I felt cold and distant. My own execution. My own planned death. Ab’Tanadu led me to the ropes, and my gut clenched—a sharp, twisting pain. For a horrifying moment, I thought I was going to throw up.
Then he pulled me to a stop. I shivered, naked in the early sun, but I refused to be cowed by it. I stood tall. “Was this your idea,” I asked under my breath, “or did they force you into it?”
Ab’Tanadu frowned at me and said nothing.
“I know I’ve disappointed you. I’m sorry. But you know the truth as well as I. Mani told you about Pol. You—”
“Be silent!”
“Before Yl’avah, High Ruler and One-Maker,” Neraia began. “Before the Avanir our Hope, and before all Kyr’amanu, with the authority of law, we stand in judgment against Ishvandu ab’Admundi, who has been found guilty of sedition, conspiracy, rebellion, obstruction of justice, defaming the Avanir and blasphemy against Yl’avah and the Great Tree—responsible for the deaths of his own people, among them the Guardian Lord Umaala ab’Krushaya—and sentenced by means of witness and testament and condemned to die. Based on the open and public nature of his crimes, no confession is needed.”
I laughed. “Afraid to let me speak again?”
Ab’Tanadu kicked me to my knees, though I heard the mutter rise up through the crowds and die. My hands were unbound, then pulled above my head, tied to one of the cross-pieces of the scaffold. Right. They’d promised to whip the skin off my back first.
Apparently, I deserved something a little more than broken arms and unbearable agony. Ab’Tanadu stepped back. My gut clenched again, a permanent knot this time, tensing against the pain.
Now. I had to do it now, before—
The lash ripped into my back. I slammed my teeth together, refusing to cry out. The pain was as terrible as I remembered, but not the worst of my life. Nothing compared to the Sumadi.
It struck again, a stinging fire over bare skin, pulling away the flesh. But it was only pain. I was untouchable. I was hated. And this—this was going to be remembered for a very long time.
The third blow never landed.
I bolted upright in the holds. Immediately, my back cried out—two distinct lines, burned into my mind. I groped along my skin, but nothing. Nothing but old scars.
The Sending stone had worked!
I’d had single instant to do it, to use the stone to double myself before climbing out of the pit. I had used Jarethyn’s name, concentrating on my bruises, the dirty robes, the bloodstains—every detail I could muster to trick them into thinking the body that went to the execution was mine.
But it wasn’t.
Still, I had to be quick. I scurried up the rope, ignoring the welts on my legs, the bruises, the fire that dripped down my back where the lash had fallen. I needed three things. My keshu, my camel, and a skin of water.
I crept through the dark, then crouched for a moment at the foot of the stairs, listening. Even at an execution, the eighth kiyah left sentries posted at the Tower and at the gates.
I held my breath. Sure enough, a voice murmured—and was answered.
Two sentries. I glanced around. The holds were dark, but even with dim light trickling in, I could see they were also bare. My keshu would be kept above, and to get to it, I’d have to pass the sentries.
I retreated into the shadows behind the stair. There was no way to sneak by.
I let out a long breath. There was no time to think about it. Chaos was erupting at the Flatrock by now, and any moment, Guardians might rush back to investigate.
“Hello?” I called in a high-pitched, plaintive voice. “Is . . . is anyone there?”
The murmuring ceased.
“Did you hear that?” one asked.
“I did.”
“Thought they were all gone to the ropes today?”
“They were.”
A pause.
“H-hello?” My voice trembled. “I . . . I think I’m hurt. It’s dark. I don’t know where . . .” I winced, trailing off before I gave myself away. Had I already said too much?
“I guess someone got left behind.”
“Some mudfoot rebel. They must have missed one.”
“I’ll go check on him.”
“Maybe it’s not too late for him to join up, if he feels so strongly about it.”
They chuckled.
I heard footsteps. I tensed, crouching against the stairs.
The sentry peered into the dark. “Who is it?” he called. “Who’s down here?”
I held my breath.
“Hey!” He took a few steps. “Feeling left out, little rebel? I can fix that.”
Silence.
“Hey! Answer me, rat!”
He took a few steps more. He reached the bottom. I clenched my fists, then sprang.
Even caught by surprise, an armed Guardian was no easy prey. He spun, hand to his keshu. I hit him with all the wound-up force I could muster, but he was already in stance. He roared and twisted, trying to throw me off. If he drew, I was finished. I clung to him, an open hand thrust into his face, the other wrapped around the hilt of his keshu, grunting with the effort.
“Kraya!” he hollered.
I feinted back, as if to let go and run. He surged forward. I hooked his feet, shifting my grip into a throw. Then I yanked his robes, whipping them around his keshu, tangling, even as he found his balance.
The blade came free, but jerked through fabric—a clumsy swing. It nearly took off my ear anyway, whistling past my face. But now his keshu was up, over his head. I grabbed for it and kneed him the groin.
He swore, crumpling inward, his grip loosening just enough—
I tore the blade free. I spun. I heard the sound of flesh opening, and a single, wet cry.
Another sword flashed in the dark. I threw the stolen keshu over my head, just in time. The force of the blow rocked me to my knees. I rolled back, breathing hard. The Guardian bore down on me, knowing he had the advantage. The keshu threw sparks as it cut the ground. Then up and back. I was scrambling now, thrown off balance. I tried to block, but could only get one foot beneath me, and the keshu twisted. His next blow would do it. But the hole . . . I felt a flutter of stale, reeking air. I gasped, and threw myself at his feet, fully expecting to feel the bite of Guardian steel, even as I rolled and kicked.
His swing missed.
I was now on the other side of him, but sprawled on my back—vulnerable.
He turned.
I whipped up the keshu—and let go. It flew at him. Nearly useless. Except that he took a single step back.
A startled cry. His arms flailed and I watched the keshu spin away into the dark even as he toppled back. He caught himself, feet twisted on one side, hands planted against the other. He was scrambling to get up.
I beat him to it. I scraped my stolen keshu off the ground, sprang, and with a parched cry, slammed the blade through his chest.
The Guardian folded into the hole and hit the floor with a grunt.
Silence. I stood breathing. Swallowed. Listened—nothing.
I had to move.
I hurried up the stairs to the centre room and into the wicked light. The stolen blade was stained red. My filthy robes were stained red. I tried not to think about it. Keshu lined the walls of the Tower—keshu awaiting the blood of a Guardian’s oath. I stumbled towards the back. There. A strong blade. A wooden hilt, crossed with silver.
I dropped my stolen blade and reached for the one that belonged to me. It slid into my grip. It ran into me, that power, that oath.
Protect them.
I would. I would. Even if I had to protect them from themselves.
I turned and broke for the camel yard.
“Traitor!”
A shout rang through the empty yard.
“He’s here. Stop him! He’s . . .”
The cry was picked up, echoed from over the wall, from the outer yard. More Guardians. They had returned.
I swore and slammed into the camel yard, grabbing th
ings as I found them. A water skin. A set of reins. A saddle.
I whistled. Yma appeared, but shuffled when she saw me, wary of the scent of blood.
“Come on!” I hissed.
She blared at me.
“Yma!”
She turned and trotted away. Sands, I had no time for this. I started running. Not towards her, but across the yard, towards the rear gate. Sure enough, her curiosity won. She changed direction.
As soon as she got close, I tossed the bridle over her, threw on the saddle. Cinched everything tight. “Come on, come on.”
I heard shouts from the inner yard now. I yanked Yma towards the rear gate, running now. Her nostrils flared with excitement. She bellowed, legs kicking out to the sides.
I heaved the gate open. The camel yard erupted behind me.
“There he is!”
“Stop him!”
I dove through. I heard the rush of air, and jerked back just in time. A keshu cut the space in front of me.
I drew, barrelling forward. No time for caution. I hammered into the sentry. We spun out in a tangle of limbs and blades, whirling. When we separated, my keshu was bloodier. A black, thick blood. The sentry clutched pieces of himself as they spilled out of his belly. He made a strange mewling sound. A horrible sound.
I staggered away. The desert was close. The last gate. I could make it. If I could make the desert . . .
I fell against the bar. It was heavy. My arms shook. Spittle flew from my mouth. Dimly, I was aware of pain. Pain lancing down my left arm. Blood dripping off my elbow. I strained. The shouts grew nearer. I glanced over my shoulder. Three Guardians—rushing me, swords bright.
I cried out and threw the bar down. Then they were on me.
I barely had time to step into the attack, keshu sweeping up as I ducked. It bit flesh. I spun. The two remaining Guardians hacked at me, faces twisted. I could only block one. Breath clawed at my throat. I dropped and rolled. Dodged another blow. Ducked. Countered. I seemed distant from myself, arms and legs whirling without thought. I slashed the face of the second. Flesh parted like a fig skin. Then I was turning on one knee, stabbing up. My keshu punched into the man’s gut. I gave a ragged gasp, but thrust it deeper, then wrenched it out with a gush of blood.
The Guardian dropped.
“Yma!” I yelled. My voice cracked like sand. She had bolted, and more Guardians were spilling out of the camel yard, some mounted.
I whistled, then heaved open the gate and burst into the great empty dunes.
Empty, but for a figure on the horizon: a single, solitary man, robed like an outrider, barefoot—a long knife glinting at his side.
I only help those who help themselves.
I started to run. Hope and terror rose up together to choke me. I heard a sound—shouts, cries, and the thudding of hoofs. I glanced over my shoulder. Five were mounted, three more ran on foot, and the camels were coming fast.
I wouldn’t make it. I ran anyway. Sandals slipped and dug through the sand. The ground shifted, throwing me into a stumble. I pushed. Limping, gasping. Hoofs beat louder.
Yl’avah’s might, I wasn’t going to make it!
I refused to call for help. I would make it, or I would die. Someone shouted.
“Grab it! Stop it!”
I glanced over my shoulder. One of the camels wasn’t mounted. It tore through the others, bellowing a joyous shout. Freedom! Freedom!
“Yma!”
She dodged one of the Guardians, kicking, teeth flashing and snapping. Then she bucked loose towards me. I swear she was laughing with her throaty, hooting calls.
Relief tore out of me. With strength I didn’t know I had, I threw myself into the saddle. I slapped my heels into her side. But Yma needed no urging. We burst across the sand. Her neck strained forward, pounding up a cloud of dust.
But they were coming hard. One had pulled alongside, the others galloped behind, whipping their camels into a frenzy. I ducked and dodged, yanking Yma to one side, leaning in. The Guardian tried to veer into me, nearly throwing his camel into a collision with mine. But a well-aimed kick from Yma knocked his camel away.
Two more gained on us.
I pushed Yma hard. Foam flecked her mouth. The Guardian on my left drew his keshu, balancing forward, blade glinting in the sun.
Almost there.
I strained towards the solitary figure, growing swiftly nearer. His presence loomed. He stood calm, ready.
Someone gave a shout. “Who is that? There!”
“Guardians ready!”
I bore straight towards Shatayeth. Our eyes met for an instant. Then dust enveloped us and I thundered past.
Two camels yelled. A third bucked. I didn’t dare glance behind as the shouts began.
“Get him!”
“Look out!”
“Guardians form up! Ah!”
Cries turned to screams. Camels bellowed. Hoofs pounded as they fled, scattering. Keshu rang uselessly, hitting air, and the knife laid into them like goats at a slaughter. There came a last gurgling cry—then silence.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. I leaned over Yma’s neck with a groan and urged her into the flaming emptiness.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Kulnethar ab’Ethanir
“Let me go after him!”
“No, ab’Ethanir.” The Al’kah slammed the door to the Circle chamber, leaning into it, head bent. I saw the exhaustion dragging beneath his anger. Beside me, Alis tightened her grip on my hand.
“He might listen to me,” I said.
“Or kill you.”
“He won’t.”
The Al’kah clenched his fist, voice rising in indignation. “He triggered the second-deadliest uprising in our history. He betrayed me, his ruler, to which he swore an oath of blood. He made a mockery of me! He killed six Guardians in his escape, maimed one, and slaughtered eight more in the desert.”
“Shatayeth killed those men. And now Ishvandu is out there with him. In Anuai. You think he’ll fade quietly into the desert to die? He has food. He has supplies. He has water. He has everything he needs—the colony you let him build. And trust me, Al’kah, when I say something worse will come of it. Worse than you could possibly imagine.”
The Al’kah glowered. “Ishvandu ab’Admundi will not have Anuai. Not if it takes every blasted Guardian at my disposal.”
“And it will. Don’t you understand? This is what Shatayeth wanted, and this is what he’ll get. If you send blades at him, they will die.”
“And you won’t?”
“Shatayeth thinks nothing of me. He’ll overlook a single, weak Elder.”
“Or he’ll stick a knife in you just in case.”
“He doesn’t think like that. He doesn’t kill for fun. He assesses every situation and does exactly what’s needed—nothing more, nothing less. Killing me would feel excessive to him, like a sign of fear.”
“And you’d bet your life on this theory?”
I glanced at Alis. She frowned, but said nothing, trusting me. “If I can get to Ishvandu before it’s too late,” I said. “Yes.”
The Al’kah shook his head, groaning and massaging his forehead. “And what do you mean by too late? What aren’t you telling me, ab’Ethanir? What,” he sighed, “are you so afraid of?”
“This,” Alis said.
She held out a parchment full of scribbles and sketches.
“What is this?”
“Notes,” she said. “Everything I can remember about this so-called E’tuah and the Avanir.”
The Al’kah’s gaze turned sharp. “The Avanir?”
“Yes.”
He snatched the parchment. He poured over it, brows stabbing knife-like towards the storm of scribbles. “You wrote this?”
Alis nodded. “Yes.”
“From memory?”
Her lips tightened. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“We think Ishvandu’s going to attempt this. Possibly with more success than his
predecessors.”
“But from memory?”
“I was compiling a system of Shatayeth’s involvement in Kyre’an history,” Alis said, “but the Temple banned us from the Library.”
“Banned you?”
“Yes.”
“Both of you?”
“Uh-huh.”
He stared at us. “That’s ludicrous.”
“I agree,” I said. “Apparently I’ve proven myself . . . untrustworthy.”
“Then we’ll just have to see you unbanned.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have authority over the Temple.”
“Yl’avah’s bleeding might, I don’t. A few blades should change their mind.”
I winced. “Al’kah, don’t. Please. Just . . . just read the parchment.”
He muttered something but studied the scribbles again. His brows stabbed lower with every passing moment. Finally, he glanced up.
“You’re sure about this?”
Alis nodded. “It’s accurate.”
The Al’kah began to pace. He clutched the parchment in his hand, frowning. “And how come no one in that blasted Temple has noticed this before?”
“They copy,” Alis replied. “No one searches for patterns in the inner writings.”
“The mandate of the scribes is to preserve the past,” I added, “not to study it.”
“So isn’t that what Elders are for?” the Al’kah lifted a brow at me.
“Yes. And for interceding at crucial moments like this. I’m asking you again, Al’kah. Let me speak to him. I have an idea.”
He continued pacing. He turned, and turned again, his steps an angry rhythm across the stone floor. Then abruptly, he stopped.
“I’ll send a kiyah with you.”
“They will die.”
“You need guides. Protection.”
“They will die. I go alone, Al’kah, or not at all.”
“Not even one? Not ab’Tanadu?”
I met his eye. “Alone.”
Anuai was deserted.
The sun’s crushing weight followed me, throwing harsh, thin shadows across the dusty bowl. The saplings along the ridge beckoned with dry and twisted arms. The wall of the camel yard was broken, fallen over and half-buried in sand. The well was untouched.
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