stated.

  Fira chuckled, a chilling and ominous sound.

  Yara grasped the two handles of her own bloodstained blade. Her skin tingled where she gripped the felam leather.

  Odd.

  She shook off her sense of foreboding as she held her blade out to the side by one handle and bowed her head. Fira did the same.

  The temple attendants disappeared over the bridge as the hush of anticipation fell over the crowd.

  Her palms itched. Yara felt weak. A rush of adrenaline shot through her as the Elite standing at the bridges shouted as one.

  Fira swung her blade without missing a beat. Yara countered quickly, blocking the blow even as the force of it jolted her body.

  The Grand Sister had probably taken enhancers along with her drugs. She’d be foggy. Yara had to wait for the right opportunity and strike quickly.

  Fira lunged after her, a wild attack like an animal on a rampage. Yara used her skill and instinct to block. It was easy to see the old woman’s next move coming. If she kept up this pace of attack, she’d run out of energy soon. Yara was younger and stronger. She’d outlast the aging tyrant.

  Suddenly she felt as if a fire licked over the skin of her hands. She shouted, nearly dropping her blade. Fira laughed and took a swing at her head. Yara ducked, rolling out of the way as the blade whistled past her ear.

  What is going on?

  She glanced down at her palms. Her skin was raw and red. The fire moved through the muscles of her arms, even as her mind fought to focus.

  She launched her own attack, using both hands to spin and strike with the elegant blade as she drove forward, pushing Fira back toward the edge of the platform. Yara felt hot, weak. Like her body was fighting the way it had when she had been poisoned.

  Poison.

  Glorious Creator, Fira had poisoned her. The tyrant screeched a shrill war cry, coming at Yara with fury and unnatural strength.

  Yara deflected each blow, but it drove her back toward the center of the arena.

  The pain was excruciating. It burned through her the way the Kronalen poison had. She wanted to curl into her body, ease the pain, but she couldn’t. She would not give in. Not like this.

  “You’re stronger than I estimated,” Fira growled as Yara locked blades with her, bringing them face-to-face. “But you should have learned long ago not to defy me, girl.”

  She had poisoned the other challengers, too. By the Mercy of the Matriarchs, she had kept her throne through murder. It was the most vile betrayal of the holy order they gave their lives to maintain. A murder for control of the throne had caused the end of the golden age. Azra would not survive that turmoil again.

  Yara broke away, letting go of one side of the blade. The skin on her palm glared angry and red.

  The blade.

  She had poisoned the leather on the challenger’s blade. No one else could touch it except someone in the ring. They’d never find the poison.

  Yara shuddered as she ran across the arena, her feet skimming the floor as she pushed her body as hard as she could. Even poisoned, Fira would never match her speed. As she neared the northern bridge, she threw the blade. It skidded over the platform to the feet of Onali. Yara drew her daggers as Fira, the true blood of the Merciless, descended on her.

  The crowd gasped as Yara used her two crossed blades to deflect an arching blow.

  “Why aren’t you dead?” Fira shouted.

  She’d weaken soon. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on like this. Yara heard the Elite at the bridge murmur something. She couldn’t be distracted. It took all of her strength to fight through the pain.

  Yara dodged, leapt. Blow after blow, she used her agility alone to spare her life, to give Cyn more time. Her strength flagged, she stumbled, but she recovered her balance as Fira lifted her blade.

  The sound of an Elite cruiser caught her attention, and Fira turned. Yara backed away, spared for a second. She felt so hot, so weak. She couldn’t hold on much longer.

  Then Yara pulled her bleary eyes to the cruiser.

  Two Elite warriors held Cyn. Blood gushed over his face from a wound to his head. His eyes met hers.

  Yara felt her heart plunge as if she’d stumbled over the edge of the arena. It was lost.

  They’d failed.

  She fell to her knees, succumbing to the raging pain in her body and heart.

  It was over.

  23

  FIRA SAUNTERED FORWARD, SWINGING HER BLADE IN A LAZY ARC AS SHE cackled. “It’s a pity I have to kill you,” she stated, lifting her sharp chin. “You would have birthed strong daughters.”

  Yara’s body shook with pain and fever, but it hadn’t given in. She was still awake, still alive. She could still fight.

  Cyn shouted as Fira lunged forward. Yara dodged the blade by diving toward the old woman. As she somersaulted to Fira’s left, she stabbed her dagger into the Grand Sister’s foot, sinking it through flesh and lodging it in the floor of the arena.

  Fira howled in rage, pulling against the pinned blade as Yara found the strength to rise.

  “You’re a murderer,” Yara shouted, pushing all her strength into the call, but it didn’t feel like it was enough. Her voice felt small and isolated at the center of the crowd. “You poisoned the challenger’s blade. Isala, Onai, Penora, you poisoned them. That’s how you defeated them.”

  The Grand Sister’s eyes widened as she looked toward the Elite. Yara followed her gaze to see Onali bent over the challenger’s blade.

  “Fool girl. Your lies can’t prevent the inevitable. You will die now because you are weak.” The Grand Sister’s voice echoed off the stands.

  Yara lifted her single dagger. “So long as I live, I will defend Azra!” The rush of determination and adrenaline numbed Yara’s pain as Fira yanked the blade from her impaled foot and flung it at Yara’s head.

  “Azra is mine!” she declared, her bony shoulders shaking with rage.

  Just then the skies roared with a sound like the winds in a great sea storm. The crowds screamed as strange hovering ships, undersides glowing with pulsating blue and green light, rose above the spectators. Fira ducked, her eyes wide with panic.

  Yes!

  He did it! Cyn did it. He summoned the Nudari.

  Yara stood taller, hope rising in her heart like a surging tide. Dischargers appeared from the sleek lines of the ships, aimed at the Elite on the platform.

  The people in the stands cried and shouted, but they couldn’t leave. At least seventy black Enforcer ships cut off passage, trapping the people at the arena.

  Yara’s heart thundered. She willed the vessels not to fire.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  As the shouting died down, the eyes of the Elite turned to her. She didn’t know what to do, but Fira lifted her blade.

  “Traitor!” she screamed. “You bring arms against Azra.”

  “Murderer.” The voice came from the outer edge of the circle. At first Yara thought someone had shouted at her, but when she turned, she saw Onali walking into the center of the arena holding the challenger’s blade with a cloth. “Yara was telling the truth. The challenger’s blade has been poi
soned with sanar. The Grand Sister murdered her challengers,” she accused. “The blood of Isala, Onai, and Penora is on us if we do not seek justice. The proof is here.” She threw down the defiled blade.

  Yara listened to the dark murmurs among the Elite. It was as if the Nudari and the Enforcers had disappeared.

  “They were unworthy of the throne,” Fira shouted.

  “The Creator determines who is worthy of the throne through battle,” Yara defended. “To murder a challenger destroys the will of the Creator. The Creator will punish corruption with darkness.”

  Yara took a deep breath as the Elite stalked forward from their positions at the bridges. She fought the urge to give in to her pain as she spared Cyn a glance. He gave her a slow nod. She could feel the call of justice. It shone in the enraged eyes of all of the Elite.

  “No one person determines the will of Azra,” Yara called, stoking the flames.

  Fira backed up, her fear plain on her face. She held the blade of the Matriarchs in defiance, as if the symbol of power could protect her from the will of the Elite.

  The Elite continued their slow march forward, their ranks drawing together behind Yara. The sound of their feet on the arena floor reminded her of an executioner’s drum. They pounded like the angry heart of Azra herself, until Fira stood only a meter from the edge of the platform.

  “Get back,” Fira shouted. “You are all unworthy. I know what you have done. Your sins. Each of you is tainted, weak. I am Azra!”

  The light caught the spinning blade of a ceremonial dagger only a fraction of a second before it sank deep into the Grand Sister’s gut. Yara flinched in shock, unable to believe what she was seeing.

  Fira gasped, dropping the blade of the Matriarchs. It clattered to the arena like a dead limb. The old woman’s bony hands closed over the hilt of the anonymous dagger lodged in her stomach. A dark red stain crept out from the wound, turning the tyrant’s white robes the color of blood.

  Yara held her breath. It felt as if her heart had stopped as a second blade flew out of nowhere, sinking into the Grand Sister’s shoulder. And like harbingers of a pounding rain, the first two blades were followed by a hail of daggers. They flew through the air like a swift flock of birds, intent on a single target.

  Fira stumbled backward, her thin body pierced by scores of blades. She wheezed, her hands still gripping the first blade. She swayed, then tripped over her injured foot. Her body fell back in a graceful arc. Time slowed as she crashed to the arena floor, but her hip landed at the edge. She twisted and slid over the rim, leaving a smear of blood on the gleaming floor. Yara watched her fall to the shadows below, condemned to death and the darkness.

  It felt as if the world refused to breathe. Even the hum from the Nudari ships sounded subdued. The whole of Azra watched, waited. The other Elite looked to one another with emotionless masks then they all turned to her.

  Yara took two solid steps forward, her adrenaline pushing her body with a will of its own. She grasped the blade of the Matriarchs and took it in her hands. The elegant arched weapon felt light and strangely heavy at the same time. Perfectly crafted, it was the eternal symbol of the Elite. She was more than someone who could wield a weapon.

  She looked up at the Nudari ships, and the dark ships of the Enforcers. The fearful eyes of her people implored her to save them from the Azra that rose against them.

  She didn’t know if she could. She didn’t know if there was anything she could say to douse the flame of revolution. For Azra, she had to try.

  “A new dawn is upon us,” she began, not knowing where the words came from. “Azra is free.” She swallowed as she lifted her chin, and listened to the echo of her voice projected over the arena. All of Azra could see her, not just the high cities but the mid-cities as well. She had to speak to every Azralen, they had to find a way out of this together.

  “Too long we have been divided,” she continued. “Sea and land, ground and sky, women and men.”

  She paused, finding her strength as she realized she understood her world in a way she never had before. “That division will destroy us. Like a festering disease, it will eat away at the roots of who we are and eventually topple us. I will not let Azra fall. We are one people. Together we can return to the golden ages. No longer will we be torn apart, hidden from one another.”

  She looked to the Enforcers, standing in their open cruisers. “No longer will the canopy ignore the suffering of the innocent. Justice, not one person alone, will rule us. Together we will decide what is right and holy, and what is evil.”

  She lifted her face to the Nudari ships. “Justice will bring us vindication. Justice will bring us peace.”

  She held her hands out, the blade of the Matriarchs stretching out to the side. “I offer myself as your servant. I will honor my blood, and the noble bloodlines of all the great Matriarchs. We are one people, and as one, we will not fall.”

  The silence engulfed her, as she looked to her people. What were they thinking? Had she failed them?

  She held the blade of the Matriarchs in front of her. “I am Azra!” she declared. “Do any dare challenge me?” Her voice rang through the still arena. If none met her in battle, she would become the Grand Sister, because she held the blade. If she survived, she’d earn her title through mercy and kindness, not war.

  She looked to Palar, but the coward shrank back, her nervous eyes fixed on the Nudari ships. Had she been one of the conspirators?

  Cyn shrugged off his stunned captors and leapt off the ship that had held him. He landed on the platform with the grace of a korcas. He rose, dark and imposing. A chant thundered from the cities around them, over and over, voices united by one purpose called his name until the sound felt like it could crush her. “Cobra, Cobra, Cobra,” they chanted. The platform shook with the power of the noise, and the Elite around her looked to her in fear. They had all taken the will of the people of Azra for granted too long.

  “I control those rising against you. Blade or no blade, I hold the fate of Azra in my hands.” Cyn’s voice boomed, dark and powerful. “The sea, the ground, they all follow me.”

  It was a message to all the Elite. There was no denying it. In that moment, Cyn was Azra, the Azra that had been ignored, defiled. The sisterhood silently parted for him, their eyes locked on his bare arms and the Rebel’s snakes tattooed there. Never in her life had Yara seen the Elite so afraid. He was not a man, and they knew it. He was much more than that. He was the pain of Azra personified, and it was terrifying.

  Cyn’s face still dripped with blood as he stooped to pick up the poisoned challenger’s blade and strode forward until he stood directly before her.

  Yara swallowed, but did not back down. He could not lead Azra to peace. He could not rule Azra from the throne in the order of law. The traditions of their culture and law would have to be completely destroyed for him to rule.

  “We rise against you,” he challenged. “I will not allow the suffering of Azra to continue. How will you appease me?”

  The Elite shifted behind him, aware of the dischargers trained on them, aware of the shift of power all around them. The son of the Rebel lifted the challenger’s blade and swung it.

  Yara countered, the bone blade crashing against tainted bone. She stared into Cyn’s deep green eyes; the streaks of blood trailing over his face made him look fierce and wild. In this moment, she was Azra, he was the Rebellion. He was her enemy.

  And she loved him anyway.

  She twisted her blade down, pulling his down with it and kissed him with the force of everything she felt in her heart.

  His mouth met hers, hot, hungry, and powerful. The kiss itself was a battle, one that stole the strength in her legs, yet lightened her body until she felt she was floating.

  He dropped the challenger’s blade and captured her face as a thundering cheer erupted from the crowds ten times louder than the chant of war. Yara wrapped her arm around his neck, needing to hang on to him, to his solid strength as they battled with l
ips and tongue, heat and will.

  He was her equal, and she couldn’t rule Azra without him at her side. She could never do this alone.

  He softened the kiss, soothing her lips with a tender caress as he brushed back her hair with his strong hands.

  “I’m so proud of you, my queen,” he whispered. He dropped to his knee before her, bowing his head in deference.

  The deafening roar grew even louder.

  Yara’s emotion choked her. She would never be worthy of him, and she’d spend any moment they could steal alone showing him that he was the one who made all things possible for her. She was who she was because of him. If only the other Elite would accept him.

  Onali stepped forward, the only Elite with the blood of the Pure. She sought her friend’s gaze, begged her with a desperate and silent prayer to bless this union.

  It was the only way to bring them all together.

  And she loved Cyn. She wouldn’t give him up for the throne.

  Onali gave her a sly smile and pulled her last dagger from the straps on her arms. She knelt, sinking it into the floor at Yara’s feet. “So be it,” she declared.

  One by one, the Elite fell to their knees, planting their daggers in the floor before her. She looked up at the Nudari, and the ships came alive with light and color before they slowly rose and then darted swiftly toward the horizon and their homes in the sea.

  As the ships rose and disappeared over the crest of the canopy, the people stood, jumping and hugging. Their cheers rang over the tops of the trees.

  They did it.

  Yara bent and took Cyn’s hand, she pulled him to his feet and raised their interlocked grip above their heads. The crowd went into a frenzy as she fought back her own tears of relief and joy.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cyn murmured as he leaned closer to her. “This blood is stinging my eye.”

  “It’s a good thing you aren’t wearing your contacts,” she teased. The Elite rose and parted for them as they crossed over the bridge that led toward the Halls of Honor.