Winter Queen

  The men in the room rose to their feet, protests on their lips. But they must have recognized that Rycus was a tribesman, for no one moved against him.

  Hunched over and red-faced, Sedun glared up at Nelay.

  This time it was Rycus who spoke, raising his voice to address the crowd. “Maran was giving birth and couldn’t ride for safety. So he left her and his son to die.”

  Sedun slowly straightened, his arm wrapped around his side. “There were twelve Clansmen. Fighting them would have only sealed my death. I did what I had to do to save those I could.”

  Maran was crying now. “And if there hadn’t been any children?” she asked quietly. Her gaze strayed to the woman, who was still glaring at her. “Would you have stayed with us then?”

  Sedun stepped toward Maran, who backed up. He reached for her, but Rycus moved between them.

  Sedun glared at him. “Who are you, Tribesman, to interfere in the business between a husband and wife?”

  “I killed the Clansmen who attacked them.” Though Rycus’s voice was soft, it cut across the room. “And then I got her here safely. I don’t see why I should stop protecting her now.”

  “Men, always taking all the credit,” Nelay mumbled.

  Rycus rolled his eyes and tipped his head toward her. “She helped.” Nelay grunted.

  Sedun shifted his gaze back to his wife. “Maran, my love, come with me. We need to speak alone.”

  She crossed her arms. “Answer me.”

  “Of course I would have stayed.” Maran still wouldn’t look at him, but he continued. “I’ve heard of this before—women who become hysterical after giving birth. Why don’t you come back after you’ve rested and feel more like your old self?” He turned his back and stepped toward his table.

  Nelay gaped at him. “Are you always this good at making all your mistakes Maran’s fault?”

  Sedun stiffened but didn’t stop moving. Rycus cut Nelay a look and glanced meaningfully at Maran, whose face was filled with so much hurt it made Nelay’s middle ache.

  She gently gripped Maran’s arm. “Come on. Concon probably needs to be fed again.”

  Nelay watched as Maran took her fussy baby and cradled him against her, making shushing noises as tears streaked down her face.

  “Maran, I’m sorry,” Nelay said, reaching for her. “But I’ve considered all the players, and there’s no scenario that involves Sedun and happiness.”

  “What gives you the right?”

  Nelay stepped back as if she’d been hit. “I saved your life.”

  The young mother’s face went a splotchy, angry red. “Sedun saved me once and spent the next two years telling me what to do. He thought that gave him the right to. So I say again, how are you any different?”

  Anger rose up inside Nelay where pity had been. Maran pivoted on her heel and stalked off.

  Rycus spoke gently. “She’s just lashing out. Give her some time.”

  Nelay sat down on the dirt under an awning and took a long drink from her water skin. Rycus was an amazing man. And she was going to send him away. “You should leave me,” She warned. There was nothing but heartache in store for him if he stayed.

  Settling beside her, he gave a half grin. “Don’t think you’re getting out of your payment that easily. All this is adding up, trust me.”

  Burn it, she loved that smile. She sighed as she imagined all her sparkling rings, all her bracelets and coin-wrapped skirts sliding into Rycus’s hairy hands. “I don’t even know if Panar is here, or if he survived.”

  “I’ll be back.” Rycus stood and walked toward a man who was obviously looking for someone. The two spoke briefly and some coins changed hands. Nelay growled low in her throat. She had agreed to recompense Rycus any additional expenses he incurred, and she was certain his bribes counted.

  He jogged back to her. “Panar’s name wasn’t on the lists of refugees. Every man in this city has been conscripted. If he’s in Dalarta, he must be in the barracks somewhere.”

  Nelay let out all her breath. “All right. Then that’s where we’ll start.”

  Rycus accompanied her to the university headquarters, which was packed with people searching for loved ones. Nelay took one look at the line and mumbled, “This is going to take days.”

  Rycus wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Not if we’re smart about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled. “We go to the inn.”

  “The inn?” She would have been exasperated, but his eyes were gleaming the way they did when he had some clever plan.

  She followed him into a crowded inn; they were always packed just before the ovat. Inside were mostly soldiers, many of whom sent appreciative glances Nelay’s way. That is until they saw Rycus’s piercing glare. He elbowed his way to the bar and called the woman serving drinks. She ignored him until he flashed a silver coin. She made her way over to them, annoyance clear on her face even as she pocketed the coin. “What do you want?”

  Rycus held up a second coin and tipped his head toward the door. “I want to sit at the table by the window.”

  She snatched it up and went to the table. A few seconds later, the two burly men sitting there arose.

  Rycus took Nelay’s arm and steered her through the crowd. By the time they got to the table, the woman was busily wiping away the spills. “You eating?”

  He slipped her a few more coins. “Best you’ve got,” he said with a wink.

  The woman gave him a conspiratorial smile and disappeared into the crowd of customers, many of whom were calling for their drinks.

  Nelay leaned forward. “How many coins did you give her?”

  “It pays to be rich.”

  “That’s my money!”

  He nodded sagely. “And if you can’t be rich, it pays to have friends who are.”

  Nelay fought to keep her expression stern. “Why didn’t you just pay the men sitting here to move?”

  “Because more hands means spending more money. You would know this if you actually had to barter.”

  She stiffened. “I barter.”

  “Priestesses don’t have to barter. You always get the best price because of who you are. Now, a lowly Tribesmen” —he gestured to himself— “he must scheme for every coin he spends.”

  “My coins,” Nelay mumbled.

  The woman plopped down some kind of fruity wine in ceramic cups, a plate of flat bread, and curry chicken and rice. Nelay’s mouth started watering in earnest. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in so long she’d almost forgotten how good real food could be. She forced herself to savor every bite instead of simply inhaling it. When she looked up, Rycus was watching her, amusement in his eyes.

  “All right, Tribesman, what’s your plan?” she tried to sound gruff.

  He motioned her closer. His breath smelled of sweet wine. “You’ll spoil the surprise, High Priestess.”

  She rolled her eyes and sat back to finish her meal. When they were done, Rycus passed over more coins, and the woman came back with a platter of fruit. Nelay was already stuffed to overflowing, but she bit into a pear. Juice ran down her chin. Before she knew what was happening, Rycus leaned forward, his gaze locked on hers.

  Laughing, she wiped her chin with her hand. He caught her wrist, staring at the droplets on her fingers. Slowly, he sucked gently on each finger, taking great care to remove all traces of juice. Nelay froze, unable to move as jolts of pleasure shot up her arm and warmed her lower belly. She should stop him, stop this thing between them before it grew into something she couldn’t control. But she couldn’t seem to move.

  When Rycus had cleaned off every finger, he leaned into her. “If you hold very still, I’ll take care of those lips for you.”

  Despite her brain screaming at how unfair she was being, Nelay tipped her mouth toward his. He sucked gently on her lower lip. And Nelay forgot about the press of bodies, the packed room, and the worry over her brother. Forgot about Maran and her traitor husband. Forgot about war and pain and loss. The
re was only this. Her lips on Rycus’s mouth, the gentle press of his teeth, nipping her just enough to send another jolt that lit her up all the way to her toes.

  He pulled back suddenly, and she blinked her eyes open. She was aching with want and need, and he wasn’t even looking at her! “Take the pear with you, Nelay. I have plans for it later.”

  “What?” She tried to rearrange her scattered thoughts, but he was already up and out the door.

  Another man immediately plopped down in the seat he’d vacated. “I’m more than happy to take his place, flower.”

  She barely paid him any attention as she snatched both pears and hustled out after Rycus. He had already intercepted an exhausted-looking soldier.

  “They have us working from sunrise to sunset. I’m sorry, but I’m hungry and . . .”

  Rycus slipped him a coin. The man looked at it. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather sleep—”

  When Rycus slipped him another, the man hesitated, wavering. Another coin, with two more promised when he returned, and Nelay knew she was going to be starting her career as the High Priestess as a pauper.

  The man disappeared back inside the teeming building. Nelay and Rycus tried to go back to the inn, but their table was now occupied and she refused to see more of her coins spent on getting it back. They found a spot of shade between buildings that was already packed with people who’d set up some kind of temporary shelter. Nelay ate her pear, barely tasting it now and disappointed Rycus didn’t try to make good on his promise to make use of it later.

  The ovat came in from the desert, parching her already-dry skin and making her eyes burn. She tied up her veil to protect her face.

  The streets promptly emptied of any remaining people. Almost everyone napped to make up for the sleep they missed by working from first light until full dark. Nelay was exhausted, her body still recovering from her ordeal. She rested her head on Rycus’s shoulder.

  The next thing she knew, he gently squeezed her arm. “He’s back.”

  Rubbing her numb hip, Nelay blinked her eyes open and looked around. It was the tail end of the ovat. Her clothes were clammy with sweat. She rose to follow Rycus out of the ally.

  The man approached them, his uniform rumpled and his red eyes framed with puffy circles. His hands were stained with ink, which he’d carelessly smudged around his eyes, making him look like a badger. “I found no record of a soldier named Panar Favar Denar ShaBejan.”

  Denar was Nelay’s father’s name. She shuddered, the image of her his bones haunting her. “Did you check all records? For every branch of military?”

  “I checked them all for all variations of his name. There are a few men named Panar ShaBejan, but none with Favar or Denar.”

  Nelay felt her hope fall out from under her.

  “Thank you,” she heard Rycus tell the man, who was already walking away, more of her coins in his hand. Rycus took her arm and steered her down the hot, packed-dirt street.

  No trace of Panar at Sopora or Dalarta. “He must be dead,” she heard herself say as if from far away. “The army has recruited all the other men.”

  “Not necessarily,” Rycus said, but even he didn’t seem to believe it.

  She was hanging by her fingertips on the edge of something dark and irrevocable—being completely without family in the world.

  Rycus rested a hand on her shoulder. “Not all men were recruited. Invalids, officials, surely some of the rich bought their way out.”

  Nelay halted in the middle of the street. “My parents—I sent them money. Enough to live very well. Yet they never even fixed that blasted door.”

  Rycus took a step closer. “What do you mean?”

  “What if Panar took it?”

  “How much did you send?”

  “All my recruitment money—ten darics, and a daric every year thereafter.” A daric was the largest of the Idaran gold coins, so large it covered most of her palm.

  Rycus’s gaze widened. “You’ve been holding back on me, high priestess.”

  She gave him a dirty look and pushed past him.

  “So . . .” He drew out the word. “He has perhaps seventeen darics, if he took all of them. That’s enough to buy his way into wealth.”

  Nelay picked up her pace so Rycus wouldn’t see the anger and hurt she couldn’t hide. “I gave that money to my parents.”

  “It was theirs to do with as they pleased,” he said gently.

  She closed her eyes. He was right, and yet Panar’s actions were selfish. And by the time she was done rescuing him, she would have nothing. “When I find him, I’m going to throttle him.”

  Rycus chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t believe he was your brother if you reacted any other way.” Nelay made a noncommittal noise in her throat before Rycus added, “With that many darics, he could buy his way into anything he wanted.”

  Nelay forced herself to examine the field. She felt her gaze drawn to the palace in the center of the city. “Panar wanted to be a leader. Always has.” It’s why they’d fought so badly. Both of them thought they were right, and the other needed to fall into line. Nelay couldn’t help it that she was actually right and Panar was wrong.

  She and Rycus crossed through the city, avoiding the squares overloaded with refugees. People moved about hastily, their eyes darting toward the outer wall, where the Clansmen were setting up for the siege. Tonight, the first of the catapults would exchange fire.

  Nelay loved the close quarters, simply because the fairies hated cities. In the midst of the chaos, she felt at safer than anywhere else. She reached the inner city, the lord’s white palace walls gleaming under the relentless sun. The smell of human waste was behind them, along with the overcrowding and the noise. The inner city’s gates were still open, though men were digging trenches around the outside, as if they already knew the city would fall and this would be their last resort. Nelay stopped to watch them work. “If we can’t hold the Clansmen here . . .”

  Rycus turned his eyes toward Thanjavar. “If the city falls, I’ll get you out.”

  She studied him, wondering how she was going to say goodbye.

  He took a half step toward her. “You’ve been quieter than usual. Are you all right?”

  She couldn’t answer that honestly, so it was best to say nothing. “Come on.” Once past the inner wall, she began asking soldiers and shop owners. No one knew her brother. No one had seen him.

  As evening fell, they stopped at the market and paid an outrageous sum for basil rice. Nelay ate her food and then tried to rub out the soreness around her arrow wound. Rycus batted her hands away. He gently began messaging the muscles, and she rested her elbows on her knees and let him.

  “What if we don’t find him?” she asked.

  “Then you did all you could.”

  “Why didn’t he come visit me? Dalarta is only five days from Thanjavar. At least he could have written. My parents could have written.”

  Rycus didn’t answer. Instead he stood up and offered her his hand. She sighed, rolling her neck and wincing when it popped. After he pulled her to her feet, she saw someone walking toward them. A mangy-looking street rat, his clothes tattered and filthy. He stopped just out of range. “I hear you’re looking for someone.”

  Nelay nodded for Rycus to answer—he’d already proven himself the better negotiator.

  “Panar Favar Denar ShaBejan,” Rycus said.

  The boy nodded. “Doesn’t go by that name anymore. He’s Panar Hazeem now.”

  Nelay narrowed her gaze. “How do you know?”

  “I saw it on the letters he throws away—I resell the paper.”

  Nelay winced. The only people who’d write Panar were her parents. How could he throw their letters away?

  “I know where he lives,” the boy went on.

  The only thing to keep Nelay from crying out in relief was Rycus’s warning hand.

  “How much?” he asked.

  The boy eyed them. “An attalic.” Small silver coins, but more than this chil
d would see in a year.

  Rycus folded his arms. “How far is it?”

  The boy shrugged again. “Not far.”

  “Then you ask too much. Surely, we can find someone who knows the area and will point us in the right direction for free.” Rycus motioned for Nelay to follow him.

  “Three bavaz!” the boy countered.

  Rycus held up one bavaz. The copper coins were still too much, but he was just a boy. “One now.” Rycus pushed the coin into the boy’s palm. “And the other two when we know you’ve taken us to the right place.”

  The coin disappeared down the boy’s front; no doubt he had a purse of some kind under his threadbare robe. “This way.” He darted into a narrow street and led them closer to the palace. They passed three-story homes, built with shared walls. Each home had a porch with pots filled with sweet-smelling herbs. All the doors were fancily carved and hinged—Idarans took great stock in their doors, which showed the owners’ wealth and artistic sense.

  The boy stopped in front of a door painted turquoise, with brown hinges curling decoratively around the front. He stepped back as Nelay lifted the knocker shaped like a leaping fish—ironic for a home in the desert. A few moments later, it was pushed open and a very pregnant girl stood before her.

  “Why are there pregnant women everywhere?” Nelay said in exasperation.

  The girl blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

  Rycus tipped back his head and laughed, only calming himself with visible effort. “We are looking for one Panar.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Something something ShaBejan. Does he live here?”

  The girl eyed them. “And why are desert Tribesmen looking for him?”

  Nelay leaned forward. “Then he is here? He is alive?”

  The girl put her hand on the door, and Nelay knew her next step would be to slam it in their faces. “He’s a respectable man,” the girl said. “He has nothing to do with Tribesmen!”

  “You forgot ‘dirty’ Tribesmen,” Rycus said in a hard voice.

  Nelay rested her hand on his arm.

  “You see!” the boy cried from behind them. “It is his house. Now can I have my other bavaz?”