Blood's Pride

by Evie Manieri

  “I don’t care about Frea, or the battle,” she informed him, wiping the excess wine from her mouth. Her Shadari eye sparkled with that same wild, greedy look he remembered from Shairav’s room in the temple.

  “But you told the Shadari they’re going to defeat her.”

  “They are.”

  “Of course—you took the elixir, so you know that already,” he observed. He rubbed at the bristly stubble on his chin. “I’ve met a lot of fortune-tellers, seers, diviners, whatever. They all have one thing in common: they all make their living telling people what they want to hear.”

  “It’s all happening just like it’s supposed to,” she continued as if he’d never spoken. “I was right, Jachi. It’s all happening.” She walked over to the wall, yanked a loose stone free and tossed it aside.

  “And what will you be doing while the rest of us are out fighting Frea? I noticed you left yourself out of the battle plan. Faroth noticed, too.”

  “Faroth is a moron. He thinks I want his son.”

  “Can you blame him? Everyone else wants him.”

  “If I wanted him I’d have kept him when I had him,” she said pointedly.

  A dry, dusty breeze skittered through the ruins. He swallowed. “I didn’t think you had forgotten about that, but you can’t blame me—you had a knife to his throat. What was I supposed to think?”

  In a flash her gray cheeks lost their brief color and the energy animating her gestures drained away. “The same as everyone else,” she answered. She took another drink of wine and an uncomfortable silence settled in between them.

  Into this silence he finally said, “I asked my mother what you spoke to her about.”

  The expression on her face could have been dread or expectation, or some bastard mix of the two. “And?”

  “And she told me to ask you.”

  She exhaled and turned back to the crumbling wall. Laying the wineskin down on top, she put both her hands on the dusty stones and stretched her arms out straight.

  “So,” he said, realizing with a sinking heart that he had brought them to the very moment he’d been dreading, “you’re still not going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “No,” she replied, still looking down at the ground.

  He moved behind her. “All right. I’m through playing this game with you.” He brushed some of the tangled black hair back away from her ear, as if he wanted to be sure that she wouldn’t miss a word of what he had to say. She flinched at his touch—only just, but he saw it. “I’ve pretended to follow you around; I’ve played the unwanted suitor, the bothersome child. I’ve let you pretend that you’d just as soon be rid of me. But we both know that isn’t true. The Shadari may have hired me to bring you, but we both know you brought me here and not the other way around. Merciful Shof, I still don’t know why, but you wanted me here.”

  Into the pause that followed, Meiran said in a voice that plunged straight into his heart, “I still do.”

  He steeled himself. “Then tell me why you’re here.”

  She shut her eyes. “No.”

  “All right, then you give me no choice. I’m leaving you.” He spoke louder than he meant to, but he couldn’t help himself. “I convinced my people to join this fight, and fight is what I’m going to do. Omir and his crew are going to defend the north edge of the city, by the temple, and I’m going with them. You can do whatever you came here to do—it’s of no interest to me. I know which side I’m on.”

  The afternoon sun glanced off the gray skin of her shoulder, warming it to bronze. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. Her voice was no louder than the whisper of the hot, dry wind. “You can’t change anything—no one can.”

  “You keep saying that, but which one of us are you trying to convince?” He flexed his hands as sparks danced around them. “Well. We’ll see.” He turned away from her and started back toward the city.

  “Jachi.”

  The sun had begun to slip behind the mountains. Long shadows stretched over the ruins as the warm light faded; the battle was near at hand. The stones around him still pulsed with the day’s heat but the air was suddenly cool. He could see Meiran clearly—he felt like he was seeing her clearly for the first time since she’d come back into his life.

  After a moment she dropped her head. Whatever impulse had made her speak had passed.

  “The great Mongrel. The undefeated warrior,” he said, smiling through the pain raking his heart. Before he walked away, he added, “Well, don’t take it too hard. No one wins them all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Harotha woke with no idea where she was; the darkness was impenetrable. She couldn’t remember where she’d fallen asleep, or what she’d been doing just before. Had they been flying? She was so tired, and nothing felt quite real, not even her own body. As she looked around she could see the faint glow of Eofar’s skin, so he was with her—but the void robbed her of all sense of distance.

  “Where are we?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. “Eofar?” she said again, and then sighed. “You’re still angry with me for wanting to stay, aren’t you? Or is it because I went back to the temple to find Dramash? Or because I took the elixir?”

  “None of that matters now,” he said.

  “No. No, you’re right,” she agreed, sweet relief flooding through her. “It doesn’t matter; we left all of that behind us. It’s just us now.” She could still see the glow of him, but she wished he would come nearer. She remembered how wonderful it felt to be near him, the way the rest of the world disappeared when they touched. She wanted to feel that now. She walked toward him—had she been standing all along?—but he must have been much further away than she assumed because when she reached out for him there was nothing there.

  “Eofar?” she called to him across the darkness. Her voice echoed strangely. Were they back in the cave? The last thing she remembered was the old palace, getting ready for the battle. “Where are you? Can you see me?”

  “I’m here by the window.”

  “What window?” she asked, confused. But she turned, and then she did see a little rectangular window—she had seen a window just like that before. Where was that? The reddish-gold light flooding in was very beautiful, suffused with the rich colors of sunset. She went toward it, eager for a closer look, but her feet were heavy and slow, and with each step she grew more and more uneasy. Eofar offered no reassurance; his eyes were turned away from her, focused on whatever he was seeing through the window.

  “I’m sorry about the Shadar,” he said to her.

  She looked down at the burning city spread out below her and caught her breath. “No,” she cried. “No!” Dereshadi with ragged wings swept low over the little domed houses. She could hear people screaming, and bodies, bloody and dying, were lying in the streets. “What’s happening?” She reached out for Eofar, but her hands jerked oddly and touched only air.

  “The Dead Ones are attacking, see? Those are their ships in the harbor, over there. Come on, you remember all of this,” said Eofar, only now he spoke with Daryan’s voice. “This is what happened when you were a baby.”

  Baby.

  Her hands flew down to her stomach. It was flat, taut. “Eofar, where’s the baby?” she shrieked in terror.

  “Don’t you remember? We gave him to my sister. It was your idea.”

  “I don’t remember anything! I would never give away our baby,” she shouted. She was shaking him now, but he remained as impassive as a statue. “Where is he? We have to find him!”

  “Oh, it’s too late for that,” he remarked, still unperturbed. He turned his attention back to the window. “Almost time. We’d better go up now.”

  “Up where?”

  His silver eyes blinked at her. “Up to the roof, of course. It’s time to jump.”

  * * *

  Harotha awoke with a jerk of horror. The room was pitch-black, and for a moment she was afraid that she was still trapped in that terrible nightmare. But her hands flew to her st
omach and with dizzying relief she felt the familiar heavy bulge. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but at least now she remembered where she was—an ordinary sleeping chamber, in an ordinary house, on an ordinary street: worn cushions on the floor, fire-pit in the center, a cistern of water by the door. It had its very ordinariness to recommend it as a hiding-place. The Mongrel hadn’t offered any explanation for her choice when she’d deposited her there with Dramash, and Harotha hadn’t asked for one. As long as the Mongrel wanted to keep Dramash out of the fighting and away from the White Wolf, Harotha would do as she asked. And right now, that meant doing absolutely nothing.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but a heavy ache sat on her heart, and she felt trapped, suffocated. She looked down at Dramash sleeping deeply beside her

  Moving quietly, she slipped into the main room and saw she’d foolishly left the lamp burning. She snuffed it out and the room plunged into darkness. It took just a few moments for her eyes to adjust and she made her way over to the cold fire-pit and looked up. The bit of sky she could see through the chimney-hole had turned from hazy lavender to deep indigo and the stars winked brightly. She took a deep breath and pressed her hand against her chest to ease the ache.

  It was night: the White Wolf would have begun her attack by now. Somewhere up there, Eofar was already fighting for the Shadari—for her. He had been trained to fight since childhood, like all the Dead Ones, and he and Aeda had routinely triumphed in the aerial tournaments the governor had enjoyed prior to his illness. He was older than Frea, bigger and stronger, he had an imperial sword and she had an ordinary one—but he had never taken a life. And now they were expecting him to kill his own sister.

  She found herself staring at the curtain separating her from the street outside. She’d tied the fastenings herself after the Mongrel had deposited the still-sleeping Dramash in the inner chamber and departed. Now she walked over to the curtain and ran her fingers experimentally over the rough, heavy cloth. She thought she smelled smoke, but it was hard to tell; she herself still reeked from the fire in the stables. Muffled sounds reached her ears from the street outside: shouts, and running feet.

  Surely it wouldn’t matter if she just glanced outside—?

  “Aunt Harotha? Is that you? Where are you going?”

  Her heart leaped into her mouth and she turned to see Dramash standing in the doorway of the sleeping chamber, blinking his eyes.

  “Dramash! You startled me. I thought you were still asleep,” she said, laughing to cover her consternation. She walked over and knelt down in front of him. The baby rolled heavily to one side and she wondered if she was going to be able to get back up again. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s not nearly morning yet.”

  “Oh, I’m not tired any more,” he informed her, and marched past her into the room. “Why is it so dark in here?”

  Her heart still pounding, she picked up the flints and methodically re-lit the lamp. Her mind raced furiously. The night had only just begun, and if he wouldn’t go back to sleep, how was she going to keep him inside until the battle was over? “You must be thirsty. Would you like some water?”

  “No.” He looked around. “Where are we? This isn’t my house. Why are we here all alone? What—?”

  “Dramash,” she started, holding up her hand. She tried to mimic Saria’s motherly tone. “You and I are going to stay here until morning, remember? Then we’ll go meet your father and the others.”

  “And Mama?”

  “Yes,” she answered, with barely a pause.

  “And Rho?”

  Something was going to have to be done about his unreasoning attachment to that soldier. “And Rho.”

  “Why can’t we go now?”

  “Well, we just can’t,” she told him. “They’re very busy right now. They have important things to do, and we’d only be in their way.” She pulled a cushion over and patted the space beside her. “Now, come over here. You know, the night will pass much faster if you go back to sleep.”

  He looked down at her, pouting. “I think I’ll go outside and look for them,” he announced, and sauntered past her.

  She struggled back to her feet. “Dramash! Stop!” He paused in front of the curtain and turned back to her. “Listen to me: you and I are going to stay here tonight. We are not to go outside. Do you understand?”

  “Why not?”

  She tried to stifle her anger. It had not occurred to her when she agreed to this that she knew nothing about children, but she had never imagined that leading a rebellion would involve handling the moods of a precocious nephew. In a sober voice, she explained, “Your father, Daryan, and all of our friends—”

  “And Rho!”

  “And Rho,” she added with careful patience, “have a lot to do tonight. They’re protecting the Shadar from very bad people.”

  “The White Wolf,” he whispered, looking back at her with wide eyes. “I thought she was my friend, but she’s not. She’s bad. I saw her hurt people.”

  “That’s right.” She nodded approvingly. “Now it’s very important that you and I don’t give the others anything else to worry about, or distract them in any way, do you see? By staying here, we’re really helping them.”

  He beckoned her closer and a shy smile danced on his lips. “I can help better than that,” he told her confidentially. “I did it before—I did it at the mines, and in the temple, too. Lots of times! I can do it whenever I want to.”

  She swallowed, feeling ill. “I know you can. It’s a very special gift you’ve been given, Dramash. Maybe we should talk about—”

  “I saw him move!” he announced, pointing at her belly. “There’s a baby in there, isn’t there?”

  “That’s right.” She smiled and lurched back up to her feet, though her back ached fiercely. She moved further into the room, hoping he would follow her away from the door. “He’s your cousin, you know—he’ll be born in just a few weeks. Come over here and sit down with me and I’ll let you feel him kick, if you like.”

  “I had a baby sister, but she wasn’t alive when she was born,” he told her, strangely boastful. Then he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t know that,” she said faintly. So Saria and Faroth had lost a baby, and Saria had never said a word about it. She stroked her stomach protectively. A stillbirth—how awful. And then for Saria to take care of her, all those months, watching her get bigger and bigger—

  “Is Mama back yet?”

  “Mama? No—no, I don’t think she’s back yet,” she said, feeling the numbness tingling in her hands again. She had to remember to breathe.

  “But I told Papa that she shouldn’t have to look after the goats any more,” said Dramash. “She should buy a new goat with the money I got for her.”

  “What money?”

  “The White Wolf gave her a gold eagle when she took me away—I saw it. It was this big!” He drew a circle in the air the size of a dinner plate, and she would have laughed had the circumstances been different. Then his face clouded over with anger. “Someone should tell her to come home. I want her to come home now.”

  She looked back at him helplessly, feeling her control of the situation sliding away. She didn’t want to embroider the lies Faroth had already told the boy, but this hardly seemed the time or place to tell him the truth about his mother … Or maybe she was just too much of a coward. “I’m sure she wants to come home, Dramash, but—”

  “I’m going to find Rho. He’ll take me up on his dereshadi. We’ll find her and bring her back.”

  “Dramash, I told you, they’re very busy. You can’t—”

  “Rho will help me. He’s my friend,” he assured her. “I’ll just go and get him. You can stay here if you want to.”

  “Dramash!” she shouted, close to losing her temper. “Dramash, you come back here and sit down, right this minute! You are not going anywhere: do you hear m
e?”

  “I don’t want to stay here!” he whined. “I hate it here!”

  She seized his arm. “That’s enough! You will stay here until your father comes to get you! I will have no more nonsense!”

  He stiffened under her grasp, and his dark eyes widened and then narrowed. At the sound of a crash she spun around to find the cistern lying on the ground, cracked and gushing precious water. She dropped Dramash’s arm as the lamp on the table trembled, throwing up shadows around the room, and the dishes began to rattle and skitter.

  “I don’t have to do what you say,” he told her, a triumphant light kindling in his eyes. “I can do anything I want to and you can’t stop me.” He turned from her and ran back to the door.

  She struggled up from the floor, calling, “Dramash, wait!,” but he dived underneath the curtain and disappeared. Harotha, now desperate, didn’t bother with the knots either, but tore the curtains aside with a strength born of absolute panic and ran out into the street. Dramash was nowhere to be seen. She smelled smoke now for certain, and there were shouts and screams coming from all directions.

  She guessed Dramash would head toward the dereshadi. She looked up, at first seeing only the glitter of lights darting around the sky, until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could make out the bulky shapes of the dereshadi and their slender riders. Just at that moment a torch fell from one, tumbling down until it disappeared behind the houses in front of her. She shut her eyes.

  “Don’t,” she muttered furiously to herself as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. “Don’t do this!” A deep pain grabbed her in the gut and squeezed like a fist, sending cramps pulsing through her, sucking the strength from her body. She clutched her stomach and fell to her knees in the dirt. “No! Not now—not now,” she chanted, praying for the pain to stop.