“Funny that,” Chut says, clutching my chin with his big hand, but not ungently. “One would think she’d be as exhausted as we are, but look at her. All … spry and chipper.”
“Well.” I snap my chin from his grasp. “If you had to walk around in flimsy slippers, you would not think so at all.”
Rolan contemplates this. After several moments of assessing me, he says, “We’ll make camp here. We’re just outside of Anyar.” Relief billows through me like a welcome breeze. He looks at Chut. “I’ll take the spectorium to the Bazaar and trade for some food and proper clothing for her. We’ll break our journey here and rest up.”
Chut nods down at me. “Can’t imagine she’ll fetch much, dressed like that. Those eyes, though. Aren’t they something to behold?”
To my surprise, Rolan agrees. “The only breathtaking thing about her.” With that, he turns to the horizon ahead and leaves us.
I look up at Chut, shielding my eyes from the sun directly overhead. “I need to relieve myself,” I remind him. Abruptly, he turns his back to me.
The rule is that I’m allowed privacy as long as I keep talking. As soon as I stop, they’ll turn around to make sure I’ve not run off. So as I dig my hole for the spectorium, I begin to babble on about being raised in Serubel. I tell Chut about the Serpens, one of his favorite things to hear about—especially the legend of the Scaldlings—and I tell him about the rope bridges and the Great Falls, which pour into the River Nefari.
To my relief, Chut never questions why it’s taking so long. The hole is deep and I fill it to the brim with spectorium, not bothering to shape it, just letting it pour from my hands and cool in the hot desert sand. I cover it over with sand and relieve myself quickly on top of it, so that the sloppy mound is not subject to investigation. Not that I believe Chut to be instinctively curious, but just in case he’s hungry and brilliant at the moment—and therefore in the mood to ask questions.
When I’ve finished, he offers me a sampling of food, which consists of cactus stripped of its thorns, a few slices of dried fish, and some sort of berry that I’d been tempted to eat earlier but wasn’t sure if it was poisonous. It would have been nice to know, I think as the juices make a pleasant explosion in my mouth. All these resources I’d been passing by with a lamenting stomach. I would not have survived if I hadn’t been captured.
“Pace yourself,” Chut says as I struggle to chew my mouthful. “Or you’ll lose everything you’ve taken in.”
As I eat, Chut hurls questions at me. “Why did you let her go?” he says, his brows drawn together.
“Her eyes,” I say, which surprises us both. “She understood what was happening to her.”
“Well, of course she did. Same as she understands what happens to the people she’s probably eaten in her lifetime.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he’s right. I offer him back the berries I shouldn’t finish, lest I vomit. He accepts them, popping one into his mouth thoughtfully.
“I hope you learned a lesson,” he says a bit smugly, nodding at my hand, which still throbs with pain from the venom. “Parani are not stupid. And they are not friendly.”
We sit in silence then and wait for Rolan to return. He takes a long time, and it makes me wonder how big the Bazaar is, how busy it could be. If the crowd is large enough to slip off into.
Rolan returns as the sun is setting, a great pack strapped to his back. He eyes me inquisitively as he sets down his load. “You’ve thinned out some these past few days,” he says warily. An understatement, we both know. Our rations have been light, to say the least. “Did you eat?”
I nod.
Out of the pack, he retrieves a handful of leafy stalks, a tiny glass jar of white powder, and a small clay cooking pot. “These will ease the blisters on your face,” he says, shaking the leaves at me. “And I’ll brew something that will help your swelling ankles. Chut, start a fire. We’ll need to boil the leaves first. Draw out the medicine.”
“We’ve no more flint,” Chut informs him.
“I’ve procured more for us, friend.” He tosses Chut two sizable rocks. Chut does not have the coordination to catch them, but picks them up from the sand and wanders off, I suppose to collect something parched enough to support a fire.
While the pot is cooling, Rolan pulls what looks like linen from his pack. “I’ve brought you some proper attire. Your gown is filthy, and besides that, there’s far too much of it.”
He walks it to me. I begin to unfold the garment and am horrified when there is very little to unravel. I hold it up, unsure if I’m looking at the top or the bottom. “Where is the rest of it?”
“That’s it.”
“I cannot wear this,” I tell him. Surely Mother did not have this in mind. Surely the Serubelans in the Baseborn Quarters do not demean themselves with such scanty attire.
“You’ll wear it,” he says, and spits in the sand next to me.
“This will barely cover me,” I protest, handing it back to him. He pushes it toward me again.
“Well now, that’s the point, isn’t it? How can I lure a buyer for you all covered up like a temple widow? Though I’m sure that creamy skin of yours will fetch a high price. That sort of coloring is rare in Theoria, even among the freed slaves.”
I’m not sure what a temple widow is, but apparently it is someone who dresses with some semblance of modesty around others and has little need for leaves to heal a sunburn. Yes, Theoria is hot and I’ve not experienced a moment where I’m not sweating. This garment would offer a measure of relief from the sweltering air, but is it really considered proper here to reveal so much of one’s body? How vile Theoria must be!
And why am I asking such silly questions of myself? According to Rolan, I’m to become the mistress of a merchant. Should I not be more worried about that?
But I’m going to escape, I tell myself. And soon, before we get to the city of Anyar.
Chut returns and coaxes a fire to life in a rudimentary pit he’s dug. Rolan sets about crushing up the leaves and boiling them, then hands them to me to press upon my face. I’ll admit, it does instantly draw out the heat from my cheeks. As if for good measure, he dumps the rest of the leaves in the pot and boils it some more. After a while, he blows on the top of the green frothy concoction, wrapping a piece of linen around the pot for a barrier between it and his hand. He drops a clump of what looks like sugar in it, then adds the jar of powder, swirling it around for a few seconds. He hands it to me gently, letting me take it from his hand. “Careful. It’s hot. Just sip it.”
I’m horrified to have to be drinking something hot in this heat. It seems like a punishment instead of any sort of cure. “What is this? It smells awful.” Thanks to the sugar, it actually smells sweet, ugly as it is, but I want to be difficult for Rolan. I owe him that much. And besides, I’ve become accustomed to lying as a first instinct.
“It’s goat vine. It will hydrate and speed along the healing process of your burns. You’ll need to drink it all.”
But I’m already downing it. The brew is delicious and soothes my parched throat even as it scalds it. The bits of leaves get stuck in my teeth and Rolan instructs me to chew them, to make use of the entire blend. I’m half inclined to thank him, but I just cannot bring myself to do it. The only reason he is helping me at all is to recover a high price for all the trouble he’s taken in keeping me. We must be close to the city; they want their precious cargo to heal before presenting me at the Bazaar.
“Are you not going to drink some yourself?” I ask, even as I tilt the pot higher to corral the last drop in it. But the thought is fleeting; the brew overtakes me.
In my vision, the world disappears into a shrinking hole, the last of which surrounds Rolan’s grinning face as I pass out.
14
TARIK
Rashidi allows himself into Tarik’s chambers unbidden. Tarik lies in his massive bed, in the very space his father used to lay. It’s an eerie feeling, sleeping in the room where his father
had died, in the bed where his father had wasted away to bones. Rashidi ascends the stairs and seats himself in front of Tarik on the edge of the bed. Tarik doesn’t look at him, only continues to pet Patra, who lies beside him, and stares at the mural painted on the high ceiling above.
“The caravans have been dispatched to Pelusia and Serubel, Highness.”
“We need the Serubelan spectorium, Rashidi. You should have seen the boy Juya. He had been on the threshold of death and healed completely within two turns of the sun.”
Rashidi sighs. “Of course, I could not have seen the boy, sire, as I tend to stay in the palace where I belong.”
“I must know my people,” Tarik says. “And the only way to truly do that is to be among them.” That’s the most noble reason he has for leaving the palace, but there are more selfish ones, too, and they both know it. Besides that, Rashidi does not stay in the palace so much as he claims. He is, after all, an advocate of the people of Theoria. His duties require him to be among its citizens.
Rashidi doesn’t argue—something that suggests he has ulterior motives for personally delivering the message about the caravans. Tarik tenses and waits. Rashidi clears his throat. “As your trusted adviser, Highness, I must recommend sending a caravan to Hemut as well.”
Tarik slides a cautious glance to his friend. “Why is that?”
“To open the discussion of marriage talks, of course.”
He shoots up, startling both Patra and Rashidi. “And who does Sethos want to marry?” And at fifteen years? Oh blast, what has his brother gotten himself into? Had Tarik not been clear when he said he didn’t need anything else to worry about? Surely Sethos did not make a fool of himself over the attractive emissary who’d presented in court? “It was not my idea to invite her to the palace dinner,” Tarik grumbles to himself. Only a blind man would not notice the attention Sethos had given her.
“You misunderstand me, sire. The bride I have in mind would be for you.”
Ah, so. Rashidi is of the same mind as Sethos; they both wish a woman upon him. Marriage even. Another mouth to feed, feelings to consider, a costly wedding no doubt. All at a time like this? It’s nearly unthinkable.
When Tarik doesn’t answer, Rashidi continues, “You’ll need an heir as soon as possible. What if—and it’s a terrible thing to say, sire, so please forgive me—you were to contract this awful plague? Then the bloodlines would stop with you.”
“There would still be Sethos,” he says dryly.
Rashidi sniffs. “I’ve no doubt your brother has already started some errant bloodlines of his own, Highness. But you well know the law. The firstborn son—”
“I know the law, Rashidi. But why are we in such a rush? I’ve barely taken the throne. Father is still warm in the tomb. Besides, Father married for love. Why can’t I?”
“Your father did not marry for love. As I recall, he did happen to fall in love with your mother after they were wed, which is a rare and fortunate circumstance. I’m afraid marriage is not about love.”
Tarik lies back down and turns away from Rashidi. Patra is still purring and sees fit to readjust her position, too, so that Tarik has better access to scratch behind her ears.
“Princess Tulle is very beautiful, you know.”
In all the five kingdoms, Princess Tulle’s hand is the most sought after and has been since Tarik was a boy. Her beauty has inspired songs even in Theoria, and most of them are about how every man who encounters her will be heartbroken eventually, either by her inability to reciprocate his feelings or because she is to marry a mysterious, faraway prince. Her father has waited until a suitable match could be made; he must have had Tarik in mind all along, which makes his head throb with pressure. Tarik scoffs. “What do I care of beauty?”
“The Superiors care very much for beauty. And they adore the cold climates of the ice kingdom. What they care for, you should care for.”
“How do you mean?”
“More and more of them are taking their wealth and resources—including what’s left of the spectorium—to the kingdom of Hemut. If we are in control—er, that is to say, if we have an alliance with that kingdom—then perhaps we can see some of that spectorium return to Theoria.”
Tarik wants to fight against his adviser’s logic, but when he lays it about like that, what choice does he have? He sighs into the dry night air. Once the spectorium runs out, and the Superiors have none to trade in Hemut, will the ice kingdom turn them away? If that happened, some might actually try to relocate there, taking their other resources and commerce with them. The last thing a plague-stricken Theoria needs right now is a failing economy to kick them in the stomach. “A pity the princess of Serubel fell to her death. I would offer for her directly. We need all the spectorium we can get our hands on. Did she have a sister, by chance?”
“I’m afraid not, Highness.”
“Unfortunate. I’d get dressed and accompany a caravan this very night.”
“It is regretful that you don’t feel the same of Princess Tulle of Hemut. Your enthusiasm would go a long way in securing the marriage.”
“They’d be foolish not to want to align with us. We’re the most advanced kingdom of all the Five. I’m just afraid our citizens will think it foolish on our part to share our majesty with an inferior kingdom.” Pompous words, he knows. But he can’t allow Rashidi’s logic to dominate the conversation.
“Our citizens well know we’re surrounded by inferior kingdoms. Would you rather I send a Lingot to Wachuk and inquire of one of their many princesses? To say the least, we’ll always be assured there will be food on our table.” At his joke, Rashidi chuckles.
Wachuk is by far the crudest kingdom of all the Five. The women are known to be unkempt and dirty, often not bathing for weeks. They take multiple husbands and divorce often, and only bother to bear children in between their many hunting expeditions. Tarik has seen a Wachuk woman. She was more muscular than Sethos. He shudders.
“Send a caravan to Hemut,” he blurts. “Let us see what they say.”
15
SEPORA
Someone calls my name, but I cannot answer. My eyelids flutter but will not open. My mouth rejects words; my throat is too withered dry to form them anyway. I become aware of someone patting my cheek, the action graduating to a stinging slap as I regain my wits. I try to fight back but hear myself moan in indignation instead. Saints of Serubel, why can I not open my eyes?
Then I remember the goat-vine potion. Rolan telling me to drink it all. Chew the leaves, he’d said. It’ll heal you, he’d said. Ha! I remember the swift feel of ease and contentment fall over me, my eyelids heavy against the brightness of the sun.
Oh yes, the potion. I’ve been knocked unconscious, only not by the hand of a brute this time. I took the mixture with my own steady hands and nearly thanked Rolan for it in the process: foolish, foolish.
Sounds. Sounds echo all around me, far away at first, then right upon me as though men, women, and children have all gathered around me, all gibbering in their Theorian tongue. Feet shuffling, metal clanking, the far-off bray of horses, water sloshing around. A medley of noises that could only mean one thing.
I’m at the Bazaar.
I’m at the Bazaar.
I must get out of the Bazaar!
Forcing one of my eyes open, then the other, I pull my hands to my face to try to stop my head from spinning. Finally my vision adjusts, and a few arm’s lengths away, I see Rolan and Chut talking to a man. The man wears a black metal beard jutting from his chin, a painted cylinder that reaches from his jaw almost as far as his belly extends, nearly caressing his chest as he speaks. Chin pieces are a sign of Theorian wealth. And so are the sort of headdresses this man wears. I’ve seen them in paintings back home, and on some of the wealthy Theorian merchants who dared to request a sitting with my father to negotiate the price of spectorium. Not to mention, what Aldon taught me about this society. We did not have an extensive lesson on Theoria per se, but we did cover their wealth
and haughtiness in multitudes.
I have to get out of here.
Wriggling my toes to assure myself they work, I perform the same exercise on the rest of my body. Ankles, knees, hips, arms, shoulders—moving them all just slightly enough to test their ability to function without drawing attention to myself. Occasionally Chut glances my way, and I become still as a corpse, fighting against the adrenaline surging through me. I’m almost shaking with the need to flee.
That man, that wealthy Theorian man wants to buy me, an unconscious girl whom he’s never met. Theoria is a despicable kingdom for allowing such things to happen in their boundaries and in public. The Bazaar is not only for trading goods, but people as well. Aldon did not tell me about this. All he taught me was the language, though I never thought I’d have to use it, and the history and the political interests he thought a princess should know.
Well, a princess should certainly know of these things as well.
My mind thrums with the sum of it all. The Warrior King has died and the Falcon King has taken his place, an eighteen-year-old boy who probably couldn’t find his way out of his own palace to inspect the goings-on of his kingdom. If I ever get to meet this Falcon King, I’ll knock him on his rear for allowing such things to occur. For women to be exploited in such a way. Given and taken as gifts. Utterly unacceptable.
Satisfied that not only should I run, but also that I’m capable of doing so, I jump up. Chut reacts immediately, coming toward me with open arms, meaning to secure me. I nearly fail to dodge him as I take in the crowd around me. I’ll stick out sorely with these clothes—wait. My clothes. I’m not wearing servants’ attire anymore. I’m wearing one piece of linen folded around me to cover only the most pertinent of areas. When did this happen? And why am I allowing it to distress me when I should be interested in escaping?