by Cate Rowan
The assassin’s lips drew back into a sickening grin as she stared down at Kuramos. “But you slew her before she could watch her finest torture for you unfold.” A thick globule of spit hurtled from her mouth to smack his temple. “You may have imported this Teg bitch to heal your brats and their high-born slut mothers from the bird illness, but the Lakshyya have won anyway. Now Naaz will take the bitch, your spawn—and you.”
A shudder ran over Varene. A lethal influenza—it was no natural accident at all, but Intisar’s attempted execution of those Kuramos loves. The other souls who died were mere debris to her, and now Chaaya has the children and their father at her mercy. Her stomach roiled and sent bile burning along her throat.
“Don’t worry, O Lord,” Chaaya mocked, digging her finger into Kuramos’s ribs. “I’d never send you to Naaz without a proclamation of your royal status. The dead should see who you are. The word ‘Usurper’ carved deep into your chest will do quite nicely, don’t you think?” Her right hand reached for the ancient dagger at her side.
No! Time had run out.
Mother Fate, please help me.
Varene erupted to her knees and grabbed for the hilt of the dagger.
She missed by a finger’s length.
Chaaya emitted a squawk and sprang to her feet. Backing a step, her broad back to the water, she whipped the long blade up from its sheath.
Varene launched forward and shoved against Chaaya’s large thighs. Already off-balance with surprise, the woman stumbled, then toppled backwards into the pool with a heavy splash.
That bought a little time—but Chaaya would soon re-emerge, drenched but armed. Already there were enraged splutters from the water as the woman broke the surface, sucking in air. Varene dropped to Kuramos’s side and grasped his arm, willing his body to obey her. Heal, she urged him. Her kyrra rose into a melody, stronger now.
“Overcome this!” she implored, staring into his unfocused eyes. “Feel what I do, and continue it…”
She peered at the children and grabbed Mishka’s exposed ankle. “Children! Don’t give up. Fight! Please try. Mishka, touch what I’m doing. Reach inside—strengthen your body!”
But logic told her their chances were terrible. Kuramos and Mishka were the only two with magic, and neither had training. From her connection, she knew they were both deeply affected by the poison.
“Witch! Leave them, you unholy fiend!” Chaaya climbed the steps of the pool, fifteen feet away. Water sluiced from her, splatting on the stone, and the long metal blade flashed in the torchlight.
Varene’s gaze raked the room for a weapon, but nothing could compete with the advancing steel. Kuramos’s scimitar would have, but it lay at the bottom of the hot pool.
Shooting Chaaya a fierce stare, she shouted, “Help! The sultan’s under attack!” But her breath control wasn’t fully restored, and her thin voice barely echoed off the hammam’s stone walls. With those barriers and the celebrations going on next door, no one would hear. Even if anyone did come, the poison in the humid air would affect them, too.
She tugged Kuramos’s sandals from his feet and threw one at Chaaya. The first whistled harmlessly over the murderess’s shoulder, but a buckle on the second almost caught her in the eye. The woman stumbled and slipped on the moist tiles, then caught herself and surged forward with a furious growl, bleeding from a cut on her brow.
With Chaaya nearing, Varene would have to draw her away from Kuramos and his family. Varene scrambled away from the prone bodies, a snarl and a challenge on her face. The assassin moved relentlessly toward her as she backed around a corner of the pool. Crossing the slick tiles, Varene nearly stumbled herself. She yanked a silk slipper off and tossed it at Chaaya, then the other, but they bounced like fleas off stone.
The murderess’s thick brows lowered over blazing eyes and mottled cheeks. “You motherwhore. I’ll slit your sallow throat.”
As Chaaya blasted around the pool’s corner, Varene slid back, nearly losing her balance on the slippery tiles again. She was weaponless and facing a madwoman with a ten-inch blade. Whether Chaaya killed Varene or not, the poison was already destroying the four victims and she wasn’t sure how long they could last. Baiting the assassin to attack her would do nothing but give them time to die. Calling for help from the wedding guests might condemn would-be rescuers to the same demise.
Despair coiled inside her even as she ran. Death always wins, in the end…
Varene’s gaze darted to the steaming pool, searching in the torch light for the weapon. It was a vain hope. The glints at the bottom might be the jewels of the scabbard or only an illusion from the tiles. How deep was the water? Where the scimitar lay, there’d be even less light. And when she came up for air, she’d be vulnerable. Weakened from poison and never having wielded a sword in her life, she couldn’t hope to overcome brawny Chaaya.
She glanced behind her at the assassin’s glinting knife. Chaaya lunged and the point slashed just inches from Varene’s side as she leapt away.
Varene dove into the hot pool, sucking in only a half-breath before she punched down through the water.
Thrusting deeper, her hands spread below, she listened desperately for sounds—would Chaaya jump in after her? Worse, if she didn’t, what might she do to Kuramos and his children? Varene had to find the scimitar, had to. She dove to ten feet, twelve feet…
She reached the bottom and felt along the slick mosaic, kicking to stay below. It was dark here, and her hair floated as she moved, obscuring more of the faint light. With her own paddling churning the water, she wouldn’t know if Chaaya had jumped in, aiming for her back. Where was that damn sword?
Her lungs ached, then began to burn. Scuttling across the bottom like a crab, she peered through the gloom and flailed her hands over the tiles. Every instinct screamed at her to return to the surface, to breathe. She couldn’t stay down here, couldn’t find it. Couldn’t survive, must go up. Air. Air!
Her pinky brushed something in the dark. The scabbard? Soaked leather slid across the slick tiles. She reached out again and gripped the scabbard. But which end had the hilt? She couldn’t risk the scimitar slipping out now.
Must breathe. The hilt…where’s the hilt?
She slid a hand along the leather until it narrowed into a tip. Damn! Other side!
Her brain screeched for her to rise, to take a breath. She scrabbled her hands down the length of the scabbard, all senses on fire.
There! She gripped the hilt in her palm, her fingers clutching the warm pommel. Meant for a man, it didn’t fit her grasp, but she let the scabbard drop away and planted her feet on the tiles.
Thrusting upward toward air, she raised the tip of the scimitar over her as fear scrambled her nerves.
When her head was just below the surface, following the scimitar’s path, the water around her jolted. A dark shape splashed in, churning the pool.
Mother Fate! Varene kicked up, gasping for air, and spied Chaaya’s long, raven braid snaking toward her and the glint of her black eyes.
Varene sliced the scimitar down on the murderess’s gleaming head.
The impact rocked her arms. Chaaya sank below the water, then floated up again, a gaping gash through her skull and one eye, the blade still embedded in flesh and bone. But something was very wrong… Varene’s wrist rolled sidewise as she treaded water and Chaaya’s head rolled with it, flipping her bloody, truncated neck into view. There was no body attached.
“Impressive, Varene.”
She spun in the water, scimitar before her, dragging Chaaya’s macabre head. There, at the side of the pool, with another bloodied scimitar in his hand and a smile on his lips, knelt Kuramos.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Across the pool, Varene shuddered out a cry and released her blade. “You live!”
“I do.” Kuramos dropped his own scimitar with a clatter. He reached out over the water, desperate to touch her.
She swam to the pool’s edge, grabbed his palm and pressed it to her cheek. “I was
so afraid for you…”
“And so brave.” He pulled her from the water and wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face against his throat.
Closing his eyes, he felt her pulse pounding beneath his fingers. She has the heart of a lioness of Kad. Naaz, my Goddess, thank you for her life.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “The scimitar you used…” She stared at the reddened blade by his side. “Where…”
Joy and grief collided in his heart. “From my private armory. Mishka taught me her…summoning trick.” He kissed her wet forehead lovingly, then loosened his grip on her. “The children…”
“Acava,” she said, already staring over his shoulder at the still figures. “I’ll do what I can, but it’s been so long since they inhaled the poison—they’ll need acava, too.” She scrambled to Tahir, who lay pale and sightless on the tiles.
He followed just behind, fear squeezing his lungs as he looked at his children. “What’s acava?”
“A tree. Its ground-up bark is an antidote.” She clasped Tahir’s wrist. “There’s some in the Infirmary, Sohad knows where—tell him to moisten half a teaspoon of it and put it under his tongue. After a few minutes, he can enter the hammam. The toxin is still in the air in here. No one should enter until they’ve taken the acava. You mustn’t get close to anyone, either—the toxin will still be on your clothing.” She shook her head and eyed Burhan and Mishka. Worry tightened her brow. “And we’ll need more acava than is in the storeroom. Send Gunjan to find Rupal, the herb merchant you helped. At her residence, if necessary. She’ll get it for us.”
He backed toward the exit, his voice hoarse in his ears. “My children?”
She peered up at him. “I’ll do all I can. I have some hope.”
Some? Dread skidded through his bones. He glanced around at the faces of his four loved ones, swallowed, then ran for the door.
Behind him, Varene crawled to Burhan and gripped his arm. Her kyrra thrummed as she urged his cells into repair, and she crouched over him, peering into his vacant eyes. “Don’t you dare give up. Come back so you can teach me how to climb the palace roof, do you hear me?”
From deep inside the boy came the faintest response. She wasn’t sure he had enough strength to hold out. Tears wavered in her eyes.
The abrupt silence of the drums next door barely registered as she moved to Mishka’s side. “Sweet Mishka. I’m calling you.” She brushed a damp lock of hair from the girl’s brow. “You have so much to live for, so much to learn.” Varene squeezed her hand. “Your father fought off the toxin, so you can, too. Feel what I’m doing, my healing, and follow my lead.” But the tremor in her voice belied her words. If Mishka could use her magic to vanquish the poison as Kuramos had, surely she would have done so already.
Varene threw Chaaya’s black candles into the pool to clear a space, working hard to ignore the crimson tinge of the water and the decapitated body collapsed at the edge. Varene’s scimitar and its target had sunk out of sight.
She pulled Mishka and Burhan to within a foot of each other, then hugged Tahir to her chest and sat between the prone figures, touching all three at once.
Kuramos’s youngest boy lay limp in her arms like a body that had given up its soul. She rocked back and forth, looking down on his angelic face and crooning. Tears slipped down her cheeks and splashed the soft skin of his throat. “Tahir, littlest one, hear me. Return to us so your father can hold you again. He’ll look upon you with such love in his eyes that his world begins and ends with you. Come back!”
Images of Findar’s pale body swirled through her mind, and then memories of that long-ago night in Fallorm when she’d lost her family and her unborn child. Death is here, death is winning…
Beyond her view, the door of the antechamber opened. A cacophony of voices echoed in, then the door slammed again, shutting them out. “Kuramos?” she called out.
“And Sohad.” The sultan crossed the hammam with a skin of water slung over his shoulder and a jeweled bowl gripped in his hand. The bridegroom behind him carried the jar of acava and a spoon.
“How are they?” Kuramos’s eyes were grim, fearing the answer.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Her gaze slid back to Tahir and she shuddered. She was supposed to be a Healer, and if she failed this, if she let Kuramos’s children die…
Sohad dropped to the damp tiles in his cerulean wedding finery and mixed water and the ground bark into a russet paste. With competence and unspoken worry, he slipped a bolus under each of the children’s tongues. Varene continued to hold Tahir, rocking him. Facing her, Kuramos seated himself between Burhan and Mishka, clasped their hands in his, and bowed his head in prayer.
Someone banged on the thick door. “Let us in!” said a muffled female voice.
“That’s Sulya.” Kuramos glanced behind him. “Do we have enough acava to spare for my wives?”
Varene measured the contents of the jar with her gaze. “That’s about twelve doses, although those who’ll scrub this hammam of the powder will need the antidote, too. Sohad, make anyone who takes acava wait a few minutes before entering, to be safe. The others must stay away. When Rupal sends more batches, everyone in the palace should take a dose as a precaution. And keep extra for several months, just in case. We don’t know where Chaaya stored her staggerrose, and I’d hate for a cache to be uncovered by accident.”
Sohad collected his materials and stood, staring at Chaaya’s headless body. For a moment it looked like he would spit on it, then he shook his head in disgust and exited to the chaos of the hall.
Silence blanketed the hammam. Varene gazed at the little boy in her arms, willing him to heal, then turned to the sultan. She wanted answers, but was mindful of the three who lay crippled, who might be listening despite their paralysis. “What Chaaya accused you of…” she began softly.
His lips firmed. “You deserve to know. As do my children.” He squeezed Burhan and Mishka’s hands, then watched Varene as he spoke. “Fifteen years ago, the High Priestess Intisar fomented the nobles’ rebellion that took my son Seif. Her antipathy—her treachery—was clear, but I couldn’t risk setting myself against the temple of my goddess. Just two weeks ago, I learned she’d also arranged the drowning of my daughter Lahari a decade past, and that she wouldn’t stop there.”
Varene shivered, remembering the dark grief Kuramos bore for his dead children. Her throat squeezed tight as she glimpsed the hell he would face if those they held now didn’t survive.
Kuramos stared at the tiles between them. “I couldn’t hazard a public confrontation with Intisar. The Lakshyya would have hurled us all into war. So I employed another path of justice.” His eyes frosted over and flicked up to meet hers. “She met a painless death, which is more than she’d allowed my elder children, or plotted for these youngest ones.”
Varene bit her lip. Walking in his garden, she’d asked him about the secret he believed had triggered Naaz’s divine vengeance. He’d said “sometimes there are no choices,” and that if necessary, he would make the same terrible decision again.
A fierce, wistful pride poured through her. “You’re a man worthy not only of your goddess, but of your children, your family and your people.” And worthy of my heart. Every piece of it.
The door to the hall banged open and a stampede careened into the hammam, Sulya in the lead.
As Kuramos’s Sixth Wife saw Varene with Tahir in her arms, she jerked to a halt as if a wall had slammed up in front of her. Her black eyes gazed down at her son, then at her husband, then at Varene, full of anguish. “Is he alive?” she asked hoarsely.
Others swooped around her toward the fallen. Taleen knelt by Burhan and clutched his hand while Maitri cradled her daughter’s head in her lap. Nireh sat at her side, one hand cupping Kuramos’s shoulder, and Zahlia seated herself beside Maitri, eyeing Varene with such sympathy that the Healer choked back tears.
“He is…” But she wasn’t sure how to tell Sulya that her son might not survive.
That none of the children were showing signs of recovery.
Sulya raised a shaking hand and clamped her teeth on the side of her fingers. Rajvi stepped close to wrap a supportive arm around her waist, and soon the Sixth Wife seemed to remember how to move. She flew toward her son, crying.
Varene transferred the limp child into Sulya’s arms. “But please, stay near. I must touch him to monitor him.” Sulya nodded, her eyes seeing only Tahir.
“Varene!” Kuramos exclaimed.
She swiveled around and viewed a miracle. Mishka was peering up at her mother.
Over the next few minutes, the girl began to move—first her fingers twitched, then her lips curved, and then she said her mother’s name, bringing grateful tears to those gathered in the hammam—including her father.
Minutes later, Burhan followed in his little sister’s steps. The joy in the room redoubled, and laughter mixed in with the sobs.
But when Tahir’s fern-green eyes finally focused on Sulya’s anxious face, the fist of tension gripping Varene’s spine uncurled its taut fingers.
Her eyelids sank closed, and though she was sitting, she soon felt herself listing to one side.
“Varene!” Kuramos caught her and pulled her against him as worried inquiries flew at her from all sides: “Oh no!” “Our Healer needs a Healer.” “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry. Just…tired. Relieved.”
“Of course you are.” Zahlia patted her hand as the others peered solicitously at her, murmuring, “Poor dear, no wonder. Saving them has consumed your own strength.”
Maitri, holding her daughter, gazed quietly at Varene over Mishka’s head. “You have been a miracle for us.” The gathered wives echoed the sentiment, reaching out to pat Varene’s shoulder and touch her hand in thanks.
Kuramos wrapped Varene close and nuzzled her damp hair, and she curled back against him with a deep sigh. She was oddly at peace with the intimacy of it, even in the presence of his wives—even in front of Sulya, who watched them with a cool contemplation in her gaze.