UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel Page 10

  Ona had taken the ocarina from Lucca and had it on her head and was swiveling her hips. “Queen of the Squawking Horn Pipe,” she sang.

  “You look seriously intelligent right now, Ona,” Lucca said dryly. “Gentle folk,” he held out a hand, “look upon my proud war sister, Onaratta Sings like Dying Dog.”

  Seren almost laughed, but Meekra was wringing her hands and was right to worry. “If you see him, tell me. If you hear anything, let me know right away. Please double check the guards are in place at the back entrance to my chamber.”

  Meekra nodded and slipped back into the dancing and joking, disappearing into colored kaftans, flushed faces, and the smoke billowing from Seren’s chambers.

  Lucca grabbed the ocarina from Ona, an indulgent look on his face, then began to play. Ona grinned at Seren—Seren had never known smiles could be aggressive but Ona managed it—and linked their arms, pulling Seren into a dance.

  Ona sang in Silvanian, something about daggers and eyes, and Seren lifted her hem and moved her feet in time, trying to keep up until Erol walked up with Seren’s bow in hand.

  “I think we should have a contest, my lady.” Erol scowled, but it was his happy scowl. Seren was fairly certain his face didn’t really know how to not scowl.

  “Archery here? In the tent?”

  Erol nodded and gestured toward a barca set up in the corner beside Hossam and Cansu. The leather target’s decorative bells twinkled in the lamps’ light.

  Ona rubbed her hands together. “This’ll be fun. Eh, Lucca, you need to be a part of this.”

  Lucca lowered the ocarina and eyed the target. “If you insist, Onaratta. And if it pleases you, Kyros Seren.”

  He dipped his head at Seren and her body felt lighter, like she was made of light and shadow instead of flesh, like a breeze might lift her and take her away. Her worries and fears couldn’t settle on her shoulders. They slipped right through her and she let herself enjoy the feel of it.

  “Definitely. Just know that I’m going to beat you, Lucca Hand of Ruination.”

  “He is pretty good, Kyros,” Ona muttered.

  “And so am I.” Seren took her bow from Erol as he raised his voice.

  “Nobles, war brothers and sisters, friends and respected guests, please clear the aisle. Kyros Seren, the Blessed, the Chosen One, is about to start an archery contest!”

  “What is the prize, Blessed One?” Qadira called out, her perfect eyebrows lifting. She smirked at Seren, most likely hoping she’d make a fool of herself.

  Seren spotted Kaptan Rashiel in the audience. He’d helped Meric with the contest on her wedding day and was the type that got along with everyone.

  “Kaptan Rashiel!” The man turned his head, then quickly put his cup down and stood, smoothing his military kaftan. “What should be the prize for this impromptu archery contest? I’m entering so it’s not right that I choose the winner’s gift.”

  Ona whispered to Lucca and wiggled her hips as she eyed Rashiel. Lucca’s fingers drifted over his sly smile and Seren had to drag her attention back to Rashiel.

  Rashiel cocked his head, thinking. “Noshu’s colt?”

  Seren smiled at the mention of Fig’s mother, Noshu. She’d given birth to a lovely ebony colt with a fine head just eight days ago. “Perfect, Kaptan Rashiel. But whoever earns this prize must promise never to sell him. Fig will want her half-brother nearby.”

  Lucca grinned as servants brought in several bows and a lashed bundle of arrows. Blue and black fletching brightened the ends of each one and new steel heads gleamed from the tips.

  Ona’s eyes shone and she mumbled something about the horse and Seren’s demand. “You are kind, Chosen One,” she said, louder now. “Too kind.”

  “Why don’t you go first, Erol?” Seren lifted a hand toward him.

  With what passed as a pleased look for Erol, he took three arrows from a servant’s hand, raised a bow to aim and spread his feet. One, two, and three flashed across the tent. Two near the bull’s eye and one a little right. The room stomped feet in praise.

  Erol nodded his head and stepped aside. Three more fighters and a scribe lined up to give the contest a try.

  Lucca handed Seren a stick of minted lamb, which she took and gobbled up quickly, happy to have her appetite back.

  “The scribe’s not bad.” Lucca’s eyebrows lifted.

  “But not as good as you.”

  The corner of his mouth moved. He shrugged in what Seren was learning was a very Lucca-like movement. It meant yes, but I’d rather not say it aloud and seem prideful. He held his three arrows, his thumb smoothing the first one’s fletching as he leaned against the lotus pillar. She pressed her back against the pillar too, her arm brushing his. Warmth from his olive-toned skin rushed through the point of contact and suddenly her heart was beating too quickly.

  “Think you can beat me?” Seren swallowed and stared at the phoenix on the tip of her shoe. Its rosestone eyes seemed to blink in the flickering light. Lucca wasn’t answering, so she raised her head.

  He’d turned to face her, his deep, reddish-brown eyes hot. “I won’t insult you by not trying my best, my kyros.”

  Shivers rode down her back though she wasn’t sure why. She wanted to say thank you or make some clever quip, but her mouth didn’t want to work.

  He leaned closer. The collar of his green brigantine vest rucked up a little. It rubbed the side of his neck and trapped a strand of his thick, shoulder-length hair. Without thinking, she reached toward him, slipped her thumb under his collar and straightened it. His nostrils flared in surprise, his lips just inches away and his gaze burning into her eyes as she pulled away. She could still feel the softness of his brigantine, the heat in his skin, the strength simmering under his restraint.

  “If you want…” she said, his breath mingling with hers. “We could maybe…”

  His fingers danced over her closest hand, glancing to see if anyone was watching, then moved back the slightest step. His throat bobbed once, from the hollow at the base all the way to the slope under his jawline. Chest moving up and down, he whispered, “If this is your strategy to make me lose the contest, it’s a good one.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  He interrupted with a teasing smile. “I know. I was joking. But we should laugh. I should walk away. This archery contest is about to turn into a display of my longing for you, and I don’t think that would be beneficial to either of us—past the point of pleasure, anyway.”

  Joy spread arms wide inside Seren and she felt like she was falling, but in a good way. Breathless. Free. Untethered.

  She was about to argue for him to stay, but Meekra appeared beside Rashiel, her face drawn and pale as she approached, a warning in the coiled tension of her clasped hands and tight jaw.

  “Kyros Seren,” she started.

  Adem walked up behind Seren and Lucca made a noise like a growl.

  “Pearl of the Desert,” Adem said quietly, the fires’ light cutting across his eyes.

  Seren nearly dropped her bow.

  Turning, she saw Adem had brought two men, black bags in hand. Not ore masters this time. These were physicians.

  Seren’s heart clenched and stopped. This was the end.

  11

  SEREN

  Adem had brought physicians to evaluate Meric’s condition. Seren was going to be sick.

  Extending a palm to the physicians, Adem addressed the room, “In my great concern for Kyros Meric, I’ve brought two physicians, fresh from a long rest. Thank you for the opportunity, Pearl of the Desert. Welcome, good men. This way, please.”

  Completely ignoring Seren’s open mouth and the permission she definitely, absolutely had not given him, he led the physicians toward Seren’s chamber. Hossam and Cansu stood guard. They seemed petrified, completely unable to move, their gazes cutting to Seren. The brightly painted archery target beside them looked completely cheerful and completely out of place.

  Seren’s hands shook. “What is this?” Heading
toward Adem, she bumped a table sharply with her knee. Pain leeched up her leg and she wished for what felt like the thousandth time that she was graceful and confident like Ona, like Lucca, like Meekra, like Barir, like everyone around her but herself. She fisted her hands around her scrap of green wool, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to raise her voice and take hold of the situation. She would die. Meekra would be implicated. Barir would definitely die. They would be beaten to death. Probably tonight. And left in a ditch outside the city walls, rubbish to fall under Invader boots.

  “Go on in, physicians.” Adem wasn’t even paying attention to her. Like he hadn’t heard her.

  “No.” Her voice wasn’t nearly loud enough.

  The first physician stepped away from the door, but the second put a hand to the wood. They hadn’t heard her. Lucca was at her elbow, Ona too. She could feel their hot rage on her behalf. Meekra joined them and whispered a prayer under her breath.

  They gave Seren the strength to speak up.

  “I said stop!”

  The second physician shoved the door open.

  Hossam drew his dagger. He thrust the weapon into the man’s side.

  Adem had his own blade to Hossam’s throat before Seren could say a word.

  She grabbed Ona to keep from falling.

  “Stop,” Seren whispered, everything moving too quickly. “All of you. Stop!”

  Adem’s physician dropped to his knees and clutched at his side. Blood pooled around his slim fingers.

  Hossam looked from Adem to Seren, panic stinting his words. “The physician disobeyed you, Kyros Seren. It isn't a fatal wound. At least…I didn’t intend to kill him. I—he disobeyed, my kyros.”

  The injured physician slumped all the way to the carpets where he lay with arms outstretched and face white, his bag by his side. His associate, lips pulled back in a grimace, kneeled beside his limp body.

  The physician was dead.

  Seren’s order had killed an innocent man. Not an Invader. Not an enemy or a criminal. A physician who probably had a family, children, a life. Bile rose in Seren’s throat and she fought to stay standing, her legs trembling.

  At Hossam’s throat, Adem’s arm twitched.

  It wouldn’t take but one small move to end Hossam’s life. His broad smile would be gone. His fierce loyalty.

  “This is not how tradition mandates,” Adem snapped. “No matter how ill the kyros is. This is not how we run the Empire.”

  She had to be strong. To be the kyros. If not, Hossam was going to die right now. Holy Fire, help me.

  She drew herself up and let go of Ona, who gave her arm an encouraging squeeze.

  “General Adem. My husband's health is my business first.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It wasn’t nearly strong enough. Confidence didn’t glow from the tone like Ona or Lucca’s words always did. But maybe pretending to feel it would fix some of this horror. “This is how I run this Empire. You had better get used to it.”

  Adem stared into Hossam’s chest, not meeting Seren’s eyes.

  He would order her arrest. There was no way this would work. He had history behind him, years and years of only strong royal blood ruling like she was trying to do. He’d never swallow her sad attempt at authority.

  But slowly, slowly he lowered his weapon.

  Hossam took a breath, his bushy beard moving as he worked to keep his face from showing anything. What did he feel? Anger at Seren for putting him in that position? She wouldn’t blame him. This was a mess. A tragic mess.

  Still not meeting her eyes, Adem barked commands to remove the poor man’s body, bowed to Seren, then left the feast with two ore masters whose draping cloaks followed them like spilled ink.

  It had worked. She’d done it. She’d taken command over Adem. She was kyros. A shiver rocked her, but she held her chin high. Now if she could just feel right about it. If she could be confident in this…

  Ona’s grin could’ve swallowed a world. Lucca relaxed against a pillar, arms crossed, nodding like he’d expected her to succeed all along. Meekra’s eyes shone with tears and she touched her family ring, probably thinking of her father, Barir, and how he was the first to tell Seren she was blessed.

  “Meekra,” Seren whispered. “Please quietly let Lucca and Ona know that I need them to come to my personal chambers after the feast. If they’re willing.”

  “What about the quarantine? Won’t someone question them coming in?”

  “I’ll simply bring them in and do what must be done. We don’t have time to worry about someone reporting it to Adem. I’ve jumped past the line of what is dangerous anyway. I have to smooth out the mess I’ve made. We’ll keep Erol, Cansu, and Hossam only at the doors. I’ll send the rest of the guards on errands. Oh, please get more ka’ud ointment from your father. We’ll need a lot of cloths that we can burn…after we finish what we need to do. And a burial shroud. Can you get your sisters to help you gather everything? Am I asking too much?”

  “I know what we must do. You don’t have to explain anything. And no, you could never ask too much of me, Blessed Pearl, my kyros. I would give my life for you. For Akhayma. For the Empire.”

  Meekra bent her head and looked up at Seren through thick, black lashes. Seren knew very well she’d be lost without her.

  Seren rubbed a palm over her friend’s silver rings. No words would be enough, but she needed to say them anyway. “Thank you for your courage. I’d be lost without you.” She squeezed Meekra’s hand and Meekra squeezed back. The corner of Meekra’s lips lifted despite the fear flickering through her eyes. “If at any point, you can’t do this,” Seren said, “you don’t want to be a part of this, you go. Go back to your family’s tent.”

  “I will never, ever leave you, my lady.” Meekra’s voice was almost a growl. Seren imagined her as a mother desert lion, watching over her cubs. “Never.”

  Seren hugged her, breathing in her comforting scent of olive oil and soaps, and went back to the high table.

  The table of district heads turned, faces lined with worry. Clan Azjorr’s chieftain sat very still beside the waterworks district’s head. They had paused their seemingly deep conversation. The man she was looking for huddled with the records keepers, every one of them squinting to see, their eyes weak from years spent pouring over scrolls.

  “Scribe?”

  The man scurried over, back hunched a little, but face bright and intelligent. “My lady? I, I mean, my kyros?”

  “As of this day, the Empire will no longer enslave those captured in battle or foreigners who wish to live in the Empire. The Empire will no longer take a volunteer,” Seren sneered at the word because they were no such thing, “from every border town so said town may rule with their own local customs. We will take true volunteers into our army and reward them so that they will come of their own free will. Foreigners will be low-caste, but the cost of bell removal will be halved.”

  The district heads erupted into questions, polite but demanding. No one dared disagree openly but their unhappiness with her decree showed in their faces. Seren held up her palms and they quieted.

  “The only reason we eat here today instead of bleeding to death under Invader boots, the only reason we hold the Invader king and are about to accept a sizable sum of silver and the surrender of our enemies is because every caste gave blood—slave, low-caste, all—to fight. Together, we protected our city and our Empire. And now, we will respect one another and live to fight another day.”

  Almost everyone in the tent stood and most stomped their feet in praise, drowning the district heads’ questions. Meekra ordered household staff around the tent to help slaves remove bells outside and called in the criers to spread the word to the city. The scribe went to his pedestal in the corner to record her pronouncement.

  There were pockets of those who narrowed their eyes at Seren and whispered behind heavily ringed hands. The head of the waterworks district raised his voice, but Clan Azjorr’s chieftain shoved him back into his chair, shutting
the man up.

  “She saw a vision, fool. She is blessed!” The chieftain turned and bowed deeply. “May we all learn to be as merciful as you, Blessed Pearl.”

  Seren’s hand went to her chest, swallowing. She felt like she was at the edge of a cliff, toes barely hanging on. The music started up again, and she slipped into her smoke-filled chambers to wait for the others to arrive so they could take Meric from his temporary resting place under the ground beneath the rugs, and pretend that he had just died. Ka’ud had thoroughly soaked the air and every fabric in the chamber. Hopefully, it would hold when the body was unburied.

  At the archery target, bows, and arrows were swept out of the tent by those wise enough to know the contest wasn’t going to happen now. Seren leaned against the lotus tower’s cool stone and sighed. Her bones were too tired for somebody so young.

  AFTER THE FEAST, when the main tent emptied, Seren sent all the guards except her own to see to the release of the slaves and be sure their names were recorded in the books and their new low-caste bells attached to their sashes.

  Meekra still hadn’t returned with the ka’ud ointment when Lucca appeared at the back door, his slightly curly, black hair shining in the sunlight and his dark eyes serious. He put his hands on his wide, leather belt, then crossed them, then clasped them.

  “I’m here to help. In any way you need, Kyros Seren.”

  Despite his obvious worry and nervousness—which was completely understandable—something about his presence made her feel like she’d taken a step back from that imagined cliff’s edge.

  “Thank you. You…know what we have to do?”

  “Yes.” His voice was dark.

  “Then let’s do it quickly and never talk about it again.” Her stomach knotted as she removed her outer kaftan, rolling her shirt sleeves up. “Is Ona coming?”

  Ona herself answered as she slipped in. “Yes, she is.” She smiled sadly and patted Seren on the back roughly. Seren didn’t think she meant to be rough. It was just Ona’s way.