by Natalie Mae
Jet thinks about that. “All right, then we’ll send for him. He can come with us.”
My heart lurches. It’s a more than generous offer, and so typical of what I’ve learned about Jet. He has a solution to please everyone. I want that to mean I could agree and things would work themselves out, but I think of what Fara would need to do to join us, and I know it’s impossible. My father would have to find a replacement to tend the stable, a task that would be quite easy if I was there to help him translate each animal’s needs—a task that might damn him if another Whisperer realizes he’s lost his magic, and thinks he’s leaving to avoid the service he still owes the Mestrah.
“My father runs the city’s only stable,” I hedge. “It’s . . . complicated. But he can’t just leave.”
“He would only need to close it temporarily.” There’s a frustrated edge to his words now. “At least ask him before deciding?”
“The work we do is important,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to. “I don’t need to ask him, because I already know the answer. We have clients who are counting on us.”
“He’s just a Whisperer,” Jet says. “Does it really matter who tends the animals?”
I can’t even reply at first. It’s silly I should even care, considering I’d been thinking that exact same thing this whole time. But apparently part of me still fervently hoped Jet didn’t see me as “just a Whisperer” but actually valued what I do and who I am.
But here’s the confirmation I needed that he’s the same as Gallus. A boy who’s happy to keep me around as long as our dreams align, but I’d wager the second he remembers he wants more, the silly little stable girl will be the first to go.
“I suppose anyone could watch them,” I say, leaning away. “But my father believes in something called ‘duty.’ He’s the best person for the job. And unlike some people, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his charges suffered in his absence.”
It’s cruel of me, I know. But I’m angry at myself for hoping, angry at him for drawing me in, and so tired of being ashamed of what I do.
The sound of the wind and the sand roars up at a volume I suspect is twice as loud as necessary.
That’s how we spend the rest of the night.
XIX
DAWN is silvering the horizon when I start to feel guilty.
Not for snapping at Jet, because I really am tired of being “just a Whisperer,” but for the words I used to do it. Fara is always saying I need to be as patient with the animals as I’d want them to be with me. Advice that I think holds true for anyone. When someone is afraid of something, it’s much better to build up ways they might overcome it, not to tear them down over it.
And no matter what I feel, Jet still has a kind heart and the right mind to rule fairly. Gods know he’s been through enough already. He’s probably as tired of hearing the comment I made as I am of the one he did.
By the time we slow the horses to rest, I’m bursting with regret.
“Jet,” I say, turning.
He puts a finger to my mouth, which seems rather harsh, honestly, until I follow his gaze to the sky. High above us, barely more than a smear of ash against velvet blue, hovers a bird.
Jet’s gelding pins his ears. Melia’s and Marcus’s horses freeze in place, and while they should be catching their breath, they inhale in bursts and hold it, listening.
Gods have mercy on them, comes a faint female voice in my ear. Chills prick my arms, and I hold my breath to listen, too. That sounded like a complete sentence, but no animal I’ve cared for has ever spoken so fluently.
Hyra, snorts Melia’s mare. She tosses her head and lunges, and when Melia tries to muscle her to a stop, she rears. Marcus’s gelding also moves, pulling his bit and circling.
“What’s gotten into them?” Melia asks as the mare dances beneath her.
Go, the mare’s thinking. Must go. Let go!
“I don’t know,” I say. “They’re calling it hyra.”
“That’s an old word for ‘Shifter,’” Jet mutters, and the chill on my skin bites deeper. Jet’s gone rigid behind me. “How far is Osjerg?”
“An hour,” Marcus says, his telescope already raised. “We can’t run the horses that long.”
“Apos.” Jet’s gelding is getting antsy now; he shifts and sidesteps beneath us. “How did they even catch up to us? They had to have fallen for the decoy. We haven’t seen them all night.”
“Shifter?” I say, choking. “As in, Kasta’s First?”
That’s exactly why I can hear her but the horses can’t, though I would have preferred literally any other explanation. I can sense the animal part of her magic, but the horses have no such abilities.
Marcus doesn’t seem to be finding what he’s looking for. He growls in frustration, pivoting to look along the entire horizon—until he faces the direction we were originally headed.
He jerks the telescope down. “Because Kasta wasn’t behind us.” He points as a galloping rider emerges from around a distant plateau. “He’s been waiting ahead of us the entire time. The Shifter must have trailed us last night to see where we were going, then flown ahead to direct them.”
“Tranquilize her,” Jet says, gathering the reins. “We’ll push the horses as long as we can, but when Kasta catches us, I don’t want to be fighting her.”
He turns our horse, but Marcus raises a hand. “Don’t go yet. This is the clearest shot I’ll get, and if you move, she’ll follow.”
Jet nods, metal grinding as he pulls his sword from his scabbard. Marcus shifts his crossbow from his back to his arms, and Melia mutters a prayer under her breath, her thumb worrying the charm around her bicep. The Shifter dips and descends, dips and descends. Something flaps in her talons that looks nauseatingly like a dead cat.
“Marcus,” Jet says.
“She needs to come down just a liiiittle farther . . . Tyda!”
She dives. Marcus fires twice and reloads, but by the time he can raise the bow again the bird has plummeted to the ground in a spray of sand. The horses rear and scream. Melia’s takes off in a panic—moving toward Kasta’s horse—and Marcus’s pitches so bad he can’t aim for another shot. I nearly lose my seat when ours jerks after them, too blinded by fear to listen to my pleading.
“Go,” Jet shouts. “Go!”
I look under his arm as the gelding sprints, where a dark shadow rises from the place the bird fell. It’s grotesque at first—a jumble of too-long legs and beak and neck—and then the face fills out and rounds, and wings gather into powerful shoulders, and feathers to sleek, stippled fur.
A cheetah.
“Jet,” I say. “Jet, we’re not going to be able to out-sprint a cheetah.”
“I know. I’m thinking.”
“If this doesn’t end well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Zahru—”
“Well, I meant some of it. But I wouldn’t have said it like that. I would have made it more like a suggestion, or—”
“And I would be thrilled to speak with you about this later. But right now I have to think, and I need to think in silence.”
We might as well have turned our horses and opened our arms for the speed the Shifter is catching us. Jet’s gelding is fast, and we quickly reach Melia and Marcus, but the cheetah is already on our heels. Marcus turns and fires. The cheetah feints left, and Marcus fires again and she screams, a horrible half-human, half-cat yowl that grates under my skin. She loses a stride but keeps after us, a bolt bleeding from her shoulder.
Marcus has to reload.
The cat shifts her yellow eyes to us and leaps.
Jet slices with his sword, but the cat stays low. Her claws tear into the vulnerable haunches of the gelding, whose thoughts explode with pain as he whinnies and falls, pitching us forward, throwing us hard into the sand. I land on my back, almost on my head, and gasp as I push to m
y side. Jet rolls to his feet, sword ready. Far past us, Melia tries to turn her mare but the horse gallops on, and Marcus tries to the same result, finally jumping off. But even at a sprint, it will take him time to reach us.
Jet’s gelding lies in the sand, bleeding, whimpering.
The Shifter circles us, eyes darting from Jet’s blade to me.
The girl first, she thinks, her lip curling over pointed teeth. He’ll move to protect her. And then—
“Jet!” I cry.
She springs. Jet strikes, just as she knew he would, and she dodges with ease, coming under him and sinking her teeth into his hip—
“No!” I yell, but there’s nothing I can do, because my magic is useless, of course, and I scramble to find anything I can throw, but there are no rocks bigger than my thumb. Jet grunts like something’s off, and even though he could strike the cat he simply rolls to his back, a peaceful expression on his face. Did she hit something vital? I consider the sword, but it’s still in Jet’s hand, and she could easily strike me before I could reach it—
Something glints in the sand, twenty paces from where I’m standing. Jet’s dagger. It must have come free in the fall, and I turn and sprint for it—
“Hold on!” Marcus shouts. “Zahru!”
Hoofbeats gather behind me. I’m ten paces away. Five. Marcus drops to a knee and aims his crossbow, but an arrow sings over my head and strikes his shoulder, sending him sideways into the sand. A black stallion slides to a stop in my path.
Kasta grips me by the back of my tunic and drags me over the saddle.
“Ha!” he shouts. The horse springs forward. I twist and push away, but his grip is iron on my shoulder and something sharp pinches my neck. His life-draining magic floods my veins like an army of beetles. My muscles go slack.
“Zahru!” Marcus shouts, his teeth clenched. “We’ll find you!”
Kasta scoffs. The sand flies beneath us, spraying my cheek, and I can only watch as Marcus struggles and fails to raise the bow, and the cheetah lopes after us, limping, and the distant shadow of the city that would have been my freedom fades into the dark.
* * *
I no longer feel like this is a good day.
My worry for what’s happened to Jet is a twisting pain in my stomach. He could be bleeding out right now. He could be poisoned. Melia will do everything in her power to help him, but Shifter magic is an unpredictable, twisted thing, and for all I know it could take a special kind of magic to heal him. I wish with every thread of my soul I could take back what I last said. If that’s what he remembers of me, I will never forgive myself.
I need him to be all right.
But I might not fare any better. At least with Sakira, I had Kita to dote on me. I had the start of a plan. I had a sliver of hope I might change the princess’s mind, if only I could find a way to guarantee her win without my death.
I had time.
Kasta will not be careless. Kasta may not even let me move while I’m in his charge, and I have a devastating feeling the only way I’ll be escaping is if one of the other two pries me from his dead fingers.
And sometime during the attack, my mother’s protection gem fell free. For more reasons than the hope it would save me, it’s this thought that makes my eyes burn.
* * *
Kasta’s Healer soon joins us on a brown gelding, from his hiding place behind a small plateau. We might have kept running then without breaking stride, except it’s at this point the Shifter collapses. I could have told Kasta she needed help long ago if I had control of my mouth. A guilty part of me is glad I don’t. Since my death seems closer than ever now, the last thing I need is to tarnish my soul by assisting such a cursed creature.
“Christos,” Kasta says, jerking his head at the cheetah.
The Healer—Christos—casts Kasta a resentful look that surprises me with its venom. I suppose he’s loath to use his magic on such a creature, just as I am to even remark that she’s hurt.
“So close, yet so far,” Kasta says, brushing my hair from my eyes. His fingers feel dirty against my skin. One side of me is coated in sand from where I fell, and there’s something unbearable about his seeing me like this, as filthy and underdressed as I’d be at the stable. I wish he’d at least set me upright. I feel like a sheep laid over a butcher block, which I suppose is exactly how he sees me.
“The horse?” Christos asks, his pale, bony fingers digging through his saddlebag. He looks exhausted now that I see him up close, and also older, maybe even a couple years’ Kasta’s elder. I thought Healers prided themselves on their age, especially once they neared twenty, but he doesn’t wear a single Healer’s amulet.
“No,” Kasta says. “The jackal.”
Christos blinks, as if in a fog, before lifting something flat and furry from the saddlebag. I’m wondering what kind of code they’re talking in when two long ears flop across Christos’s arm and I realize, with a jolt of nausea, they’re talking about animal skins. Shifters can only transform if they have the pelt of the animal they need to turn into. Kasta must have brought her a spread of options.
“Zahru, meet Maia,” Kasta says, turning his stallion so I can see the cheetah. The Healer kneels beside her and examines the bolt in her shoulder. “Maia was a girl, once.” The Healer grabs the bolt and jerks. The Shifter screams and snaps at him but quickly lays her head back in the sand, sides heaving. “In fact, she’s one of the few I ever considered a friend. She was the daughter of a priest. Clever. Rebellious. Powerful, in that she could dream of things that would happen in years, not merely days. She was destined to be High Priest.”
The Healer sets both hands over the bleeding wound and mutters under his breath. The cheetah grits her teeth and closes her eyes, and I have a feeling she’s not enjoying the same painless relief I experienced with Kita.
“Maia claimed to be my ally, too,” Kasta muses, and ice flushes through my veins. I don’t like where this story is headed. I want to turn my head away, close my eyes, anything but look at this monster who used to be a girl, who used to have a future and a life and a soul, until she met Kasta.
“In case you’re wondering if I’m the kind of person you can fool twice.”
The Healer steps away. The Shifter looks at me, her poisonous yellow eyes not full of resentment or animalistic rage as I’d expect, but shame. She shoves her head beneath the jackal hide, and Kasta turns us away before I have to watch her transform.
* * *
The feeling returns to my fingers by nightfall. I’m afraid to give Kasta any indication it’s come back, not wanting to be paralyzed by him again, but I don’t know how much longer I can stand the silence. Unlike Sakira’s laughing team and Jet’s gibing banter, no one speaks here at all. The Healer alternates between sulking and dozing on the back of his gelding. Kasta is disappointingly unlike any of the villains I’ve heard of, for he hasn’t boasted once about his victory or given me a single hint at how he might be overcome. The Shifter is a jackal, so that kind of makes the decision for her. But even her thoughts are few. Once in a while she’ll look over her shoulder for Jet, but otherwise the same lines go through her head: Only a few more days, be patient.
Now that my initial panic has worn off, I’ve pulled myself together from earlier. I’ve come to terms with the fact that escape from Kasta and his Shifter isn’t possible in a conventional way. And while I know Jet will do everything in his power to find me, I can’t count on that to be my only strategy.
And so I’ve settled on a plan that’s potentially foolish and comes with a lot of ifs. But I can’t help remembering what Jet said about Kasta. That before the pressure of his father, before the messy competition for the throne, Kasta was a shy boy fascinated with science, with understanding the world and teaching his brother what he knew. I know that part of him is still there. I saw a glimpse of it when he said we could be equals; in the fire of his eyes when he admit
ted why he’d chosen me.
And if I can reach that side of him, if I can get him to see what he’s become . . .
I wonder if he’d even be ashamed enough to let me go.
“Can I at least sit up?” I ask.
Too timid. Kasta doesn’t even indicate he heard me.
“I can’t feel my left side.”
He glances down but makes no move to stop the horse. I inhale and remind myself he’s no different from Jet or Sakira or any other living person, Deathbringer or not. He still has hopes and fears and dreams. And thanks to three nights ago, I know what two of those are.
“You know,” I say, “if you really believed the gods let you do this, you’d treat me like a queen. Or are you just seeing how far you can push them before they smite you?”
Kasta draws up on the reins. He somehow looks as clean and perfect as he did at the banquet, his liner black and thick, his jaw shaven and smooth. A new bracelet circles his wrist, one of the stone runes bearing an eerily familiar symbol: protection. I have a twisting feeling I’m the inspiration behind it. His eyes are as blue and cold as ever, but where they were once indifferent to me, now they burn with something darker.
“Sit up,” he says.
Progress. I try to move, but my numb side won’t cooperate, and I’ve nearly slid off when he catches my arm and hauls me upright. It’s a maddeningly careful motion, and he releases me as fast as if I’d struck him.
And I’m sitting. At my own request.
The firmness of his chest against my spine makes me stiffen. He’s still shirtless, of course, a rather arrogant show of fearlessness in such a dangerous race, but where I should have been able to count on a cooling cloak to give us some separation, the only thing around his neck is a leather necklace whose square runes glow with red markings. It would take nothing for him to draw my life away; a breath from a candle.
“You’re not allowed to kill me until the caves, right?”