She didn’t believe it. “How did you get past him to me?”
“It was easy.” He finally looked up at her. “You shouldn’t travel with such greedy people.”
“You bribed him?” She couldn’t believe Cook would sell her.
This time he smiled fully, and she wished he hadn’t. It was an ugly expression, derisive and covetous at the same time. “He sold your freedom for what he thought was a lot of gold. It’s nothing compared to what we’ve been promised for you.”
A sense of betrayal swept over her, followed by anger at herself. When would she learn to stop trusting people?
“You can’t sell me,” she said.
“Of course we can.” He went back to sewing. “We’ve had a buyer ready since we told him we had seen you in that temple.”
“You’re a hard one to catch, priestess,” the giant man rumbled. “Too many people around.”
Ginger felt as if she were spinning. “No. You can’t. My husband will look for me.” She wasn’t certain that was true. Sometimes he seemed to care for her, and he had braved a frenzied mob to free her from the stake. But she didn’t know how much of that had been his idea and how much Heath had forced him. For all she knew, this provided him with a convenient way to rid himself of an unwanted bride. She didn’t want to believe that about Darz, especially not after their nights together, but he had told her so little about himself, she was constantly on edge with him.
“Your husband, eh?” The giant laughed. “Is that the story?”
She stiffened. “It’s true.”
“What wedding?” the stitcher asked. “Those people were going to burn you alive. Some fellows rode off with you. We found the inn where you stayed, and they didn’t say horse-shit about a wedding. You sure as hell didn’t marry him on the caravan. You’re a concubine, girl. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“She could have married him while we were looking for her,” the giant said. “It’s not impossible.”
The stitcher glanced at him, then at Ginger. “Whatever your man is, he would be a fool to chase us. He’s just some rube from a little town. And he’s only one against many of us.”
She wanted to tell him what she thought of the “many of us,” but she bit back the retort. The giant was sharpening his dagger, and the scrape of metal against stone grated. She didn’t doubt he found opportunities to use his weapon. She felt cold. Was that the knife that had left so many wounds in Darz? She stared at it, then lifted her gaze to the giant. He regarded her with no hint of sympathy.
Ginger had felt constrained in Sky Flames, but she realized now she had taken for granted a level of safety that didn’t exist in most places. She questioned whether it had ever existed at home, either. Naïve and idealistic in her airy temple, she had seen the world as if the sunset gilded it with rosy colors.
The giant was watching her. Holding up the dagger, he touched its edge and blood welled out of a cut on his thumb. Then he went back to sharpening the blade. With a shudder, she looked away.
If only she had brought her opal to the water hole. In daylight, for such a short stop, it hadn’t occurred to her. She couldn’t make spells with the sun up, but it couldn’t be more than few hours until sunset. In the plaza she had used a large circle to focus her spell. She didn’t know if she could use the ragged shapes here in the wagon, but she was ready to try anything.
And then what? She had spent her life using her talents to nurture people, to create light, real and symbolic. She truly enjoyed her calling in the temple. Before that night in the plaza, she could no more have imagined committing violence than she could have envisioned the sky breaking apart. But if she didn’t disable or kill her guards, they would catch her again.
She rubbed her eyes. Her head ached from whatever they had used to knock her out. Regardless, she had to escape soon, before they traveled too far for her to get back. She couldn’t set out without a map, horse, or supplies; if she did, the nomads would recapture her or the desert would kill her.
“You think he will pay the price he agreed to?” the giant asked the other man. “She’s a mess.”
Ginger squinted at herself. She wasn’t a mess. She had just bathed. Her leggings and tunic were clean and well kept. Sand covered her boots, but what did they expect in a desert?
“You dress like a man,” the stitcher told her. “You looked better in the temple.”
“Well, since I’m so unattractive,” she said sourly, “you might as well take me back to my unfortunate husband.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” he answered. “Just that it isn’t showing properly for us to get the best price.”
She regarded him uneasily. “My clothes are fine.”
He studied her. “We need to leave some mystery. We don’t want to be too obvious.” He got up and walked over, his gait uneven with the swaying of the wagon.
“What are you doing?” She slid back on the carpets.
The giant lifted his dagger. “Priestess, do you see this?”
She froze, her gaze on the blade. It glinted in light that leaked between two panels of the canvas walls. “Yes,” she said.
He leaned forward. “A little blood on the purchase isn’t going to dissuade our buyer. In fact, given what I know of him, he might pay more.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?” he asked, turning his dagger.
Somehow she kept her voice steady. “Don’t use that on me.”
“Then cooperate.”
She swallowed. “I won’t fight.”
“Good.” He sat back and continued sharpening the blade.
I lied, she thought. She would fight—when she had her weapon, the spells of fire. He was making it easier for her to face what she would have to do. If she could find a good shape. If the spells worked. Too many ifs.
The stitcher sat next to her and put his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side. Then he reached under her tunic and pulled her leggings off her hips.
“Don’t!” Her face heated as she pushed him away.
“Hey!” The giant’s voice snapped like breaking stone. He towered when he stood up, and he reached the carpets in one step. Kneeling behind Ginger, he touched the tip of his dagger to the nape of her neck, through her hair. “I thought we had an agreement.”
She went still. “Don’t cut me.”
“Don’t balk, then.”
She forced herself to remain still while the stitcher took off her boots and leggings. The giant lifted her arms, the flat of his blade scraping her skin, and the stitcher pulled off her tunic. They left her in the undertunic, a translucent shift that came over her hips and thighs.
“That’s better,” the stitcher said. “Give him something to think about while we’re settling terms.”
Ginger crossed her arms in front of herself, her palms on her shoulders. She wanted to fold up and hide.
A shout came from outside. At first she didn’t understand the caller’s thick Jazid accent. Then she realized he had said, “Which pavilion do you want?”
The stitcher leaned past her to the front of the wagon and rapped on the wood that separated them from the driver. “The large gray one on the south end.”
“Aya,” the call came back. The wagon lurched as it changed direction, throwing Ginger against the stitcher, away from the man with the knife.
“Heh.” He pushed her into the giant, lifting and resettling her so she was kneeling with her back against the huge nomad. She grasped the carpet at her sides while she stared at the stitcher. The giant put his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place, the hilt of his knife pressing her skin. His breath rustled her hair, with a strong smell of onions.
Only moments ago, it seemed, she had been with Darz. The future had been uncertain, but also exciting, filled with promise. That couldn’t all be gone. It couldn’t be. Life couldn’t be that cruel.
The stitcher traced his finger along her lip. “Priestess,
you should learn to hide your outrage. It will only get you hurt. Accept the way of the desert. It has always been like this. Men die and women suffer. Those of us who are strong survive. The rest of you serve our bidding.”
She wanted to tell him he could rot in a slime lair. The way he was leaning over her, with his hands braced on her thighs and the giant holding her in place from behind, she feared they would hurt her before they reached their destination. So instead of an oath, she reminded him why they should do nothing to her.
“You kept saying ‘he’ before,” she said. “You’re taking me to ‘him.’ To who?”
The stitcher sat back on his haunches and rested his palms on his knees. “You wouldn’t know him, I don’t think. Not unless you’re familiar with the generals from Jazid who fought in the war against the Misted Cliffs.”
“I don’t know much about Jazid,” she admitted. “Why is he in Taka Mal?”
“Why are any of us anywhere?” the giant said behind her, holding her shoulders. “We have no army to fight for anymore. Only conquerors who occupy our country.”
“And take our lives.” The stitcher’s voice crackled with anger. “The king of the Misted Cliffs has demanded our soldiers swear allegiance to him or face execution.”
“You’re soldiers?” she asked. “I thought you were nomads.”
“We are.” He motioned to the man behind her. “He comes from the Kublaqui tribe. So does our driver. I’m of the T’Ambera. Our tribes have always supported the Jazid army.”
She tried to remember what Darz had told her about the war. “But your king, your atajazid—he is dead now, yes? His seven-year-old son would sit on the throne but he has been imprisoned by the king of the Misted Cliffs.”
“So you’ve paid attention, eh?” He spoke grimly. “Yes, Cobalt the Dark murdered our king and put himself on the Onyx Throne. But he does not have the boy.”
She didn’t know whether or not to believe him; the boy’s freedom could be a rumor the displaced army had started to lift the morale of their people. If the claim were true, it didn’t bode well for the Misted Cliffs. Either way, as long as the nomads were talking about armies, they were leaving her alone. “Where is the prince, then?”
“In a place you’ll never see,” the stitcher said.
“And the general?” Sweat gathered on her palms, and she rubbed them on the carpet. “Who is he?”
“Dusk Yargazon,” he said. “Do you know of him? His family takes their name in honor of the Shadow Dragon.”
She shook her head, disquieted by the fierce quality of his gaze when he spoke of the general. She knew people in Jazid took names such as Dusk and Shade to honor their shadow god, just as they favored the gray-and-charcoal patterns, but it had always seemed a dark choice to her.
He leaned forward, trapping her between himself and the giant. “You should know of him. Everyone in your ungrateful country should honor his name. He is a general greater than any who fought in Taka Mal. It is he who sat in the war council after the Battle of the Rocklands and faced down the atajazid’s murderer, Cobalt the Dark. It was he who won the prince’s life.” His eyes blazed with the too-bright gaze of fanaticism. “And it is he who will put the boy back on a throne.”
She shrank away from him. “Then why are you in Taka Mal? We cannot put him on his throne.”
The stitcher put his hands on either side of her hips, on top of her hands, pinning them to the carpet. “Maybe we’re here to find a reprieve from the hardships of our exiled lives.” He was so close, his lips were almost touching hers.
She turned her head away. “The desert is as harsh here as in Jazid.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He put his palm against her cheek and turned her head so she had to look at him. “They say you Taka Mal priestesses are forbidden. No man may touch you.” He slid his other hand up her thigh. “What happens to a man who does, eh? Shall your Dragon-Sun smite me down?” He glanced up at the sky, pretending to crane his neck. Then he looked back at her. “It seems not. Perhaps it excites him to see the taboos violated.”
She spoke through gritted teeth. “Leave me alone.”
Outside, the driver called out. The wagon jolted to a stop, knocking the stitcher back from Ginger, and she fell forward, catching herself on her hands. As the stitcher stood up, someone pushed aside the blue canvas at the back of the wagon. A third nomad looked in, this one with a hood shadowing his face.
“General Yargazon is in a meeting with his men,” he said. “He’ll see us when he’s done.” He nodded toward Ginger. “Best make sure she doesn’t cause a ruckus.”
Ginger recognized the man’s voice. He was the driver.
“We’ll take care of it,” the stitcher said. “Let us know when he’s ready.”
The driver nodded and withdrew, leaving the flap swinging in his wake. The stitcher went back to his sewing and took several lengths of cord from his pile of yarns and cloth. He came back to Ginger with the leather cords looped around his hands and gave them to the giant behind her.
She tried to turn around. “What are you doing?”
“Stay still.” The giant turned her forward, then handed his dagger to the stitcher. Standing in front of her, the stitcher held the dagger by his side, level with her eyes. She stared at the glinting blade and shuddered.
The giant pulled her arms behind her back and crossed her forearms, one on top the other. He bound them together with two of the cords, then tugged the third tight around her upper arms, drawing her shoulder blades together until it forced her to arch her back slightly. She felt ill. She wanted this to be over, to be away from the nightmare. The nomads seemed balanced on the edge of violence, ready to erupt, and she feared by the time the sun set, she would be too injured to do anything at all, let alone call up the capricious spells that were her only defense.
The driver opened the back flaps and looked into the wagon again. “They’re ready for you.”
“Good.” The stitcher grasped Ginger’s arm and heaved her to her feet. The effects of the drug they had used to knock her out hadn’t worn off as much as she thought, and her head reeled. He returned the dagger to the giant. Then, holding her upper arms, the two nomads walked her to the back of the wagon.
They came out into an evening even hotter than in Sky Flames. Although she didn’t recognize the land, she thought they had gone south. The desert was no longer flat; it stepped up in stark ridges, higher and higher until they became the razor-thin foothills of the Jagged Teeth Mountains that dominated northern Jazid. Beyond them, in the purpling distance, the Jagged Teeth towered against the sky. It was a cruel landscape, like the people who lived in it, their souls parched and starved.
The area below the foothills formed a basin that might have once held a shallow sea. If water had ever softened this land, it had long since dried away. The sun was low in the west, and shadows stretched across the desert. Tents filled the basin. Soldiers moved down there, hundreds, even thousands, and the many tenders who served an encamped army. A good portion of the Jazid military must be there, in exile, hiding in the badlands of Taka Mal while they plotted against the usurpers in their land.
Only a few tents stood here, one large pavilion and several smaller ones. To the north, away from the camp, horses were drinking from a trough in a corral. Closer by, a group of soldiers had gathered around a fire to cook a meal. They watched the three nomads bringing Ginger to the pavilion. Her face heated as the wind molded the under-tunic to her body and rippled it around her legs.
A man in leather and bronze armor with a heavy sword on his belt stood at the entrance of the pavilion. He wore a dragon helmet with a point on the top shaped like a tetrahedron. Power shifted within Ginger. She couldn’t call it forth yet, for the sun still shone, but if she could see one of the helmets after sunset, she might use the tetrahedron to drive her spells.
The guard either expected them or recognized the nomads, for he didn’t call challenge, he simply stepped aside. Inside, the pavilion was larger th
an the garden in the house where Ginger had lived as a child. Plush cushions were strewn across the carpeted floor and around low tables tiled in charcoal and black. Torches on poles added light and smoke. Across the tent, a wall map of Taka Mal was tacked to a beam support, and a large group of men were gathered before it. They all wore the black-and-silver uniforms of Jazid military officers. A painful thought hit Ginger; she had never seen Darz in his Taka Mal uniform. She didn’t even know if he was a full officer, and unless she managed a miracle with her spells, she would probably never find out.
The warrior motioned them over to a corner of the tent. The nomads drew her with them, and they waited by a brazier that curled smoke in the air. The giant stood behind her, tall and silent, with the tip of his dagger against her spine. Across the tent, the officers were deep in a debate.
Sweat gathered on Ginger’s forehead and ran down her neck. The heat from the brazier bothered her, but after the sun set and cold rushed in, she would welcome its warmth. She looked around the tent for shapes. Although she saw no pyramids or circles, triangle patterns were everywhere. But they stirred no response within her, not even a sense of potential. Usually in daylight she could feel the banked power of her spells waiting for release. It worried her; the triangles seemed too weak to drive her spells.
As the officers argued, she caught the words “Quaaz palace” and “Topaz throne.” She picked up only fragments, but it was enough to dismay her. They intended to invade Quaaz, the capital of Taka Mal. She didn’t understand; Jazid and Taka Mal weren’t enemies and had often allied in their violent histories. They had fought together in the last war to drive back the Misted Cliffs. She couldn’t fathom why Jazid would plot against the country most likely to support them against their conquerors.
She had to warn Darz! It sounded like Jazid agents were targeting commanders in the Taka Mal army, kidnapping the highest-ranked officers for interrogation and killing the rest. If they found out Darz had survived—and was headed to Quaaz with tales of murder—they would go after him, and this time they would make sure they finished the job.