by Natalie Mae
“As his Healer, the prince has selected Christos, son of Peroi.” The crowd mutters in approval, though the Healer, a short, pale boy whose tunic hangs from his thin shoulders, only fidgets in response. “And as his First . . . Maia, daughter of none.”
A chorus of gasps greets this announcement, my own included. No wonder the serving girls wouldn’t speak of her. Maia is a Shifter, one of the most powerful creatures in Orkena, but her ability to shapeshift is a wild, horrible thing, not given to her by birth, but stolen by her murder of another Shifter. The stripping of her mother’s name from hers is symbolic of the soul she traded for such power. For she’s not only proven she’ll kill for what she wants, but also acted in the worst defiance of the gods, rejecting the magic and the life she was born to. I have a hard time believing the Mestrah would allow such a choice, especially since Shifters lurk either deep in the desert or under intense enchantments in the service of the army, but maybe he’s washed his hands of Kasta completely.
She’s a shadow in the silence, dressed from head to foot in black armor, her masked face scanning the crowd like a falcon scans a field.
The announcer raises her hand to Jet. “The Mestrah’s second, Soundbender and Master Swordsman, His Highness the Prince of Orkena: Jet, son of Nadia.”
Jet is greeted with a roar that dwarfs the cheers I’ve heard so far, and Kasta’s fists tighten behind his back. But like his brother, Jet makes no acknowledgment of his titles. He cringes against the noise, turning uncomfortably to look at his teammates. And summarily ignoring me, even though there’s no way he can’t see me at the top of these stairs, standing apart from everyone and boring holes into his head with my glare.
“As his Healer, the prince has selected Melia, daughter of Luladel.” The crowd raises their voices again as a slender girl with deep umber skin raises her hand in an elegant wave. “And as his First, Master Enchanter Marcus, son of Bernab.”
A huge man with beige skin raises both hands in the air, and the crowd roars nearly as loudly as they did for Jet. A group of soldiers near the front chants “Marcus! Marcus! Marcus!” His unique armor and occupation must mean he’s from Greka, for though most Grekans have no magical abilities, the few who do are all Enchanters. He can craft weapons and armor imbued with powers that never wear off as spells eventually will. Enchanters are often as skilled with wielding such weapons as they are with crafting them, and I have to admit Jet has picked well, considering he probably chose last night in the span of minutes.
“And finally,” bellows the announcer, “the Mestrah’s third and youngest, trielle and Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Orkena: Sakira, daughter of Isa!”
I’m surprised to hear her cheers are the loudest of all. Not because she’s the youngest, but because I thought Jet was the one everyone favored, and Hen says Sakira has been chasing trouble since she could walk. The servants always have something to report on the princess, whether it’s another of her lavish parties in which unlikely people end up married or stabbed, or something more considerable, like the time she broke up the prince of Amian and the heiress of Constanta and started a war between their countries.
But maybe her infamy is the very thing that makes her popular, for the stairs rumble with applause. I have to stand on my tiptoes to see the far end of the platform, where a tall girl steps forward, her scribing brush raised high as she basks in the noise. Shining bronze armor wraps her back and chest in a metal X, mirroring stripes of sun along her fair skin. Her stomach is bare. A deep red sash forms a short skirt above long, fit legs, her leather belt glowing with enchantments that create an invisible armor over her exposed skin.
“As her Healer, the princess has selected Kita, daughter of Hanim.” The strong Healer who visited me this morning (gods, was it only this morning?) nods and waves to the crowd. “And as her First, the priest Alette, daughter of Nicola.”
The cheers elevate again, and a gorgeous girl with long black hair steps beside Sakira, her tawny shoulders gleaming with sunlight as she blows kisses to the crowd. I can’t say I quite understand Sakira’s choice. Priests are certainly powerful—they can dream of the future and pray for favors or natural disasters—but they don’t always dream when they sleep, and the gods sometimes take days to answer their prayers, if at all. Alette won’t be trained for combat, either. But I suppose being trielle means Sakira has a wide arsenal of spells at her disposal, so maybe that doesn’t matter.
“The heirs are permitted to take any route they please to reach the Glass Caves,” the announcer says as the cheers subside. “With the exception that they must pass through two checkpoints along the way. These checkpoints will both force the teams into close proximity and provide different challenges in getting through them, whether a team seeks to gain or keep the sacrifice. As a reminder, outside support is permitted at these checkpoints—and only these checkpoints—but any action that risks the safety of a team will result in lifelong imprisonment. It is for the gods to challenge our heirs, not the people.”
Murmurs of agreement flit from the audience, intermingled with praise for Numet and Rie. Others indicate their obedience with bowed heads, fingers rubbing luck charms and tokens that represent their favored god.
“The team in possession of the sacrifice will have four days to reach the first checkpoint, four more to reach the second, and two to reach the finish, or a default will be called, and the race will restart. This is to prevent the contest from extending indefinitely, as in order to win, an heir needn’t be the fastest to reach the caves—but they do need to perform one critical rite.”
“The sacrifice,” echoes the crowd, their excitement building. Heads and hairpieces turn left and right, seeking the Forsaken she’s referring to. Many of their eyes catch on me, and I feel the weight of them like a gathering rain.
“The gods have woken Sabil’s knife, signaling their desire for this contest, and the promise of unmatched power for the heir who would win it. As it did for the Mestrahs of old, this knife grants an ability to a new leader above and beyond the magic they already possess: the divine gift of Influence, the power to bend the will of enemies and allies alike. That said, the Mestrah would remind anyone who would desire this magic for themselves that though the knife has been reunited with its altar, it is heavily guarded, and its spell will only work for those of royal blood.” She casts a purposeful look across the crowd, who snicker and whisper. “But this power is not free.” She waits for the muttering to quiet. “Representing the many difficult decisions a ruler must make, taking a human life is a seal between gods and leader. A promise to do whatever is commanded, and to realize that with each gain is a cost.” She turns to me, sweeping a dramatic hand at the stairs. “Our sacrifice.”
Reverent silence falls over the crowd. I’m not given a name. I’m a symbol, and I know they think I was chosen for this, but it’s eerie to see them look at me with such blind conviction. I can’t help but feel it was too easy to fool them.
“Go on,” whispers the woman in pink.
Like I’m being too shy in marching to my death. Gods, everyone is watching. Do I go like I’ve accepted this? Do I run? I don’t think I’d get far in the crowd. The nobles won’t risk disobeying the Mestrah to help me, if there’s even anyone here who would. I can’t go back the way I came. My guard will drag me screaming down the stairs or mark me to walk against my will. I can’t stomach the thought of either.
And I really can’t believe that yesterday, I was watching a glass boat come down the river and dreaming of being here.
Breathe, I tell myself. This isn’t over yet. Jet may have failed epically as my rescuer, and Hen may have finally met a challenge she can’t overcome, but maybe that means that in this story, I have to rescue myself. It’s at least a week’s ride to the finish. That’s plenty of time to get used to the desert and whatever team I’m with, and make Fara proud by coming up with a plan.
I can do that. Of course I can do t
hat.
I take a troubled step forward. The pressure of a thousand eyes on me thickens the air, but I force myself to keep my chin high, my shoulders straight. People bow their heads and cross their arms over their chests as I pass. I almost choke at the irony of being surrounded by so many people when there are only three I want to see in the entire world.
“The Mestrah has awarded the advantage to Princess Sakira,” the announcer says. “She will be the first to leave, and shall begin with the sacrifice in her possession. Following her, after the span of an hourglass, shall be Prince Jet, and an hour after, Prince Kasta.”
I’ve reached the platform. I don’t want to walk past Kasta and his monstrous First any more than I want to walk through fire, but I grit my teeth and move without looking at them, though I feel Kasta’s gaze as I go. Jet still won’t look at me, no more than a glance and back at the crowd, and I bite back some choice words for him as I pass. At last I take my place beside Sakira, who glances at my dress and then has the decency to look sorry for me. And gives me hope my chances of escape are better than I thought. Maybe once I tell her what happened, she’ll be horrified and let me go. You would think that among three siblings, one of them has to be reasonable.
Her Healer looks as uncomfortable to be here as I am. She also looks like she wants to say something, but I have to confess I’m rather irritated with her right now, too, and I turn away before she can speak.
“So by the will of Numet, Rie, and Sabil,” booms the announcer, “and all the gods who have called for this occasion, we wish luck to the heirs and everlasting life to our future Mestrah!”
The horns blast again, and the people cheer and roar, chanting the name of their favored heir. The platform vibrates with stomping, the air with sparks and light and water, and I startle when enchanted fire bursts overhead, blasting us with heat as the flames swirl into the shapes of grinning jackals and charging horses. And then it doesn’t matter what else is happening, because Sakira has snatched my wrist and yanked me toward the front of the platform.
“Jump!” she shouts.
“Gods!” I yelp.
We plunge into the masses, who clear for us at the last second, my ankle rolling painfully as I land. Sakira drags me down the stairs, through the parting crowd, and toward a fountain where three desert horses toss their heads: two bay geldings and a buckskin mare the color of wheat, who tries to pull her handler’s arm out of its socket when she rears. And by that I mean that’s literally what she was thinking when she did it.
The mare sees us coming and swivels her head, ears flat against her skull.
You, she thinks, her dark eye on Sakira. She’s harder to read than the cows at the stable—I’m not as familiar with her movements as theirs—but her anger is so strong, my magic translates it to words easily enough.
No ride, she thinks. I’ll kick. I’ll kick and hurt!
I dig my heels into the sand and jerk out of Sakira’s grasp.
“Up!” Sakira yells, pointing toward the mare.
“Are you drunk?” I shout. “She clearly wants to hurt us!”
“I know. That’s part of the fun.”
“You realize I’m not allowed to die until we reach the caves?”
Sakira turns around, gripping my shoulders. She’s practically a twin of her mother, though her sleek hair is black like the Mestrah’s, and her blue eyes are her father’s, too.
“You have a week left to live,” she says. “You want to spend it plodding along on an old nag?”
“That would be ideal, yes.”
“Sorry.” She shoves me at the mare. “If you’re with me, you’re going to have fun.”
Two servants hold the mare now, one on each side of her bridle. They’re trying to look cheerful about it, but I think they’re just hoping I’ll be fast and they can leave.
“All right,” I tell the mare, pushing back the heat of her anger with every thread of calm I can summon. “I know you’re not excited about this—”
Whisperer, the mare spits. Let me go. Let go!
“Look, I told them I didn’t want to ride you, but this is the princess. She’s like our alpha. And she’s saying—”
“Are you talking to a horse?” Sakira asks.
“I’m a Whisperer,” I say. And to the mare, “Just don’t kill us for the first few minutes, and you’ll be out of here. No more crowd.”
Mm, the mare snorts. No crowd?
“No crowd, no noise. Just the desert. Wide, open desert.”
The mare trembles and looks around, but she finally lowers her head. Fast. Be fast.
“You have magic?” Sakira studies the side of my head, but I don’t dare look away from the mare. “You just speak Orkenian to her? That’s seriously all you do?”
“We communicate through emotion,” I say, grimacing as I take hold of the saddle. “My magic turns the words into something she can understand, and likewise.”
The mare stays still, but now that I’m touching her I can feel her impatience and fear flood my body as strongly as if I’d been doused in water. It amplifies my own nerves, and I try to ignore the shiver in my fingers as I push onto her back. Oiled leather gleams beneath my hands. Lilies and swords decorate the saddle’s neck, and the small hope that I might get my own horse dies when I see the seat’s long enough for another rider.
“That’s the most useless talent I’ve ever heard of,” Sakira says, pulling into the saddle behind me. “No wonder the gods are sacrificing you. Yah!”
Off we plunge, the mare cursing, Sakira whooping in my ear, and me clinging to the front of the saddle, my mother’s jewel clutched in my hand. People dart out of our way, small animals fear for their lives, and I try to think of the path ahead as the first part of my escape, away from the royal city, away from Kasta. The desert rises before us like the back of a slumbering beast. The crowd thins. Shops yield to houses and then huts, and the beat of the mare’s hooves overtakes the shouts. A glance back reveals Alette and the Healer are close behind, the priest’s shining hair whipping behind her cloth headband, the Healer’s face slicked in sweat. Sakira whoops again in my ear, and the mare whinnies in response.
Freedom, she’s thinking. Freedom. Freedom.
The last of the huts slides by, and the path changes from paving stones to packed clay.
Freedom, I agree as the royal city shrinks into the haze.
X
THE desert shifts around us like an orange sea.
Outposts and villages drift among its plateaus like islands, small clusters of palm-thatched huts and low square buildings gleaming white in the sun. Mud-packed roads form currents between them, crowded with colorfully dressed travelers and merchants guiding oxen and carts. I imagine many of them are disappointed if they came to watch the heirs gallop past. But Sakira says the roads are more dangerous than the desert. Aside from none of them taking a direct enough route to the first checkpoint, she worries about the spectators getting involved: stepping in front of the horses, snatching the saddlebags. And even though the Mestrah has threatened life in prison for anyone who hinders a team’s progress, Sakira knows—from personal experience—that the threat of punishment only works against people who think they’ll get caught.
Which does not make me feel better about riding in front of her.
To keep the horses fresh, Sakira slowed them to a jog a few kilometers outside the royal city, a steady pace we’ve kept ever since. But Numet rides steadily across the sky, and heat sears any skin not covered by our cooling cloaks. The horses begin to tire after just a few hours. Not that Sakira or her team can hear them, but I notice the geldings thinking more about how deep the sand is, and the mare of water. A good opportunity to ask for a break . . . and to see what I’m dealing with when it comes to the third heir.
“How long are we going to ride?” I ask. “I think the horses need a rest.”
I e
xpect resistance. I imagine Sakira wants to get as much distance as possible from her brothers in these first hours, but to my surprise, reins are drawn in and Sakira helps me to the ground, using only one arm to do so. The horses’ sides glisten with sweat and the glow of the Ice spell painted onto their shoulders. The ink is already wearing, half faded from their efforts.
Sakira lifts a square of glass to the sky, a compass that shows the night stars at any time of day, and moves it until she finds the constellation she’s following. I unlatch the saddlebag and have barely reached inside when the Healer—Kita, I think—rushes to my side.
“Can I help, adel?” she asks. “What are you looking for?”
The formal address makes my stomach lurch. She must feel guilty for reporting me. I would politely decline her help, except she’s already rifling through the bag and she’s not the kind of person you can share a small space with.
“Er . . .” I step back as she shoulders me even more out of the way. “Water spells. The horses are thirsty.”
“I’ll tend them,” she says, pulling out a waterskin with a long nozzle. It looks flat and empty, but a blue Water enchantment gleams on its side, and the bag swells as soon as she touches it. It’s dripping by the time she offers it to the mare.
“She can talk to them,” Sakira says, leaning against Alette’s gelding. “As in, she can ask my mare who the biggest jerk in the stable is.”
“Wow, really?” says Alette, adjusting her headband. “Who is it?”
“That’s not really what I do,” I say.
“I bet it’s Montu,” Alette says. “Every time I see him, he’s kicking someone.”
“Montu is nasty,” Sakira agrees. “But as fast as rain. I actually requested him, but of course Kasta is firstborn, Kasta gets first pick.” She sneers and chews a black-lacquered nail. “Then again, if today goes well, he’ll be the jealous one, not us.”
She shares a sly look with Alette, and I can only hope whatever they’re referring to has nothing to do with me.