Winter Queen

  Holding the pears in her robes, Nelay emerged from her half-hidden position and smoothly drew her shamshir from her scabbard. He stopped short. She considered killing him. It wouldn’t be hard—the priestesses of fire had taught her well.

  “She’s an Idaran!” he cried.

  Another man dropped from the same tree. A third came running up behind her. Her gaze darted between the three of them, her mind automatically assessing moves and countermoves. Fighting would take time, allowing more Clansmen to arrive. Their main army was too close for Nelay to risk it. Abandoning her position, she sheathed her swords, hugged the food to her chest, and ran.

  She risked a glance back to see the three of them giving chase. She increased her speed, desperation adding lengths to her stride. She was still weak from her injuries, and the strength she might have garnered from her feast of pears hadn’t had time to seep into her muscles. Even though the men were older and a little fat, they were catching up.

  Unwilling to let go of the food, even for a moment, she sent her practiced mind searching for something to use to her advantage—anything that might give her a chance to escape. At the sound of rushing water, she veered to the right. The orchard gave way to trees choked with brambles. Perfect. Nelay threw herself into the thorns, vaguely aware of the pain they inflicted on her flesh and clothing, and grateful for the protection provided by the leather armor she still wore under her clothes.

  She winced and stumbled as a jagged stick pierced her leg. With a cry, she stumbled back, her robes ripping to reveal the tender flesh beneath. For a moment, she stood there, held upright by thorns imbedded in her arms. Juice from mashed pears soaked through her tunic and mixed with her blood. Burn it, now the fruit will be bruised!

  Over the sound of her rasping breath, she listened. Half-muttered cursing and snapped branches confirmed it. They still followed her. Were they so desperate for more slaves that half of her country wouldn’t suffice?

  Surging to her feet, she forced her way through the last of the brambles, ignoring the pain. As soon as she was clear, she dove into the murky brown water, praying to the Goddess that the crocodiles and snakes would look the other way, just this once. She struggled in the water, her armor weighing her down and her robes making it hard to move. She kicked for the opposite shore, letting the current take her further downstream.

  When Nelay couldn’t hold her breath a moment more, she broke the surface and took another gasping breath. Then she dove again. She didn’t stop until she felt the embankment beneath her fingers and the mud oozed into her torn flesh. Coughing and wheezing, she clawed up the bank and rose to her knees to look behind her.

  One of the men from the orchard shouted curses at her, shaking his fist in the air. She patted her robes, desperately searching. She only found one—muddy, bruised, and misshapen, but still a pear. She smiled weakly with relief and tucked it back in her robes.

  Movement caught her gaze. Farther downstream, about an arrow’s flight away, was a bridge. That bridge was lined with about a dozen cavalrymen dressed in the multiple colors of Clanlands.

  Of course it was. Nelay froze, hoping they hadn’t seen her, but then the three from the orchard pointed her out. She should have killed them when she’d had the chance.

  Half limping, half running, she pushed past another barrier of brambles and emerged from under their shadows to enter another orchard. She found herself rushing through the remnants of a battle between the Clanlands and Idara. Blood, brown with age, smeared across broken weeds like paint from a madman’s brush. Smashed, worthless pieces of battle gear lay scattered haphazardly. Revulsion and fear mixed with a dim hope in Nelay’s heart. Just days ago, the clans had clashed with her people. The king’s armies had been here! They could still be close!

  Her hope was short lived. Bent low over their horses, the Clansmen were devouring the distance to her like a wildfire driven by the ovat. She examined the players of the game. She limped badly now, her lips and fingers tingling from overexertion. They were going to catch her, and she’d best be ready for them when they did.

  Halting was one of the hardest things Nelay had ever done. But she turned to face them and drew her swords. Keeping one of the trees at her back, she practiced her breathing and felt her fear melt away. She’d been trained in the art of killing since she was a child.

  One of the priestesses’ abiding principles was to use men’s underestimation of a woman to her advantage. So Nelay didn’t lift her weapons, for that would reveal that she knew how to use them.

  The soldiers encircled her, sizing her up. They sported neatly trimmed beards and ice-blue tunics that bore the image of the Clansman axe. “It’s a woman,” one of them said in surprise.

  “An escaped tiam,” another sneered.

  “No,” came the answer of another. “She’s dressed like one of the Desert Tribes. They train all their women to fight. It explains the sword.”

  “Let’s bring her in,” said the first.

  They didn’t know she could understand Clannish. Or perhaps they didn’t care. She waited as three of them dismounted and came at her.

  Just out of range, they paused and one of them spoke in terrible Idaran. “Come. Won’t hurt.”

  In answer, she spat at him. They exchanged glances and charged her from three sides. She lunged, hitting one of them in the throat—stupid of him not to bring his shield. Then she dove, slashing at another’s arms with her shamshir. One charged her. She stabbed, hitting his vitals.

  She was beyond remorse. These men were thieves, murderers, and slavers. One of their own had killed Kalla just yesterday. Better them than her.

  Before the last man had even crumpled, Nelay took both sword hilts in one hand and leapt into his still-warm saddle. Jerking the reins around, she slammed her heels into the horse’s sides. Grunts and cries of outrage from the nine remaining Clansmen pierced the air behind her.

  They were on her in seconds, but the trees prevented them from coming in close. Sheathing her swords, she urged the horse forward. All the men were large, while she was a small woman without any baggage. And she’d grown up less than three-day’s journey from here, so she knew the countryside.

  She started pulling away, leaving the orchard to strike out onto hard, unirrigated ground, watching the terrain before the horse carefully lest he step in a viper’s hole and break his leg.

  Nelay spotted the owl again, flying toward her. She whipped her head around as it went past. “Not helpful!” she cried. As she looked at the soldiers chasing her, one of them pulled out a recurve bow. Fear slammed into her.

  She pressed herself flat against the horse, her elbows pinned to her sides to protect her vitals. If she could just manage to get out of range, she would be safe. As the first round of arrows whizzed past her, she locked her gaze ahead and refused to consider that she had no way to defend herself. Her fear was so overwhelming that the appearance of a group of horsemen drew her up in the saddle. She recognized their robes and headscarves, the veils drawn across their faces so only their dark eyes showed. They were desert Tribesmen. In Idara.

  “Rycus?” He’d come for her! Her relief was almost tangible, so mixed up with a wash of joy that she nearly smiled. Judging by how rumpled they looked, they’d obviously been searching for days. Where had they found horses?

  The thoughts were halted by a flash of light so intense she thought she’d been struck by lightning. And then the pain hit, so all-consuming that it drowned out all her senses. One of the Clansmen’s arrows had found its mark in her left side, at the base of her ribs. Nelay clutched the horse’s mane to keep from tumbling from the saddle. With each of the horse’s strides, the arrow shifted inside her. But she’d managed to stay in the saddle. She might still make it.

  Her horse suddenly jerked, rearing up and tossing its head as it screamed in pain. Before she could react, the animal violently shook its head. And then they were falling. Nelay hit the ground and pain blinded her again.

  When she finally came to he
rself, her left leg was pinned under the thrashing horse. Nelay wished the darkness would take her, give her relief for even a moment. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of battle. She blinked to focus, watching as six desert Tribesmen killed nine Clansmen. Delir ran toward her and pinned the horse’s head, then drove a dagger into the animal’s neck.

  The horse’s thrashes settled to twitching. Rycus bent over Nelay. She looked into midnight-sand eyes set against dusky skin. “You came for me,” she said in disbelief and more than a little wonder.

  He didn’t acknowledge her statement; he was too busy studying the arrow. “It hasn’t passed all the way through. You can’t ride with it inside you. I have to take it out.”

  “I know,” she said through gritted teeth.

  One hand rested beside the wound, the other took hold of the arrow. Even that small shifting sent a shock of pain through her.

  “Brace yourself,” he said as he jerked.

  Her bones caught fire. She screamed and passed out.

  She came to as gentle hands lifted her. She couldn’t have been out long, because the horse was still twitching. Nelay was aware of a bandage tight around her ribs, of blood soaking her robes. Her wound seemed to pulse fire all the way into her shoulder and down her leg, but it felt so much better to have the arrow out.

  Scand and Ashar passed her up to Rycus, turning her so she straddled him. They expertly tied her arms and legs around his body. The movements brought on another blaze of pain so bad she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from screaming.

  Rycus gripped her tight, pressing hard on her wound, and turned the horse. He leaned forward, his mouth beside her ear. “There are Clansmen everywhere. You mustn’t scream.”

  She closed her eyes and promised herself that no matter what, she would remain silent. He whirled the horse around and kicked it to a full gallop.

  She wished the blackness would come for her. Wished it would take away the pain. But she stayed aware, her whole life revolving around her vow not to scream.

  At first, Nelay had gripped Rycus, holding onto him to keep from being jarred as much. But the horse’s movement kept reopening her wound and her blood poured out, taking her strength with it. Now she was slumped against Rycus, her eyes closed and her head resting on his shoulder. He called for Scand to ride up beside him. “She’s not going to make it much farther. We have to find a place for her to rest.”

  “The two Clansmen she wounded have escaped.” Nelay heard the displeasure in Scand’s voice. “They will report to their army. They will be looking for us.”

  “I hope they find us. I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done to her,” Rycus said, his voice full of heat.

  “But what of the people we left at the cistern?” Nelay thought it was Cinab who said it, and she wondered why he wasn’t tending the camels.

  She perked up a little to ask, “Benvi and the others? You didn’t take them to safety yet?”

  Nelay felt an inaudible growl of frustration in Rycus’s throat. “We’ve been too busy looking for you. Keep getting distracted by all these Idarans we need to take back to the cistern. There have to be over thirty of them now.”

  She smiled a little. “Rycus, one would almost think you cared.”

  “Believe me, I’m adding them to your debt. You owe me a gold coin for each, especially after all the food they keep eating.”

  Nelay would definitely be much poorer after this. She’d probably have to clip all the coins off her skirt. Such a shame—she loved that skirt. She lifted her heavy head and tried to catch her bearings, trying to force the players of the game into alignment. “There are mines all around,” she said. “Find one.”

  “Surely the Clansmen know of these mines as well,” Scand grumbled.

  She tried to lift her head to look at him, but it dropped down again—she simply couldn’t hold it up. “You have a better idea?”

  “Spread out,” Rycus said. “Search for a mine.”

  “Find the owl. It will lead you to safety,” Nelay muttered. The world was beginning to spin, so she closed her eyes to block it out.

  “We have been. I figured it was like the spider, which would mean it isn’t an owl at all, would it not?” Rycus’s voice was tight with wariness.

  “Exactly like that.” Hot as it was, Nelay was shivering with cold. “Just leave me and come back after you take the others to Thanjavar.”

  “That would only cost you more coins,” he murmured, rubbing her freezing arms.

  “Fire and burning.” As if from a distance, she noticed her words were slurring. “I’m going to have to sell more of my jewelry. High Priestess Suka is going to be so angry at me. Not that she’ll dare say anything after I’m high priestess.” Nelay sniffed. “We’ll see how well she likes running barefoot in the hot sand.” She imagined challenging the high priestess to a game of fire. Suka couldn’t turn down a challenge like that, not if she expected to keep control of the temple.

  “Is that how you’re financing this?” Rycus asked. When Nelay didn’t answer, he pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m not leaving you alone. Tell me what I need to do to help you.”

  She was vaguely aware of the horses’ hooves clacking against the rocks as they maneuvered a rise. “Ask the fairy for an elice flower. It will heal me.”

  He let out a long breath. “No one has ever located one.”

  “My mother asked a fairy for one. It saved my life as a baby.” A sudden image of the fairy burst into her mind. Black mouth. Fangs. Slitted tongue.

  “I found something!” Ashar called. “This way!”

  Rycus turned the horse to the right and asked Nelay, “How would I ask a fairy? I can’t see them.” But she was too tired to answer. He nudged her. “I need you to stay awake.”

  She groaned, annoyed he wouldn’t let her be. “Lost my Sight.”

  “I didn’t know that was something you could lose.”

  “It’s not . . . it’s not supposed to be.”

  She tried to remember how it had happened, tried to explain. “It went blurry . . . then faded. Then it was . . . gone. The balance . . . was punishing me. Shouldn’t have used my Sight.” She drifted off again.

  Rycus nudged her. “What are they like? The fairies, I mean.”

  Nelay shuddered and pain flashed through her. “Terrible. Wonderful.” Then another image of a fish fairy struck her, gliding through the water, swimming with wings. Its body flashed with silver scales. “Bulging eyes . . . bald!” she gasped in horror.

  “What?” Rycus said next to her face.

  More images of fairies popped into her head. A beautiful butterfly fairy, its wings violet and white. But as it turned toward her, its eyes were faceted black orbs sticking out of its face. Nelay recoiled.

  “It’s all right,” Rycus told her quietly.

  She saw another one. This one wasn’t so terrible. With cobalt and pink wings, and eyes a solid black. She had rainbow feathers for hair. Her clawed feet curled under her when she flew, her wings a blur. “Hummingbird.”

  “What?” Rycus asked.

  Even with her eyes closed, Nelay began to sense movement. Shadows within shadows on the back of her eyelids. She stared at them until shapes began to appear. There were snakes, thousands of them. Black, with slithering tongues and dripping fangs. They moved slowly, hazily, but they kept growing bigger and bigger.

  “Do you see them?” she whispered so they wouldn’t hear. “The snakes?”

  She felt Rycus’s head shift. “There are no snakes, Nelay.”

  The snake’s backs expanded, stretching like shadows. They had wings! The creatures dived, striking her, their fangs piercing her flesh. Thousands and thousands of times. “They’re biting me! Rycus! Help me!”

  He pinned her arms. “Nelay, your eyes are closed!”

  Why wasn’t he helping her?

  “Scand!” Rycus called, panic in his voice.

  Finally, Nelay felt unconsciousness coming for her. “The snakes will get you, too.”


  The next thing she remembered, Rycus pressed his mouth next to her ear. “Remember,” he whispered, “don’t scream.”

  She searched for the snakes, but they must have been hiding, waiting to strike again the moment she let her guard down.

  Rycus passed her down to Delir. The pain jolted her eyes open, but she wasn’t even tempted to scream. She was simply too tired and in too much pain. As she settled in Delir’s arms, she noticed Rycus’s stallion was soaked in blood from its withers to its knees. Her blood. She hadn’t known there was that much in her body.

  Delir carried her inside a mine and set her down on a wool blanket. Scand knelt next to her, ordering, “Start a fire.”

  Delir shifted on his knees to do as instructed. Cinab set down an armful of wood, his gaze locked on Nelay’s, worry weighing down his young face

  Rycus knelt beside her, carefully rolling her onto her back while she bit her knuckle. Scand cut through her robe. She held the remaining fabric to her breasts.

  “Rycus,” she whispered through chattering teeth. He leaned closer. “If you were trying to get my clothes off, there is an easier way.” She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered.

  Rycus didn’t laugh. He didn’t even take his eyes of whatever Scand was doing. “I’ll remember that.”

  Nelay smelled smoke. She felt so dizzy, her heart beating frantically in her chest.

  “Quiet now,” Rycus said softly. She was about to ask what he meant when pain speared through her, barbed hooks shooting outward. She bolted up. Rycus caught her in his arms as she screamed, sobbing and clawing at his chest.

  Scand tossed a red-hot knife toward the fire, and Nelay realized he’d cauterized her wound. As Rycus held her, the old man poured something sharp-smelling down her back and scrubbed at her raw flesh. She screamed again.

  “All right. It’s clean as I can get it and the bleeding is starting to slow,” Scand said. “Lay her down on her side.”

  Rycus eased her onto a wool blanket and covered her. “Nelay?”

  In too much pain to respond, she watched Scand rummaging around. He stuffed a few chunks of what looked like fibrous resin and dried leaves into a pipe, which he lit with the end of a burning stick. He puffed a few times to get it going before handing it to her. “Breathe deep and hold it. It will cut off the pain.”