Queen of Shifting Sands, page 6
Elerek stared at the emissaries, his gaze unblinking. If only they knew that his curse had doomed him to drown like one tossed into their canals.
“While you watch . . .” Fury stoked his soul, burning embers from the hottest fires. He fought to keep his voice level. “Know that my duty is to protect my people. I swear to you, until my dying day, I will seek to defend Instanolde—and that includes Kushan—from whatever threats come her way.” He paused. “Tell your chief that I wish him no ill will, but I would have the remainder of the year promised to my brother.”
The emissaries exchanged glances. Elerek looked at Norbah, but the general only tightened his gloved hand around the hilt of his scimitar.
“We will confer and bring your petition to our chief.”
Elerek released a short exhale. “I am honored.”
The emissaries bowed and two took several steps back, but Timos remained.
“Yes?”
Timos bowed a second time. “An inquiry, prince-heir. As we searched our archives and libraries, seeking the rotation of the heavens at the time of Your Highness’s birth, we found a discrepancy. The stars seemed to indicate that you, not Cormek, are the elder of Lorkin’s sons. A year separates you in age.”
An uncomfortable knot lodged itself in Elerek’s stomach. He regretted the small breakfast of couscous and moon fruit. “It is not a discrepancy.”
“You are indeed the elder?”
Elerek nodded. A root of bitterness planted between him and Cormek. It wasn’t his brother’s fault. To their father, there was only one choice of an heir, and it wasn’t the son who was cursed to drown.
Timos frowned. “That is a strange thing, Your Highness.”
They can’t know, can they? About my curse? Elerek drew a shallow breath. If anyone discovered his curse, his reign would end. They would only see a man who doomed those he touched to turn to water in the desert.
As to the man standing before him, Elerek’s mind spun. His responses were limited. For a moment, he thought to blame skeetos, the plague that caused his hands to scar, his legs to wither. But he’d never seen his limitation as a hindrance before and saw no reason to begin now.
“Well,” he finally replied. “A year can change a great many things. A king can choose to name a son born a year after his first as his heir and a tribe can choose to give a king their fealty. Time will tell whether these decisions held any wisdom.”
Timos narrowed his eyes, appearing unsatisfied by this answer. He bowed again. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Chapter 9
Lystra
Lystra left the rooftop as soon as she could. She knew her father would send his guards to confer with those associates he had at the palace. They would know soon enough if Kushan had sworn to the prince-heir or not.
Descending the stone steps, she paused in the majaz, a deep, floral aroma sweeping her senses. The threshold, carved of pale stone, had transformed into a forest of pink. Woven baskets covered every inch of the marble floors, bursting with boughs of tamarisk covered in row after row of tiny pink flowers. It smelled like the flower merchant’s shop when she chose the arrangements for her wedding.
Several servants shuffled the baskets along, making their way toward the kitchens. Lystra caught sight of her maid among them.
“What is all this?”
The maid gave a small bow. “It’s for you, Torra.”
“Me?”
“For healing. For grief.”
Well, yes. Lystra knew the boughs were often gifted to those who were sick as a sign of hope and healing. Tamarisk blooms were used to cure a host of maladies. But for her?
“Who sent them? And why so much?”
The maid offered a small smile. “From all over. People have been bringing them all day. They wish you well, Torra.” A blush crept over her amber cheeks. “Many called you the Malikaa. Their queen.”
The room seemed to spin in a haze of pink and tamarisk. Lystra swallowed and reached a hand to the polished wood of the staircase. She wondered if the palace was filled with boughs and baskets. If the prince-heir shared this honor and adoration.
The people’s queen. A shiver shot through her body. Suddenly, her grandmother’s schemes seemed tangible.
“Would you suffer me to say that I told you so?”
Lystra turned, lifting her eyes. Dalmah descended the staircase in a vision of grace and elegance. Her wrinkled hand touched the railing lightly, gemstones glittering from her many rings.
“We play a delicate game, granddaughter. Its moves are subtle, but the results are quite poignant—much like the tamarisk.”
The mourning paint. The pyre. Lystra’s lungs shuddered. “Cormek’s death isn’t a game, Grandmother. I loved him.”
Dalmah’s eyes softened, but only for a moment. “I know, granddaughter. But he is dead. Sitting here in mourning won’t accomplish anything.”
“There are moments that it’s all I can do,” she whispered.
“Well, then you ought to be thankful to have me.” Her grandmother stopped three steps from the floor, towering over her. “You see that your people love you. Their breathtaking queen who rode out into the Sancen in glory and returned with nothing. Tell me.” She cocked her head to one side. “Did you mean what you said? That you want what’s best for your people?”
Lystra thought of Kimzi. Her cousin once kept a parrot who loved to talk. It sang in the evenings when the musicians strummed their ouds. But each time Kimzi took an excursion with his friends, the parrot had to be caged. The cage stood in the courtyard, right in the center of the house’s activity. Still, it hated the cage. It refused to sing. Finally, it succumbed and perished.
She knew exactly how that parrot felt.
“I raised a queen.” Dalmah looked down upon her with sharp eyes. “When I begin a task, I see it through. Now, it is true, you’ve suffered a loss. A great loss. Still, last night, beside the pyre, I saw a queen forged by fire and girded in perseverance. I ask, Lystra, that you trust me. Work with me. And we will see this task through, together.”
Lystra swallowed. The look in her grandmother’s eyes was ruthless. Surely the prince-heir would be easy prey to her formidable grandmother. She could almost believe that Dalmah could take on the kingdom—and win.
It would be her victory—but on Dalmah’s terms. Her conditions. The parrot must learn to sing despite the cage.
“Father will have us all at the palace in the morning. To swear fealty.”
A smile curled over Dalmah’s lips. “You leave your father to me. I will take care of everything.”
Lystra tensed. These words didn’t fill her with starlight—hope—rather, they filled her with fear. But the kingdom would be hers to protect. Her beloved people beneath her care. And the Jarkins would be hers to fight because, after all, Cormek was hers to avenge. That was worth the fear. This arrangement would secure her future, perhaps for good.
Lystra took a step back, putting room to breathe between her and Dalmah. “All right,” she said simply.
Her grandmother smiled.
Lystra spent the afternoon in isolation. Under normal circumstances, she might venture a visit to the palace, confer with the stables, or train with her cardants. But now, all that was gone.
Escaping the heat of the long afternoon, she slipped into her father’s study. Built of stone and enforced with wood bookshelves, the room kept cool even in high summer. Lystra pushed back the lattice of the two narrow windows, letting light spread across the plush, crimson rug.
Aside from the histories and treaties her grandmother selected for her edification, Lystra had never been much for reading. Not when the call of endless sands and brilliant skies gave cry to her name. The study smelled of stale parchment and traditions, reminding her far too much of Grandmother.
But it was amid such histories that curse binders walked like the wraiths of the deserts. Lystra hadn’t forgotten the horrid display of the girl bursting into a shower of droplets. She could imagine the scorn she’d receive if she dared to ask her father or grandmother about such things—things the kingdom had shed much blood to be rid of. Taking a thick tome from the shelf, her fingers fluttered through the pages.
An hour passed. And then two.
Only scant mentions of the hunts Lorkin had decreed were scattered throughout the tomes. Anyone accused of association with the binding of a curse was put to death. Immediately.
Casters shared this fate—that is, one who has received the curse and performs the required rites and rituals. Often, the curse is sold from the binder, who then remains guiltless of the curse’s actions. This dark transaction complicated the hunting and executing of those involved in the heinous practice.
Note: curses, being dark and vile and vengeful in nature, come with hidden “costs” to those who practice them. A divine punishment. Some say—
Lystra turned the page. A ripple of ripped parchment met her fingers. The page had been torn out. She sniffed.
The girl was dead; she couldn’t ask who cursed her. Perhaps she didn’t even know. Still, she wondered if others were cursed—or if the binder still lived. That seemed the last thing that Instanolde needed when the world was falling apart.
Sighing, she shut the book. She’d had enough of the study and needed an escape.
Hurrying down the corridor, she arrived at Corsha’s chambers. Her cousin appeared and beckoned her inside.
“We are going on an excursion,” Lystra declared.
Corsha’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “To where? Not on a dusty cardant ride?”
Lystra cocked her head to one side, her hair cascading over her shoulder. “The night market.”
That caught her cousin’s attention. Smiling a secretive smile, Corsha sauntered toward her wardrobe, flinging back its doors. “Surely you’re not going in that?”
Flinching, even Lystra had to admit that she needed something more elaborate for the Instan streets after dark.
She backed toward the door. “I’ll meet you in five minutes. I do hope you’ll wear shoes suitable for dancing.”
“You’re sure about this?” Corsha glanced over her shoulder, her eyes as scrutinizing as those of the physician that inspected Lystra upon her return from the desert. She had no wounds, at least, none that could be treated.
Lystra stilled, her hand on the doorknob. Should she venture to the market? Blend in amongst the crowd seeking to enjoy the evening? Part of her wanted to say no, dismiss the idea as silly and acknowledge the deep loss still cleaving her heart. But the other part wanted to simply shove it out of sight, forget that it existed, and try to feel like herself again.
Besides, if she were to have any sort of future serving her people—and saving them from the Jarkins—she couldn’t do it crippled by grief. Lystra lifted her chin and gave her cousin an affirmative nod.
Corsha acknowledged her with a hopeful smile and began digging through her clothing. “Wear a veil.” Her command echoed against the interior of her wardrobe. She leaned back, eyeing Lystra with a sharp gaze. “Considering . . . it just might be simpler.”
A knot wedged itself into Lystra’s stomach, reminded that her home was filled with tamarisk and the whisperers all called her queen. “I will.”
Chapter 10
Elerek
The emissaries didn’t linger long, for which Elerek was thankful. He deferred to Norbah to show them back to the courtyard where their condors waited. Then, wheeling his chair down stone corridors cast in filtered sunlight, he barricaded himself in a small parlor. Curtains of silk hung at each window, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
Yanking the gold circlet from his head, he let it fall to the table with a clatter. Not yet a king, and without Kushan, he felt as if failure were a weight sinking onto his shoulders.
Surely Kushan would swear to Torra Lystra. She could probably convince them with the blazing heat of her eyes alone. Maybe it would be better if she overthrew him.
His hands grew cold and clammy, as if death itself were creeping into his skin. The sunlight lost its warmth, and the movement of the wind faded away, leaving him in a cold, dark void. Elerek gulped a shallow breath. His fingers moved to his collar. Unfastening the intricate lacing, he pulled back his tunic. Beneath his breast, along his ribcage, transparent skin enveloped his side.
The mark of his curse. Unchanged.
But soon, it would spread. Turn his skin to water. Drown him from the inside out. Like Azraa—of whom Razhar found no trace—and so many others. How long had he wished for death? Now, he wished for days—days to avenge his brother and save his kingdom.
“Goodness, all your soldiers gawking about. You’d think a lovely woman had walked by, not an old, ugly condor.”
Elerek quickly refastened his tunic as Razhar swept in and flung himself onto a cushion with a dramatic sigh.
“Have you ever ridden one?” Even the thought of mounting the broad, feathered backs of the great birds made Elerek’s heart race with terror. Nothing beneath the summer sun would convince or coerce him into such a thing. He couldn’t even ride a cardant.
“Sure I have.” Razhar stretched his muscled arms over his head. “Kushites are taught to fly condors before they learn to walk.” He blinked, looking directly at Elerek for the first time, his infectious smile fading like the dancing stars in the predawn murk. “What’s wrong now, El?”
Elerek gave a small shrug.
Pulling himself up from the cushion, Razhar leaned forward. His vest hung loose from his sculpted shoulders, the edge of the tattoo on his chest appearing at his collar. A constellation. “Kushan didn’t swear, did they?”
Elerek shook his head.
His friend waved a dismissive hand. “Stupid stuffy lot, they’ll regret it eventually.”
Razhar had never been keen on his own tribe. While he shared their skin of polished bronze and amber eyes—great assets for Razhar’s many admirers—Elerek suspected that he found them dull. A definite damper in his adventurous lifestyle.
“Others will follow their lead.” Elerek glared down at his hands. “My reign will end before it’s begun.”
“Now, don’t say that.”
“One summer to decide Instanolde’s fate,” Elerek growled. “That is, if the curse doesn’t take me first.”
Razhar huffed and reached into the inner pocket of his vest, pulling out a roll of velvet and a small pouch. “Well, then, we’ll just have to make the most of it.” Spreading the velvet on the table between them, a delicate pattern of gold embroidery in the shape of a spiral glimmered in the midmorning light.
Sometimes, he wished he could punch him. “Will that be before or after the Jarkins kill us?”
“Now, now.” Razhar dumped the contents of the pouch onto the velvet and began lining up a series of tiny gold figures. “We both know you’re the one with a mind for strategy. If anyone can outsmart the Jarkins and preserve Instanolde, it’s you.” He pushed the rest of the pieces, tiny shells from the Gungole river snails, toward Elerek and looked up with expectant eyes. “You go first.”
“I don’t want to play.” Elerek sighed, but still he gathered the barjee shells into his palm, tossing them across the velvet board.
Razhar’s face lit up with a grin. “Ah, come now. I’ll let you win.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Elerek moved his pieces, one by one, across the embroidered path and his heart felt a bit lighter. “You have never let me win, Razhar.”
“Hence the ‘mind for strategy,’ right?” Moving the shells to his side of the board, Razhar gave them another toss, their subtle rattle an echo of familiarity, of comfort. His voice grew soft, like a whisper riding the wind. “That’s what your brother would’ve wanted, yes? To fight for Instanolde?”
Elerek leaned back, comforted by the wood at his back. Sometimes, it seemed his chair was made of stronger stuff than he was. “I fought with him, Razhar. Hours before he rode out. Told him that he didn’t know me and could never understand my pain. I yelled at him to go, and to leave me. Now . . .” He sighed, watching Razhar march his figurines like an army, forming a barricade. “I’ll never have the chance to ask for his forgiveness.”
Silence settled over the room. Only the soft wind, blown across the Sancen, stirred. A bit of feeling returned to his awareness, bringing with it the smell of heat, of wildness. A freedom none within the palace walls would dare taste.
Finally, Razhar inhaled. “You and Cormek fought often.”
Elerek gathered the shells into his hand but didn’t toss them.
“He kept trying to get under your skin. Like sand in our shoes. You know what that means?” Razhar smiled. “He didn’t give up. Not on you.”
Hot tears filled Elerek’s eyes.
Razhar reclined, cocking his hands behind his head again. “Cormek forgave you for your insensitive, disgruntled attitude time after time. What makes you think this would be any different?” He released one hand to gesture toward the game. “It’s your turn.”
This time, Cormek was dead. Elerek scattered the shells across the board and set to work outflanking his opponent without a word.
“See?” Razhar leaned forward to survey the game. “I can insult you without fear of a grudge. I know that you care—deep down in that insensitive, disgruntled mess of yours.” He clicked his tongue. “Stars above, how do you always do it?”
“Mind for strategy.” Elerek kept his finger on his last figure, taking one last stock of his arsenal. Razhar was right; he never stayed angry at Cormek for long. Partially right. “I’m not insensitive.”
“No, El, sometimes you are. You put up walls that don’t need to be there and shut us all out. But when you care, you care fiercely.”
Elerek pushed the shells across the table to Razhar’s side of the board. “Well, I was shut out first.”
