by Natalie Mae
“I—”
“You could have stopped all of this. If you’d exposed Kasta, he’d be disqualified. Then it’s only you and Sakira, and you could have stepped down right then and there. No Crossing, no sacrifice, and Sakira is queen.”
He clenches his jaw and looks down, but offers no answer.
“So what are you leaving out?” I challenge. “You were the one who said how awful Kasta is. Sakira trusts you so much she probably told you exactly where we are, and now you’re sabotaging her Crossing chances and you could have made her queen without all this. Or have you been lying to her all along, too?”
I nod to Sakira’s prone form, and I know the girl almost got me killed today, but I feel strangely protective of her in this moment. Maybe because I know all too well about being used, and I refuse to be instrumental in doing the same to anyone else.
But where I expect Jet to be angry or defensive, he just looks . . . tired.
He runs his hand down his face. “What you’re missing,” he says quietly, “is that I used to be the kind of person who would tell on my brother.”
I can only stare in response. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You’re speaking like I spared him a slap on the wrist. He faked a gods’ mark, Zahru. If I’d confirmed your story, he wouldn’t have just been disqualified from the race. My father would have disowned him and thrown him into the streets.”
“So?”
“So it’s my fault,” he snaps. Now he looks at me, but it’s shame, not anger, that darkens his eyes. “Everything Kasta does. Everyone he hurts. I made him what he is.”
My heart tugs at the pain in his voice, and despite this entire mess, I feel my anger slipping. I know this guilt. Not in the same way, but when a wasting disease killed my mother, I spent weeks agonizing that somehow, it was my doing. That the gods had looked into my future and decided I didn’t deserve her, and that if I was a better person, a worthier person, she’d still be alive.
“That’s not being fair,” I say. “Kasta makes his own decisions. He could have reacted to your success by studying more or working harder. Turning on the world and marking people for death is not normal.”
“You don’t understand.” His smile is tortured. “I used to be just like that. There was a short time I thought I wanted to rule, and that I could do it better than him. So whatever he told you—yes, I did it. I embarrassed him. If I couldn’t beat him at something, I cheated to do it. But I will never go back to that.” His eyes flash with a memory, and I shiver to think what might have happened that inspired him to change. “I made a vow a year ago that I would never again put my interests before others. I’m already the reason Father never named him dõmmel. By Numet’s blood I won’t be the reason he’s exiled.”
His voice cracks, and my suspicion softens. He really does seem sorry, and I think back on everything he’s done since I’ve met him: his pleading with Kasta when I was chosen as a First; his reluctance to cut his brother during their fight. The agony in his face when the priest asked him to confirm my story, not only because he feared what would happen to his brother—but because of what it would mean for me.
A cruel, manipulative person wouldn’t have a problem tossing me or his family to a terrible fate. Jet has suffered for it. And ultimately, though I don’t appreciate being on this side of things, I can’t pretend it would be easy for me to send someone into exile, either.
“All right, fine,” I say, sighing. I’m still not sure I can trust him, but I’ve decided that if he is after the throne, this is a strange way to go about it. “I really wish you would have told me this earlier, but I’ll let you rescue me. I suppose.”
He brightens, and I realize how much I’ve missed that smile. “Oh, good, because I was starting to worry I’d be a failure at this, too. My team is waiting over the next ridge. Shall we go before Sakira and I have to have a very awkward conversation?”
I nod and glance at the fire. I certainly won’t miss wondering what epic, terrifying thing Sakira had planned for us next, but I find that despite it all, a small part of me is actually going to miss her. I’m fairly sure the wine is to blame for this sentiment, but if we’d met under different circumstances, I think I would have liked her. Obviously I still have concerns about her ruling a country. But if she’d care about Orkena half as much as she cares about her friends, we might not be too bad off.
I sniffle, and must stumble, because Jet’s there in an instant to steady me.
“Are you all right?” he asks, the firelight turning his eyes to amber.
“Yes,” I say, wiping my eyes. “But I’d really like to take a nap now.”
“Zahru—”
“Just a quick one. I promise I’ll be awake when we get to the horse.”
I lean into him, but Jet rights me, his eyes looking between mine. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you to ride alone right now.”
“Oh, so your story is already changing? I see how it is. All you are is broken promises, Jet, and I—”
He lets go of me, and the world spirals left. The sand is surging for my face when he catches me again, and I laugh at myself, at how ridiculous the entire situation is.
“Maybe I can’t ride alone right now,” I agree as he sets me upright.
“We’ll change as soon as you feel better. Melia will ride with me, and you can ride her mare.”
“Melia?”
“My Healer. You’ll like her. She disapproves of just about everything I do.”
I snort. “We’ll have a lot to talk about.”
“Up you go.”
He places my hands on the saddle, and though my grip slips off the pommel the first time, I grab it the second. Jet boosts me up and settles behind me, comfortable and sturdy at my back. We turn toward the darkness, and I cast one more look at the fire.
“I don’t think you’re going to be her favorite sibling after this,” I say.
Jet follows my gaze and sighs. “She’ll forgive me, eventually. She’ll still have the advantage when they restart the race, and I’ll still help her, as I did this time. Besides, I left her a gift.”
“A gift? You really think some trinket can make up for her having to start over?”
“You don’t know my sister.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Or how long she’s wanted the Illesa.”
“You gave her your sword?” I don’t follow sword fighting as closely as Fara, but I know the enchanted sword, the only in our world that can hone and weaponize light, is a legend all its own. Its wielders are allowed to keep it until they’re beat in competition, and Jet has owned it for years.
“Well, I certainly won’t need it anymore. And it’s much stronger than her air saber.”
“Huh.”
Jet moves the gelding into a jog. The stars blur and dip overhead, and I cling to the pommel, logging this newest bit of information against the rest.
“Jet?” I say.
“Mm?”
“I want to believe you. I don’t yet, but I want to.”
Jet chuckles sadly. “And that will be the very thing they write on my tomb.”
XIV
JET’S team waits for us in a bowl-like hollow beneath a windswept dune, just out of view of Sakira’s tent. And I do like his Healer, almost immediately. Melia is from Amian, a country west of us that has as few magical people as Orkena has unmagical, and thus she’s finishing her apprenticeship under Orkenian Healers. Her skin is a deep ebony, and her hair falls in black braids so long they reach her saddle. Maybe it’s the way she accentuates words, or the way she holds herself perfectly erect, but she gives off the impression of royalty far more than any actual royal I’ve met. She’s also perfected the art of looking down her lashes at people, and it’s clear that even with Jet in company, she’s the one in charge.
Jet’s First, Marcus, is her opposite. He’s indeed a Grekan
Enchanter, with fair skin and hazel eyes, and blond hair that grows in thick, short curls. He’s as huge as he looked onstage—not in a sculpted, muscly way, but in that every part of him is solid and strong. He could possibly move a small house unassisted. As such he’s not riding a desert horse but some kind of war gelding that’s bred to carry weight. But where I assumed he’d only scowl into the distance with grim, battle-ready determination, he instead looks as though he’s perpetually thinking about buying sweets for small children, and I have yet to catch him without a smile on his face.
“It was easy, then?” he asks, after we’ve put distance on Sakira’s tent.
“Too easy.” Jet sighs. “I told her to leave a lookout, at the least. You’ve made sure the area’s clear?”
“Yes.” He pats a brass telescope on his lap, the white runes on its side still glowing. “Only a small town and a caravan within fifty kilometers of us. The bandit camp is too far for them to spot her, and even if Kasta can find her this far off route, it’ll take him the better part of the night to make the distance. They should be awake by then.”
Jet exhales through his nose, but I feel him turn around.
“He’ll have little interest in her without Zahru,” Marcus adds.
“I know. I only wish . . .”
“She will be fine,” Melia says, moving beside us on her white mare. “She can handle herself. And if she’s not ready, then this is a good lesson.”
“I just don’t want it to be a permanent lesson.”
“If she is going to be Mestrah, these are the things she must learn.”
Jet stays quiet. So does Melia, though I think the stars begin to collapse between their glares.
“Alette said this night would go well,” I inject, remembering. “They should be safe. The gods will ensure it.”
Jet scoffs. “Yes. I’m sure Sakira will agree in the morning that the night went well.”
I look back at him. “You don’t believe their prayers work?”
“Oh, I believe they work, like any other magic. The priests ask for something, and if they’re powerful enough, their magic answers. As to the gods themselves getting involved . . .”
“Ignore him,” Melia says, though the edge has faded from her voice. “His faith has been slipping with his father’s health.”
“If I’m wrong,” Jet says, “then you have to admit you’re wrong, too. If I was meant to have the crown, shouldn’t the gods have stepped in already to change my mind? Or maybe I should ask them myself, as my father supposedly does.” He raises his arms. “Oh great gods, if I am meant to win, turn the sky to yellow—”
“I do not think that’s how it works,” Melia snaps. “A-mah, it’s a wonder they didn’t smite you already.”
“It’s because they agree with me.”
“Oh, you—”
“As much as I’d love to hear this conversation continue into eternity,” Marcus says, “may I suggest a change in topic? Where or if we’re sleeping tonight, possibly. Or meat pie.”
“Meat pie?” I ask.
“I was promised meat pie.”
“I say we ride to dawn,” Melia says. “Even that might not be far enough.”
“You think Sakira will track us?” I ask, wincing as the world tilts again. “If she feels even twice as good as I do, she’s not going to be moving anytime soon.”
“Ah,” Jet says, shifting behind me. “It’s not Sakira we’re worried about.”
No one says anything to that, and understanding drops like a stone in my stomach.
“Dawn, then,” says Marcus.
“Dawn,” Melia agrees.
* * *
I’m not sure how long we ride. I only know that at some point I fall asleep, and when I wake, the world is no longer tilting and spinning, because the movement has shifted inside of me instead. It presses through my head, churns through my stomach. The rhythmic movements of the horse don’t help. I try to focus on the solidness of Jet’s arms and the hope I’m finally free, but all my mind can think about is how it would like to free the contents of my stomach.
“She’s not looking good,” Melia says beside us.
“Zahru?” Jet asks. “How are you doing?”
I open my mouth to answer—and have to cover it instead. Jet pulls the horse to a stop and helps me to the ground, and I retch up everything that was inside me until my stomach stops twisting. The night air is a welcome chill across my face. I sit back on my heels and let the breeze cool me, relishing a moment’s peace, a moment when nothing is moving.
“It’s near enough to dawn,” Jet says. “Let’s set up camp.”
“I’ll get the tent,” Marcus says.
“I’ll tend the horses,” Melia says.
“Have some water.” Jet kneels beside me. “It’ll help flush the wine out.”
I give him a look to remind him of his part in this, but I take the waterskin and drink. My stomach isn’t thrilled with me filling it with something new, but it settles enough that I feel I can move again. If only there were something this simple for the pounding in my head. I’m sure Melia could help, but that makes me think of the sadness in Kita’s eyes when she talked about her family, and I decide this is easy enough to bear on its own.
“I’m going to help with the tent,” Jet says. “Unless I can get you something else?”
“A new body,” I say, pressing the waterskin to my throbbing forehead. “This one is ruined.”
Jet snickers. “There’s nothing wrong with this body.” The moment the words leave his lips, he seems to realize how forward that sounds, because he immediately stands. “And I’m going to go help Marcus now.”
Warmth floods my veins at the slip, but I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, something I quickly regret when the sound splits through my head. I grit my teeth and suppress another snicker as I adjust the waterskin. If Jet can say something like that after he watched me retch, I really haven’t given him enough credit.
I watch him work with Marcus, his movements strong and sure as the pair unfolds a billowing rectangle of fabric. Marcus gives him no instruction. Jet knows what he needs to do, and does so as if he didn’t have twenty servants to prepare his bedchambers every night. Nearby, Melia hums as she works her hands down the legs of her white mare, rubbing the muscles, drawing out their fatigue. Better, thinks the mare, nuzzling Melia’s shoulder. Better.
At least my magic’s working again.
I sigh and take another sip of water. I’m still processing everything Jet told me, and wondering how seriously I should be thinking about taking a horse into the night again, but no one has laughed maniacally at how easy I was to fool, and we’re definitely headed east. Not that I’m suddenly a directional genius, but I know Numet rises in the east, and her light has been steadily growing on the horizon in front of us. If I’m given Melia’s horse after we sleep, I might have to start believing this is real.
Melia moves to the war gelding, one perfect eyebrow raised. “So. How long have you two been courting?”
I choke on a sip of water. Jet had to have heard her, but he’s suddenly very interested in the stake he’s already driven into the ground.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought you just asked if we were courting.”
Melia smiles, though it looks cold. “Ah. My mistake. As the three of us are risking treason to free you, I assumed there was a good reason.”
My stomach churns again, not only for the confirmation that Jet’s team also believes they’re freeing me, but for a risk I hadn’t even considered: that doing so comes with very real consequences. Not just for Jet, but his team as well.
“There is a good reason,” Jet says. “She’s a person who deserves her life. My brother put her in this position, and I’m getting her out of it.”
“And I empathize with that, until the point I consider all thre
e of us could be put to death for tampering with the gods’ will. It is too late to claim your brother cut her.”
“Which is why I must do this instead. We’ll be careful. Once she’s on a boat—”
“We still have to sneak into a city to do that. People will recognize us. If they catch you freeing her, the Mestrah will know within the hour.”
Jet pulls the edges of his hood. “Then we’ll stay back and watch Zahru from a distance. No one knows her face. She can wear your clothes.”
“And if your brother or sister have trailed us? She’ll be an easy target.” Melia crosses her arms. “There is an easier way to do this, aera, with much less risk to our lives.”
Jet’s face hardens. “Not a possibility.”
“Win the race and refuse the sacrifice. Stand up for what you believe in, for once.”
“This is what I believe in!”
His voice echoes in the space, louder than should be possible with the desert so open around us. Melia stays stiff and still, though her glare never wavers. Jet exhales and presses a hand through his shaved hair, dropping his hood back.
“We’ll stay hidden,” he says, quieter. “If we’re caught, I’ll tell them I ordered you to go along with it. You and Marcus will be pardoned.”
He turns for the darkness. Marcus slowly returns to the tent, brow high, and shares a look with me like we’ve narrowly dodged a storm.
Melia sighs and turns to the war horse, her lips pursed.
“And that,” she says angrily, “is exactly the kind of thing a good king would say.”
* * *
By the time the tent is up, my headache is manageable and the buzz of the wine is wearing off. Melia disappears inside the tent with the sleeping mats, and Marcus whistles as he starts a smokeless fire with some kind of enchanted metal kindling. The scene is a drastic contrast to being with Sakira. Even the tent is more subtle, being sloped and a deep orange to match the sand, unlike the white monstrosity Sakira packed.