Her lips form a straight line. She’s going to refute it, he can tell, but she can save her breath.
He continues, “Not to mention that you weren’t even being guarded in Pelusia. You didn’t have a care or regard for my feelings after you disappeared. The entire time I searched for you, worried about you, and you could have left at any time.”
“Surely you jest. You think with the plans my mother had for me that I really could have left of my own accord? Things were smooth as long as I was willing. If that changed, I’d have been locked away tightly, you can be assured.”
He blinks. He had not thought of it that way. His expression must belie his feelings, because she continues without a response from him.
“How can I trust you? You’re so confusing all the time! You want so much to believe in my disloyalty that you refuse to seek me out for the truth. How dare you!” By this time she is all but in his face, her breath pushing against his lips.
And it is more than he can take.
She doesn’t even fight the kiss; she simply melds to him there on the pallet, fusing her body against his. She does fight with the kiss, however, taking more than she gives, kissing him with a sort of anger he’s never experienced before. Nonetheless, she’s kissing him, and he’ll not complain about her motivations at the moment.
Finally, finally, his hands traverse her body, memorizing and appreciating each curve, the feel of her heated skin beneath his touch. He moves to lie over her, leaning part of his weight on her and against her moan, he traces his lips from her mouth down her jaw and then her neck, the scent of her devastating his senses and his sense.
Her hands lift to entwine in his hair while his mouth makes its way down the center of her, and to her stomach. She arches against him then, and he realizes at once that his control is completely gone, the consequences of his actions a dim memory lurking in the shadows of his mind. Nothing else matters except Sepora, her breathless gasps, her racing heart, the beauty of her flushed cheeks glowing in the faint candlelight seeping into the room. Even so, he will take his time. He will cherish her the way he’d dreamed about so many times, slowly and thoroughly and meticulously. There will not be an inch of her that he hasn’t touched. Not this night.
He lifts her hands from his hair to above her head, holding them in place with one hand while his other makes a trail down the length of her, grasping at the curve of her thigh. Again he captures her mouth with his, kissing her with renewed purpose. She seems to sense it immediately, and embrace it, moving her lips on his with a need to match his own.
His senses come crashing back to him in a rush when loud, angry voices erupt outside the tent. Sepora’s eyes are now open and alert, and he releases her immediately. Patra’s low rumble of warning sweeps into their small compartment, and Tarik pulls Sepora to her feet. He motions for her to stay back as he peeks out of the flap of their room, scanning the inner chamber of Cantor’s tent. The outside entryway is pulled open, and Cantor stands there with crossed arms, nearly yelling at whoever has interrupted his evening. “My guests have already departed, and you’ve no right to enter my home,” Cantor is saying, his voice resonating through the tent in warning.
“We demand to know who you keep here, old man,” another voice says gruffly. He’s obviously a Stray; there’s a wildness to his voice, a feral tone that suggests he’ll not be reasoned with. “It is rumored the high servant of the king has visited you this night.”
Patra is poised behind Cantor, her hair standing up at the nape of her neck. She senses danger in the man speaking to Cantor, and she’s ready to pounce. This is not good. “Patra, come,” Tarik whispers.
Reluctantly, his cat does as she’s told.
Sepora makes room for her as she saunters into the compartment and scratches behind her ear, for Patra nearly seems to pout at being called off.
Tarik turns to Sepora. “We need to leave. Cantor cannot hold them off for long. They’ll have recognized Patra.”
Sepora glances about the room and points at the bottom of the tent. “We’ll have to crawl out. Hopefully, they don’t have us surrounded.”
“If they do, I’ll loose Patra on them. Hurry, before they come inside to collect us.” But he is already lifting the canvas and inspecting the outside area around him. Satisfied that there is no one, he slides out on his belly, and motions for Sepora to follow.
Patra’s exit is less graceful, her body pulling up one of the stakes holding down the tent. But at least they are all out safely. “We’ll have to make a run for it,” Tarik says. “Are you up to it?”
Sepora nods. In the moonlight, he sees that her lips are still swollen from their kisses. It had been a momentary lapse of judgment on his part, to initiate such an intimacy between them. He resolves to apologize for it later, though. Now, they must get out of Anyar. The moon is so bright that they need not bring attention to themselves by carrying torches, or stealing dying spectorium from one of the hanging lamps outside some of the booths in the Bazaar.
Behind them, Cantor bellows, “You see? There is no one here.”
“Hurry!” Tarik whispers, and they take off running into the night, Patra trotting closely behind them. Every now and then, she emits a low growl, but he is unable to see what she sees in the darkness. All he knows is that coming to Anyar was not a good idea and bringing Sepora was an even worse one.
Against his will, he admits his fear for her safety is still very real. His anger at her deception does not, and will never, negate his feelings for her. But feelings have no place in the way he rules. He realizes that now more than ever.
As the Baseborn Quarters come into view, Tarik stops, pulling Sepora with him. “We need to speak about what happened in the tent,” he says softly.
Sepora glances down at the sand, biting her lip. “Go on.”
“That must never happen again. We are not to be wed. And I would have taken things too far, if given the chance.”
“Then why kiss me in the first place?” Her voice is shaky, and even in the moonlight he can see tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. He berates himself for hurting her. She did nothing wrong at Cantor’s. It was all his own doing.
“It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment. I assure you, it won’t happen again.” The words come out differently than he intended, sounding harsh instead of apologetic. The only person he wishes to be harsh with is himself.
But within two blinks, Sepora’s expression hardens. “Keep away from me, Highness. Touch me again, and I’ll murder you in your sleep.” She turns toward the Baseborn Quarters, walking at a pace he’s too exhausted to keep up with.
It is better this way, he tells himself. It is better that she hates me rather than having false hope of reuniting.
But more and more, his excuses for keeping her at bay seem born out of sheer stubbornness rather than reason.
33
SEPORA
The day Tulle returns from Wachuk, I am collecting water at the edge of the River Nefari, one hand on my dagger, the other holding the skin flask underneath the surface. Patra stands guard behind me, in case of a Parani attack. The sky ahead of me looks as though a storm is rolling through. But storms in Theoria do not exist.
And this storm is red in color, a stark contrast against the blue sky.
Can it be possible? But as the red horizon grows bigger in size, I know for certain that it is.
Tulle has brought back with her a fleet of Scaldlings.
They pass over me quickly, heading toward the Baseborn Quarters behind me. I’ve never seen a live Scaldling before—they are extinct in Serubel, destroyed when their trainers could no longer control them. They are much larger than even Defender Serpens, and red as blood. Their three sets of wings have sharp, sicklelike claws at the tips, which almost appear as hands with long nails. They are awe-inspiring, to be sure, but what’s more, they are not as wild as my tutor, Aldon, would have me believe. Perhaps the Serubelan trainers could not subdue them, but the
warrior women who ride these fearsome Serpens command their beasts with authority, guiding them through the air as though they were an extension of themselves. I count at least thirty of them, their bodies casting glorious shadows on the ground where I stand.
Thirty Scaldlings, with three riders on the back of each. Tulle is apparently a very good negotiator.
I sheathe my dagger and break into a run to get back to the quarters; I don’t want to miss a thing. Especially Tarik’s face when he beholds what a Scaldling actually looks like, and what an asset Tulle has brought him from Wachuk.
* * *
The Great Council convenes just a short hour later. Tulle and Queen Emula take the speaking circle, along with Tarik, to translate what the Wachuk warrior queen says.
Emula is fierce, every bit a warrior queen. She is unnervingly beautiful, her skin almost as black as onyx, and she has many scars on her arms and legs, which are rippled with muscles. Two spears are strapped to her back, a sword at her side, and two throwing daggers are laced at her calves. I wonder at how she got the scars, as Wachuk is a peaceable nation, and why she would have need for so many weapons—aside from the fact that she may have come here to help us overtake the palace.
I remember then that Aldon said the Wachuk women are great hunters, choosing the meat of carnivores because of their belief that what they consume becomes a part of them. I’m given to share their beliefs; Queen Emula looks like someone who could take on a Theorian cat and walk away with its hide, never mind the gashes and bites she would endure in the taking of it.
Beside Emula is another warrior woman, shorter than Emula and strikingly blond and pale like a Serubelan. I’m reminded about what my tutor Aldon taught me about Wachuk: The citizens are a melting pot of the fiercest females of all the kingdoms, women who found dislike in their lots in life and abandoned them altogether in favor of living peacefully among each other in the forest. Aldon’s words were heavy with disapproval whenever he spoke of them, and now I know why; he was afraid of them. Afraid of anyone who would dare to seek out something bigger than perhaps Serubel or Theoria or Hemut. Afraid of any woman who dared to reject men for leaders.
Even Sethos, I think, is afraid of them. He once told me they were beastly creatures who treated their men like whelps, forcing them to raise the children and do the cooking while the women warriors hunted for food and sport. I’d called him on his hypocrisy, and he’d blundered something incoherent but most assuredly ignorant, for he’d refused to meet my eyes when he’d said it.
My entire life, it seems, the men in charge of me had taught me half-truths and faulty impressions. I cannot help but feel ashamed at my ignorance of Wachuk. And I’m determined to rectify that very soon. These women are to be admired for their courage. Not feared for their values.
Tulle is the first to speak, addressing Olna directly. “This is Queen Emula of Wachuk. She has heard our request for assistance, and has pledged thirty-five Scaldlings and three hundred warriors. The rest of them travel here by foot and will arrive in a matter of days.”
Olna’s mouth falls slightly ajar. “Did she say what she would like in return?”
At this, Tulle hesitates. “She wants nothing in return. She is convinced that I am the reincarnation of their Ember Goddess. She will do as I ask.” At this, Tulle blushes. I wonder what it is like to be considered a goddess. Of course they would worship Tulle as their deity; they worship the element of fire, because of its purifying power, and Tulle creates that with her bare hands. We’d hoped she would make an impression on them, but this is more than we could have ever imagined.
“I’ve told her many times that she is mistaken, that I’m not to be worshipped. She insists that I would not know that I am the Ember Goddess, because I was born to the ice kingdom where they teach subservience to men. That my duty … my purpose there … is to melt Hemut for not respecting the power of a woman.”
That’s certainly an idea, I think bitterly. The males of Hemut are even more overbearing than the males of Serubel. In Hemut, a woman must not even touch a weapon. At least in Serubel, we are trained to fight and defend ourselves and if necessary, our land. Too, the idea is fetching because if Hemut refuses to make peace with Theoria, we could simply send Tulle, Emula, and her army of Scaldlings there as retribution. Why not head off an attack from that nation before it begins?
What has gotten into me? Now I’m thinking as Rashidi or Commander Morg. I must not lose my respect for human life. I must remember that eventually, whether there is war or negotiation, peace must be made again between all the kingdoms. Peace has a better chance of prevailing if none of the kingdoms suffer the bitterness of an overwhelming loss.
Tarik speaks to Emula with a series of clicks and chirps and grunts. Aldon once told me that it is a primitive language, the most inferior of all the five kingdoms. When I’d repeated this to Tarik, the Falcon King had laughed. He explained to me that to the Wachuk, the same sound could mean many different things depending on the emotion put into communicating it, that almost like a Lingot perceives lies, the Wachuk are able to see through words and home in on the feelings behind them—which takes far more skill than learning any of the other languages. In fact, there is a section of the scroll vault in the Lyceum completely devoted to the language and its history, and it takes even a skilled Lingot years to master it because of the human feeling that must be put into it. Making sounds is one thing, Tarik says, but conveying how one feels without the convenience of words is quite another. He impressed upon me that long ago the Wachuk were the most proficient at all the languages of the five kingdoms, but willingly abandoned words for a more pure way of communicating. Words, to them, can be fraught with deception. “Saying the Wachuk language is inferior because the sounds are simple,” Tarik had said, “is like saying the pyramids are easy to build, because their shape is simple.”
When Tarik puts it like that, Aldon seems less and less a tutor, and more and more a teacher of prejudice. And no matter where I end up after this is all said and done, I have no room for prejudice.
Emula returns a response, her face solemn. I can hear gratitude in her voice.
Tarik addresses Olna. “I’ve thanked Emula for her generosity and willingness to help. She requests that her Scaldlings are watered and her women are fed and given a place to rest. She awaits Tulle’s next request.”
Olna nods to a man in the back of the chamber. He disappears outside, probably to do Emula’s bidding. She returns her attention to Tarik. “It will be done immediately, as we speak. We’ve been making tents in preparation for a favorable response from Wachuk and should be able to accommodate her warriors. I know they are used to the shade of their forests. Please tell her she is an esteemed guest in the Baseborn Quarters, and that if she requires anything at all, we will be happy to oblige.”
Tarik relays the message to Emula, who nods. She speaks again, and Tarik translates for us all. “She also requests that fires be built for them. They do not abandon their rituals even while traveling. They’ve brought wood with them to burn. She invites us to join them, if we please.”
“We do not worship elements here. Still, she is welcome to build her fires on the far south side of the quarters,” Olna says. “Those of us who wish may join them. I will not speak on behalf of the people in that regard.”
“My only concern is that the fires may be seen from Anyar,” Tarik says. “The Strays will wonder what is amiss.”
Olna laughs softly. “With respect, I think the Strays will get more than they bargained for if they wish to intrude on us at this point.”
Tarik nods. “So be it.”
“We will adjourn this meeting, then, to attend to our guests if there is nothing else—”
“There is something else,” a voice calls from the back of the chamber.
I had not noticed that Rashidi had slipped in. From the look on his face, he does not bear good news from Hemut. Not that Rashidi smiles excessively all the time, but when he is especially annoyed, his mouth
twitches reflexively when he wishes to appear neutral. Mouth atwitch, he strides with his long staff to the center of the speaking circle. “Please give my extreme gratitude and respect to Queen Emula,” Rashidi tells Tarik. “It is an honor to have her here.”
Tarik relays Rashidi’s sentiments to the queen, who simply nods. I wonder what the old man really thinks of the queen. I wonder from where Sethos extracted his prejudices. Maybe it wasn’t Rashidi. After all, Tarik carries no such disregard.
“What have you to report to us, friend?” Tarik says, relief at his adviser’s return marked on his face.
“I have secured the support of Hemut,” Rashidi announces, but there is no pride nor happiness in his tone.
Tarik must sense this as well, because he says, “What do they want?”
Rashidi looks pointedly at Tulle.
Oh no.
“King Ankor demands the return of his daughter immediately.”
Tulle’s sharp intake of breath draws Tarik’s attention. “Under the circumstances of your departure, this was not unexpected, Princess. But if you are an outcast in your own kingdom, why would he want you back all the same?”
“Because I demonstrated my powers when I escaped. He had no idea of my ability to create fire. No doubt he sees me as an asset now.”
Tarik frowns. “You do not have to go. We can manage without Hemut. We can even manage against it, if we must.” But there is an uncertainty in Tarik’s voice I do not care for. He doesn’t believe we can manage. And if he doesn’t believe it, I don’t.
Rashidi nods. “If you do not return her, Hemut will attack. But I’m afraid that’s not the extent of the king’s requirements.”
“What else?”
“Ankor requires that Prince Sethos weds Tulle, and that the pair reside in the Ice Palace with him.”
Tarik’s eyes widen. “Sethos will never agree to that.”
No, he won’t. He had told me of his experience traipsing about the ice kingdom in search of me. He’d said it was bitterly cold, devoid of sunshine, and a dismal, depressing place to be. Sethos will not consent to live there, I know it.