The Kinder Poison

by Natalie Mae

  He digs his heels into the horse. In an instant we’re off, charging past the ghostly buildings and the sad wind whining through them, back into the blazing dunes.

  Toward the caves.

  My nerves grow with the rising heat. I hold the hood of my cooling cloak in place, trying not to think too hard about what might have happened to Sakira. I may be glad I’m away from her, but that doesn’t mean I like to think of her hurt or lost in the desert somewhere. Or that I want to think of what might happen to us, if we meet whatever attacked her.

  “What did you ask the Speaker?” I yell over the wind, desperate for a distraction.

  Jet is quiet a moment, but soon the wind and hoofbeats fade, locking us back into our small slice of the world.

  “If I was making a giant mistake by trying to win,” he confesses. “And if there was anything I could do to save my father.”

  My heart jerks. His tone has already revealed the answer, but I ask anyway. “And?”

  Jet exhales slowly. “They said if I valued my life, I was making a giant mistake.” His voice quiets. “But not if I valued anyone else’s.”

  That’s not what I was asking about, but I let the silence stretch, wondering if I dare ask again.

  “No magic in the world can save my father,” he says.

  My shoulders sink. His hands have tightened on the reins, and I cover them again with mine. Jet sighs, his chest relaxing against my back. No matter the outcome of the race, his struggles are far from over.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, twining my fingers in his. Watching my father lose his magic has been hard enough. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I knew his condition was fatal. “At least you’re giving him one very big thing to be happy about before he goes.”

  “Hmm?”

  I smile. “He’s going to burst with pride when he sees you.”

  Jet grunts, but I catch the hint of a smile. “Yes. Provided I can remember everything I’ve been desperately trying to forget about ruling.”

  “Aera,” Melia calls. She’s drawn her mare close, breaking our bubble. “I don’t see anything.”

  Jet sits up behind me as the sound rushes back in, turning as he scans the dunes.

  “We can’t have missed her,” he says. “How far are the caves?”

  Melia points at the horizon. Just beyond the shimmer of heat, rising like the backs of hyenas, juts a range of hills tall enough to eclipse the royal city. Against the orange sands they look ashy and dark, much more like the entrance to the afterlife than the lush green paradise travelers speak of when they refer to mountains. As if my body can sense this is a very bad place to be, my pulse ticks up, the hairs on my neck prickling in warning.

  “She must still be ahead,” Jet says. “Keep your guard up.”

  They do, Marcus with his crossbow over his lap, Melia sitting straight and watchful. But though we run the rest of the day, pausing only for Melia to tend the horses, the only clue that anyone else has been here is a fading group of horse tracks and a heavy, restless feeling in my chest that something is very wrong.

  XXIX

  WE reach the mountains at twilight. We have yet to see anything of Sakira but her horses’ tracks.

  The restless feeling in my chest deepens.

  As does my immeasurable disappointment. When travelers speak of the mountains, they talk of trees bustling with songbirds, of grass so fine and clipped it covers the earth like a carpet, of sheep with coats long enough to shear and horns that curve like hooks over their backs. Nothing green grows here. No birds flit between branches, no flowers grow in the shadows cast by the hills. There are no trees, no bushes. The black soil shimmers in the dying light, clattering over itself when a breeze rises, a silver wave running up the hillside like a shiver.

  “Is that ash?” Jet asks.

  Marcus dismounts, his heavy weight sinking into the dirt as he bends to lift a piece of it.

  “Yes,” he says, crushing it between his fingers. Black smears his pale skin like ink.

  Of course the dark, depressing place where so many innocent Forsaken have died would be made of ash.

  “She made it this far, at least,” Jet says, urging our horse on. Sakira’s tracks curve to the left around a stable-sized mound, down a dug-out path that makes the horses jumpy with how close the walls come to their flanks. And finally into a clearing that was probably large and circular at one time but is now no bigger than the base of a small home. Ash trickles over almost-buried stone walls, stretching like claws toward the center. Sakira’s buckskin stands at the base of an enormous pair of carved sandals. She lifts her head as we draw near, her only company one of the two geldings, who doesn’t acknowledge us at all.

  Above them stand four giant figures carved from black stone, stoic brows circled by Mestrahs’ elaborate crowns. Two women and perhaps two men, but the statues on the right are too worn to decipher their faces. Between the two middle figures stands a doorway as tall as their knees and twice as wide as a horse. The diminishing light hardly reaches into it. It’s a square of black, as menacing and quiet as the deepest parts of a river.

  “One of the horses is missing,” Jet says, pulling our gelding to a stop. He slides off behind me, staying close as I swing my leg down to join him.

  “It could have gone off on its own,” Melia says. She leaps nimbly from the saddle, her Healer’s charms swinging against her bicep. “Maybe the scroll was crushed by accident, and they are all right.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, moving for the buckskin. The gelding’s lack of responsiveness is worrying me. “He wouldn’t want to leave the herd. Either they’d all go, or he’d force himself to stay here.”

  The gelding still makes no move as I approach. His head is low, his eyes closed. His thoughts are empty, but I don’t think he’s asleep. Dried sweat coats his entire body like a film, and both horses’ manes are matted and tangled. They’ve been ridden hard without tending. I wonder if that means something happened to Kita, and my heart clenches as I lay a soft hand on the gelding’s shoulder.

  He quivers beneath my touch but still doesn’t move.

  “What happened?” I ask the buckskin.

  Water, she thinks. Water. Water.

  Her saddlebag is still intact. Whatever Sakira survived, it was harrowing enough for her to rush into the caves without thinking of the horses’ care. I slip the largest waterskin out of the pack and offer it first to the buckskin, letting her drink enough to sate her thirst, but not enough to twist her stomach, before offering it to the gelding. His eyes flutter and he moves his lips to take the skin, but he’s too exhausted to swing the bag up, and I have to hold it while he takes concerningly small sips.

  “Where’s your companion?” I ask them.

  The buckskin paws the ash. Her dark eye turns to the path we came from, ears back against her skull. Gone, she says.

  My chest tightens. “And your riders?”

  She shudders, then bares her teeth and kicks backward, screaming so loud that ash trickles around us.

  No leave, she thinks. I’ll die here. I’ll die!

  “Hey, hey, it’s all right!” I say, backing away. “We won’t leave. We won’t. Melia, can you help them?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Melia says, taking the buckskin’s reins. The mare jerks back and strikes at a mound of ash, but Melia raises a hand, waiting, until the mare stops dancing and stands, head high, nostrils wide. Melia approaches slowly, laying a gentle hand on the mare’s cheek, and the buckskin shivers and quiets.

  “You two stay with Zahru,” Jet says, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “I’ll figure out what’s going on here.”

  “Jet—” I start.

  “Aera—” protests Marcus.

  “Only the heirs are supposed to enter,” Jet says, talking over us. “And the sacrifice, for obvious reasons.” He turns to Marcus. “There
were only two sets of horse tracks leading in here. That means Kasta is still out there. Take Zahru and Melia out of view and wait for me.”

  “Sakira didn’t go in alone,” Marcus grumbles, “or her teammates would be out here, too. You know what this feels like? An ambush. She’s stringing you along with false clues, hoping you’ll race in without thinking.”

  “Sakira wouldn’t do that to me,” Jet says, though doubt threads his voice. “And she’s not going to hurt me, especially if I don’t have Zahru.”

  “Well, it’s reckless to go by yourself.” I cross my arms. “If I’m the only other one who’s supposed to go, I should go. I can at least run for help if something happens.”

  “Zahru, please. If it is a trap, and she gets to you before I can talk to her—”

  “Then I’ll defend myself. I’m not helpless.” Especially with two sleep poisons.

  His face falls. “I didn’t mean to imply that. But we don’t know if she still plans to kill you. You may not have the chance to react.”

  “Are you telling me I’ve been cut, kidnapped, poisoned, soaked, and dragged across the entire desert so I can sit outside while you walk into an ambush and die?”

  He grunts. “I’m not going to walk into an ambush and die.”

  “You don’t know that. Kasta would be dead right now if it wasn’t for me.” I wince. “He also might be dead right now because of me.”

  Jet blinks, which is the moment I realize I didn’t tell him about the first checkpoint—or that my claim of “sneaking away while Kasta slept” was massively more complicated than I made it sound.

  “The point is,” I say quickly, “people aren’t expecting me to be a threat, which is why I’m the best weapon you have. Two sets of ears and eyes are better than one.”

  Jet shoots a helpless look at Marcus, who puts up his hands. “I’m with her. And if you want to follow the Crossing rules, fine. But Firsts also have a rule: that we put our heir’s life before all else. Melia and I will stay for a count of three hundred, then I’m claiming I heard a commotion and we’re coming in, too.”

  “Fine,” Jet says, agitation twitching through his jaw. “But for the record, I never liked this, and if Zahru gets hurt, it’ll be on your consciences, not mine.”

  “As will the fact that this was my choice.” I approach the massive doorway and turn, steeling myself. “I’m not changing my mind, Jet.”

  Jet gives me a helpless look, something on the edge of appreciation and concern, before reluctantly handing me a stringed light potion from the gray’s saddlebag. I settle the little star around my neck, the light silver in my hand.

  “Jet.” Marcus removes his sword and scabbard and hands them over. Flames curl the handle when the prince takes it, though I can see in Jet’s face that he’s missing the Illesa. “Be careful.”

  “Be safe,” Melia says, offering him her own glowing necklace. “And know we are here for you.” She smiles and squeezes his arm. “Numet be with you.”

  “Numet be with you,” echoes Marcus.

  “And you,” Jet replies before turning to me, worry etching his brow. I’d be lying if I said I was feeling very confident right now, either. Even if it turns out Sakira is safe, I don’t know which side of her we’ll meet in here. I want to believe it will be the side that chose Alette over a legendary horse, but I also remember the Speaker’s pitying eyes when they confirmed the knife can’t create magic without taking a life. Sakira would have been foolish not to ask them about that. She’ll know, now, that there’s no other way.

  And gods, the last person she’s expecting to challenge her for her dream is the one who’s been her ally all along. Jet isn’t just going against his own preference. He’s betraying his sister, and any love they once shared will be shattered with this choice.

  But when my eyes meet Jet’s, the doubt and uncertainty harden into something else, and I know this is what must be done.

  He draws Marcus’s sword and reaches for my hand.

  “Whatever happens,” he says, “I want you to know I’m thankful for you. I couldn’t see myself clearly before. And I . . .” He squeezes my fingers, his gaze flickering toward the darkness. “If I don’t survive this, I want you to know I have no regrets.”

  “Don’t survive?” My blood chills. The blackness deepens as we move in, the light of the potions shining across faded murals, across chariots and archers and nobles bowing to newly crowned Mestrahs. “What did the Speaker say, exactly?”

  “We should be quiet. Sakira could be anywhere.”

  “Jet,” I whisper. “On a scale of one to ten, how worried do I need to be about you?”

  “Zero. Shh.”

  I don’t appreciate being shushed, and doubly when he’s just given me the kind of heartfelt confession heroes give before something bad happens, but I don’t want to be the reason we’re ambushed. My sandaled feet barely make a noise against the cool stone floor. His steps, oddly, are just as quiet. When I remember why, I squeeze his hand, hard.

  “Ouch, what?” he says.

  “You can control sound!” I say. “I could scream right now and no one would hear it!”

  “Ah. Well. If I’m talking, I’m not concentrating on the ambush, am I?”

  “But you could cloak us long enough to answer my question!”

  Maybe I wasn’t clear when I told him he was more important to me than returning home to my father and decidedly having no risk of being sacrificed, that his safety and ability to survive this are of utmost concern. But just as I’m opening my mouth to say that, Jet raises his hand, his face slackening at whatever he sees ahead. I squint into the darkness. A ghostly light grows in the distance where the tunnel curves, illuminating an enormous carving of Rie driving his carriage of souls.

  And a real person lying below it, prone and unmoving.

  “Sakira?” Jet says, rushing forward. He must forget to mask our sounds, because our footsteps echo from the widening walls. Dread crushes me from every angle. I don’t want to see who it is. I don’t want to have a memory of Sakira dead at my feet, her fierce eyes dull and sightless, her capable hands limp at her sides. But it soon becomes clear that whoever it is, they’re too large to be the princess. My breath catches when Jet kneels beside the stained linen of a Healer’s jole, and Kita’s strong face comes into view.

  Her eyes are closed. Jet touches two fingers to her neck and exhales.

  “She’s alive,” he says. “But someone else is hurt.” He studies a spackling of blood across her chest. The fabric isn’t torn, so it can’t be hers, and aside from dirt and sand, her arms and legs look clean. “I think she’s been knocked out. We should—”

  His gaze locks on something behind me. The air has changed here, the dampness exchanged for something empty and open, and I know, even as I turn, that what’s behind me won’t be another hallway.

  The Glass Caves open before us like a massive hourglass dropped and broken on the earth. Ash climbs the smooth walls, splattering the black glass, the statues of gods around its edges drowning in it even though their heads reach the ceiling. Their faces and bodies have been hacked to ruin. The cavern’s builders must have adorned them in gold and jewels, for crude tools have chopped and shattered the glass about each god’s neck and face, a show of blatant disrespect that turns my stomach. I had expected the caves to hold the same reverence as a tomb—where, even though I walk among the dead, I see the gifts left behind by their loved ones, and I know they are satisfied and peaceful. This does not feel satisfying or peaceful at all. I feel uneasy and watched, as though the shadows are moving just out of my vision, hungry and restless.

  The only thing untouched is a rectangular skylight in the center that opens to the stars, and the altar directly below it, its surface hazy and chipped with age.

  “No,” I breathe. Jet inhales, and slowly, slowly rises to his feet.

  Kasta looks up
from where he sits at the base of the altar, a gleaming white scorpion in his palm.

  XXX

  “YOU can’t be real,” I say. “You can’t be here.”

  Kasta’s expression doesn’t change. He simply rises, smoothly, slowly, so as not to alarm the deadly creature in his hand. The starlight shines against the blood splattered across his chest. Sand frosts his skin and the dulled armor of his tergus, and I curse myself for leaving him with the protection bracelet. It gleams about his wrist, charged and ready.

  His eyes are twin points of darkness, burning as hot as the fires.

  Jet tenses beside me. “Where’s Sakira?”

  A smile twitches Kasta’s mouth. “I don’t know.”

  “You have her horses and Healer. Where is she?”

  Kasta starts toward us, unrushed. The Illesa glints at his hip.

  “Alive, maybe,” he says. “The desert is a vast place without a compass or companions or a horse.”

  His fevered gaze shifts to me, and I shrink into Jet, wishing a million times over I’d listened and waited outside. I knew leaving Kasta in the desert might come back to haunt me, but this is so much worse than I imagined. The boy with the light in his eyes may as well be dead. This is what rose from his bones, a shadow with someone else’s blood on his chest and rage crawling his skin.

  “And Alette?” I say, though with a sinking feeling, I already know the answer. Kasta needed a new Healer, so he took Kita. But as to Sakira’s friend, who could go on to pray for his failure . . .

  Kasta ignores the question. “You are the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” The scorpion twitches in his hand, and he stops in place. “I knew you were his. And yet you were so convincing. I thought about it, after you left. How you made something so innocent, so . . . harmless, into a weapon that destroyed every wall I’d ever raised. I couldn’t even be angry. It was brilliant. You showed me I still had a weakness, and now . . .”