Miraculously, his plan had worked. He was finally in a position to do something, to help someone, and yet he felt more helpless than ever.
They emerged into the inner city, where the wealthy took up residence in large caverns cut into the rock face. Some of the most lavish living quarters even had water that cascaded down the walls, cooling the caves. In the shade of the narrow canyon, men and women strutted like peacocks on the streets, regaling themselves with mindless chatter used as an excuse to display their finest silk clothes and blood jewelry, much of which was sewn into their faces and skin.
Both the males and females had powdered faces, a Phanecian tradition that had begun when the first Teran slaves were brought across the Burning Sea. It was an attempt by the people of Phanes to differentiate themselves even further from the slaves, though Jai found it rather ridiculous. Most Phanecians’ skin was naturally brown, while the Terans’ skin carried a reddish hue. Their eyes were different, too, the slaves’ wide and round versus the thin, narrow eyes of their masters.
In the canyons of Phanea, the people ate delicacies sold by middle-class vendors with permanent stone platforms that lined the road. Grasshoppers and caterpillars were roasted in oil squeezed from grumnuts, a sweet nut that grew on lush, brown trees that thrived in the shade of the canyons. Smoke rose from a stone pit where a long green pyzon roasted on a spit, a bald Teran slave boy turning it slowly by hand to ensure the rubbery meat cooked evenly.
A group of women practiced the art of phen sur, the final of the three martial arts, which was named after the sun goddess herself. Phen sur was considered a feminine art, more like a dance than a way of fighting, and was used mostly in ceremonies and celebrations. The women moved together, aiming high kicks at the sky and lithely springing off their hands.
Jai looked away, because watching the dance of the sun god always reminded him of his mother.
And then the chariot moved beyond, into the outer city, slave quarters flashing by on either side. The slaves, who were primarily red-skinned Terans, lived in tiny cubicles cut into the stone walls, stacked on top of each other like hollow blocks, stretching nearly all the way to the surface. From afar, the slave residences resembled long, gray honeycombs, rolled out along the canyon walls. Those who lived above ground level had to climb narrow, crumbling, stone steps to reach their beds. Sometimes one of them would slip and fall to their death, though their Phanecian masters seemed to care little and less about these unfortunate tragedies. Slaves were easily replaceable, and it would be costly to repair the steps.
Jai trained his gaze firmly ahead, afraid of what he might do if he saw more suffering. More hardship.
No, he needed to be smart when he finally chose to act.
Or maybe he was just making excuses, he wasn’t certain anymore.
The canyons of the gods ended and Jai pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to block the harsh sunlight. Yet, despite the heat, he felt cooler outside the city. He felt like he could breathe again.
Without the city, the landscape was a burnt wasteland of imposing plateaus, carved earth, and red buttresses rising against the cloudless sky. Axa would be lucky to survive the journey on foot. Or unlucky, depending on the perspective. Far into the distance was an enormous rock—Garadia Mine, named after the man who discovered the secrets inside it. The wealth beyond measure.
The chariot followed the well-worn path across the rocky landscape, spitting up clouds of dust from its brass wheels.
Lost in the monotony of the desert landscape, Jai’s thoughts from earlier came back to him. The memory of a story told by his father, who had fought in several battles against the west along the Southron Gates. How the wall had once crumbled on the eastern side, after being hit by a barrage of projectiles and several battering rams. Evidently, in his haste, the emperor at the time, Jin Hoza, Vin’s father, had patched together a repair team that left the inner core of the wall empty, a series of tunnels through the wall. By all appearances from the exterior, the wall looked as solid as a mountain, but, according to Jai’s father, was a breach waiting to happen.
But how can I use this knowledge? Jai wondered. Even if he could sneak a small group of slaves from the mine, they would still have to traverse the desert from Phanea to the Bloody Canyons, face the rugged terrain and vulzures known to nest in the canyons themselves, and then slip past one of the border towns, Sousa preferably, because it was the easternmost city—closest to the rumored weakness in the wall.
Jai knew he’d be sentencing them all to death, both the people he took and the ones he left behind. Is doing nothing worse? Is a life of hardship and forced labor worse than death?
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Master?” the slave driver said, thinking he’d been issued a command.
“Drive on for Garadia,” Jai muttered.
Of course, the slave obeyed.
Four
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
“The red-barbed funnel is the most poisonous spider in the world, did you know that?” Rhea asked.
The red-haired woman was huddled in the corner, her head down. Her hair was tangled and matted, covering her face. She didn’t respond. But Rhea didn’t care, it was meant to be more of a rhetorical question, a part of her ongoing monologue.
The spider crawled along her palm, repeatedly dashing its mouth against her skin, trying to sting her with the red barbs inside its mouth. The barbs containing the deadliest poison in the world.
Rhea laughed, letting the spider crawl across to her other palm. “So deadly, and yet it cannot use its poison against humans. See?” The spider tried again and again, never giving up its attack. Crawling and striking. Crawling and striking. “Its mouth is too small. Isn’t that amusing?”
Again, there was no response from the woman who used to be one of the Three, the Furies that led the furia, the righteous warriors of Wrath and servants to the crown. The woman who now appeared as broken as a porcelain plate smashed on the ground.
“See how it strikes again and again, desperate to end me?” She placed her palm against the side of a table, and the spider crawled onto it. “And yet I am the one who holds its life in my hands.”
Her fist slammed down with a thud that made the Fury flinch in the corner. When Rhea raised her hand, the spider was crushed, a mushed body and tangle of broken legs. She noticed the Fury’s dark eyes staring out at her between a gap in her wall of crimson hair.
“Do you see where I’m going with this? You are powerful, oh yes, a strong warrior, fit to serve a queen. Probably strong enough to kill a queen. But you won’t, will you? Because if you try, I will crush you.” Rhea slammed her fist down again and again, and with each hammer blow the table shook and the Fury flinched.
She stopped abruptly, letting silence fall like a scythe. She stood. Approached the woman, who she had taken to death’s doorstep and back again. Reached down, enjoying the way the Fury trembled in anticipation of the blow she thought would come.
But Rhea didn’t strike her. Not this time. Instead, she peeled back the hair on one side, tucking it behind the woman’s ear. Then she did the same on the other side, until she could see her entire face.
A ragged W was carved in her skin, from temple to chin to temple, and for a moment Rhea admired her handiwork. It was a near perfect match for her own facial scars. At the time her own face was cut, she’d thought it was the end of her life, when, in reality, it had been the beginning. It had opened her eyes to a world beyond beauty, beyond wealth, a world that existed only on power, and those who had it.
It had only been a few fortnights ago, but it seemed an eternity since the W on her own face stood for Whore, though that wasn’t public knowledge. No, the people of Knight’s End, her loyal and adoring subjects, thought the mark stood for Wrath, a symbol of her righteousness and devotion to their deity.
The Fury closed her eyes as Rhea ran the fingernail of her thumb along the scab, which was finally beginning to h
eal. She traced the W from end to end and then back again, relishing the feel of it.
When she was finished, she said, “Whom do you serve?”
The woman’s lips moved, but Rhea couldn’t make out her words.
“Repeat. Louder.”
“I serve the queen,” the woman said through cracked lips.
“Be. More. Specific.”
“I serve the queen, Rhea Loren, first of her name, Wrath’s humble servant.”
“Yes. You do. And you will do great things. You have been forgiven of your sins. Now kiss the ring.” She held out her left hand and the ring that adorned it, its thick gold band studded with an enormous blue diamond, the only one of its kind, at least as far as Rhea knew. It was the ring of kings, a family heirloom passed down for generations.
She’d plucked it from her dead cousin’s fingers herself after she’d killed him.
The woman’s eyes flashed open, the surprise obvious in her expression. Rhea knew she expected more pain, more torture—not mercy. Which is exactly why she chose now to offer the woman a second chance—because she knew she would take it.
The Fury kissed her ring, the one Rhea had once kissed while her cousin, Jove, the king at the time, had worn it. She’d killed him a moment later.
Rhea knew it was only the beginning.
Not only had the bootmaker given her shelter when she was at her weakest, but he had given her a beautiful pair of boots, the finest Rhea had ever seen.
Now Jordan Vaughn stood before her throne, looking uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His storm gray eyes darted from the Fury to Rhea and back to the Fury.
“Do you know why you are here?” Rhea asked.
“I, uh, well, no. Not ezzactly. I was hopin’ yer boots dinnit need repairs so soon?”
Rhea was surprised when a very real smile creased her face. This gray-eyed old man had showed her kindness when she wasn’t certain she deserved it, and she owed him. “No, good sir, the boots remain as perfect as the day you gave them to me.” She lifted her purity dress slightly to show him that she was wearing them, and he blushed.
“Good. I—that’s good.”
“I sent for you for a far more auspicious purpose. I could use your services.”
His eyes widened. “’Nuther pair of boots?”
“How about five thousand?”
His jaw dropped and he began licking his lips back and forth. Then his face fell. “I’d have to decline,” he said.
“Why?”
“I handcraft all o’ me boots. An order of that size would take years. Mebbe me whole life.”
“I thought you might say that. What if you created the pattern, and I provided a team of expert leather cutters and seamstresses to manufacture the boots. Would that be fair? I would pay you three Goldens per pair.”
“Three Goldens per…” The thought trailed away from the aging bootmaker, and he shook his head. “Aye. I accept, that’s more gold than I’ve ever dreamed of. But why are you doin’ this?”
Rhea stood up, floating down the steps toward him. She touched his cheek briefly with her palm and she felt him trembling. Fear, excitement, anxiety…it was all running through him, just beneath his skin. “Because you showed me great kindness once. And I need boots for my army. Your boots will help protect the Wrath-loving people of our great kingdom.”
“Thank you, Queen Rhea,” he said. “From the bottom of me heart, thank you.”
She watched him go, surprised at how warm she felt all of a sudden.
Five
The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
Annise Gäric never expected to be a queen. Frozen hell, I never wanted to be a queen, she thought, sitting by Arch’s bedside. No, she’d planned to live out her time as a princess, until her father, Wolfric Gäric, the Dread King of the North, died of old age, and her brother, Archer, as the eldest male heir, took the throne.
However, she was quickly learning that the more you expected something, the less likely it was to happen. Her father had been murdered by the brother she’d thought died long ago, the brother who was now known as Kings’ Bane. And then she’d had a name day, leaving her as the queen until Arch turned eighteen, which was still almost two long years away.
Originally, she’d planned to relinquish all rights to the crown to her brother, regardless of his age. But then something had happened. She’d changed. And Arch had been injured in battle.
She’d held vigil by his bedside for days, taking her meals there, sleeping on a lumpy cot brought in by the owner of the tavern they were staying in, The Laughing Mamoothen, a formidable broad-faced woman named Netta who also happened to make the best mamoothen stew in all of the Four Kingdom’s, at least by Annise’s reckoning.
Now, as she stared at her brother’s handsome, peaceful face, she wondered whether, when he awoke, he would hate her for stealing his throne. She also wondered if today would be the day he finally opened his eyes. The healer said some people came out of such a condition in mere days. Others took longer, sometimes months, requiring liquid meals and water to be dribbled down their throats to sustain them. Annise didn’t want to think about the third group of people, the ones who never woke up.
There was a knock on the door, but Annise didn’t look up. It was probably Lady Zelda, her eccentric aunt, once more requesting a queenly decision on strategy. The truth was, Annise wasn’t ready to make a decision—not with Archer like this. And yet, she couldn’t delay much longer, for the more her uncle, Lord Griswold, sat upon the ice throne and played king, the more the northerners would assume the crown was his.
Annise sighed when there was a second knock. “If you don’t have a hot bowl of mamoothen stew, go away!” she shouted.
The door opened slowly, but not all the way. Just a crack. A white piece of cloth fluttered through the opening. “Don’t throw anything,” a voice called through.
Sir Dietrich. Though he was the best swordsman Annise had ever known and he had saved both hers and Arch’s lives during the battle at Raider’s Pass, twice they’d argued in the last two days. And yes, she might’ve thrown a boot at him, which explained his odd request.
“Are you ready to talk about the burn scar on your back?” Annise asked.
“We’ve already talked about that.” More white flag waving. Well, white shirt waving.
“Shut the door,” Annise said. Dietrich had given her a story about his scar, but Annise was certain it was a lie, or at least only a fraction of the truth.
“Frozen hell, woman,” the knight said, pushing the door open the rest of the way and dropping the white shirt. He crossed his arms over his face, presumably to protect himself from projectiles. He wasn’t wearing his armor, merely a white cloth shirt tied up the front and sturdy-looking trousers secured with a leather belt. A long sword dangled from a scabbard.
“One—don’t call me ‘woman.’ I am your queen. Two—I’m not going to throw anything at you, so you can stop acting like an unflowered maiden. And three—you don’t have any mamoothen stew for me. That perturbs me greatly.”
Sir Dietrich’s strong arms dropped away from his head, revealing his scarred, but handsome face, and two bright periwinkle eyes that always seemed to contain a hint of mischievousness.
Annise launched the boot she was hiding behind her leg. Dietrich’s arms came up, but they were too slow, and also too high, protecting his face. Unfortunately for him, she had aimed for his crotch, and she had excellent aim on account of all the games of Ice Wars she’d played as a child.
He doubled over, groaning and clutching his midsection.
“Now are you ready to talk?”
His only response was a groan. He staggered out, his face green. It looked like his breakfast might make a reappearance.
Annise sighed again. What use was being a queen if you couldn’t get information out of your subjects? She wondered if her boot-throwing antics could be considered torture, and whether she might eventually earn the
title Dread Queen of the North, following in her father’s footsteps. She laughed at the notion.
Arch stirred in his sleep, his head rolling from side to side.
Annise froze, watching. Hoping. Please.
He continued sleeping, his chest rising and falling with mighty exhalations. At least he looks peaceful, Annise thought.
A shadow fell over her as a massive shape filled the doorway. She couldn’t hold back a smile as she looked up. Couldn’t prevent the loss of breath or the giddy sensation in her chest. But she could hide them. She was a queen, after all, and every queen had to be a master of their emotions. Or at least so Zelda told her, though her aunt was as spontaneous and unpredictable as a winter storm.
“To frozen hell with that,” Annise muttered, leaping to her feet and throwing herself at Tarin, who looked confused by both her words and her sudden movement.
Still, he caught her in his strong arms, holding her close. And then he did what would’ve seemed impossible a mere fortnight ago: He allowed her to lift his black mask, revealing those beautiful dark eyes she’d stared at for days on end while wondering what the rest of him looked like. She pulled down the mesh shield that blocked the lower half of his face. The face which, despite its ghostly pallor and black, bulging veins, no longer seemed so foreign to her. No, she had memorized the lines of his strong jaw, the shape of his masculine nose, the feel of his thick brows.
The taste of his lips, which she tasted again now, pressing her mouth against them so hard she could barely breathe. In this moment, he was her breath. He was the beat of her heart and the blood in her veins. He was her knight in black armor, the only one who seemed to truly understand her.
And when their lips separated it was too soon, was always too soon, and Annise felt as if a part of her had been removed, like a severed limb.