As her heart hammered away, chiseling at her ability to stand there and act as the person the Fire had called her to be, Adem pressed a finger to Meric’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He jerked his hand back, his fingers splayed. “He is gone, High General Varol. He has been for a long while.”
Had he thought she’d wrap a sick man and bury him alive while his mind slept? Fire, no one could be that horrible. She swallowed, her stomach twisting. “Perhaps the funeral should take place—”
Varol lifted a hand and curled his fingers into a fist. “The funeral will be as I order it.”
Adem stepped away from the bed and raised his fist to Varol. “May the Holy Fire welcome your brother.” He turned to Seren, his eyes cold as the black ice that lined the roads to the ports of the north. “May the Holy Fire welcome your husband.”
Varol was trembling. Sweat shone on his face. He picked up a glass pitcher from the side table. He threw it at Meekra. It burst against the pillar beside her. She screamed, covering her face.
Mouth dropping open, all nerves forgotten, Seren ran to Meekra.
Varol and Adem strode out of the tent, not a thought given to Varol’s behavior.
A shard had stuck in Meekra’s cheek and Seren gently plucked it free, fingers trembling in the hot anger running through her. Blood welled and trickled down Meekra’s face.
“It’ll be all right,” Meekra whispered, taking a slip of dark cloth from her sash and pressing it against the cut. “I’m all right. But…” Her wise, brown eyes pleaded with Seren. “He is as awful as he’s always been.”
And Seren knew what Meekra meant. That Seren had to keep hold of her reign here and drive Varol out of the Empire.
“He is no good for our people,” Seren hissed, ears ringing from the crash and from her own anger.
She helped Meekra gather the broken pieces, ignoring her tuts of disapproval.
Rage-filled tears leaked out of Seren’s eyes. She rubbed the hot flecks of salty water away and set the last of the shattered pitcher on the table. These weren’t tears for Meric, but they’d give her story the look of truth. These tears were for her people and the tangled leadership they’d have to deal with. And all of this during a siege.
Seren had no idea what to do.
17
SEREN
At the funeral on the training field, Seren’s people gathered into an enormous circle and hummed, a pulsing noise deep in their throats. Adem, Cansu, Erol, and Hossam lifted Meric’s wrapped body up the ladder set against the pyre’s thick stilts and settled it on the lahabshjara leaves and striped pillows. Tongues of Flame glittered like amber in sunlight around the ivory linen encasing Meric’s thin arms and legs. Tails of silk, a different color for each of the Empire’s noble clans, flickered in the breeze beneath the pyre, slowly beginning to smoke. Chieftains removed their yatagans from their sashes and set them, hilt first, on the ground around the pyre tower. Though Meric had never set foot on a battleground, as kyros and leader of the army, he would receive a warrior’s funeral.
The women of the high-caste—many who’d never accepted Seren because of how she talked to the low and middle-caste as equals—gathered into a smaller circle within the larger one. They took up the prepared buckets of oasis water. A few gave Seren kind, sad looks. Perhaps Seren’s part in defending the city had won them over.
“May the Fire bless you, Chosen,” one of snobby Qadira’s friends whispered, her face clean of any judgment. She seemed sincere.
Seren dipped her head in thanks and clutched the handle of her own bucket.
The water sloshed as the women took the traditional three steps, nine, three, pausing appropriately to say a quiet prayer as they continued toward the pyre’s base. They joined in on the humming with the rest of the city’s inhabitants. Seren raised the proper notes in the back of her throat, enjoying the feel of being a part of her people’s ritual. The humming filled her, calmed her, and strengthened her legs so she could keep on. As one, the women stopped. They poured the clean water into the dusty ground, watering the tiny purple flowers that grew there, and protecting the city from fire.
Varol, as a blood relative, received the lit torch of lahabshjara branches and began his brother’s ascent to the next life. More ka’ud burned around Meric’s body. Only a kyros's funeral could demand such a rare sacrifice. The flames leaped and strained toward the sun, the blue smoke like a great hand raising Meric up and up and up.
Seren had never loved him, but the thought of never seeing him again strangely cut her heart. She was glad for the moment when the rest of the city came close, tucking in together.
Ona came up, her hands clasped in front of her. Seren couldn’t tell whether Ona was ready to embrace her or run her through.
Meekra approached too, but she gave Seren and Ona space to whisper, her own eyes on the pyre and a chaotic look of anger and sadness on her face.
“Death is a thief,” Ona said very quietly. “It doesn’t ask permission. It always makes me feel cheated.” Her nostrils flared as she stared at the ground.
Seren set her bucket at her feet and linked an arm around Ona’s, nervous about the gesture of closeness, but wanting it enough to risk making an idiot of herself. Seren hoped this new friend’s courage would burn into her own flesh. “I hope you weren’t injured badly during the battle.”
“I’m fine. But…we should talk.” Ona toyed with the hilt of her sword. Seren had never seen her nervous.
Varol blew the ram’s horn, sounding his grief to the world and making Seren’s soul shiver. With Adem at his side, Varol then tucked the horn under his arm and began to climb the earthen stairs to the hill that sat above the field, on eye-level with the pyre itself. Seren’s heart stilled. His pale brown mourning kaftan, a match to everyone’s clothing, whipped in the wind and made him look like a simple nomad, heading to his flock of goats.
“What’s he doing?” Ona followed as Seren and Meekra walked toward the hill.
That was exactly the question battering Seren’s mind. She shrugged, and Ona broke away to join Lucca at the base of the small slope.
Varol cut a proud shape on the rise as he lifted his hands. His voice carried and an ugly feeling crawled through Seren, like he was infecting her people.
“People of Akhayma,” he shouted. “I feel your grief along with my own. Our dear kyros has left this world.”
Smoothing her hair, Seren took a place beside Varol while Ona and Lucca joined Rashiel, Adem, and the other kaptans to the right.
“Kyros Meric has been taken too soon.” Varol turned his head slowly and looked at Seren. He wanted to see if she would fight him for a place here, for the right to speak during this holy time. And she must. She didn’t necessarily need to outdo him right now, not at this solemn moment, but she did have to keep him from announcing a full mourning. She had to hold on to her title, her rank.
Shaking, she stepped forward. “We’ll continue our mourning, as is tradition, for two more days. But we’ll only dress in our earth-colored clothing and say our prayers over our Fires.” To Varol’s right, Adem stiffened. “We must be ready to fight again. Kyros Meric would’ve wanted us to protect ourselves, not weaken our bodies with lack of water and sustenance.”
That was a lie. Meric would’ve wanted all to die along with him. He would’ve seen it as unfair that anyone live past his death.
Varol looked at the ground and nodded. Relief cooled Seren like a breeze.
Whispering and comforting one another with touches and hugs that Seren was painfully jealous of, the people went to the pyre and began their group prayers. Their voices rose with the smoke. It was sad, but also lovely.
Adem seemed to shake himself. He slipped behind Varol and ripped his helmet off, his hair rumpled. “Pearl of the Desert. We must observe the proper mourning duties or Meric won’t be accepted into the Fire’s afterlife.” His eyes were fire, and she was very afraid of being the next to burn.
But Varol joined her as she stared Adem down. For once
, she and Varol were on the same side.
Seren opened her mouth, but Varol talked over her. “My brother’s soul is beyond reproach. Nothing we do could keep his soul from crossing over.”
“General Adem,” Seren said, “we can’t let our people fast and grow weak staying up all hours to hum and mourn.”
She touched the green wool, her fingers shaking as Varol’s eyes pierced her resolve and left her bleeding doubt. Did he support her in this or not? The man was as unpredictable as a storm in the Emptiness.
“The general and I will handle this, Pearl of the Desert,” Varol said.
They weren’t calling her kyros. The Holy Fire’s vision had shown her the city’s only chance at defeating the Invaders was with her at the lead. It seemed arrogant. The role was too big. But the Fire had called and she had to answer.
Down the way, Ona argued with a man twice her size. Beside her, Lucca shook his head and his lips moved, saying something that was probably wry and wise in equal measure. Barir whispered with Meekra, their steady gaze on Seren. Meekra cut was visible from here.
Seren straightened her back. “You mean Kyros Seren, don’t you?”
“You should join the others.” Varol smiled, sickeningly sweet. “Soon enough, you may return to the Green Mountains to retire like your father.”
Her throat burned, words pushing at her tongue but too weak to rise. She couldn’t leave here. The Holy Fire had blessed her with ideas. She was meant to care for the Empire, not to molder in a far-away town.
“You’ll have a quiet life as a former kyros's wife should.” He turned away, dismissing her, and addressed the people, breaking their mourning sounds apart.
“As next in line,” he shouted, spreading his arms wide, “I humbly accept the role of kyros and will do everything in my power to protect you, to honor my brother’s memory.”
Meekra and Barir’s mouths dropped open. Down the line of kaptans, Ona frowned at Seren. Lucca cocked his head and took a step like he wanted to join Seren. She didn’t know whether to ask them to come forward or not.
Small groups, who managed to hear over the pyre and the distance, wore confused looks. Several fell to their knees to show respect. The rest realized what was happening and kneeled alongside their neighbors. Questions showed in the way they moved and leaned close to whisper. This wasn’t the way things were done. None of it.
Seren’s guards were still and too quiet at her sides. Cansu’s eyebrows had shot together, pensive and seemingly frustrated, but not really surprised. Did they know this was going to happen? Surely not. They were loyal. She was awful for even thinking it. Cansu looked at Erol. Erol’s eyes were angry. Hossam’s chest rose and fell too quickly. So they hadn’t known. They were still loyal.
One couple in the crowd below the rise noticed Seren and held up their palms distinctly turned toward her instead of Varol. He didn’t seem to notice.
Another family held their palms toward Seren, and another, another. Their concern tugged at her heart. She grabbed the front of her mourning kaftan, a deep pain slugging through her chest. Her people were supporting her, asking for her support in return. She couldn’t let Varol take them from her. They were all she had left. They were her family.
Varol and Adem started back toward the city and the crowd dispersed as she and her guards, Meekra too, left the pyre. Lucca and Ona quickly found her side.
“What are you going to do?” Lucca whispered. “Shouldn’t you speak out against him?”
Ona bumped him out of the way. Her foreign eyes were wide and she almost looked fevered. “You aren’t going to keep that king alive, are you?” Her sheath clicked against her belt’s buckle. She was a ball of energy. Dangerous energy. “Will Varol put him to death? You know the Invaders will begin a siege any minute, right?”
Seren had to think of a smart way—not some tantrum-throwing or power-hungry way—to remind her people that she was kyros here and she cared for them first. Unlike Varol. Akhayma was tired. And hungry. Emotionally exhausted. What did she want right now? What did her body need? Food. Simple food and the knowledge that someone cared.
Seren stopped and Hossam nearly ran her over, mumbling embarrassed apologies through his beard.
“Wait,” she said. “Cansu, Erol, Hossam, spread word that Kyros Seren will host a simple meal for the people inside the Kyros Walls. When the sun is high.”
Lucca grinned, taking some of the chill out of Seren. “This is a great idea.”
“But what about the prisoners? The king?’’ Ona snapped.
“I’ll deal with all that later. First, I must gain control again and comfort my people.”
“There’s no sun for comfort, my kyros.” An ugly tone tarnished Ona’s pronunciation of Seren’s title. She stormed away. Seren reluctantly let her go.
Lucca touched Seren’s arm briefly. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you.”
A smile surprised Seren as it crossed her mouth. This was good. This might work. She gave details to Meekra and messages for Erol to deliver to the high-castes, organizing, not a feast, but a coming-together, a humble way for the people to draw together under her wings.
SEREN SETTLED at the head table the house servants had placed in front of the main tent. The sun glinted off platters of chicken kabobs and bowls of flatbread and nuts.
Lucca walked over and refreshed Seren’s hot tea even though a gruff house servant argued against him doing that sort of work.
“May the Holy Fire continue to bless you, Chosen One,” a tiny woman wearing a striped, brown mourning kaftan said.
Seren handed the woman a piece of flatbread piled with meat for the little ones jumping at her elbows. “May the Fire bless us all. We’re going to need it.”
The crowd split and Adem marched through, a circle of kaptans and two ore masters around him.
Father once gave Seren some advice when a group of girls were being particularly mean during their small group tutoring: Treat your enemy as your friend and watch them fall into the role. When Seren had invited the girl who told lies about her to a special Age Day party, she’d ended up telling Seren she was only jealous of her looks. They’d never become friends exactly—Seren couldn’t trust her—but at least the gossip had stopped.
“Another shout for our brave General Adem, who helped defend our city at our most desperate hour,” she said over the multitude of conversations.
Everyone turned toward Adem. Watching Seren curiously, they stomped their feet and raised their fists. “Our general!”
He bowed his head respectfully to Seren, but he didn’t stay. He moved quickly into the main tent, his circle trailing him. Through the open flaps of the tent’s door, Seren watched him sit at his usual spot at the high table inside. A red silk scarf hanging from a lantern fluttered between them, so only half his face—furrowed brow, angry eyes—showed.
She had to get a read on the man, to manage a guess on what he and Varol were planning.
“Meekra.”
Her friend came forward and offered a plate to Seren, who took it and whispered, “I want to send a bowl of clean water to the general. And another portion of this meat.” Seren leaned closer. “Have you heard anything about Varol?”
“He was seen going into his tent with two women. I think he is…taking some time for himself.” Meekra rolled her eyes.
“I’m thankful for it. His absence allows me to gain a hold on the city again.” Seren glanced over her shoulder toward Adem. “When you take the provisions to Adem, see if you can hear anything his friends there are saying.”
Nodding, Meekra hurried off and pasted a humble smile onto her pretty face. Seren had a guess that simple beauty could glean more than any unit of armed torturers, but she knew she’d have to play the latter role soon with the prisoners.
Seren would have to find out troop counts. Mounted versus on foot. Information on the Invaders’ food supplies and their wounded.
Facing the crowd, Seren raised her voice. “From the Fire tha
t burns within my heart and around my thoughts, I thank you all for your sacrifice and dedication. We’ve suffered a terrible loss, losing our Kyros Meric, but at least we have a victory to temper our grief. Lucca Hand of Ruination and Onaratta Paints with Blood, we owe you a heavy debt. You fought a battle you were not paid to fight. And you not only battled as if your own people hung in the balance, but you spearheaded the last push that drove the Invaders from our city!”
Ona wasn’t in the crowd, though Seren pretended she was. She was most likely sleeping somewhere. A well-deserved rest.
Lucca, showing nothing more than a ripped sleeve and a swollen sword hand, grinned and tilted his chin down humbly, raising one fist to his chest in acknowledgment of the cheers and well wishes.
With happy shouts ringing, she closed her eyes to think of Meric. She didn’t miss him, but this should’ve been his moment. And that was a tragedy.
“Erol, Cansu, Hossam.” The men turned to face her. “I need to go to the parapet and see what the Invaders are doing.”
She should’ve had reports from the scouts already. Maybe they were reporting to Varol.
Would Varol openly rise up against her as she fought for her title? Or would he continue to be absent like he was now?
“Lucca, would you go with me? I’d like a mercenary’s view on this. You’ve seen fighting styles that my father probably never experienced.”
“I doubt I’ll be much help, but of course, I’ll go. So,” he whispered, “what are you going to do about Varol?”
“Ignore him and carry on.”
“You think that’s safe?”
“Nothing is safe. He probably believes I had a hand in Meric’s death. He’ll be furious when he hears of the food I gave out and my speech, the way I’m clinging to my role here. But he has yet to show his face, so perhaps he only wanted a title and not the trouble that goes with it.”
Plains of Sand and Steel: Uncommon World Book Two Page 14