Jas ignored it and forged ahead. “You missed the Gleaning last night. Where were you?”
“It’s none of your business where I was.” It was hot beneath her sandskarf. Roa wiped the sweat from her forehead with her wrist.
“You’re married to the king. You can’t just run off to meet Theo whenever you feel like it.”
Roa glanced around them, but they were far behind the others here. No one had heard him.
“If you knew where I was,” she growled, “why did you ask?”
Jas didn’t answer. Just fixed his gaze straight ahead, where Dax had stopped hammering tent pegs and rose as Lirabel approached him. The two of them walked away from the caravan, then stood close together, deep in conversation.
“And anyway, it’s not what you think,” Roa admitted. “I may have gone to meet Theo, but he didn’t come to meet me.”
Jas jerked his gaze from Lirabel to Roa.
“I haven’t seen him in months. He won’t even answer my letters.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame him. You broke his heart.”
Roa looked away, feeling like a scolded child.
Again, Jas’s gaze wandered to the girl speaking with the king. Roa looked back to Lirabel too. Her friend’s bed had been empty when Roa crawled into it after midnight, and it was still empty when she’d woken at sunrise.
Roa was trying not to think about why that might be.
Now Lirabel’s hair was tied up in her sky-blue sandskarf, but a few black curls peeked out, and there were dark half-moons under her eyes. She seemed . . . upset about something. More than once, Dax reached to touch her. As if to comfort her.
Roa kept quiet, watching her brother watch Lirabel. Thinking back over the past week, she realized she hadn’t once seen Jas and Lirabel in the same room together. In fact, just a few days ago at dinner, when Jas entered the room, Lirabel had abruptly left it. Roa wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Lirabel hadn’t done the very same thing the next morning at breakfast.
It was odd, the way they were suddenly avoiding each other. For all their lives, Jas could always be found close to Lirabel. He followed her around like a pup, and Lirabel—who’d spent years as a ward in their home and therefore felt indebted to their father—believed she had no choice but to let Jas hover.
Now, ever since the coronation, when Dax had elevated Lirabel’s status from ward to royal emissary, it was Dax who Lirabel spent all her time with. Sitting next to him at meetings. Transcribing his letters. Coming whenever he called, going wherever he told her to. And it wasn’t just Jas who Lirabel kept her distance from. Recently, a gulf had opened up between her and Roa too. One that seemed to get wider and wider all the time. Roa had no idea where it came from. Nor did she know how to bridge it. Because Lirabel was always with the king, or away in the scrublands. As if she were avoiding Roa.
“Theo needs time.” Jas’s voice brought Roa out of her thoughts and back to the present. “Maybe you should give him that. Leave him be.”
Roa stopped. “Give him up, you mean.”
Jas reached his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. Despite being a year younger than Roa, her little brother towered over her. “I know it isn’t easy. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”
Roa breathed in the smell on his clothes—smoky-sweet, like the heart-fire. “Theo would never hurt me,” she said.
Jas sighed again, out of exasperation this time. “I’m talking about Firgaard. They consider you an outlander queen. They already don’t trust you, Roa.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Your nightly absences don’t go unnoticed.” It was the same thing Essie told her. “If you give the court in the capital a concrete reason to believe you’re disloyal . . .”
“Like the king is disloyal?” Roa’s temper flared. “Everyone seems to be fine with Dax’s nightly absences, but I slip away and my own brother accuses me of treason?”
“I’m not . . .” Jas’s arm fell away from her shoulders. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
Roa prickled at that. “I have never in my life needed you to keep me safe.”
“Roa. . .”
She was done talking about this. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “Are you coming the whole way with us?”
Jas sighed, letting her change it, and nodded. “I promised Papa I’d see you safely to Firgaard.”
“Will you stay in the capital for a while?”
“Just until the Relinquishing.”
The Relinquishing was a scrublander festival celebrated on the longest night of the year, one that was only two weeks away. It was the one day of the year Roa looked forward to most—the day Essie resumed her true form.
Her conversation with Jas fell away at the thought of her sister. Roa touched her vacant shoulder, where Essie normally perched. She felt unbalanced without the weight of her there. Felt like half of her was missing.
Where are you? she thought, glancing to the empty sky.
Her sister had not been sleeping on her pillow when Roa woke that morning. Roa called for her, but she didn’t answer.
Her stomach hurt at the thought of it. Essie had never been gone this long before.
She tried to force the unease down. Wherever she is, she’ll find me.
Essie always found her.
But as Roa and Jas walked into camp, somewhere deep inside her, she felt the hum flicker. Like a candle flame struggling to stay alight.
On their way to the scrublands, Roa had been appalled at these tents. Now she didn’t care that they weren’t the work of practical, experienced tentmakers. Didn’t care that their brightly colored panels and decorative stitching, while beautiful, were not made for the harsh conditions of the sand sea. Didn’t care that it was a typical Firgaardian show of wealth and artistry, with no knowledge of the scrublands or how to survive.
Right now, the only thing she cared about was her sister’s absence.
Essie had been gone for a night and day now, and Roa was starting to unravel without her.
When the sun disappeared and the moon rose silver over the gleaming sand, the cold rose with it. This far out, the desert was like a double-edged blade. With the day came scorching heat; with the night, lethal cold. If you weren’t adequately prepared, either could kill you. Which was why, once the night descended, everyone made for their tents.
Roa stayed out longer than most, shivering, as she scanned the dark skies for her sister. When the cold became unbearable and she could no longer prolong the inevitable, Roa sought out Dax’s tent.
Pushing back the canvas flap, she stepped inside, sliding her feet out of her goatskin shoes.
The dragon king rustled in the bedroll, then sat up. The tent lantern lit up his face. His curls stuck out in every direction and a shadow crept across his jaw and chin, hinting that he’d gone a day without a shave. It made him look older. And a little unpredictable.
“Roa? What are you—?”
“Jas didn’t pack my tent,” she said quickly.
Dax studied her in the lantern light. “So you thought you’d bed down with me.”
His voice was barbed. As if Roa’s presence here was an intrusion. An inconvenience.
Maybe it is, she thought. Maybe he’s waiting for someone else.
But Roa had nowhere else to go. So, lifting her chin, she said, “I’m your wife, am I not?”
Catching sight of his wool mantle folded neatly in a pile, Roa reached for it, pulling it over her head. The smell of peppermint flooded her senses.
Ever since they were children, Dax had chewed peppermint leaves when he was worried. It cleared his mind and helped him think.
After stretching out beside the bedroll, she blew out the flame in the lantern.
Darkness descended.
Dax was still sitting. She could see the shape of him looming over her.
“There’s room in here for two, Roa.”
Not a chance. The desert could freeze over and she still wouldn’t climb into that bedr
oll with him.
“It’s going to get a lot colder,” he told her.
Roa turned away from him.
“Suit yourself,” he said, lying back down.
Dax was right, though. Roa had grown up with this desert. She knew, far better than he, just how cold it became. Far too cold to sleep. Soon she was shivering. Then hugging her knees to her chest. When her teeth started chattering, Roa sat up, listening carefully to Dax’s breathing. She waited until it was deep and even—until she was sure he was asleep. Then, very carefully, she crawled in beside him.
Dax stirred. Half-asleep, he murmured “My star, your feet are ice.”
My star? It sounded like a term of endearment.
The thought made Roa freeze. Oh no.
He thought she was someone else. One of the other girls he let into his bed.
Panicking, Roa pushed at the stitching of the wool lining in an attempt to put space between them. But there was no space. There was just Dax and the heat radiating off him like a crackling fire.
His arm slid around her waist, drawing her into him. “Take my warmth.”
Roa went rigid, expecting him to want something in return. Waiting for him to demand the thing she owed him, the thing other women happily gave him.
But he didn’t.
A hundred heartbeats passed. Deciding it was safe, Roa slowly pressed her cold feet against his warm ones. He flinched but didn’t retreat. Instead, he took each of her feet between his, rubbing them one after another, trying to warm them.
Roa tried not to think about how gently his breath caressed her neck. Tried not to think about the way their bodies fit.
Most of all, she tried not to think about how, in the days leading up to the revolt, she’d glimpsed a different Dax. A king she might come to respect, even if she couldn’t love him. But that king had vanished the moment a crown settled on his head, leaving Roa alone.
Or perhaps she’d only imagined that king—decisive, thoughtful, brave—in order to convince herself she could, in fact, do everything she had done: marry the enemy and leave behind everything she’d ever loved.
Either way, just for tonight, she let herself pretend it was that Dax at her back—the kingly one.
Just for tonight, Roa let herself fall asleep in his arms.
The White Harvest
One fateful summer, the fields of the scrublands turned white.
In the beginning, it was just one field belonging to one man. When picked, the wheat kernels crumbled into silvery-pale dust. The man’s neighbors shook their heads and scratched their beards. No one had ever seen such a blight. They gave him portions from their own harvests, secretly glad their own crops hadn’t been struck.
“Next year will be a better year,” said the tax collectors from Firgaard, who took a portion of the wheat his neighbors gave him.
But the following year, the blight spread.
This time, it struck all the wheat fields. It was an eerie sight, all that white where there should have been gold. Like a sea of snow. Farmers who hadn’t planted wheat helped those who had by giving away portions of their own harvests, secretly glad their barley and flax hadn’t been hit.
“It can’t stay forever,” said the tax collectors as they rode off with scrublander tithes. “By next year, the blight will be over.”
The following summer, it raced from field to field, all across the scrublands, indiscriminately diminishing their food source by half. Farmers tried to salvage what they could. But the small portion of grain untouched by the blight was taken by the king.
By the fourth year, most scrublanders couldn’t feed themselves, never mind their families. They begged Firgaard for help, asking them to forgive their tithes.
Firgaard refused.
So the next time a tax collector came, it was his corpse that returned to the capital. Furious, the king sent his commandant and a legion of soldats to the five Great Houses, intending to punish their insubordination.
The scrublanders chased the king’s army out.
“They give me no choice,” he said in his official declaration.
The sanctions came down like an executioner’s sword.
No one was to send the scrublands aid. No one was to give them loans. And no one was to engage with them in any form of trade—from the heart of the capital to the port city of Darmoor.
And all the while, the white harvest spread. Their stores and granaries depleted and lay empty. Before livestock could starve to death, they were slaughtered. Their meat dried and shared with those who had the least access to food. For three more years, Firgaard turned its back while scrublanders starved. Mothers, unable to feed their children, were forced to give them up. Fathers left to find work across the desert or the sea, sending what they could back home to their families.
Those who stayed behind refused to give in. They gleaned what they could of their harvests, eating the small portions of grain that weren’t diseased. They fished and hunted. They took in their neighbors’ children and gave what little food they had to those who needed it most.
They survived.
And their anger grew.
Four
Roa woke to a loud, persistent sound.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
She sat up in Dax’s bedroll, alone. The sun was bright against the canvas tent, giving it a honey-colored glow, and the temperature was rising.
That sound—like someone banging two pots together—quickened.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Odd, thought Roa, raising her hands to her ears. They must be—
A blood-chilling scream stopped her thoughts.
Scrambling out of the bedroll, Roa dashed out of the tent in her bare feet.
She saw them immediately: two dragons. One the color of brown scrubland rock, the other a pale gold the color of wheat. Each of them was twice the size of a horse, horns twisted for goring, wings spread wide as they approached the horses. Horses that were rearing and screaming, their eyes rolling in panic.
They couldn’t run. Their ropes kept them tied.
On the other side of the horses stood the source of the clanging. Just outside the cook’s tent, next to an open fire, stood her brother Jas. One hand held an iron pot, the other held an iron spoon. He beat that pot with all his strength, his attention fixed on the predators, trying to scare them off.
He knew as well as Roa just how badly they needed those horses.
The sound was near deafening. The dragons shook their heads, but it didn’t stop them. They prowled closer. Within heartbeats, they would be within range, their knifelike talons ripping into horse flanks.
Roa couldn’t let that happen.
Jas’s attention wavered, catching sight of his sister. Seeing what she was about to do.
“Roa, no!”
But Roa was already drawing her sister’s knife and running for the horses.
She grabbed hold of the rope and brought the knife down hard, sawing back and forth, praying to the Skyweaver—who was good at severing things—to help her.
The rope was too thick. It burned her hand and fought against her blade. And all the while, the dragons drew nearer.
Snap!
The rope broke. The horses bolted, running straight past Jas and between the tents, leaving Roa alone and unprotected.
She looked up. The dragons stood over her now, hissing and clicking, their forked tails thrashing. They spread their wings, big as sails, and Roa gaped at the translucent membranes where the sunlight glowed through.
“Roa!”
Something whistled past her head. Roa smelled the burning before she saw the streak of fire.
A flaming arrow soared toward the dragons, missing them only by a breath. Roa glanced over her shoulder to see Lirabel, now at Jas’s side, lighting her next arrow in the cook’s fire and drawing it back across her bow.
“Roa, run!”
Roa stumbled back, away from the dragons.
Lirabel’s arrows continued to fly. But a few arrows c
ouldn’t kill a dragon. And dragons became even more aggressive when injured. So Lirabel was missing intentionally, her flaming arrows landing at their feet, trying to frighten them.
Where’s Asha when you need her? Roa thought.
Dax’s sister had a way with dragons.
If only Dax were half as useful . . .
But when Roa cast her gaze around the tents, Dax was nowhere to be found.
When Lirabel’s fourth arrow flew, the pale gold dragon paused. Jas’s clanging stopped. Roa watched it arch its serpentine neck, looking back in the direction it came from, sensing something Roa’s eyes couldn’t see. It clicked to its companion, and then—as if deciding this fight wasn’t worth the trouble—it beat its wings, preparing to fly. The second followed its lead.
Sand billowed up, flying into Roa’s face, scratching her skin. She turned away, shutting her eyes and holding her breath.
As both dragons launched themselves into the air, she felt shadows of cold creep over her. She watched the hulking forms block out the sun. Felt the power of their massive wings beating the wind into her face.
When the sand stopped scathing, she opened her eyes, looking skyward.
The silhouettes of both dragons flew east.
Good riddance, she thought, even as she stood in awe of their terrifying beauty.
But as she turned to find Lirabel, the camp before her blurred gold. The dragons were gone, but a wind had picked up, and the sand billowed once more, making it difficult to see the tents.
Roa squinted through the sand. She caught sight of Lirabel, who stood staring in the direction opposite the dragons. She lowered her bow, eyes widening. At the same time, Jas dropped his pot and spoon.
“Tie down the horses!” he yelled to the guards, his voice battling the wind. “Tie down everything!”
Roa turned. Sand whipped through the air, obscuring her vision. As the wind screamed in her ears, goose bumps erupted across her skin.
This far out in the desert, screaming winds meant only one thing.
Sandstorm.
She raised her arm to shield her eyes.
There, in the distance, a wall of red-gold sand was rumbling and rising, coming straight for the camp.
The Caged Queen Page 3