The men hesitated before one of them led her through the guard house, some kind of barracks, and to a door. Just as she was about to knock, it swung open.
A bald older man started when he saw her. His hair was mussed and his eyes heavy lidded. Behind him, a young woman pulled on her boots. She gave a quick bow and fled. Nelay turned her attention back to the man.
“My queen,” he huffed as he tucked his shirt in.
“Who was that woman, and why was she here?” Nelay cut in.
He passed a hand over his bare scalp. “She’s a dear friend.” Nelay raised an eyebrow. “She just came for a quick visit.”
“As prostitutes often do.” Nelay turned to the cluster of officers who had followed her. “I need a new commander. Which one of you would like the position?”
The men exchanged glances before two of them stepped forward. Nelay looked between the two. “All for him” —she pointed at the younger man— “raise one hand.” She pointed to the older man. “All for him, raise both hands.”
Most of the men raised one hand. Nelay turned to the younger man, whose ears stuck out straight from his head as if his mother had given them a hard tug one too many times. “Your name?”
“Awan.”
“I need all the prisoners gathered where I can safely speak to them. Can you arrange it?”
Awan bowed. “Right away.” He called out orders and men started moving.
The man Nelay had just sacked stepped toward her. Jezzel blocked his path. “My queen, you don’t understand,” he said. Nelay turned to leave the way she’d come. “My queen, please, have mercy upon me.”
She didn’t pause. “I don’t have time for mercy. We are at war, you fool.” He reached for her, but Jezzel kneed him in the stomach and Hazar drew his sword. Hunched over, the man gasped. “Please, my queen.”
Nelay glared at him in disgust. “Nashur, it seems this man is no longer needed here. Perhaps you can find a place for him with the soldiers.”
Nelay followed Nashur as he gripped the man’s arm and hauled him outside. He spoke to one of his messengers. “See he’s put in Uzah’s unit. If he tries to take off, kill him for desertion.”
The seedy little man shot one last, desperate look at Nelay, but she was already turning to face Awan. The messenger mounted his horse and motioned for the man to precede him.
Directing Nelay to follow him, Awan climbed the ladder leading to the top of the mud-brick wall. Jezzel moved to go next but paused and said to Nelay, “Last I heard, Ozozo was in here. Let’s hope he’s forgiven us.” She flashed a grin before hustling up.
A moment later, Nelay stood on the wooden walkway and surveyed the many plain buildings in perfect rows. Men were emerging from them. She couldn’t tell the color of their hair from their skin—or their clothes, for that matter. It was all covered in the same greasy grime. “Do they not bathe?” she asked Awan.
“No, my queen.”
“This is a bad idea,” Nashur grumbled as he hauled himself up beside her. “These men are criminals—they are dangerous. You cannot arm them and turn them loose on the city.”
She leaned forward. “Of course not, High Commander. I’m arming them and putting them under your command.”
He took a step closer. “I don’t have time to play nursemaid to a pack of wild dogs.”
Jezzel nudged Nelay with her elbow. “Remember that time with the elephant dealer?”
Immediately she realized what Jezzel was hinting at. Nelay straightened her shoulders. “Commander Nashur, I want you to loudly disagree with me at every turn.”
He grunted in disbelief. “You do?”
“Absolutely.” She and Jezzel locked gazes for a moment. Jezzel grinned, her arms folded over her chest.
That’s what she loved about Jezzel. No matter how bad things got, she always made Nelay smile. Fighting a chuckle, Nelay faced the throng and spoke loudly. “Prisoners of Idara, I am Queen Nelay. No doubt you have heard the Clansmen at our gates. They broke through only yesterday, killing ten thousand people—men and women whom I cannot replace.” She paused and swallowed against her dry throat. “You are here because of something you have done in your past—some crime.”
Nashur wasn’t disagreeing with her. She discreetly elbowed his side. He shot her an incredulous look before seeming to understand. “They are not to be trusted!”
She let out a tiny breath in relief. “They are still Idarans.”
He looked out over them. “Are they?”
“They are men who would rather die fighting than be slaughtered when the wall falls. And it will fall.”
There was a gleam in Nashur’s eyes that said he’d realized what she was doing and he was even enjoying himself. “What are you going to do? Pardon them?”
“Yes.” Nelay let the word hang in the air before she turned back to the criminals, who watched her intently. “If you will fight—if you will protect those you once harmed—your debt, your shame will be turned to honor.”
“And what’s to keep them from running at the first sign of battle and disappearing in the masses?” Nashur spat.
She blinked at him. But then her eyes strayed to the tattoos of rank on his scalp. “We will tattoo a curving line across their left cheek. After they have served faithfully and true, we will add another curving line, creating a simple flame, a mark of restored honor.”
“A tattoo—you think that will stop them?”
“I will put a bounty on their heads that will leave no safe landing place—no place of rest,” Nelay declared, an edge to her voice. “Their prison will be the entire world.”
“This city falls, and you will be dead. Who’s to carry out your threat?” growled Nashur.
“They cannot kill us all. The truth of the mark will survive and follow them wherever they go.” She paused, looking out of the gathering of filthy-faced men. “What say you? Shall I call you criminals, or soldiers?”
There was a beat of silence, and Nelay’s heart almost stopped in her chest as she waited. Then the first man roared his willingness to fight. Another joined him. And another. Until the entire prison was shouting, “Fight, fight, fight!”
She held her hand up and waited until they settled enough to hear her. “Will you swear your allegiance to me? Will you swear to serve me?”
They shouted their assent, some dropping to one knee as if already speaking their oaths to her. Nelay stepped back from the wall and out of sight.
Jezzel slapped Nashur on the arm. “And that, O Great Commander, is how we got a dealer to donate an elephant to the Temple of Fire.” She started down the ladder, calling out to Ahzem to get the horses.
Nashur shook his head and started after her. “Is she always like this?”
Thinking of earlier that day, Nelay sobered. “Trust me, she’s better like this.”
“Did you get to keep the elephant?” Awan asked.
Nelay remembered its gentle eyes with long lashes, and its rough skin. “For a little while.” She forced herself back into the here and now. “I don’t want any mass murderers. Or rapists.”
He shrugged. “All those are hanged. These are just thieves and smugglers, for the most part.”
Nelay’s heart skipped in her chest. When this was all over, she was going to pardon her own smuggler.
“Make them swear an oath of fealty to me,” she told Awan, “and a pledge to obey their commanders. Then get them washed up and send them to Kidin.” She turned her attention to Nashur. “You have men assigned to do the Immortal’s tattoos?”
“Yes.”
“Send for them.”
Nashur called to another of his messengers, who departed immediately.
“See that they have uniforms,” Nelay went on. “And assign them as you see fit.”
The high commander’s gaze was unreadable. “I’ll get things started, but the main tasks will be delegated to one of my men.”
Nelay started walking toward the horses. “Fine.”
“It would be better
if they had one of their own to answer to, if there’s anyone who can be trusted,” Nashur said.
She hesitated. “There’s a man named Ozozo. He’s crafty and has more connections than anyone. But don’t let him touch the wine. He’s a fool drunk.”
“My queen?” Nashur called after her.
Nelay situated herself in the saddle and then looked down at him. “Yes?”
“That was brilliantly done. In the space of a few minutes, you secured those prisoners’ loyalty and gave them a taste of pride—a taste that will leave them hungering for more.”
“I wouldn’t ask this of you, Commander, if I didn’t know you were equal to the task.”
He watched her with a slightly amused expression. “Campaigning for my loyalty?”
“I want more than that. I want your best.”
“I’m giving you that.”
Nelay smiled at him. “No, Nashur. You are the best tactician alive today—but you could be more. You could be the most brilliant tactician to have ever lived.”
There. She’d given him a goal, lit a fire beneath him. She could see the sparks of it dancing in his eyes.
She turned her horse, ready to leave, when another horse barreled past the open gates. The man’s helmet bore the markings of a high-ranking Immortal. As he came closer, Nelay recognized him from the war council, though she couldn’t remember his name.
“My queen.” He bowed over his lathered and puffing horse. “You are needed at the palace.”
She spun, her eyes locking on Awan. “Get them ready. I’m leaving you in charge for now.”
She rode out after the Immortal, and several others flanked her. “Is it the king?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
The man had switched his beleaguered horse for one of the messenger’s animals. “The healer says it will be soon.”
Head pounding and mouth dry, Nelay strode into the dark room, its windows shuttered against the ovat. Ziyid rose from the side of the bed, her face haggard and eyes puffy. She swallowed hard, then fled without turning back.
Nelay stood beside the bed, looking down at the king. With his eyes closed he looked as if he was made of wax instead of real flesh. Panic shot through her. Is he already dead? “Zatal?”
He stirred and slowly opened his eyes, then stared at her without recognition.
“Nelay, your queen,” she reminded him.
His gaze sharpened, as if her words had cut through the haze. “Death stalks me. I can feel it whispering in my ear.” He studied her a moment more before he winced, his face screwed up in agony. He didn’t make a sound. Nelay turned to the healer, who was already coming forward with the smoking pipe.
Zatal pushed it away. “No. I will not die witless.” The woman bowed and moved to the corner of the room.
“Send for my scribe.”
Nelay gasped. The king would only call for a scribe if he wanted to issue an official mandate. “What do you mean to do?”
He breathed hard for several long moments. The scribe appeared as if he’d been waiting just outside the door. “My king?”
When Zatal spoke, his voice was raw and glinting, “I enact the ancient custom of my mother’s people. Nelay’s marriage will not be voided at my death. Instead, the bond will transfer to my closest kin.”
“What?” She staggered back. “Even now you will take away my freedom?”
He looked at her without seeming to see her. “My closest surviving kin lives among the Tribesmen. This creed will in effect make him king of Idara. That might just be incentive to get them to join the war.”
Nelay considered killing Zatal then and there. “Haven’t you forced me through enough?”
“Strong and selfless, Nelay. Remember? Besides, it just might work out for the best.”
She couldn’t see how. Burn it, she’d started to hope that if she survived this, she’d be able to find Rycus again. “We won’t be Idara—not after this. And I will no longer be Nelay.”
The king shifted and the smell was so strong Nelay could taste the rot in her mouth. Fighting the urge to gag, she covered her mouth with her arm.
“Get out,” Zatal ground out. “Yours will not be the last face I see.”
She whirled on her heel and rushed out of the room, then shut the door behind her and stood panting in the hall.
Jezzel took a step toward her, arms raised as if to embrace her, and then seemed to think better of it. “What did he do?”
Ziyid took a step toward the door, but Nelay was in the way. The woman looked like she was moments away from choking on her grief. Nelay stepped aside and started down the hallway.
“What will you do with us?” Ziyid called after her.
“Nothing,” Nelay said without pausing. She only wanted only a cool bath and a long nap.
When Nelay woke, it was eventide and the king was dead.
Maran had already laid out her white robes—white like old ashes and pale corpses. Nelay put on her trousers and short robe, then wrapped herself from head to toe in a sheer veil so only her eyes showed through the obscurity of grief.
Jezzel was waiting for her in the antechamber.
“I feel like a fraud,” Nelay said. She’d only been married to Zatal for a few days, and he was barely more than an acquaintance.
“Is there a chance . . .” Jezzel trailed off, sending a pointed look to Nelay’s belly.
Nelay scoffed. “We never shared a marriage bed. He knew I didn’t want him, and to be honest, he didn’t want me either.”
“And now he’ll never have his heir on the throne,” her friend answered.
Nelay’s thoughts flashed to Zatal’s steel-eyed daughter. Jezzel might be wrong.
“It’s just like any other funeral ceremony. Only this time you’re leading the procession instead of dancing at it.” Jezzel took up her position beside Nelay. “Ready?”
Nelay let out a long sigh. “Ready.”
Jezzel pushed open the door to reveal a corridor lined with officials, all of them holding oil lamps to stave off the shadows. Nelay walked between them and they converged behind her. Not for the first time, she thought of the similarity between the wedding and funeral marches. One marked a beginning, the other an end. Weddings always started at the temple and ended at the home. Funerals always started at the home and ended at the temple.
Zatal had been laid before the throne on a bed of sweet-smelling herbs over a litter of woven reeds. He was dressed in his finest, the phoenix mantle gleaming from his chest, his head freshly shaved to show the dizzying pattern of tattoos.
Nashur stood at one corner of the litter, a guild leader at another, and two men Nelay didn’t recognize at the other two. Hanging back in the hallway behind the throne were Ziyid and her children. They would have to follow in line with the palace servants.
“Jezzel, you have served me faithfully and been a great friend for many years. Walk beside me.” Nelay said, giving the place of honor to her dearest friend. Then she met Ziyid’s gaze. “Will you follow and carry my veil?” The veils hadn’t been long enough to drag on the floor in decades, but it was still customary to have someone carry it. It was the only politic way Nelay could think to let Ziyid walk with the man she loved.
Gratitude crossed Ziyid’s face as she bowed and came out to gather the long train of the veil. Nelay said, “Your children may walk beside you. I do not wish them to be left alone.”
Then she nodded for the procession to begin. The men carrying the litter, Nashur among them, moved out at a stately pace. Nelay followed directly behind them. They stepped into the darkening night, the generals and dignitaries falling into step after the queen. Immortals fell in next, and then guild leaders and wealthy merchants, until all the most powerful men and women of the city trailed Nelay down the palace steps into the courtyard.
In the distance, she heard the sounds of battle and smelled the smoke from the fires that never seemed to cease burning. To the east, the temple gates stood open, the priestesses waiting in
a long line, each holding a single lamp. As the litter carrying Zatal’s body passed them, the priestesses—all of whom Nelay considered her sisters—blew out their lamps a pair at a time, leaving darkness behind them and light before.
When the procession passed the fountain, the flames went out. Suka headed toward Nelay, taking the side opposite Jezzel. “Had you listened to me, the king might not be dead. Thousands of our people, my priestesses . . .” Suka’s voice choked off.
A series of painful memories flashed in Nelay’s mind—Meho’s face, Jezzel’s nearly silent sobs, and the blood welling between Nelay’s toes. Was all this my fault? Could I really have stopped the Clansmen? Saved Idara if I’d just done what Suka wished?
But then Nelay remembered the promise she’d made as a child. The blanket parting to reveal her brother’s lifeless face. “Their price is always too high.”
“When are you going to realize we don’t have currency left for them to take?” Suka said coldly. “When the city has fallen? When everyone you love is dead?”
“The fairies don’t care about us,” Jezzel interjected, her face ridged.
“Of course not!” Suka glanced around as mourners shot her disapproving looks. “But you—you could have cared,” the high priestess said in a lower voice. “That’s why I married you to the king, so you would find your humanity again and save us. And now, all my years of careful planning, all of it is for naught.”
Nelay was shocked to see tears streaming down the woman’s round cheeks. The procession stopped on the east side of the temple, before a large chamber set deep into the ground. Only Suka and the men bearing the litter moved forward now, the high priestess leading them down into the chamber. They laid the king in the center, and Nashur removed the mantle. Suka sprinkled the funeral luminash on his corpse.
They backed away, careful not to disturb the luminash powders circling the dead man. The four pallbearers climbed out of the chamber. With the last remaining lamp, Suka bent down and let the flames touch the powder.
Instead of an outright flame, the luminash lit a thin line of red-orange fire, like an ember creeping around Zatal in an intricate pattern that matched the tattoos on his scalp. They told his life story as he had lived it—a moment of burning that would not stop as life never stopped until the end, when his ashes burned away on the wind.