Fairy Queens: Books 1-4

by Amber Argyle

  He and the others exchanged glances.

  “The Clansmen were bound to leave soldiers to keep the area secure, Rycus.” Scand said. “We need to be gone before that smoke draws them here.”

  “We’ll be quick,” Ashar agreed.

  The muscles tightened along Rycus’s jaw. “We don’t know who we’re looking for.”

  Nelay closed her eyes. “His name is Panar. He looks a lot like me.” Or at least he had. “If you find anyone in the caves, just ask for him.”

  Rycus stared at the map as if not really seeing it. Finally, he lifted his gaze to hers. “All right. But we stay hidden. We don’t try to fight them.”

  She gave a jerky nod.

  He gave terse orders, directing each man to a specific mine. Then Rycus stood and kicked dirt over the map. “We meet back at the juniper tree by nightfall tomorrow.” His gaze locked on Nelay’s. “Don’t be late.”

  He stepped into her, gathering her into his arms and pressing his lips hard against her forehead. “And don’t do anything foolish.” Then he turned and jogged away.

  With the impression of his lips against her skin, she closed her eyes, trying to force the grief into the pit where she shoved all her bad memories, trying to force her legs to stir. And then she smelled the smoke, saw bits of ash drifting around her, and the heaviness lessened. Her parents were with her. Because of the ceremony she’d given them, now they always would be. That thought gave Nelay the courage to work her way toward the most well-hidden mine, the one she’d have gone to if she had needed a place to hide.

  She moved until it grew so dark she tripped on every other step. The tavo blasted her, leaving her shivering with the cold. Finally, she gave in to the exhaustion and climbed a tree for safety from lions, snakes, and Clansmen, to wait for morning. She did not sleep, for whenever she closed her eyes, she saw her parents’ bones. She did not eat, for her stomach rebelled at the mere thought of food. Instead, she took small sips of water and huddled in the single blanket she’d brought.

  Sometime in the night, she caught sight of eyes flashing in the moonlight and leaned forward. A pride of lions passed beneath her, nearly silent and invisible. A lioness peered up at her, and Nelay longed for her spear—a much more effective weapon against lions than a sword. But then the beast looked away again and moved on. Nelay didn’t even relax when she heard one of the males roaring some distance off. She’d seen lions use tricks to placate their prey, and she wasn’t going to fall for it.

  When the world had turned from black to charcoal, she slipped from the tree and continued on, swords in hand and grateful for the movement to warm her chilled body. Sometime later, she crossed a thready stream that steadily grew in size, though never so large that she couldn’t jump across it.

  At midday she came upon a small spring emerging from the mouth of a mine hidden by a copse of trees and bushes. Clear and cold, the spring was bottomless, layers of rounded rock slowly receding into the belly of the earth. Nelay crouched and studied the entrance, searching for any sign of life. Then the breeze changed, bringing a hint of smoke. Someone was in there. Either her fellow Idarans or a small company of Clansmen. Larger groups wouldn’t maintain such perfect silence.

  To enter the mine, Nelay would have to step into the open. The thought sent a wave of sick fear through her. She edged around the bushes for a better look, but froze at the feel of a spear at her back. She’d been so focused on the mine, she hadn’t paid enough attention to her surroundings.

  “What’s a Tribesman doing here?” He spoke in Idaran, with the inflection of her province.

  Some of the tension leaked out of Nelay as she slowly pivoted round to face a boy, no more than fourteen, his legs as thin as a bird’s.

  “I’m not a Tribesman,” she whispered as she pulled down the veil that had covered her face. “I’m just dressed as one.” She slowly pulled back her headscarf, revealing the tattoos on her temples. The rest were obscured by her hair.

  His spear immediately fell to the side. “A priestess? Out here?” he said just as softly. She could see his mind working, trying to figure out who she was, and then his eyes widened. “Nelay ShaBejan? The shepherd’s daughter?”

  She barely managed a nod.

  His eyes dropped. “You know?” He could only mean the death of her parents.

  The lump in her throat threatened to choke her, but Nelay said, “Yes. Have you seen my brother? Is he here?”

  “Panar,” the boy said more to himself than to her. “No. Not in a long time. He left for the city shortly after you did.”

  She perked up. “City? What city? Sopora?

  He lifted a thin shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  She felt the first bloom of hope. If Panar had gone to Sopora, he would be evacuated with the rest. But why hadn’t their mother told her in their letters?

  Nelay took a breath. “What’s your name? How many are in the mine?”

  “Benvi, and there are fourteen of us.”

  “Benvi? Named after your father?” He nodded. She knew this family, dimly recognized this youth from when he was a young boy. She had almost been betrothed to Haddi, Benvi’s brother. But that was many years ago.

  “Listen,” Nelay began. “You must all come with me. I have six Tribesmen waiting for us at the border. They’ll take us deep into the desert and bring us safely to Idara.”

  Benvi stared at her hand on his arm, a blush lighting up his cheeks. “We can’t leave our homes. We still have dead to burn. The army will drive the Clansmen out. We just have to wait for it to happen.”

  Nelay withdrew her hand. “Mubia fell in a matter of days. The king himself brought his family all the way to Thanjavar for safety. And when Arcina falls, the Immortals and the army will retreat to Dalarta.”

  His shoulders slumped. “The king will let us fall to the Clansmen, just like that?”

  Nelay tugged down her headscarf and secured her veil. “The king’s fire burns too low to char his enemies now. Let’s go.”

  She started to step out of the brush, but froze at the sound of a scuffle. One of the bushes just to the side of the mine thrashed as if coming alive. She slowly lowered herself, her heart a knot of fear in her chest.

  Benvi shot her a look and peered past her. “We have a sentry there.” He half stood, but she locked a hand on his arm and jerked him down.

  “It might be a lion,” he said, almost sounding hopeful.

  “If it was a lion, he would have cried out. Someone silenced him.” Nelay didn’t miss the irony. Lions were once their biggest fear. What she wouldn’t give for that to be true again. “Follow me.”

  She eased toward the disturbance, careful not to shake the bushes. There was a soft thud, and a limp hand plopped into sight. Benvi made an almost soundless whimper, his hands opening and closing around his spear.

  And then Nelay saw them—a dozen or so unnaturally pale men emerging from the trees at the side of the mountain. They wore tunics to their thighs, with breeches beneath. And around their waists were intricate belts, each unique and colorful. They bore axes, shields, bows, and even some spears.

  They were Clansmen.

  Benvi drew a sharp breath. And somehow, his panic calmed Nelay—it was as if she knew both of them couldn’t crack. She looked pointedly at his spear, reminding him to stay focused. He lifted it and his gaze hardened.

  Her training kicking in, Nelay assessed her surroundings. In the space of a dozen heartbeats she chose her players and planned moves and countermoves. The sun was at her left, perfect for blinding her opponents if she came up behind them. “If something happens to me, head three leagues past my family’s home. You know the old juniper tree?” Benvi nodded. “You won’t see the Tribesmen, but they’ll see you. If they attack, don’t fight back or they’ll kill you all.

  “Call for Rycus. Tell him the deal has changed. He is to take you and the others. Acolyte Jezzel of the Temple of Fire will pay my debt to him.” Nelay would pay Jezzel back as soon as she could sell more of Nel
ay’s ceremonial jewels and gold.

  Nelay slipped around the spring, not waiting to see if Benvi followed, and came up just behind the Clansmen as they positioned themselves to enter the mine. She assessed the players out of habit. They were all taller than her. She would cut at their legs. They wielded axes—extremely powerful, but slow, especially on the recovery. She would have to be fast, striking first. Her sword was longer, so she would keep her distance. The terrain was uneven, and she could easily be pinned by the bushes, which meant she would have to drive forward.

  Nelay shook her arms to loosen her muscles, slipped one of her throwing knives into her hand, and gave Benvi a slight nod. Stepping into view, she threw her knives in quick succession. One hit hilt first, making a Clansman stumble forward. The second struck true, dropping another man.

  She shot forward just behind her knives. Her shamshir spun, cutting the tendons behind the knees of the first Clansman as he turned to face her. She twisted her wrists, rotating her swords back. Before she could completely recover, a third Clansmen hacked at her from the side. Benvi struck him down before jabbing the butt of his spear into the belly of the Clansman coming at him from the rear. One thing about lions, they taught you how to use a spear.

  Having lost the element of surprise, Nelay screamed to alert the Idarans in the mine to the attack. Her assault wouldn’t work unless they helped her. A minute later, Idarans, mostly women and children, spilled into the light, spears in hands. The Clansmen were now pinned between them.

  Nelay sliced at another Clansmen. He deflected her sword with his shield and arced his axe toward her unprotected right side. She couldn’t bring her other sword across her body fast enough to block, so she reversed her momentum, barely managing to catch his axe haft with the dull side of her shamshir. She slid her blade behind the axe-head and jerked the man forward.

  As he stumbled toward her, Nelay kicked his feet out from under him. Her sword slipped past his shield, stabbing into his chest as she stepped to meet the next foe. He aimed a colossal swing at her. She dropped to a crouch, cutting his legs. He landed hard, and her blade shot into his guts, effectively killing her third man. Before she could recover, another man tackled her, pinning her body with his. His strange blue eyes locked on hers, his hair the color of dried grass and his beard the color of fire. In a contest of strength, she would lose.

  So she kneed him in the groin. His face paled before going a magnificent shade of red, the veins in his neck standing out. She locked her neck and head-butted him. Blood spurted from his nostrils. She shoved him off and stumbled to her feet, her ears ringing.

  Blinking back his blood, she raised her sword to block a downward stroke from another Clansman and slashed, unseeing, at his legs. She felt her shamshir cut through muscle before shuddering through bone. Good enough to drop him, though he still held his shield. A flash of regret shot through her—he was an old man. Before her blade could finish him, someone shouted, “Nelay!”

  She whirled to find Benvi and the others backing away. Somehow she’d become separated from them. There were less than ten of them now, Benvi the closest thing they had to a man. Suddenly she realized they were going to run for it, and she was still in the midst of the Clansmen.

  Nelay charged after her fellow Idarans, but a Clansman darted in front of her. She warded off his blow and kicked him in the gut. He stumbled back. Benvi jabbed with his spear, trying to clear a path for her. The man shifted to deal with them both.

  From the corner of her eye, Nelay saw the man with the broken nose chopping down at her. She brought up her sword, and the axe blade stopped a finger’s width from her nose. Her opponent jerked his weapon back, the hooked edge ripping her sword from her grasp and nearly taking her arm with it.

  The old man lunged toward her and pushed her arm up her back. With her free hand, she twisted a knife free of its sheath and jabbed toward his side. Before she could make contact, he caught her hand in a viselike grip. The knife was pried from her fingertips. She stomped on the old man’s foot, and his grip relaxed enough for her to free one arm. She drove her elbow upward, into his gut. He fell back and she scrambled free.

  Not sure where her knife had gone, she snatched up her shamshir and darted toward the others. But she drew up short. The way was blocked by Clansmen. Six of them stood between her and Benvi—the other Idarans had taken off. The old man rose to his feet, blood streaming from his mouth and lower leg, his gray hair stuck to his face with sweat.

  They all backed up, assessing each other. Nelay reassessed the players, trying to make them fit in a way that ended in her freedom. But she had lost her knives. Perhaps if Benvi took half and she took the other half . . .

  But no. She could fight two men with her shamshir and win—it wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. But three? One would always be in her blind spot—impossible to defend.

  Nelay had seen the women and children. They wouldn’t survive without Benvi, and he was the only one who knew where to go. Though good with his spear, he wasn’t good enough to fight three Clansmen.

  All the moves and countermoves she could possibly make all ended the same. “Go,” she said to the youth. “I’ll give you as much time as I can.”

  “Nelay . . .”

  She met his eyes. “You can die here with me or live to keep them safe.”

  He let out a long breath and backed slowly away. Three of the men moved to go after him, but one of the Clansmen barked, “Let him go,” in Clannish, which she understood perfectly. All priestesses were taught the languages of Idara’s conquered lands.

  “Surrender. You tiam. You live,” the one with the broken nose said in nasally, halting Idaran. She looked at him, surprised he spoke her language.

  She did not want to die, but it had always been a possibility. And she’d rather be dead than a slave. She made a great show of spinning her shamshirs before melting into a low fighting stance. The old man with the leg wound charged her first. She sliced his other leg so he’d have a matching set. He dropped with a howl of pain.

  She twisted her blades, trying to force the others back. She slashed at the man before her, but something solid connected with the back of her head. The sky spun in a dizzying circle before her legs went soft and she crumpled in a heap. The old man limped toward her. Her mind screamed at her to get up, but her body wasn’t working properly, her heels scraping uselessly across the ground.

  The old man stood above her. The hatred in his eyes felt like a physical thing, something alive and sharp and consuming. Nelay managed to raise her arms, though they felt doughy and soft. An animal sound escaped her mouth. She hated her body for betraying her. Hated that she’d lost her dignity.

  She couldn’t stop him from killing her, so she determined to meet her death in stillness and calm instead of as a writhing, moaning mess. Glaring at him, she went still, her arms falling to her sides. The old man raised his axe. But the man with the broken nose took hold of his shoulder. “Dobber, no.” His eyes were locked on hers, so blue she was sure she was falling upward, toward the sky. And he was falling with her.

  Dobber tried to jerk away, but the man with the broken nose held him fast, speaking so rapidly in Clannish she couldn’t follow.

  “Leave off, Harrow,” Dobber told the man.

  Another man, this one with an even more intricate belt, knelt beside her and pulled her headscarf back. He touched her tattoos. “What does this mean?” he directed his question to Harrow.

  Harrow knelt on the other side of her. They unwound her headscarf and fingered the tattoos on her temple, lifting her hair to peer at her scalp. She wanted to push them away, but it was like riding a camel with no reins. She had no control over her body. A moan of fear escaped her lips as Harrow traced the tattoos to the nape of her neck.

  “She is one of their holy women,” he said.

  “She’s killed four of our own. She doesn’t deserve to live,” Dobber spat.

  The third man, obviously the leader, ignored him. “Their holy women f
ight?”

  “Idarans worship the Summer Queen,” Harrow responded. “And if winter is a cold death that steals your life away unnoticed, summer snatches it away in a blaze of battle.”

  To call the Goddess the Summer Queen was ridiculous. Nelay would have told them so, had her voice worked properly.

  “Clan Chief—” Dobber began.

  “Shut it, Dobber,” the commander said without breaking gazes with Harrow. “Have we ever taken one of their priestesses?”

  Harrow shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.”

  The commander grunted. “Treat her and get her on a horse. There might be more of those blasted Idarans around.”

  As he rose to his feet, a voice said, “We caught one of them.”

  Nelay shifted her eyes toward the voice. A girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen was shoved to the ground. She landed on her knees and cowered, a grimace of fear on her face.

  For a split second, Nelay met her gaze, and so many things passed between them. Knowledge that they were in the hands of the enemy. Understanding that though they didn’t know each other, they were all either of them had. And a promise they would help each other survive.

  “Any others?” Dobber asked as he looked darkly at the girl.

  The man who’d found her shook his head. “Three dead.”

  “Bring her,” the clan chief said. “We need something to show for all our dead.”

  Harrow clamped manacles around Nelay’s wrists and hauled her up. She didn’t struggle as he carried her toward a horse. The world was going soft, the edges blurring. She felt as though she were being sucked backward, sucked inside herself.

  And then she remembered no more.

  Nelay woke with manacles around her wrists, five links between each cuff. Her hands were cold and numb. Everything appeared warped, twisted like the heat wavering from the courtyard paving stones. It was night, the shadows stacked upon each other, gray upon darker gray.