by Natalie Mae
Two days. Including the Choosing banquets, I’ve already been gone two days. How many more before something happens that he cannot fix?
“Zahru?” A warm hand touches my shoulder. When I look over, Jet’s deep brown eyes are filled not with shame or anger but something lighter, something on the edge of disbelief. “I really am very sorry.”
I nod, pushing my toes into the sand.
“And I swear to you, I will make this right.”
My heart jerks at the conviction in his voice. I look over, and even if my heart still beats a warning, I allow myself to believe him, at least for today. For today, I’ll trust that everything will be fine, and that I’m safe, and that it doesn’t matter if I lean into Jet’s hand or not because in a few more days, this will just be part of my story.
“All right,” I say. “I mean, I’m still going to insist on my own horse and judge you on everything you do now, but with hope and optimism instead of scouring suspicion.”
He snorts. “Progress. I’ll take it.”
I smile. “Goodnight, Jet.”
“Goodnight, Zahru.”
I leave him with the sunrise. Melia and Marcus offer me a smile as I shuffle toward the tent, and I manage to thank Marcus for cooking before crawling in, the sight of the woven sleeping mats like a feast for my exhausted brain. I can’t tell if my head hurts from lack of sleep, making sense of Jet, or the wine, but it has definitely had enough. I think I could lie down on a bed of spikes right now and they would feel like feathers. Sleep pounces on me like a cat.
And yet, as I fall rapidly under, it is not Jet’s warm eyes that flicker through my thoughts.
It’s a picture of Kasta with a quill and scrolls, but no matter how many hours he works or theories he drafts, not one of them tells him how to please his father.
XV
WHEN I dream, it’s of gardens being overtaken by spiders; clear rivers mixing with blood. Beautiful things falling to decay. But no matter how many webs I clear or jars of water I rescue from the river, the garden still rots. The jars crack, and the blood finds its way in.
After far too short a time, someone nudges my shoulder.
“Zahru, we need to get moving,” Melia says.
“Mmph.” I tuck my knees up and cradle my aching head more comfortably in my arm.
Melia shakes my shoulder, hard. “Bandits spotted us. They are on their way.”
“What?” I say, jerking my eyes open.
“Pack quickly.” Melia already has her sleeping mat and cloak under her arm. “We still need to take down the tent.”
Thus begins day two of the race. Melia slips outside, and I put a hand over my heart, wondering if I’ll ever again experience what it’s like to wake up refreshed and not on the verge of impending doom. I tug on my ice shawl, shivering at the chill against my skin, and roll my sleeping mat with expert speed. In moments, I’m ducking out the door.
The heat hits me like an oven. Overhead, Numet’s torch is blazing and bright in a cloudless sky, turning the sands a vibrant red-orange. I wince as my eyes adjust, and trudge over to where the horses gather beneath a crest of sand. Marcus and Jet stand to the side, a telescope raised to Jet’s eye. Melia checks the girth on the gray gelding. Despite the dirt covering the rest of us, her purple tunic and silver armor somehow look as new as they did two days ago. I look down at the ruined mess that is my gown, and sigh.
“I thought we passed their camp last night without notice,” Jet says, handing the telescope to Marcus. “Is there another one we didn’t know about?”
Marcus shakes his head. “Whoever they are, they’re not from the thieves’ camp. Their horses are carrying more than a day’s worth of supplies.” He pockets the looking device. “They’re following our exact trail.”
“They’re tracking us.” Jet chews his lip but manages a weak smile when he sees me. “Let’s get ahead of them, then. How are you feeling, Zahru?”
“Slightly run over,” I admit. “But I’m all right.”
“Good. Stay by the horses and out of sight. There are only four of them, and I don’t think they realize how close they are to us, yet.”
I nod my understanding and slip over to the horses while the boys pull the tent stakes. The geldings nicker in greeting, and Melia relieves me of the sleeping mat, latching it deftly behind the war horse’s saddle. Wrong? asks the white mare, lipping my shoulder. Sad? Why? I try to repress my nervous energy as I stroke her velvet nose.
“I’m all right,” I tell her. The last thing I need is for my anxiousness to get the horses riled before we’ve even folded the tent.
“If you need a drink, take it now,” Melia says, offering me a waterskin. I accept it gratefully and take a long drink before handing it back. My head is still angry with me, but my stomach is much happier after a meal and some sleep.
Melia replaces the waterskin in the saddlebag and tilts her head at the mare. “She is yours today. Take care of her.”
My heart warms, and I nod. The first of Jet’s promises, kept. “I will.”
“Everyone mount up,” says Jet, approaching with the tent in his arms. “We’re ready.”
He stuffs the canvas into one of the war horse’s saddlebags, and I pull myself lightly onto the mare’s back. A surge of her sadness washes through me as I take up the reins, and I stroke her neck in sympathy. The horses didn’t get long to rest either, and it pains me to think of how hard this has been on them, too.
Melia? the mare thinks, swiveling her head to look at me. No Melia?
“Oh,” I answer, surprised. “No, not today.”
I look over at the Healer, who tips a waterskin into the gray’s mouth. So it’s not the toil of the journey but longing for Melia that makes the mare sad. It takes a truly kind and gentle person to win an animal’s attachment so quickly, and oddly it’s this, more than anything the rest of the team has said, that makes me feel my trust is well placed.
“All right, Melia,” Jet says, having pulled himself into the front of the gray’s elongated saddle. “As agreed.”
He reaches down, and Melia smirks as she swings up behind him.
“You are right,” she says, settling into the saddle’s wider back end. “It is more comfortable back here. And now we can spend all day going over the reasons you must stay!”
Jet grimaces, looking very funny smashed up against the pommel, but I can only snicker at the pleading look he gives me.
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “You still owe me a thousand sorries.”
“Right,” he says, forcing a smile. “Sorry, again. And trust me, I will be very sorry by the end of the day.”
“This ridge will block their view for a kilometer,” Marcus says, urging his war horse into a jog. “But then they’ll be able to see us. Where are we headed, aera?”
“That’s up to Zahru.” Jet waits for me to move my mare after Marcus, then draws the gray up beside us. “I promised you’d get to choose your way, and so you will. We’ve been going east, and if we continue we’ll be at the main river by midday. Those towns are the closest to the race route, though, so people will be watching for us, hoping we stop in. But if we can get you onto a boat, you’ll be free.” He turns in the saddle, nodding at the desert beyond my shoulder. “Or we can go west. There are a number of towns out there that follow the trade route, and plenty of merchants with their eyes on the northern cities. It would take longer, but we’d be well out of the path of the Crossing. It’s your choice.”
I nod, though I already know which I’ll choose. West is the safer route, but the journey would span over a week, leaving far too much opportunity for my father’s condition to be found out. A boat could get me there in two days, total. In two more nights, I could be back at Mora’s table, crushing salt for our bread.
I mean, that’s admittedly an optimistic fantasy, considering that in reality, I’ll probably be
taking many of those future meals scrunched in the corner of a wagon as Fara and I relocate to a new town. We’ll need new names. New histories. I’m not sure how seriously the Mestrah will take my desertion—I’m sadly quite replaceable—but even if he sends no one after us, we can’t risk word of my return reaching his ears. But as much as my stomach twists to think of leaving Atera for good, at least Fara and I will be together.
“We’ll go east,” I say.
Melia frowns, and I know she’s thinking about the additional risk of being discovered, but Jet nods. “East it is.”
Marcus gives his horse more rein, and the gelding responds eagerly, his great limbs churning into a gallop. Jet’s gray gives chase, Melia holding tight to the prince’s waist, and then it’s just me and the white mare, left to choose if I’ll follow.
Melia, the mare thinks, dancing sideways when I hold her back. I suppose this will be the true test. Jet will prove his intentions here for better or worse, and some strange part of me almost hopes he’s lying again, if only to believe that when I do get free, it’s completely without regret.
Because if this is truly the kind of king he’d be, I’m starting to see Melia’s point.
* * *
The bandits follow us the entire morning.
No matter how many plateaus Marcus guides us around or how many kilometers we go without any sign of them, inevitably we reach an open section of the desert, and their distant shadows come back into view. They gallop when we do and slow when we do. Their casual pace makes Marcus more uneasy than if they had just attacked us outright.
But they begin to lose ground, and as the team relaxes, so do I. It helps that Melia and Marcus are good company. They speak of their memories from the palace: epic fights Jet has won; a snooty delegate Marcus scared off once with a single roar. Melia never misses an opportunity to comment on how each memory makes Jet the perfect leader, and Marcus and she agree on various supporting points until Jet loudly changes the subject, starting the whole cycle over again. Despite the shadows behind us, I find myself smiling most of the way.
Still, I try to keep my eagerness at bay. Cautiously optimistic, that’s what I’ve determined to be. But as the bandits lose even more ground, and the scenery shifts from rocky plateaus to the green, spindly trees that only grow near water, it’s hard not to think my days in the desert are over. When the first caravans come into sight, my excitement soars so intensely the mare starts prancing.
“All right,” Jet says. “This is probably a good place to decide what we’re going to do. Marcus, are they still following?”
The soldier lowers his telescope. “Think we finally lost them. We did a lot of weaving in that last stretch, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Good,” Jet says, sitting straighter. “Hopefully we’ll be done here before they pick up our trail again. What are we up against?”
“Not much, fortunately. Elab is a fishing town, and on the small side.” Marcus nods at the sprawl of low, distant buildings. “But that has its advantages. There’s no upper district here, and people won’t be expecting royalty to stop into a working village.”
“So they won’t be looking for us,” Jet muses.
“They won’t be expecting us. But if we show up dressed like this, we’ll stand out like a leopard in a plum custard.”
Melia purses her lips. Jet cuts a glance at my burned gown, but Marcus is looking at the prince’s shining armor and vivid blue tunic. If Elab is anything like Atera’s lower district, their fine clothes will stand out far more than my bedraggled dress.
“A leopard in a plum custard,” Jet repeats.
“With a side of cheese,” Marcus confirms.
Jet shakes his head slowly. “All right, that’s going to top the ‘weirdest Grekan sayings’ list for now. So we’ll change . . . into our sleeping robes, I suppose?”
Marcus nods. “With the cooling cloaks, that should suffice. The docks are on the east side, with the most direct route through the market.” He raises the telescope again. “But that’s the busiest area, with too great a risk someone might recognize you. I’d suggest the southern loop, past the town’s inn. It should be nearly vacant at this hour.”
“So we keep our heads low, get Zahru on a boat, get out.”
“The faster you go, the better. But the horses will need to stay with me. They’ll draw as much attention as your clothes.”
“You’re staying?” Jet asks Marcus, disappointment in his voice.
“Someone has to, and my size will draw notice. But I’ll also be a surprise reinforcement, if you need it.”
Jet nods in reluctant agreement, and I note that beyond confirming Marcus’s plans, he hasn’t questioned him on a single thing. For all their gibing, Jet trusts him implicitly.
“Where should we meet?” Melia asks.
“We’ll ride to there,” Marcus says, pointing to a far plateau speckled in desert brush. It’s as close to town as Fara’s stable is to Atera, just far enough outside to be apart from it. “The road passes on the other side, and you can join the travelers going in. Though you’ll need to look like you’ve walked longer.”
I brighten. “Hey, I look like I’ve been trampled by a wagon! I’m already ready!”
Marcus snorts. “You look like you’ve been through a bit too much. You’ll need some of Melia’s clothes.”
My shoulders sink. “Oh. I thought I had that one.”
“We’re almost there, Zahru,” Jet says, and the promise in his face sets dragonflies loose in my stomach.
Almost there.
* * *
The road into Elab is achingly familiar.
Unlike the proud paving stones of the capital, the roads here are dirt and packed clay, preserved more by the frequency of travelers than the work of careful upkeep. A small stable heralds the northern entrance, though it makes mine and Fara’s look like an estate. Instead of a full building it’s simply three mudbrick walls that form a shelter for camels and oxen, topped by a makeshift palm roof that barely shades the poor beasts inside. A section for small animals sits off to one side, a single cat curled in a shaded corner.
The Whisperer cleaning the stalls is a boy no older than ten. He wears only a stained wrap of cloth around his hips and a look of envy as a richly dressed traveler rides past on her camel. I’m sure he’s thinking how much he’d like to go with her, how much he’d like to see the desert and the wonders of the palace, and I have the urge to shake his shoulders and tell him to stay inside for the rest of his life. Daydreaming is all fun and games until you’re chosen as a human sacrifice, and having to sneak through a dilapidated town with a deserting prince and the risk of a treason charge.
Then again, I have a feeling this is the kind of thing that only happens to me. Everyone else who attended the banquets is home right now with stories about peacocks and marble pillars.
But even the smells here remind me of home, and I find my excitement building again as Melia, Jet, and I follow a wagon clinking with spice jars. There’s the scent of the river, fishy and clean. The heady smell of the spices, of lotus root and hyacinth. Even the bitter stench of nettle weeds reminds me of my trips gathering water from the river, and I swivel my head as much as I did in the palace, latching on to every reminder of home as if each piece could ensure I’d be getting back to it soon.
A soft hand closes around my arm. “Stop looking like a tourist,” Melia says, leaning close. “No one comes here for anything but work. Remember what Marcus said?”
“Look like I know where I’m going. Sorry.”
The road splits, one sloping down to a small market whose stalls are shaded by ragged canvases. We take the road that arcs right instead, past a row of single-story homes. I drink in the familiar shape of them; the comforting sounds of people working and chatting.
“Looks like my father’s rationing plan is doing well,” Jet says, tugg
ing his hood so it covers more of his eyes. Marcus thought it best for him to walk behind us, as then most people should focus on Melia and me. But I’ll admit there’s something about the mysterious tilt of his hood, or only being able to see the smooth, strong angle of his jaw, that I’m finding inconveniently distracting. “The people look well. And there are grain barrels in every home.”
“An astute observation, aera,” Melia teases. “Taking notes for what’s working?”
“I didn’t even notice that until he pointed it out,” I say, slipping into Marcus’s role.
Melia grins. “Would you say that’s because he has a natural eye for his people?”
I nod. “I think it’s his concern that really sets him apart. Not only that he notices, but that he’s truly interested in the results.”
“Hey,” Jet says, poking my shoulder and sending a thrill down my arm. “I thought you were on my side.”
“We are all on your side,” Melia says.
I glance back. “My loyalty flexes. I don’t think I’ve heard a single sorry from you this morning.”
“Gods, that’s right,” Jet says, gripping his fist in mock distress. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry—”
“How long do you think he’ll say it if I don’t stop him?” I whisper to Melia.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—”
“He’s pretty stubborn,” Melia says. “Maybe forever.”
“I feel like that runs in the bloodline.”
“Yes,” Melia concurs. “I would say just in the men, but it got to Sakira, too.”
“Mm.”
“Sorry, sorry—”
“I think I’m actually going to miss it,” I admit. Not that I’ll miss the desert or looking over my shoulder for stabby princes, but something about Jet has always felt comfortable, our one (big) misunderstanding aside. I can’t explain it. A day back with him, and I feel we’ve almost returned to what we were, each of us in our respective disguises, trading cheeky words for smiles. I mean, technically he wasn’t in disguise before and I was just too clueless to recognize him. But it’s easy to be around him is what I mean. It’s easy to forget we’re not friends and that these next few minutes are the last we’ll ever have.