Exile

  At first she tried to dismiss his absence. He had a right, she told herself. A right to his own silence—his own space, after what had happened last night. But as the moments stretched, a new concern crept through her charcoal haze.

  What if he had no plan? The disturbing idea drifted forward as she gathered the reins of both horses and began to skirt the brush. He had had no directions beyond the oasis, and the storm had wiped out any tribal prints he might have tracked. The assassins may well have perished or lost the scent, but she knew better by now than to count on their demise.

  And she knew Robert would feel the threat even more keenly.

  She found him along the edge of the juniper, staring east. Sunrise glittered over a high crest of red rock, less than an hour away, running north to south, severing the desert’s stretch. The crest rose and sloped, like the underside of a wave, its curved lines defying gravity, its upper ridge arching a hundred feet above the ripples now molding the crimson tide.

  “That is where we will go,” he whispered, his voice so soft at first she thought she might have imagined it. “From the top of that ridge, if we can scale it, we should be able to see ... everything.”

  Meaning danger, she thought. Of what use would it be to spot her pursuers? But no—he was right. She had come to see the tribes of the Geordian, and that ridge might also provide their location.

  Either way, it was a goal, a purpose. A reason to continue forward.

  On the trip to the crest, little entered her mind beyond the turmoil within her own heart. The same thoughts cycled over and over: She could not be with Robert—could not marry him. Because she could not forego her hopes for her kingdom. All this time she had disdained the crown and proclaimed that the purpose for her expedition was to know her people, yet she had refused to see the implications for her own future—had refused to see herself.

  As she and Robert drew closer, the spectacular vision of the ridge tried to break through her thoughts. From the oasis, the rock had looked red, the same color as the sand, but now the high crest swirled with layers of reds and whites, golds and oranges, cutting across the concave arc in dizzying, unbroken lines.

  Then a shadow. Diagonal. Thin. Nothing compared to the spectacle before her. But if there was a shadow, it must reflect off something.

  Robert too had seen it. And she let him go. Let him be the first to reach the cleft between the outer rock face and the hidden one. Let him test his stallion’s hooves upon the natural path at the base of the crevice. And let his horse lead the way up the slanted route between the two walls, despite Falcon’s protests.

  Aurelia’s vision blurred once more behind the coil of her inner terrain. Half the trail slipped past her mind’s eye, and she almost commanded her horse into a cliff face before spotting the tunnel climbing to her left. The sound of Horizon’s hooves clattered from the shadows, and Falcon took over, clearly feeling that she knew better than the daft human upon her back.

  Again Aurelia’s mind detached, and it did not return until full light struck her face. As Horizon crested the ridge above her, Robert turned his head, aiming those blue eyes dangerously in her direction. It never occurred to her that he had entered a new landscape. Or that anything could be on the other side of that crest.

  Not until the strange sound snapped above her, followed by a quick whirr.

  And the arrow pierced Robert’s flesh.

  Though she was the one who screamed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DISCORD

  AURELIA WOKE TO DARKNESS. NOT NIGHT. A THIN net draped over her body, vision, and mind. The cushion beneath her was soft—seductive—and the taste of overripe melon coiled in her throat. From beyond came the murmur of female voices. Low. In a language she did not understand. But the cadence—the rise and fall of the tones. She had heard that rhythm before.

  Memory filtered through the net: an arrow, blood, Horizon’s fury. The stunned look on Robert’s face as he fell, the pain as he crashed, and the absence of pain as a dark boot slammed onto his shoulder, snapping the arrowhead and Robert’s consciousness.

  She had hurled herself off Falcon’s back, despite the pointed arrows aimed in her direction. And the six riders in white desert robes had not fired at her, being more consumed with battling the red-brown stallion. But the man with the dark boot had sprayed her with something, a sickness still clinging to the passages of her nostrils.

  Though her mind had begun to tear free.

  Her fingers tugged aside the netting—to reveal the interior of a large tent filled with women. The figures, dressed in brilliant caftans and kneeling in a circle on a golden rug, clutched a plethora of prized goods: vibrant silk, radiant jewels, ribboned baskets—all being ogled and passed around.

  At the ring’s center stood a girl, no more than Aurelia’s age, with toffee-colored skin and a spiral of jet-dark hair at the back of her neck. She turned with her hands flat toward the opulent gifts as if saying she did not deserve them. Vines curled and wove upon her palms—tattoos matched only by the immaculate black lace hugging her torso, hips, and thighs.

  The paint on her hands was red. Like blood.

  Again Aurelia saw her last vision of Robert, his body limp, life seeping through his shirt. She spoke before questioning whether the women would understand. The southern half of the desert had been part of Tyralt since her grandfather’s reign. Surely someone here must speak Tyralian. “Where is he?” She struggled up, then sank back, her limbs too weak to comply. Her voice broke. “Is he alive?”

  The young woman with the painted hands glanced up, then flicked a wrist. And the entire circle grew silent. Her elaborate gown clung to her body like a second skin as her bare feet stepped outside the human ring. Then the girl tugged a deep violet curtain across the tent, separating herself, and Aurelia, from the other women.

  A pair of cool gray eyes lifted. “Your companion is captive. He has been bound in the prisoner’s tent beyond the tribal sphere and shall remain there until the Oracle has pronounced him guilty.”

  Relief warred with fear. “Guilty of what?”

  The gowned figure crouched beside a laden ivory-white platform that appeared to serve as a table. “I am Mirai. You are my guest. The Jaheem do not arrest women.”

  Am I supposed to be grateful? As though women cannot commit heinous crimes. Aurelia thought of her sister, then thrust away the image. This was about Robert. “Your men shot him without provocation.”

  “His wound has been cleaned.” Mirai tossed off the comment as though it exempted the tribe of any blame, then lifted a carafe and poured a dark red liquid into a glass. “He shall not die ... of that.”

  Again Aurelia struggled to get up, this time grasping the netting and managing to stand, but the fabric was not sturdy enough to support her, and once more, she sank down. “Robert has done nothing wrong!”

  “Robert.” The girl’s tongue curled around the word as though testing it. “This is your man’s name?”

  “He is not mine.”

  “Of course he is. This is obvious.” The girl lifted the drink and a platter of exotic fruit, then held out the glass toward Aurelia.

  Who rejected it, having no desire to again lose consciousness. “What is he accused of? He has committed no crime.”

  Mirai’s eyebrow arched. “You claim to be unaware, then, that he was riding a stolen horse?”

  Horizon! Of course. The tribe thought the bay was desertbred. Reason began to thread its way through emotion. “Robert is not a thief.” Aurelia took a ragged breath, then told Horizon’s story as she had first heard it. About the trapper who had been nursed back to health by Mrs. Vantauge. And about the bay’s sire, whom the trapper had given to the family as a gift.

  The gray eyes drilled into hers. “Then why are you here? And who are you?”

  Aurelia chose not to answer the second question. “We came to meet the people of the Geordian. To learn about your culture and customs and, yes, your spectacular horses. Can you blame us for wanting to s
ee them?”

  Venom spit back at her. “They will not be spectacular for long if our best are no longer here.”

  What did that mean?

  “You!” the girl snarled. “And the other raiders. You do not understand that it takes more than a great horse to create a great line. For this you must have many horses and the Oracle to make the wise decisions.”

  Aurelia grasped for comprehension. Robert’s life might depend upon it. “What raiders?”

  “Indeed. You would say the same if you were among them.”

  True. But Aurelia was not. And the problems of the tribe were hers as well. In the heat of emotion and her fear for Robert, it might have been easy to forget. But she had learned from the citizens of Sterling, the Asyan, and Transcontina, as well as from the travelers across the Gate and the people of the frontier, that first impressions were nearly always flawed. The Jaheem are my people as well. “What is it these raiders take?”

  “Our horses. What else? From all across the southern half of the Geordian.” Fury built behind the gray eyes, and Mirai thrust out the plate of untouched fruit, no doubt in a challenge to her guest.

  Aurelia accepted a dark green slice, the rich taste oozing through her teeth and rinsing the sickness from her throat. Raiders across the entire width of the desert? That did not sound like tribal warfare. “When did these raids begin?”

  Lowering the plate, Mirai murmured. “It has been four months. During that time, ten tribes have lost horses, including two Cherished Ones.”

  “I thought the tribes cherished all their mounts.”

  “Yes, but the Cherished Ones are special. There is only one in every tribe, and it is in this horse that the history and spirit of our people are bonded. To lose a Cherished One before that spirit has been passed down to another horse is devastation. The tribe must forego its identity. Even the Oracle can do nothing to repair such a great loss.”

  “The Oracle?” Aurelia asked. It was the third time the girl had mentioned this title.

  “Our spiritual guide. He who records the history of the horses, their strengths and weaknesses, to be kept with the knowledge of their ancestors. So that matches can be made.”

  A breeder, Aurelia decided as she struggled to wade through the unique beliefs. “This Oracle is your leader then?”

  Mirai nodded. “For all the people of the Geordian. He sees the truth of the future and past with clarity.” Her tone left no doubt that she believed her own words. “It is he who will determine the guilt, or innocence, of your Robert.”

  Aurelia felt a chill run through her flesh. She had lived in denial for so long, there was no comfort in truth. Not that she believed anyone could read the future. If this man claimed the ability, she did not trust him. But if the Oracle held the power to decide Robert’s fate, then it was he she must address. “I wish to speak with him then.”

  “That shall not be permitted.”

  Her response was quelling. “It will.” She did not care if the statement sounded like a command. Letting Robert die while she did nothing? That was not going to happen. She stood and this time managed to cross the space to the edge of the violet curtain.

  The girl’s voice snatched her from behind. “No one from outside his own family may speak to the Oracle without an invitation. You are a guest. Will you betray our customs and mark yourself a foe?”

  Aurelia gripped the nearby tent pole to hold herself steady. Was this the line she walked? The same line her father treaded as leader of all Tyralt. Where one act, one simple show of human strength, could be read as enmity. Anger pulsed through her, not at Mirai, but at herself, for her own physical weakness. She did not dare quit, not with Robert’s fate on the line. Her voice fell, not a demand this time, but a plea. “I must see your leader.”

  The figure in the black lace gown held up a tattooed palm. “You shall. At my wedding tomorrow. And if you promise not to approach him yourself, I will speak with my father on your behalf.” The voice hardened. “Though I can assure you he will disregard anyone who does not offer so much as a name.”

  Torture arrived midmorning on Robert’s second day as captive. Dissonant tones invaded the narrow width of his canvas prison, not music, but the clatter of strings, flute, and percussion. Scraping his mind like the blond spikes of twisted rope chafing his bound wrist.

  The wrist on the side of his injured shoulder. The same cursed shoulder! A new wound just below the scarred flesh along his collarbone.

  He could not believe his own stupidity. Why had it never occurred to him that the tribes might take offense and assume his horse was stolen? Hadn’t he watched Aurelia stumble into one mess after the next on her way to the frontier because she did not yet understand the culture? And now here he was, tethered to a tent pole, with his shoulder sliced through as he waited for the return of his interrogator.

  Three times yesterday the man had come. Always the same tribesman with the dark boots. At first Robert had had no concept of the other’s purpose. The world had dissolved, and he had struggled just to wrench himself out of the bruising blackness, then had been so confused he could not have answered the interrogator’s questions if he had wanted to. On the second visit, he had managed to take in the fact that the tribe believed he had stolen his horse. And on the third, he had learned that the accusation ran far deeper than theft.

  Murder. Raids. And sacrilege. Those were the crimes the interrogator had leveled as he lifted a boot, set it on the injured shoulder, and pressed down. The man had disdained the real story about the stallion. He did not want truth. He wanted vengeance. And the names and location of other raiders.

  The tuneless notes from beyond the tent now rose in an anguished swell. Robert rolled his head, trying to block out the sound and his own fears. Where was Aurelia? The last he had heard from her was her scream. After the arrow.

  His eyes fell to the wrapped injury, then the bound wrist. Superfluous. He had no chance of escape. There was no way to survive the desert without supplies, not even if he took the stallion whose shrill whistle Robert had heard twice.

  Of course, the tribesmen thought he had conspirators. That he might have the means of sending them a signal. Though such a thing would be impossible to hear now.

  Screeching strings, howling flutes, clanging metal, and banging drums all shattered in crescendo.

  Then silence. Sudden and sharp.

  And it was then he heard the call of the jay.

  The bird’s scalding cry ripped through Aurelia’s mind, ending in a piercing whistle that mirrored her own emotions. She hated weddings. Had hated them ever since being excluded from her father’s second one. And the dissonant noise from the desert instruments did nothing to alter her outlook. Nor did the veil obscuring her gaze. Or the shoulders pressed tight against hers as the entire tribe stood crammed around the circle within the ceremonial tent.

  Incense sucked the air. She could not breathe. The tent’s lone entrance had been bound, shutting out the breeze. First the dark outer layer of the canvas, then the pale inner fabric layer, with leather strips to bind the wedded couple for all time.

  It was not the unique symbolism that made Aurelia feel ill, but the larger concept: that all a woman was—all she owned, possessed, and dreamed—must now be defined by her husband. A concept no different for the female offspring of a king than for the daughter of a desert tribesman.

  In black, Mirai stood alone at the center of the tent, upon a pool of turquoise stone. Her feet bare.

  Then the bridegroom emerged from the crowd. Young. Shaven. And familiar.

  The man who had set Robert unconscious. Aurelia jolted, pushing back futilely against the crowd as she yearned for flight. Her eyes reached up with desperation toward the tent’s ceiling and the embroidered phoenix spreading its wings over the entire tribe.

  You do not know this man, the ripple of the desert harp seemed to say as its calm notes glided through the back doors of her mind. He was a scout. Someone who had ridden out to face danger. She had lear
ned that much in the past day. And enough to know that the raiders who served as the threat had committed both rape and murder. Her anger on Robert’s behalf refused to release, but she knew she had little right to judge.

  Harmony formed between the harp and a long end-blown flute, reeling her focus back down to the young couple. Who kneeled. Before the Oracle.

  He wore white, his skin and eyes the same as his daughter’s, but his garments with nothing to set them apart from the simple cloth robes and turbans around him. No braid or jewels. And although his lips moved as he spoke, he could not be heard from where Aurelia stood. His words were for the young couple at the heart of the tent, not the audience, though every head, every eye, had hinged in his direction. He was the sole focus of the tribe.

  The man bowed, and the dulcimer sang as he backed away to the pool’s edge, close by, but now Aurelia could see only a fraction of his profile.

  Notes from the harp, flute, and dulcimer wound about each other, and the couple stood. The drums beat softly in syncopation and began to build. A hum swelled from the crowd, and the drummers’ hands shifted from leather to carved frames, ceramics to hollow wood. The jingling of metal rings joined in. And then song, a tremendous outpouring as hands opened and the tribe began to shower the young couple with golden grains of sugar.

  The bridegroom swept Mirai up into his arms, strode across the turquoise pool and waited at its fringe, still within the human circle, while someone cut the leather ties on the inner layer of canvas.

  Then a scream ripped the joyous harmony to shreds as the inner layer separated to reveal a canvas wall of flame.

  Chapter Nineteen

  TERROR

  THE CRY OF THE COASTAL JAY SEARED ROBERT’S MIND. The palace guards’ signal of attack. From the night in the forest. He rolled up from his pallet, cringing at the pain in his shoulder as his bare torso leaned against the unforgiving tent pole.