Queen of Shifting Sands, page 29
“With an army of reasonable size? They’d have to.”
Elerek’s eyes shot open, realizing his friend’s line of questioning. “Kushan.” He turned in his chair, glancing at Razhar. “They’ll sweep right through and . . .”
Norbah scowled. “They might not attack, saving their men and weapons for Instanolde, the true prize.”
“But they’re vulnerable, unprepared for such an attack—much like we are.” Elerek wondered if it were possible for the world to simply fall apart, for existence to unravel like an old garment. If it meant knowing that the Jarkins were coming from the signal of smoke as Kushite villages burned, then he didn’t want to know.
If Kushan fell . . . he dared not think of it. Kushan who hadn’t sworn fealty to him. The tribe that had suffered so heavily beneath the hand of his father, leaving a generation of orphans in the chaos—and not all had fared as well as Razhar. A people wounded, who had already watched their dead bleed on the shores of the Gungole.
Perhaps Instanolde didn’t deserve to survive.
Razhar’s jaw tightened, and his hand slipped off Elerek’s wheelchair. Behind him, Lystra covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. The deepness of midnight intensified, shrouding the yard in a murk so thick that it hurt to breathe.
Norbah huffed. “The Jarkins would have to split their force. They would never abandon the Darcress Kasbah, the crown of their victory.”
“Even with Darcress inaccessible until summer’s end?” Lystra whispered.
“Kushan can reach Darcress, with their condors,” Elerek spat. “And the Jarkins don’t know that they don’t stand with us. Divide and conquer.”
Would it have been any different if Kushan had sworn fealty to him? United their forces against the impending invaders?
Lifting his eyes to the dark, Elerek searched for the stars but the deepness veiled their light. Would he have taken command of the sky, summoning the mounted archers to fight? Could he have possibly sacrificed the blood of Kushan, as his father had, to defend Instanolde and take back Darcress?
Brutish or strategic? Perhaps neither, perhaps both. Elerek only knew that Kushan had made its choice, content to watch the seasons turn and the skies dance. He had no blame to heap upon them, only the panic magnifying in his chest.
“Elerek.” Lystra’s voice. Soft, almost fearful. “Send me.”
He lifted his gaze. The pain he felt in his chest she wore on her face, deep in her fatigued eyes.
“I’ll go to Kushan at once. We must give them the opportunity to defend themselves. Perhaps they may reconsider and choose to stand with us.”
Elerek raked a hand through his hair. “It might be too late, Lystra. And if the Jarkins are already there? I cannot send you into a war.”
“War will be here, whether we like it or not, and there’s a chance that I’ll arrive before they will.” A light caught in her eyes, like a torch in the night. “They’ll listen to me. I’ll make them.”
Something in her voice convinced him, made him feel as if they could go on, their tasks possible. Hers was a strength that could save kingdoms.
If everything were different, what would they have become? Instanolde’s beloved queen and the cursed king never meant to wear a crown.
“Please, El.” The fire in her eyes burned brighter. The frightened, weary girl vanished, replaced by the bold, determined queen.
She’s never called me “El” before. Elerek’s fingers stilled. A deep sigh fled his lungs. “Try to rest, Lystra. You’ll need it for your journey.”
The queen gave a decided nod, the look of the victorious conqueror. She turned and swept back into the palace, her robe streaming behind her.
Unbidden, the image of her resting softly on the extravagant bed filled his mind. Her eyes softly closed, her dark hair splayed across the pillows as a warm wind teased the bed’s canopy.
He drew a sharp breath, steeling himself back to reality, to the suffocating numbness.
“You don’t have a choice,” Norbah grunted. “Kushan must be warned.”
Elerek’s fingers began to drum again, mimicking the sound of his heart beating. On and on it went, waiting for his bones to brittle, his skin to liquidize, ready to burst, to drown, to die.
But not yet. Not before he saved Instanolde. He huffed and squared his shoulders, pulling the threads of himself together, the posture of a commander. “Have the assassin taken to the palace prison. We’ll begin a more thorough extraction within the hour, but first, I want to interrogate him myself.”
Norbah raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll speak to you?”
“No, but it’s worth trying.” He wanted to look a Jarkin in the eye. He wanted to tell Cormek’s murderers that vengeance was coming. Justify the rage boiling in his veins. “See to the preparations. Wake the men. See that the docks are cleared, the people relocated back to the east city. We need the waters lined with soldiers by sunrise.”
If they saw the sunrise.
Norbah nodded and vanished into the shadows. Only Razhar remained, dark circles beneath his eyes.
“It means little, but you have my gratitude, El.” Razhar’s gaze dropped to the sands. “For considering my people.”
“They’re a part of my kingdom, aren’t they?”
Razhar nodded, a shadow in his eyes that Elerek hadn’t seen before.
“You don’t often regard them as ‘your’ people.”
Shaking his head, his friend drew a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m where I belong.” Then he blinked, and the shadows fled. “You can do this, El.”
Elerek grimaced. “I feel wretched.”
A sad, rather pathetic sort of smile twitched at Razhar’s lips. “I just single-handedly fought off a Jarkin assassin—and saved your lovely queen’s life in the process. If I can do that, then you can face the next hour.”
“Fought?” Elerek raised an eyebrow. “Bit of an exaggeration? I do thank you, though, for protecting Lystra.”
Then, a true smile dawned on his face. Elerek felt he could die of jealousy to smile such a charming smile just once in his life. That’s how Razhar fights, a warrior who smiles.
“We’re still breathing, aren’t we?” Razhar huffed.
Elerek’s cynicism fought back tooth and nail. “We’ll see what my blasted curse has to say about that.” He reached for the rims of his chair’s wheels. Smooth from use, stable in an unstable world. Its touch brought him comfort, something to grip, to control. He wheeled himself back into the light of the palace.
“El, you know that it’s the curse that kills—not you—right?”
He stopped.
“There isn’t one that you’ve touched with the intent to destroy. Even now, even if this is the end, you’ve done what you can in the interest of preserving life. It’s admirable.” Razhar heaved a sober sigh. “You’re better than most men, you know that?”
Elerek didn’t look at him. “You’re a patronizing ray of sunshine, Razhar, you know that?”
He didn’t wait to hear his friend’s response.
A shudder crept over Elerek’s skin as the dark stairwell of the palace prison descended into a yawning black pit built beneath the guard’s keep. Cole and Norbah carried his chair down. He avoided their eyes, ashamed of requiring such assistance, but it soon grew too dark to see their faces.
Once they’d settled his chair, Norbah lit a torch, bringing the grisly cellblock into a small circle of light. Iron bars cast irregular shadows, like soldiers marching in perfect lines. Elerek blinked and drew a deep breath of the stale air belonging to the cruel, terrible place. A prison for criminals of war.
“Just ahead, on the left.” Norbah’s whisper seemed to shout back at them, echoing through the murk.
As he gripped the wheel rims, the rickety creak of his chair screeched in the closed space, like a sand wraith of legend. Sand covered the uneven stonework, eroded from the walls or blown through cracks and crevices, like pale lumps of sugar in haphazard piles. Elerek’s gaze skimmed the empty cells, their floors covered with straw and rusty manacles. Once or twice, he heard rats scurrying about.
Then, the shadows shifted. Elerek stopped before the Jarkin’s cell. The man lurched toward his bars, shackles locked on his ankles. Bruises covered his face, medals earned by his silence.
“Brought a cripple to torture me next?” His teeth gleamed in the torchlight, leering like a skull.
Norbah snarled. “Watch yourself before the king of Instanolde.”
Elerek pushed his shoulders back, his chin high, and glared. The hands that gripped the bars of his cell had bruised his queen’s neck.
The smirk faded from the Jarkin’s mouth. “Ah, Batu-Khasar wondered if the rumors were true, if Instanolde’s king had a brother hidden away somewhere.”
Leaning forward, Elerek clenched the armrests of his chair. “Wonder no more.” He glanced at Norbah. “You may leave us, General.”
Norbah set the torch in the sconce affixed beside the cell door and retraced his steps into the darkness.
The Jarkin took a step back, kicking at the shackles. “Your Highness.” His eyes never left Elerek, not even to blink.
Wheeling his chair closer, Elerek allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. How many hours, since the crown was placed on his head, had he heard nothing but talk concerning the mountain men? The invaders who brought their worst nightmares to pass by taking Darcress and murdering a king. They were a force of nature that swept down from the crags to destroy all that they loved.
But before Elerek stood a man. A man in weathered clothes and clad in human skin. A heartbeat in his chest. It seemed strange to attribute all the horrors he knew concerning the invaders to this one man behind bars.
Yet fire tingled in Elerek’s veins and rage billowed hot in his lungs. This same man went after Lystra and Razhar. Scaled the walls of the palace and laid murderous hands on his queen.
“You will be executed at dawn.” Elerek exhaled. “But first, my soldiers intend to make this the longest night of your life.”
The Jarkin reached for his shoulder, where a patch with an insignia had been roughly sewn onto his tunic. Two interlocking diamonds stacked atop one another. “Batu-Khasar won’t take that message kindly.”
“I haven’t taken kindly to the loss of Darcress and the murder of my brother,” Elerek growled. “You and your barbarian ways have no place among my people and with every breath in my body and every beat of my heart, I will fight to keep my kingdom free and prosperous.”
He meant it. Every word.
The Jarkin looked away.
“Tell me, how is that you survived while my warrior brother did not?”
Rubbing his hands, the Jarkin’s knuckles cracked. “Kings die as easily as anyone. War doesn’t pick favorites. It’s the weak who survive. Suppose I’m one of them, since I’m here being tormented in your reeking kingdom.” He scoffed. “And so are you, crippled king.”
Elerek ground his teeth.
“Ah, what my people could do with this land.” The shackles rattled as the Jarkin sidled to the bars again. “The whole of the desert, the mountains, the crags, and canals. All ours.”
Not while he still drew breath. Not before the curse claimed him. “Consider this your chance to earn yourself a quick death. Tell me when your people will attack.”
The Jarkin cursed in his own, coarse language.
“You struck Darcress and gave us something to mourn before high summer.” Smothering the heat in his veins was akin to reining in a wild cardant. “You’ve come from the river, haven’t you? Batu-Khasar will bring his armies down the canals?”
“Think you’re clever, do you?”
Elerek’s fingers took to tapping. That was as good an answer as any. “When?”
The Jarkin shook his head. “I’m a dead man, which means I can say what I like.” He gripped the bars in both hands, peering between them with dark, sinister eyes. “You’ve enjoyed the river’s bounties too long, dirty Instan. Your kingdom will fall, your city burn, your men will be slain before the walls, your children will toil fields for our harvests, and your women will serve us.” He sneered. “Including your eyeful of a queen. A worthy prize for Batu-Khasar.”
You. Dirty. Cur. Elerek took a deep breath, his blood simmering beneath his skin. This was why Instanolde needed his schemes, to save them from this. To save Lystra. “Insult my wife again,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “I dare you.”
The Jarkin gave a leering smile. “You Instans think yourselves so high and honorable, but you’ll do what it takes to survive. Your tribes fight over water and fertile land, same as all beneath the sun. You think us evil on account of our desiring your river but you’re no different.” He cackled coldly. “When the weak survive, you pick at them, like vultures. Your father spilled much blood in lawful battle. We saw his strength and honor and didn’t challenge him. But you little boys . . .” He snickered. “When we took your kasbah, we knew we would win. The river, the city, it will be no different. You think the desert protects you, but instead, it makes you vulnerable.”
He’s wrong. You know he’s wrong. A chained prisoner shouldn’t have left him so rattled.
“Easy pickings, crippled king,” the Jarkin drawled, his mountain accent thick. “Your kingdom will crumble to dust. Maybe Batu-Khasar will spare you . . . so you can watch.”
Terror reached with cold, iron fingers, squeezing about his heart, enveloping his rage, the poisonous wrath seething in his soul. The curse acquainted him with helplessness long ago, but now, with his kingdom slipping from his fingers, he began to fear living.
He would not live only to watch his kingdom die.
Elerek gritted his teeth, stretched out his hand, and grabbed the Jarkin by the wrist.
The prisoner’s hand withered, a shrunken, strangled mass of skin. A high-pitched wail resounded in the dark. The Jarkin sank to his knees, his wrist still locked in Elerek’s hold. He swore and struggled, his face twisting with pain.
Elerek didn’t let go, squeezing until the man’s hand turned transparent. The curse’s mark dissolving skin into water. Now the man would know true helplessness—living at the mercy of the curse’s damnation.
Except, it didn’t stop there.
He didn’t want to watch the assassin waste away here in this cell, skin and breath slowly slipping away from him. He didn’t want to see the same sorrow that haunted the eyes of Norbah, Myra, and the rest of his tribe lay claim to this enemy.
No, he wanted this man to be punished.
To drown.
And by the curse’s strange, dark designs, Elerek got his wish.
Pale skin and plague scars slipped from his hands, replaced by pure, transparent liquid. One by one, droplets began to fall from his fingers, followed by a steady stream straight from his cursed skin. The same element that gave life in the desert turned to death in the grip of his curse. It flowed from his palms, down his arm, spilling into the grit beneath his chair. It pulsed with power, with his own rapid heartbeat.
Elerek gasped, releasing the Jarkin. The prisoner backed away, cowering in the corner. As the water drenched his clothing, pooling about his chair, Elerek clenched his hands, attempting to quell the stream.
But when he opened his palms, its pressure intensified, matching the rage in his soul, ebb for ebb. The might of a crashing river sprayed from his hands. The force threw his chair backwards, slamming into the cell behind him.
Wh-what is this? The thought was small and terrified. Easily drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, the primal roar of fury to drown, drown, drown.
He stretched his arms toward the Jarkin’s cell, every muscle taut. Water began to fill every crevice of the uneven prison floor, swelling against the cell walls in furious waves. The Jarkin backed against the wall, cursed water lapping at his knees. His face grew white with horror.
Elerek recognized the despair in the man’s eyes, the look of a damned soul coming face-to-face with his own death.
And he didn’t care.
The cell filled with water but it did not pass through the bars, held in place by some invisible barrier. The Jarkin struggled, his neck stretched above the torrent. His screams muted as water poured into his lungs. Submerged by the curse, his skin turned transparent, his bones pale. He writhed, reaching for the bars, stretching a bony finger into air that he could not breathe.
Still, Elerek pushed, his shoulders straining, his palms flat against the wall of water.
Then, the Jarkin stilled. Eyeballs rolled up in invisible sockets. His body floated limp, drowned in a cell full of water.
Elerek’s chest heaved. Darkness blurred the edge of his vision. The curse’s power began to drain and as it did, some portion of his humanity returned.
What have I done?
His hands remained outstretched, holding the wall of water in place, but he hung his head to rid himself of the sight of the man that he’d drowned.
Razhar said that he’d never touched someone with the intent to destroy. Well, he’d just proved his friend a liar.
Then, the mass of water burst.
It surged from the cell, slamming the Jarkin’s body against the bars. The wave of water hit Elerek, knocking his chair over and dousing the torch. He fell, sprawled in the stream running down the prison corridor.
Pushing himself above the flow by his elbows, Elerek gasped in the darkness. He strained for air, choked by the wretched sobs crawling up his throat. Overwhelmed by the horror, numbed from the cursed water, he wept.
“Your Highness? Are you all right?”
Elerek jerked his head up. A circle of light hovered at the end of the passage, illuminating Norbah’s towering figure.
“Stay back.” Elerek lifted a hand—now only dripping with water like a leaky well pump.
The general stopped, his eyes shifting from Elerek’s overturned chair to the body slumped in the cell. He marched forward, the water lapping at his ankles, soaking his sandals.
Was the water also cursed? Elerek watched as veins appeared along Norbah’s bare calves, as if the curse knew its own. “No, no, don’t!”
“El.” Sorrow tainted his voice. “I’ve been cursed for years. If it hurries itself up, I won’t mourn. You, my king, are my first call and priority.”
Elerek’s eyes shot open, realizing his friend’s line of questioning. “Kushan.” He turned in his chair, glancing at Razhar. “They’ll sweep right through and . . .”
Norbah scowled. “They might not attack, saving their men and weapons for Instanolde, the true prize.”
“But they’re vulnerable, unprepared for such an attack—much like we are.” Elerek wondered if it were possible for the world to simply fall apart, for existence to unravel like an old garment. If it meant knowing that the Jarkins were coming from the signal of smoke as Kushite villages burned, then he didn’t want to know.
If Kushan fell . . . he dared not think of it. Kushan who hadn’t sworn fealty to him. The tribe that had suffered so heavily beneath the hand of his father, leaving a generation of orphans in the chaos—and not all had fared as well as Razhar. A people wounded, who had already watched their dead bleed on the shores of the Gungole.
Perhaps Instanolde didn’t deserve to survive.
Razhar’s jaw tightened, and his hand slipped off Elerek’s wheelchair. Behind him, Lystra covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. The deepness of midnight intensified, shrouding the yard in a murk so thick that it hurt to breathe.
Norbah huffed. “The Jarkins would have to split their force. They would never abandon the Darcress Kasbah, the crown of their victory.”
“Even with Darcress inaccessible until summer’s end?” Lystra whispered.
“Kushan can reach Darcress, with their condors,” Elerek spat. “And the Jarkins don’t know that they don’t stand with us. Divide and conquer.”
Would it have been any different if Kushan had sworn fealty to him? United their forces against the impending invaders?
Lifting his eyes to the dark, Elerek searched for the stars but the deepness veiled their light. Would he have taken command of the sky, summoning the mounted archers to fight? Could he have possibly sacrificed the blood of Kushan, as his father had, to defend Instanolde and take back Darcress?
Brutish or strategic? Perhaps neither, perhaps both. Elerek only knew that Kushan had made its choice, content to watch the seasons turn and the skies dance. He had no blame to heap upon them, only the panic magnifying in his chest.
“Elerek.” Lystra’s voice. Soft, almost fearful. “Send me.”
He lifted his gaze. The pain he felt in his chest she wore on her face, deep in her fatigued eyes.
“I’ll go to Kushan at once. We must give them the opportunity to defend themselves. Perhaps they may reconsider and choose to stand with us.”
Elerek raked a hand through his hair. “It might be too late, Lystra. And if the Jarkins are already there? I cannot send you into a war.”
“War will be here, whether we like it or not, and there’s a chance that I’ll arrive before they will.” A light caught in her eyes, like a torch in the night. “They’ll listen to me. I’ll make them.”
Something in her voice convinced him, made him feel as if they could go on, their tasks possible. Hers was a strength that could save kingdoms.
If everything were different, what would they have become? Instanolde’s beloved queen and the cursed king never meant to wear a crown.
“Please, El.” The fire in her eyes burned brighter. The frightened, weary girl vanished, replaced by the bold, determined queen.
She’s never called me “El” before. Elerek’s fingers stilled. A deep sigh fled his lungs. “Try to rest, Lystra. You’ll need it for your journey.”
The queen gave a decided nod, the look of the victorious conqueror. She turned and swept back into the palace, her robe streaming behind her.
Unbidden, the image of her resting softly on the extravagant bed filled his mind. Her eyes softly closed, her dark hair splayed across the pillows as a warm wind teased the bed’s canopy.
He drew a sharp breath, steeling himself back to reality, to the suffocating numbness.
“You don’t have a choice,” Norbah grunted. “Kushan must be warned.”
Elerek’s fingers began to drum again, mimicking the sound of his heart beating. On and on it went, waiting for his bones to brittle, his skin to liquidize, ready to burst, to drown, to die.
But not yet. Not before he saved Instanolde. He huffed and squared his shoulders, pulling the threads of himself together, the posture of a commander. “Have the assassin taken to the palace prison. We’ll begin a more thorough extraction within the hour, but first, I want to interrogate him myself.”
Norbah raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll speak to you?”
“No, but it’s worth trying.” He wanted to look a Jarkin in the eye. He wanted to tell Cormek’s murderers that vengeance was coming. Justify the rage boiling in his veins. “See to the preparations. Wake the men. See that the docks are cleared, the people relocated back to the east city. We need the waters lined with soldiers by sunrise.”
If they saw the sunrise.
Norbah nodded and vanished into the shadows. Only Razhar remained, dark circles beneath his eyes.
“It means little, but you have my gratitude, El.” Razhar’s gaze dropped to the sands. “For considering my people.”
“They’re a part of my kingdom, aren’t they?”
Razhar nodded, a shadow in his eyes that Elerek hadn’t seen before.
“You don’t often regard them as ‘your’ people.”
Shaking his head, his friend drew a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m where I belong.” Then he blinked, and the shadows fled. “You can do this, El.”
Elerek grimaced. “I feel wretched.”
A sad, rather pathetic sort of smile twitched at Razhar’s lips. “I just single-handedly fought off a Jarkin assassin—and saved your lovely queen’s life in the process. If I can do that, then you can face the next hour.”
“Fought?” Elerek raised an eyebrow. “Bit of an exaggeration? I do thank you, though, for protecting Lystra.”
Then, a true smile dawned on his face. Elerek felt he could die of jealousy to smile such a charming smile just once in his life. That’s how Razhar fights, a warrior who smiles.
“We’re still breathing, aren’t we?” Razhar huffed.
Elerek’s cynicism fought back tooth and nail. “We’ll see what my blasted curse has to say about that.” He reached for the rims of his chair’s wheels. Smooth from use, stable in an unstable world. Its touch brought him comfort, something to grip, to control. He wheeled himself back into the light of the palace.
“El, you know that it’s the curse that kills—not you—right?”
He stopped.
“There isn’t one that you’ve touched with the intent to destroy. Even now, even if this is the end, you’ve done what you can in the interest of preserving life. It’s admirable.” Razhar heaved a sober sigh. “You’re better than most men, you know that?”
Elerek didn’t look at him. “You’re a patronizing ray of sunshine, Razhar, you know that?”
He didn’t wait to hear his friend’s response.
A shudder crept over Elerek’s skin as the dark stairwell of the palace prison descended into a yawning black pit built beneath the guard’s keep. Cole and Norbah carried his chair down. He avoided their eyes, ashamed of requiring such assistance, but it soon grew too dark to see their faces.
Once they’d settled his chair, Norbah lit a torch, bringing the grisly cellblock into a small circle of light. Iron bars cast irregular shadows, like soldiers marching in perfect lines. Elerek blinked and drew a deep breath of the stale air belonging to the cruel, terrible place. A prison for criminals of war.
“Just ahead, on the left.” Norbah’s whisper seemed to shout back at them, echoing through the murk.
As he gripped the wheel rims, the rickety creak of his chair screeched in the closed space, like a sand wraith of legend. Sand covered the uneven stonework, eroded from the walls or blown through cracks and crevices, like pale lumps of sugar in haphazard piles. Elerek’s gaze skimmed the empty cells, their floors covered with straw and rusty manacles. Once or twice, he heard rats scurrying about.
Then, the shadows shifted. Elerek stopped before the Jarkin’s cell. The man lurched toward his bars, shackles locked on his ankles. Bruises covered his face, medals earned by his silence.
“Brought a cripple to torture me next?” His teeth gleamed in the torchlight, leering like a skull.
Norbah snarled. “Watch yourself before the king of Instanolde.”
Elerek pushed his shoulders back, his chin high, and glared. The hands that gripped the bars of his cell had bruised his queen’s neck.
The smirk faded from the Jarkin’s mouth. “Ah, Batu-Khasar wondered if the rumors were true, if Instanolde’s king had a brother hidden away somewhere.”
Leaning forward, Elerek clenched the armrests of his chair. “Wonder no more.” He glanced at Norbah. “You may leave us, General.”
Norbah set the torch in the sconce affixed beside the cell door and retraced his steps into the darkness.
The Jarkin took a step back, kicking at the shackles. “Your Highness.” His eyes never left Elerek, not even to blink.
Wheeling his chair closer, Elerek allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. How many hours, since the crown was placed on his head, had he heard nothing but talk concerning the mountain men? The invaders who brought their worst nightmares to pass by taking Darcress and murdering a king. They were a force of nature that swept down from the crags to destroy all that they loved.
But before Elerek stood a man. A man in weathered clothes and clad in human skin. A heartbeat in his chest. It seemed strange to attribute all the horrors he knew concerning the invaders to this one man behind bars.
Yet fire tingled in Elerek’s veins and rage billowed hot in his lungs. This same man went after Lystra and Razhar. Scaled the walls of the palace and laid murderous hands on his queen.
“You will be executed at dawn.” Elerek exhaled. “But first, my soldiers intend to make this the longest night of your life.”
The Jarkin reached for his shoulder, where a patch with an insignia had been roughly sewn onto his tunic. Two interlocking diamonds stacked atop one another. “Batu-Khasar won’t take that message kindly.”
“I haven’t taken kindly to the loss of Darcress and the murder of my brother,” Elerek growled. “You and your barbarian ways have no place among my people and with every breath in my body and every beat of my heart, I will fight to keep my kingdom free and prosperous.”
He meant it. Every word.
The Jarkin looked away.
“Tell me, how is that you survived while my warrior brother did not?”
Rubbing his hands, the Jarkin’s knuckles cracked. “Kings die as easily as anyone. War doesn’t pick favorites. It’s the weak who survive. Suppose I’m one of them, since I’m here being tormented in your reeking kingdom.” He scoffed. “And so are you, crippled king.”
Elerek ground his teeth.
“Ah, what my people could do with this land.” The shackles rattled as the Jarkin sidled to the bars again. “The whole of the desert, the mountains, the crags, and canals. All ours.”
Not while he still drew breath. Not before the curse claimed him. “Consider this your chance to earn yourself a quick death. Tell me when your people will attack.”
The Jarkin cursed in his own, coarse language.
“You struck Darcress and gave us something to mourn before high summer.” Smothering the heat in his veins was akin to reining in a wild cardant. “You’ve come from the river, haven’t you? Batu-Khasar will bring his armies down the canals?”
“Think you’re clever, do you?”
Elerek’s fingers took to tapping. That was as good an answer as any. “When?”
The Jarkin shook his head. “I’m a dead man, which means I can say what I like.” He gripped the bars in both hands, peering between them with dark, sinister eyes. “You’ve enjoyed the river’s bounties too long, dirty Instan. Your kingdom will fall, your city burn, your men will be slain before the walls, your children will toil fields for our harvests, and your women will serve us.” He sneered. “Including your eyeful of a queen. A worthy prize for Batu-Khasar.”
You. Dirty. Cur. Elerek took a deep breath, his blood simmering beneath his skin. This was why Instanolde needed his schemes, to save them from this. To save Lystra. “Insult my wife again,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “I dare you.”
The Jarkin gave a leering smile. “You Instans think yourselves so high and honorable, but you’ll do what it takes to survive. Your tribes fight over water and fertile land, same as all beneath the sun. You think us evil on account of our desiring your river but you’re no different.” He cackled coldly. “When the weak survive, you pick at them, like vultures. Your father spilled much blood in lawful battle. We saw his strength and honor and didn’t challenge him. But you little boys . . .” He snickered. “When we took your kasbah, we knew we would win. The river, the city, it will be no different. You think the desert protects you, but instead, it makes you vulnerable.”
He’s wrong. You know he’s wrong. A chained prisoner shouldn’t have left him so rattled.
“Easy pickings, crippled king,” the Jarkin drawled, his mountain accent thick. “Your kingdom will crumble to dust. Maybe Batu-Khasar will spare you . . . so you can watch.”
Terror reached with cold, iron fingers, squeezing about his heart, enveloping his rage, the poisonous wrath seething in his soul. The curse acquainted him with helplessness long ago, but now, with his kingdom slipping from his fingers, he began to fear living.
He would not live only to watch his kingdom die.
Elerek gritted his teeth, stretched out his hand, and grabbed the Jarkin by the wrist.
The prisoner’s hand withered, a shrunken, strangled mass of skin. A high-pitched wail resounded in the dark. The Jarkin sank to his knees, his wrist still locked in Elerek’s hold. He swore and struggled, his face twisting with pain.
Elerek didn’t let go, squeezing until the man’s hand turned transparent. The curse’s mark dissolving skin into water. Now the man would know true helplessness—living at the mercy of the curse’s damnation.
Except, it didn’t stop there.
He didn’t want to watch the assassin waste away here in this cell, skin and breath slowly slipping away from him. He didn’t want to see the same sorrow that haunted the eyes of Norbah, Myra, and the rest of his tribe lay claim to this enemy.
No, he wanted this man to be punished.
To drown.
And by the curse’s strange, dark designs, Elerek got his wish.
Pale skin and plague scars slipped from his hands, replaced by pure, transparent liquid. One by one, droplets began to fall from his fingers, followed by a steady stream straight from his cursed skin. The same element that gave life in the desert turned to death in the grip of his curse. It flowed from his palms, down his arm, spilling into the grit beneath his chair. It pulsed with power, with his own rapid heartbeat.
Elerek gasped, releasing the Jarkin. The prisoner backed away, cowering in the corner. As the water drenched his clothing, pooling about his chair, Elerek clenched his hands, attempting to quell the stream.
But when he opened his palms, its pressure intensified, matching the rage in his soul, ebb for ebb. The might of a crashing river sprayed from his hands. The force threw his chair backwards, slamming into the cell behind him.
Wh-what is this? The thought was small and terrified. Easily drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, the primal roar of fury to drown, drown, drown.
He stretched his arms toward the Jarkin’s cell, every muscle taut. Water began to fill every crevice of the uneven prison floor, swelling against the cell walls in furious waves. The Jarkin backed against the wall, cursed water lapping at his knees. His face grew white with horror.
Elerek recognized the despair in the man’s eyes, the look of a damned soul coming face-to-face with his own death.
And he didn’t care.
The cell filled with water but it did not pass through the bars, held in place by some invisible barrier. The Jarkin struggled, his neck stretched above the torrent. His screams muted as water poured into his lungs. Submerged by the curse, his skin turned transparent, his bones pale. He writhed, reaching for the bars, stretching a bony finger into air that he could not breathe.
Still, Elerek pushed, his shoulders straining, his palms flat against the wall of water.
Then, the Jarkin stilled. Eyeballs rolled up in invisible sockets. His body floated limp, drowned in a cell full of water.
Elerek’s chest heaved. Darkness blurred the edge of his vision. The curse’s power began to drain and as it did, some portion of his humanity returned.
What have I done?
His hands remained outstretched, holding the wall of water in place, but he hung his head to rid himself of the sight of the man that he’d drowned.
Razhar said that he’d never touched someone with the intent to destroy. Well, he’d just proved his friend a liar.
Then, the mass of water burst.
It surged from the cell, slamming the Jarkin’s body against the bars. The wave of water hit Elerek, knocking his chair over and dousing the torch. He fell, sprawled in the stream running down the prison corridor.
Pushing himself above the flow by his elbows, Elerek gasped in the darkness. He strained for air, choked by the wretched sobs crawling up his throat. Overwhelmed by the horror, numbed from the cursed water, he wept.
“Your Highness? Are you all right?”
Elerek jerked his head up. A circle of light hovered at the end of the passage, illuminating Norbah’s towering figure.
“Stay back.” Elerek lifted a hand—now only dripping with water like a leaky well pump.
The general stopped, his eyes shifting from Elerek’s overturned chair to the body slumped in the cell. He marched forward, the water lapping at his ankles, soaking his sandals.
Was the water also cursed? Elerek watched as veins appeared along Norbah’s bare calves, as if the curse knew its own. “No, no, don’t!”
“El.” Sorrow tainted his voice. “I’ve been cursed for years. If it hurries itself up, I won’t mourn. You, my king, are my first call and priority.”
