Daughters

of the Wind

Bloodline Chronicles:

Progenitors: Volume 2

Leigh Saunders

Camden Park Press

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors

Also by Leigh Saunders

Copyrights

Chapter 1

Janek walked briskly across the open-air gallery connecting the public portion of the palace to the royal chambers, the stiff heels of his boots clacking along the marble tiles. As Grand Vizier to King Batuhan of Kushar, this was a path he trod daily – often multiple times per day – but he had so frequently declined the offer to move his offices closer to the royal chambers that Batuhan had eventually stopped offering.

Though but a short walk, certain aspects of the distance between them might have been measured in leagues. Half-brothers – one destined to rule, the other acknowledged by their father and raised in a noble house, though never elevated to royal status – Janek and Batuhan had always viewed themselves as equals. They had played together as children, gone into fosterage together as youths, ridden in the hunt at each other’s side. And when Batuhan ascended to the throne, it surprised no one that he named Janek as his vizier.

Despite his role, Janek kept his offices at the opposite end of the palace compound for strategic reasons. Working in a separate building from the royal chambers afforded Janek the freedom to meet with anyone who might have information to sell or services to be bought – often the sort of people who would not be readily welcomed in his brother’s presence.

Such was the role of a vizier who also served as the king’s spymaster. Janek was one who listened and learned, that he might better advise the king.

It was a piece of information that now sent Janek crossing the covered walkway, oblivious to both the twin blues of sea and sky visible beyond the delicate arches to his right and the fragrant, colorful flowers that climbed the palace walls and spilled over the stone railings from the lush courtyard garden to his left.

A falcon had arrived that morning, bearing a message from one of the Kizrei, the elite operatives Janek relied on as his eyes, ears, and blades. The message had confirmed the rumors he had been hearing from the trading network: the jewel of the desert, the oasis city of Nizam, had fallen. The city’s river had failed, and its residents fled into the safety of the nearby mountains.

The impact on Kushar’s commerce with their northern trading partners would be significant if they did not review the routes and determine alternatives that would ensure safe passage for the caravans. As a king who paid attention to the workings of his vast kingdom, Batuhan would want to know.

The sound of childish laughter broke through Janek’s thoughts, the unexpected sound interrupting his deliberations. A pair of young girls leaned over the balcony railing, laughing and giggling at something they watched in the courtyard below.

Normally, he would have continued walking, but his gaze happened to follow the direction they were pointing, and he froze, mid-step.

In the courtyard below, a small cloud had formed above the head of an older man and was raining on him. No matter how he tried to evade it, the small, personal storm followed him.

One of the girls pointed to someone else – a housekeeper, Janek imagined – and he watched in fascination as a second cloud formed above her head. In only a moment, the housekeeper was drenched, crying out in dismay as she ran about the courtyard, between the pillars to the passageway beyond, then back out into the garden, attempting to flee the cloud.

Had the girls somehow caused this? He looked at them. They could have been no more than twelve years old and were dressed like every other noble’s daughter, in colorful silk tunics over loose-fitting leggings. Their dark, wavy hair was pulled back in long, jewel-studded queues, framing identical faces a shade or two lighter and slightly more bronzed than his own tanned skin.

“Girls!” A woman’s voice called out, and the girls jumped away from the balcony and turned to face the approaching woman, who Janek recognized as the fosterage mistress. One of the girls actually had the good sense to look embarrassed at having been caught, though the other sported a defiant grin.

“You are late for your dancing lessons. Up to the studio with you,” the fosterage mistress said. She shook a finger at the pair, but her expression was less stern than her words suggested. “You know you are not allowed in this part of the palace.”

The girls scurried off, still giggling, and the fosterage mistress turned to follow.

“Hold,” Janek called out.

The fosterage mistress turned back to face him.

“My lord,” she said, bowing slightly.

“Those girls,” he said. “Who are they?”

“They are the daughters of King Reinhard of Gerlach, here for their fosterage.”

Janek nodded. He knew the Gerlachi princesses were in residence, though he had never before seen them. He rarely ventured to the fosterage villa, where the visiting royal youths were trained in courtly customs, etiquette, and statecraft. Most of them cycled through their two-year stay, and moved on to another of the Seven Kingdoms, without his ever encountering them. He glanced out toward the courtyard. “And do you know what they were doing here?”

The fosterage mistress followed his gaze, and seemed to be torn between contrition and stifling a laugh.

“Forgive them, my lord,” she said. “They have just come into their power, and cannot resist experimenting with it.”

“They are weather witches?” Janek said, not bothering to keep the incredulity from his voice. He had caught only the briefest glimpse of the clouds clearly visible in the girls’ eyes as they’d rushed past him, and now struggled to keep from leaning back against the railing, grasping it for support as the significance of what he had just witnessed settled on him. “But that is impossible. There are no weather witches in Gerlach.”

“Ah, yes,” the fosterage mistress said. “By blood, they are King Reinhard’s nieces, the daughters of his brother. However, their mother was a princess of Nizam, and a weather witch, and would have become queen if the fever had not taken her – right after the twins’ birth, I am told. Her husband was also lost to the fever, so Reinhard adopted the poor, orphaned infants, and raised them as his own. Such a sad story.” She briefly fell quiet, shaking her head in sympathy.

The contemplative moment did not last long, however. Before Janek could open his mouth to speak, the woman’s face brightened, as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud, and she resumed her narrative.

“The girls have been here for the better part of a year,” she said, “and are well and healthy – if somewhat energetic.”

She offered a slight, apologetic shrug, which Janek acknowledged with an equally slight nod.

“Of course, I have never had fosterlings with the weather gift, so it may be an aspect of their magic,” the fosterage mistress added. “Their sister was much easier to deal with, but she was older, and more settled, when she came to us. She is a healer, and a stone worker, and they are usually quite stable. You may have met her – she fostered here until just last year. She is queen in Nizam now, you know...”

Janek’s attention had been drifting from the woman’s non-stop ramblings – he cared little for the biographies of the fosterlings – but his head snapped back toward her at the mention of Nizam.

The fosterage mistress took a step back, startled. “I really should be getting back to the fosterlings,” she said, as though only then realizing with whom she had been so casually gossiping. “They could be anywhere by now.” And, with that, she turned and fled, disappearing from view more quickly than Janek would have thought possible.

Janek looked back into the courtyard. With no one to tend the magic that had created them, the clouds had dissipated, only a few small puddles giving evidence of the twins’ mischievousness.

He looked again at the message he held, the strip of parchment now crumpled in his hand.

Nizam, ancestral home of the weather witches, was no more. The fierce sandstorms their cloudy-eyed, magic-wielding queens had protected them from for centuries would soon bury the city. Within a season, the desert would reclaim it. A year from now, it would be little more than a memory, hidden beneath the dunes.

But Kushar – a land of windswept steppes and monsoon-drenched jungles, frozen peaks, barren deserts, and insect-ridden swamps – Kushar had need of weather witches.

Janek looked at the drying puddles in the courtyard, then down the walkway where the girls had disappeared.

Yes, Kushar had need of weather witches... and the last two were within his grasp.

⬧

It had been nearly a year since Janek first began thinking the unthinkable.

Yes, he’d gone ahead with the necessary preparations, remodeling a portion of Ayametu, the mountain compound where the Kizrei trained, into a lavish villa. He’d staffed the villa with the elite operatives as well, assigning trusted female warriors to work in the guise of healers and tutors, servants and ladies-in-waiting who would see to the twins’ education and safety. They would be fourteen in another year, adults in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, of marriageable age.

Old enough to bear children.

Throughout his preparations, Janek had argued with himself over the morality of his plan many times, always coming to the same conclusion.

And, until this day, he could have changed his mind.

Now he stood in a dimly-lit, rat-infested excuse for a dockside warehouse, a hired mercenary standing before him, smelling of sand and sweat, bits of caked sand visible around the edges of his hairline and in the folds of his clothing.

“The deed is done? “Janek asked.

“It is,” the mercenary said, a wave of garlic and ale accompanying his words.

“Tell me.”

“We joined the caravan as guards, to protect them as they made the crossing to Aywhai – bad time of year to cross the desert. You never know when a sandstorm will come upon you.”

“Go on,” Janek said.

“We waited until we were three days out,” the mercenary said, “and then we killed them all – did you know there were women and children in that caravan?”

“Did you kill them, too?” Janek asked, his tone deliberately impassive.

“You said ‘everyone,’ so yes, they all died in their sleep, even the little girls,” the mercenary said, casually leaning against a pile of burlap sacks, ignoring the flurry of vermin that squealed at him for interrupting their meal before scampering off to darker shadows. “Suffocated. Quick and quiet. No knives, no blood, just like you ordered. And no injuries... well, except for a couple of the camel drivers, who woke and fought back,” He shrugged at that.

“Understandable,” Janek said. He tossed a small, heavy pouch to the mercenary who snatched it out of the air with a toothy grin, the beads in his mustache glinting in the dim light. “For your trouble. Your men are outside?”

“Yes,” the mercenary said. “There’s just the three of us now. A storm came on us on our way back, chased us all the way to the Valley of Sighs. I have never seen such a thing. We lost our fourth, and a couple of horses to it.”

“The Nayira,” Janek murmured. He’d heard of the desert wind before, random gusts blowing in the wrong direction, raising the sands to swirl around caravans one minute only to drop them the next. But, in all reports, the encounters almost seemed... playful. This was the first he’d heard of the Nayira acting aggressively – and against a group of murderers. It was almost as if it knew what they’d done...

Coins clinked together as the mercenary shook the pouch, bringing Janek’s thoughts back to the present. “This will go a long way toward easing our losses.” He nodded in slight deference to Janek. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

Janek pulled his deep gray cloak closed around him and raised the hood, then gestured for the mercenary to precede him through the door.

The man did, a broken-toothed grin spreading across his face as he crossed the threshold, tossing the coin pouch from hand to hand. He was still grinning a half-step later when a crossbow bolt hit him squarely in the chest and he fell flat on his face, gasping for air.

As the mercenary lay drowning in his own blood, Janek leaned down and retrieved the coin pouch.

“A man who could be paid to kill children cannot be trusted to keep other secrets,” he murmured.

Straightening, he tossed the pouch to the gray-robed Kizrei warrior who stepped from the shadows, a crossbow over his shoulder.

“The others?” Janek asked.

“Disposed of, my lord Kiz,” the warrior said, addressing Janek by his less commonly known title as leader of the Kizrei.

As Janek headed home, he spared a moment of regret for the two young serving girls who had died in the desert at the hands of the mercenaries.

There was no turning back.

“It was not for nothing,” he whispered. “All of Kushar will benefit.”

He thought, then, of the twin princesses, whose journey had taken them up the Ragusina river at the same time the caravan was making its way into the desert. While the mercenaries were fleeing from the vengeful desert wind, the princesses would have been journeying up the mountain to their new home of Ayametu, in the company of a full detachment of Kizrei, with no suspicion that they were not being taken to the next country in their fosterage.

The house of Gerlach would soon believe their daughters dead, the untrained weather witches lost to the very sandstorms they were born to control.

A tragic irony.

And, all the while, the young weather witches would remain in Kushar, very much alive.

Chapter 2

Zoya wound her way through the noisy marketplace in the oasis city of Hatu, looking for any sign of trouble or murmur of unrest. It had been nine years since the city had reluctantly opened its gates to receive refugees from the lost city of Nizam, and the adjustment had not always been easy.

Queen Yolara had been true to her word, providing leadership and resources to assist, but Hatu had not been her only concern. Refugees from Nizam had spread across the small country – now called Tzigane by many, in recognition of the new capital in the Tzigani Mountains – and everyone had needed more than even the queen could provide.

Clashes between refugees and residents of the cities that had taken them in were common, especially during the first years. But now, nine years on, they finally seemed to be reaching something approaching stability.

As the queen’s personal guard and Spymaster of Tzigane, one of Zoya’s many responsibilities included continually monitoring the situation – a job that had grown easier each year as the blended populations had grown used to each other, discovering common goals, shared interests, and mutual complaints. There were still flare-ups, and always would be, but the discontent she heard now was mostly about the weather, or the prices of silks and spices.

She stopped at a vendor’s stall, pretending to examine a length of fine Kushari silk while listening to the trader gossiping with his neighbor in the deep shadows of their stalls. Like so many on this hot summer day, they were discussing the weather, speaking in the multi-lingual language of the desert traders and oasis cities along the major trade routes.

Zoya was about to move on, when the Kushari trader said something that made her lean forward and pay closer attention.

“I wish the weather witches would come down from the mountain.”

“You have weather witches in Kushar? I did not know,” said the Hatuna vendor from the next stall. “We had one in Nizam, but she was old, and died a year or so before the city fell.”

“It is a rare gift,” the Kushari said, his expression softening as though recalling a distant memory. “And such a wonder to see a dark cloud part, the two portions carrying their rain to opposite sides of the valley, leaving only clear skies above us.”

The Hatuna vendor nodded, cooling himself with a broad palm-leaf fan. “I was in Nizam once when the old queen held back a storm. The sand coming up off the desert just hung there like a wall of boiling ochre. Never saw anything like it before or since.”

“I heard it was always pleasant in Nizam,” the Kushari said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Yes,” the Hatuna vendor said, handing a second fan to the trader who accepted it gratefully. “The old queen drew cool breezes through the city. The new queen – the stoneworker – built stone palms to shade us, but it was not the same.”

“No, it would not be,” agreed the Kushari. Glancing up, he noticed Zoya and asked if he could help her with a purchase. She declined, giving up her spot to paying customers.

But she marked the location of the vendor’s stall and fixed his face in her mind. She’d heard enough, for now. There would be time for questions later, when the day’s trade was over. and the business of the night – and the drinking – began.

She would find him then, and get the answers she was looking for. Answers her queen would be most eager to learn.

⬧

Ten days later, Zoya and the Kushari trader – whose name was Armin – stood before Queen Yolara in her mountain palace.

After thoroughly questioning Armin, buying him several mugs of cheap desert brew, and finally promising a substantial reward for his information, Zoya had succeeded in persuading him to accompany her to Sitara, the mountain city where the queen resided.

Zoya had exchanged Armin’s camels for horses and sturdy pack mules, then dismissed the pair of paid caravan guards Armin had hired to travel with him, promising him the protection of the Queen’s Guard at no cost to him. And, when Armin insisted that neither he nor his apprentice – his sister’s son, he was quick to inform her, probably so she wouldn’t dismiss him as she had the guards – had clothing suitable for traveling into the mountains in the cool weather of late autumn, Zoya had purchased coats for them from her own purse.

She considered these all worthwhile purchases. While she could have repeated his story to Yolara herself, Zoya knew the queen would want to speak to Armin in person.

“And you say you saw the weather witch part the clouds?” Yolara asked. They had found her in the palace, seated at the large oval table in the council chamber, and she now tapped her stone-tipped nails against the table’s elaborately etched stone surface.

“I saw the clouds part,” Armin said. “I did not see the witch. But there is no other explanation. It had to be weather magic.”

“When did you see this?”

“Several months ago, my lady,” he said. “About a month before midsummer. I remember it well, because I usually set out on caravan before the rains come, but had to delay my trip to accommodate a patron who was to travel with us for part of the journey.” He glanced over at Zoya, “I was annoyed, because I did not know how long the delay would be, and it is both difficult and unpleasant to manage a caravan during the rains.”

He turned back to Yolara. “While I waited, it so happened that another trader – a friend – fell ill at that same time, and asked me to take a wagonload of supplies to the residence of a reclusive nobleman who lives in the nearby mountains. It was a route my friend usually drove himself, and he was afraid of losing the business if he failed to deliver the supplies on time. So, I agreed to go in his place. It was then that I saw the weather magic.”

“And you did not see it at any other time?”

“My patron had arrived while I was in the mountains, and was not pleased to have been kept waiting. We set out on our journey the following day. With delays because of the weather and the altered route required by my patron, I have not been back to Rachusa in nearly seven months.”

Yolara leaned back against the cushions, a thoughtful look on her face as she looked past them and through the window at the cloud-filled sky. “When I was a child,” she said, “my mother once parted the clouds so our carriage could pass unhindered. The rain fell on either side of the road, but a stone’s throw from us, while the road remained unmuddied.”

She turned to Zoya, who had perched herself on the edge of the table, about halfway down its length. “And you believe his account?” she asked.

Zoya nodded. “I made inquiries among the traders and the caravans,” she said, ignoring Armin’s slight gasp of surprise. “As well as among those who purchased his goods. All agree that, while he is a shrewd and clever businessman, the trader Armin is trustworthy.”

Armin nodded in approval at that, straightening his shoulders just a little.

Zoya bit back a chuckle as she continued. “Moreover, my queen, his is not the first such account I have heard—”

At Yolara’s shocked expression, Zoya went on quickly.

“—though it is the first to have come directly from one who has seen the magic with his own eyes, and not a story passed along in taverns and around campfires and distorted in the retelling.”

The queen had relaxed as Zoya spoke. “Yes, I understand your caution,” she said.

“I had no wish to add to your grief with false hope,” Zoya said gently.

Armin looked from Zoya to Yolara, a puzzled expression on his face. “Why should this cause you grief?” he asked.

Yolara smiled sadly, “You have not told him why I take such an interest in his story?” she asked Zoya.

“No, my lady,” Zoya replied. “It was not my place.”

Yolara looked at Armin. “I have reason to believe that the weather witch whose magic you experienced may have been one of my sisters, who I have believed dead for the past eight years.”

⬧

A few hours later, Zoya tapped lightly on the door to Yolara’s private library. When she entered, both the queen and her consort, Kusan, were waiting for her, seated on ottomans around a low table, as was often their custom. It had been many years since she had reported directly to Kusan, who had continued to serve as Captain of the Queen’s Guard even after his marriage to Yolara, but Zoya still held deep respect for him.

“My lady,” she said, bowing to Yolara. She turned to Kusan, “My lord, Captain. It is good to see you.”

“And you,” he said, gesturing for her to sit and offering her a cup of steamed-milk spiced tea, which she accepted gratefully.

“I searched through the archives,” Kusan said, “to refresh my mind on what exactly we were told about young Katya and Leisha’s death. I saw no irregularities. What, then, prompted you to continue your investigations, and bring the trader, Armin, to us with his story?”

Zoya remembered the message Yolara had received, reporting her sisters’ death. It had been brief, indicating that the caravan in which they traveled had been overtaken by one of the fierce desert sandstorms during the night. All had been lost. Their bodies were never recovered - the Kushari fosterage mistress had identified the twins by items of clothing and jewelry that had been recovered after weeks of scouring the desert. Zoya had accompanied Yolara to the memorial service.

Though they had all spoken at length with the Kushari representatives in attendance, and received countless assurances that all possible precautions had been taken for a safe desert crossing, and their deaths had been a tragic accident, Zoya had always believed there was more to the story than they were being told.

But she said none of this. Instead, she looked to Yolara, who gave her a tired smile. “I did my grieving long ago,” she said. “Armin’s story does not open that old wound, but is merely a salve that seeks to ease the pain of the scar. I would hear your thoughts on this matter.”

“I always believed there were unanswered questions,” Zoya began, carefully balancing her tea on her knee. “But, with no access to the Kushari records, there was no way to pursue an investigation. I had all but forgotten the matter until a little more than four years ago. That was when I first heard Kushari caravaners telling tales of weather magic.”

“So long ago?” Yolara asked.

“Yes, my lady. But, as I mentioned earlier, as the stories became increasingly frequent – and were only told by the Kushari or traders who had traveled in that country – I became convinced that the weather witches of whom they spoke were the lost princesses. However, there were none I could find who had seen the magic for themselves. So, I waited and I listened.”

“And then you found Armin,” Kusan said.

“Yes.”

Yolara rose from her cushion and moved to the window. She stood there, looking out across the verdant mountain valley, her back to them, for several moments, brushing her sandstone-tipped fingers along the smooth granite of the window ledge. The queen often sought contact with stone when she was agitated, Zoya knew. It was an aspect of the stoneworker’s magic she wielded. But whether the stone would calm Yolara, or spur her to a more aggressive course of action, Zoya did not know.

The determined look on the Queen’s face when she turned to face them told Zoya everything. “I cannot bring this news to Reinhard without more information. I lost sisters I barely knew. He lost daughters. I can only imagine how he must feel...” She trailed off, and was silent for a moment. Kusan rose and went to her, putting his arm around her. Zoya was sure both were thinking of their own three children.

The moment passed, and Yolara turned to Zoya. “It is a long way to Kushar,” she said. “Crossing the desert is not without its difficulties.”

“Yes, my lady,” Zoya said cautiously.

“And we could only send someone in whom we had perfect confidence,” Kusan added.

“Will you go?” Yolara asked, holding up her hand to stop Zoya from speaking. “I do not require it – this must be your choice. It will be a long journey, with no guarantee of what you will find there.”

Kusan led Yolara back to the cushions. “The twins have lived there for many years,” he said, keeping his arm around his wife. “Even if you are able to find them, and devise a way to effect their escape, there is no guarantee they will want to come home.”

Yolara stiffened at this, but nodded. “It is true.”

“I will go,” Zoya said. “And if they will not return with me, at least we will know they are alive and well.”

“I can console myself with that,” Yolara said. “Though I doubt Reinhard will agree.”

“Fortunately, that is not a conversation we must have today,” Kusan said.

“How will I know them?” Zoya asked. “Or they me? What proof can I give them that I come from you?”

“I did not know my sisters well,” Yolara said. “But I will share some stories with you of events they might remember from childhood.”

Kusan bent to her and murmured something in her ear.

“Yes,” Yolara said, looking up at him. “I had almost forgotten.” She turned back to Zoya. “After the memorial, Angelina gave me a small box of ‘remembrances’ – trinkets that had belonged to my sisters. I will look through it and see if there is anything small, yet possibly suitable you can carry that might be something one of them will remember.”

They sat together for some time, while Yolara shared anecdotes of childhood memories. Zoya listened carefully, that she might remember, though her own memories were cloudy enough that she wondered if the twins would recall any of the incidents their sister related.

Kusan was quiet through much of the conversation, but as it was drawing to a close, he rose, turning away from them, clasping his hands behind him in a manner Zoya recognized from many years of working with him.

“You have something to add, my lord husband?” Yolara asked.

He turned to them, his expression somber. “It is not enough to know if your sisters wish to come home,” he said. “We also need to know why they were kept in the first place.”

“Because they are weather witches,” Yolara said.

“Such is my belief,” Kusan said. “The gift is rare, and it is not beyond reason that the Kushari would have attempted to claim it.” He looked directly at Zoya. “You will also need to learn to what purpose their gifts have been used – as a tool to aid the Kushari people? Or as a weapon to use against her enemies.”

“Do you believe this is the case?” Yolara said. “We have heard nothing to suggest it. Surely knowledge of their survival would have come to our attention much sooner were their gifts being used in this manner.”

“I do not wish to speculate, merely to be aware.”

“It need not have been obvious,” Zoya said. “An inconvenient storm. A season of drought. Situations that could be believed to be normal, if unpleasant.”

“Even so,” Kusan said. “And it will be important for you to decide if bringing them home will be safe for the people of Tzigane or Gerlach – or if their allegiance is to Kushar. The alliances between our people are fragile at best. This will be a delicate mission.”

“But one I would entrust to no other,” Yolara said.

“I am honored by your faith in me,” Zoya said.

“When will you leave?” asked Kusan.

“In three days’ time,” she said. “I wish to leave before the snows make travel down the mountain difficult.”

“And what of Armin, the merchant?”

“I took him and his apprentice to Calisia and got them settled at an inn,” Zoya said. Tzigane’s capital city of Sitara had grown to encompass the original mountain town, an hour’s ride from the palace, but many continued to refer to the busy market district by its original name. “I warned them both that they were not to speak of his meeting with you, my lady, or mention the weather witches to anyone.”

“Thank you,” Yolara said, relaxing slightly. “I can do nothing about rumors that pass among the caravaners, but they must not spread from within my own house.”

Zoya and Kusan both nodded in agreement.

“Armin asked if they might set up a vendor stall in the marketplace,” Zoya said. “He is a trader. I suspect he wishes to see if there is a market for his products.”

“I see no reason why not,” said Kusan. “Kushari traders seldom come here – we are too far off the trade route to justify the trip without a guarantee of interest. His vendor stall will attract a great deal of attention, just for the novelty of it. And if his merchandise is of high quality, he will likely see a brisk trade.”

Zoya nodded. “I am sure he will welcome the news. It will help to offset the trade he is missing by leaving the regular caravan route. In the morning, I will tell him that he may not only tour the marketplace, but that he may set up his vendor stall – with your blessing – while I settle my affairs and prepare to travel.”

“Will he take you to the place where he saw the weather magic?” Yolara asked.

An almost feral grin spread across Zoya’s face. “I am sure I can persuade him,” she said.

“Good,” Yolara said. “Before I tell Reinhard there are weather witches in Kushar, I must know if they are, indeed, my sisters.”

Chapter 3

Janek smoothed small blobs of clay along the sides of his nose to alter its shape. Then, with carefully applied smears of a gummy paste made from the sap of the acacia bush, he affixed gray strands to his brows, cheeks, and neatly trimmed beard, working the false beard up along his cheeks until the image of a much older man stared back at him from the mirror.

Once the paste set, he daubed a small amount of pigment onto his face with a practiced hand, darkening his bronzed skin and altered nose to the tanned visage of a caravaner recently returned from his travels. A graying wig followed, and a padded merchant’s tunic to give the illusion of additional weight around his midsection – and conceal his lean torso and well-muscled arms – and the transformation was complete.

He had entered his offices as Janek, the Grand Vizier, but left the palace complex through a side door as Kalen of Rachusa, a well-to-do spice merchant about the day’s business. It was but one of the many disguises he had used over the years, and it served him well, particularly when he needed to pass unnoticed through the city streets – or travel from Khulan to the Kizrei compound in the mountains above Rachusa. The broad, tranquil Ragusina river that connected the lakeside trading town and the coastal capital had made Rachusa a logical choice for his secondary base of operations. As the leader of the Kizrei, Janek had made the three-day trip upriver every few weeks for nearly twelve years.

In his disguise, he was well known to the captains of the merchant barges that traveled up and down the river. They actively competed for his patronage – and for the generous gratuities he paid when they reached their destination quickly. He customarily occupied a private cabin, avoiding the shared compartments and open-air deck frequented by the less-wealthy. He had no more desire for their fawning company than he did for that of the oarsmen who strained night and day on hard wooden benches beneath the limited shade of a flimsy covering of waxed-fabric mounted on tall poles.

When the boat arrived in Rachusa on the morning of the third day, he paid the ship captain handsomely, then hired a cart to transport himself and the small crate he’d brought with him from Khulan to his residence. Altan, the house steward, greeted him as he entered.

“My lord. It is good to see you returned,” he said, well accustomed to Janek’s disguise, and bowing deeply as Janek entered the riad. “You have luggage? Of course you do. I will have it seen to immediately.” He gestured to a serving boy who slipped out the door and ran over to the cart.

“Has Lady Sayha arrived yet?” Janek asked, unfastening the cape he wore slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, my lord,” Altan said, taking the cape and laying it over his arm. “And Captain Nachin with her. They await you in the library.”

Janek raised an eyebrow at the mention of Nachin’s presence. He had sent for Sayha, summoning her from the western province of Qaiwi as he intended to take her to Ayametu as a new attendant to the weather witches. But he had not sent for Nachin, nor had he intended to meet with the captain of the local detachment of Kizrei until after his trip up to the mountain compound. Nachin had not sent a falcon, as he would have had there been an emergency; however, his presence suggested that there were issues Nachin had considered important enough to bring directly to him.

“I will see them at once,” he said. The riad was not large, and was square in design, with an enclosed courtyard at the center that helped to draw the warm, often humid air up and away from the rooms on the three levels. Janek’s library and private study ran the full length of the rear of the building, and his boots clicked on the tiles as he crossed the courtyard to it.

Nachin stood near the center of the light-filled room, dressed in his usual dark, lightly armored tunic and pants, a blade at his belt. In contrast, Sayha, who sat comfortably on a cushioned bench, was dressed in a more courtly manner, in layers of deep blue silk heavily trimmed in silver. While all three of them were of noble houses, Sayha far outranked both of the men on the social scale, as daughter of the king’s younger sister.

She carried no weapon, but Janek knew her to be quite capable of defending herself and the weather witches he intended to entrust to her care. The silver combs that held her hair in loose piles on her head could be instantly transformed into weapons in her hands – and as a gifted metalworker, that was only one of her defenses.

“Lady Sayha,” Janek said, pausing in the open doorway. “Thank you for coming.” He gave her a polite bow.

“My lord Kiz,” she said, dipping her head slightly as she acknowledged Janek’s rank.

He turned to Nachin. “Captain. What news brings you to my home?”

Nachin did not turn his head, but his eyes flicked toward Sayha and then back to Janek as he spoke. “It concerns your... other guests,” he said, the question about just how much he could say in front of Sayha evident from his tone.

As the Kiz, Janek had received the oaths of allegiance from both Sayha and Nachin, including the ritual binding of the heartstrings that connected their life energies to his own. Though they were both Kizrei, Nachin and Sayha had not been connected to each other in the complicated web of heartstrings that bound the elite warriors – and which would have reassured the captain of her trustworthiness.

As Janek came into the room, closing the double doors behind him, he reached out along the strands of energy between himself and Sayha, but sensed only curiosity. Reaching out to Nachin, he felt a low-level anxiety and a heightened watchfulness.

He crossed to a side table where carafes of water and wine and dishes of dried fruit, olives, and flatbread had been set out. “You may speak freely, Captain,” he said. “What Sayha does not already know about the compound at Ayametu and those who reside there, she will learn over the coming days as we journey up the mountain.” He gestured to the side table. “Please, join me. We shall take refreshment while we talk.”

They served themselves, then took seats on cushioned benches around a low table. When they were settled, Janek gestured for Nachin to speak.

“There are rumors, my lord,” Nachin began. He shrugged slightly, “There have always been rumors, speculation about the wealthy, reclusive nobleman many believe to live in Ayametu.”

“We expected no less,” Janek said, running his fingers through the fake beard, gently scratching at a spot where the dried paste tugged at his skin. “And those rumors have protected the compound from deeper scrutiny for many years. What has changed?”

“The rumors now circulating through the marketplace are seldom about the nobleman and his harem,” Nachin replied. “The flooding in the low-lying areas near the lake was extensive in the last weeks of the monsoon, more so than usual. Since then, everyone whispers about weather magic. They wonder about a green valley high in the mountains, a villa where the sun shines warm overhead when all around it snows. About rainstorms that flood the villages while the dark clouds seem to avoid the mountain.”

Janek scowled. He had always known this day would come. He had hoped to have another year, even two if luck favored him, but as the twins’ command of the weather magic grew with each passing year, it was inevitable that someone would notice and remark on it. He turned to Sayha. “I should have sent for you sooner.”

“I have done all in my power to calm the unrest in Qaiwi,” she said matter-of-factly. “But, unlike his father, the new governor, Lord Bacdi, openly ignores my counsel. How long the peace his father brokered with Kushar will hold is uncertain. For the time being, until the king, my uncle, commands otherwise, I am at your disposal. How may I be of service?”

“There are two weather witches living in Ayametu,” Janek said without preamble. “Twin sisters—”

“The daughters of the Gerlachi king,” Sayha whispered. Though the emotion barely flickered across her face, the heartstring thread between them vibrated with astonishment.

“The same,” Janek said, not bothering to explain how the twins came to be there. “They have been educated as befitting daughters of a noble house, but have had no actual contact with a member of the nobility who can guide them in their interactions. That is where I require your assistance.”

Sayha nodded. “They are... sixteen years old? Seventeen?”

“Twenty-one,” Janek said.

Sayha frowned slightly, then shrugged. “The training would have been better received when they were younger,” she said, her rich voice layered with the smooth accent indicative of many years of tutoring. “No matter. It is what it is. When do you plan to present them to the king?”

“Not until I have to,” Janek said. “Possibly as soon as the beginning of the rains at midsummer. If we can keep the rumors in check we will have more time, but almost certainly no more than another year.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he spoke. “I have worked to impress upon them how valuable their gifts are to the people of Kushar, and I believe they understand. But, at the same time, I have had to keep them away from people, for their own protection.”

The heartstring bond did not allow him access to Sayha’s thoughts, but he could almost hear her finish that sentence with, “...and your own.”

He continued, uninterrupted. “So, the challenges we face – such as those of the recent floods or the drought in the north – are little more than tutor’s stories to them.”

“How may I be of service?” Sayha asked again.

Janek met her calm gaze, his disguise insufficient to hide his own ambitious determination. “I would have you prepare the twins to leave Ayametu,” he said. “I want them to take their place among us – not as the missing Gerlachi princesses, but to stand on their own as venerated members of Kushari society, prepared to use their gifts to help our people.”

As Janek spoke, Sayha’s heartstring thrummed with an intensity that matched his own – eager for the challenge, believing in the purpose. Nachin’s energy was less intense, but Janek sensed no judgment, no betrayal, nothing to cause him to doubt his captain.

He raised his glass, extending it toward them. “Will you help me?”

Nachin nodded, raising his glass as well. Sayha raised her wineglass, touching it to Janek’s and then Nachin’s.

“Yes, my Kiz,” she said. “I will do all that is in my power to prepare them.”

⬧

Early the next morning, Janek – having reapplied his merchant’s disguise – and Sayha, now dressed in sturdy traveling garb, left Rachusa in a trader’s wagon pulled by a pair of steady, slow-moving yaks, with Janek holding the reins. Two mounted Kizrei guards rode ahead of them and two behind as they made their way slowly up the rutted dirt road.

“Surely this is the best-protected wagon of silks and spices in the country,” Sayha said, laughing as the guards took their places.

“There are many things my brother will forgive me of, my lady,” Janek said. “Putting you at risk is not among them.”

“The king takes no notice of me,” Sayha said, flexing her fingers, the sunlight glinting off the steely-gray of her iron-tipped fingernails, the physical manifestation of her gift as a metalworker. She had polished her nails to a high gloss, shaping them to rounded – and, it appeared, sharpened – tips. “Ever since I refused the eldest prince of Erembourg, both he and my parents have been quite content to have me serve Kushar... from a distance.”

“You would have made a formidable queen,” Janek said.

Sayha shook her head. “His older sister will take the crown, and her eldest after her. It is unlikely he will reign in any capacity other than possibly that of regent. Still...” She shrugged. “I was fifteen. I was stupid,” she said. “I had met the prince three years before, during my fosterage in Zuria. I did not like him much at the time...” She let the sentence trail off.

Janek did not press her for more.

Across the Seven Kingdoms, third or fourth royal children were seldom elevated to rule in their own countries – and royal cousins almost never ascended to the throne.

Most, like Sayha, were exchanged like currency; teenaged girls ripe for conception, the boys a little older. All married to foreign nobles, the strategic mixing of bloodlines strengthening the always fragile alliances between the kingdoms.

In a country like Kushar, with eleven provinces, each governed by their own noble houses, youths male and female who had reached marriageable age – being considered fully adult by law once reaching their fourteenth birthday – were often bound to houses in other parts of the country, mixing and distributing the bloodlines. Being wed to a son or daughter of the royal house was a particular honor – but even these were treaty marriages, the partners seldom meeting before their nuptials.

One of King Batuhan’s own wives – his third – was a seventeen-year-old girl he had married three years before, when Kushar had acquired by treaty the troublesome western province of Qaiwi. The son the young queen gave the king a mere ten months after their marriage would never rule – Batuhan had two adult sons by his long dead first wife, and a third son and two daughters by his second wife, all of whom were well ahead of the infant prince in line for the succession.

Nevertheless, the child would enter the fosterage when he turned eleven, where he would be educated and trained as befitted the son of the royal house. And when he was old enough, a wife would be chosen for him who best served Kushar’s need.

Even Sayha, who had refused to be given as a treaty bride, would have no choice but to comply if Batuhan one day decided he needed her to marry in order to seal an alliance. And she knew it.

For the moment, however, Janek was grateful that the extraordinary noblewoman was at his side and not wearing a second-tier crown in Erembourg.

He shook the yaks’ reins and changed the subject.

“About the twins,” he said. “Their names are Katya and Leisha—”

“Is it easy to tell them apart?” Sayha asked. “I knew a pair of twins during my fosterage – it was only in conversation that you could tell one from the other, and sometimes not even then.”

“Katya and Leisha are identical in appearance,” Janek said. “But so different in personality that it is easy enough to distinguish between them after even a short acquaintance.” He guided the yaks around a pothole, cursing when the wagon wheel bumped roughly over it.

“You might have had this road improved,” Sayha observed.

“It has been, farther along,” Janek said, not taking his eyes off the road ahead of the yaks. “We left this section rough, in the hope it would discourage the curious.”

“Has that been successful?”

“For the most part,” Janek said. “The Kizrei stationed at the head of the road, where it leaves Rachusa, only occasionally have to divert anyone.”

When he had met privately with Nachin the previous afternoon, the Kizrei captain had told him that those ‘necessary diversions’ were happening with increasing frequency, and they discussed the possibility of closing the lower section of this road and establishing another.

But they both knew it would take time, and now that people were whispering about weather witches in the mountains, it would not be long before any new route they built was discovered. In the end, they agreed it was simply better to increase the number of guards along the existing road and at the entrance to the compound at Ayametu.

Sayha only grunted in response as the wagon bounced through another hole. Janek knew this was not the kind of carriage she was accustomed to, after so long in diplomatic service, but he needed her. The rough, rutted road could not be helped.

“So, what did you not say earlier?” she asked, as though reading his thoughts. “There are others you could turn to for help teaching courtly etiquette.”

When he did not reply she said, “You want me to soften Batuhan’s reaction to the twins.”

“I had considered the strategic value of having you at my side when we introduce them...,” he said. “If you are willing, of course.”

“It has been years since they disappeared. Why have you kept the truth from him?”

“The only way he can honestly deny is to not know,” Janek said.

“This is risky, Janek. Far more than I ever would have thought of you.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“Tell me everything.”

So, he did. As the wagon rolled over the bumpy road, he told her about seeing the pair of young girls teasing people in the courtyard with their newly-discovered magic. He told her of the fall of Nizam and how the lost desert city no longer needed the weather witches to protect it, while all of Kushar suffered for the lack of anyone with the weather magic gift.

By the time he told her how he’d had the twins kidnapped and brought to the compound, and of the fate of the serving girls who had gone into the desert in their place, they were well past the rough portion of the road and moving smoothly along a well-maintained road of stone bricks, lightly dusted with snow as they wound ever higher into the mountains.

“But why wait so long?” Sayha asked. “You could have brought this to the king at any point. Surely, he would have agreed with your motives, once the deed was done.”

Janek said nothing

“What is it, Janek?” Sayha asked, her tone as frosty as the air around them. “What are you not telling me?”

“There may be more than two weather witches in Kushar.”

Sayha stared at him in confusion.

Janek did not look at her, unwilling to meet her gaze, but kept his eyes fixed to the gray and white blur of the road beyond the yaks’ heavy horns. The crunch of the wagon wheels against the snow-covered stones and the muffled clopping of their hooves echoed in his head until he wanted to scream.

And then he heard it. The small inhalation of breath that accompanied the white-hot rage that burned through the heartstring.

“Janek!” Sayha’s whisper was almost a hiss. “What have you done?”

“Weather witches have too long been exclusive to the royal house of Nizam,” Janek said. “Nizam has fallen. I have... taken steps to ensure that the bloodline continues.”

Chapter 4

Zoya gave Armin three days to finish his business before she finally went to the market to see what was causing the delay. She was anxious to get down the mountain before the daily dusting of snow began to fall in more significant quantities.

But when she went to the marketplace on the afternoon of the third day after their meeting with Queen Yolara, she found the Kushari trader engaged in a brisk business of both buying and selling.

“If I remember correctly,” she said, leaning against a large wagon which was filled nearly to overflowing with woolens, ceramics, and a rainbow-colored assortment of herbs and spices, “the plan was for you to reduce your inventory so we could travel fast and light to Ragusa. This—” she waved a hand at the wagon “—does not look reduced.”

“Ra-chu-sa,” Armin said, not looking up at her as he counted out change for a Tzigani matron happily stroking the soft green Kushari silk. “The city I am taking you to is Rachusa, on the Ragusina River.”

Zoya crossed her arms. “Right,” she said. “And your inventory?”

Armin turned to her, tucking the coins into a small, but heavy leather pouch at his waist as the customer walked away. “Oh, to be sure,” he said. “Virtually nothing remains of my previous inventory. What you see there is my new inventory. The highest-quality Tzigani textiles, seldom seen in Kushar. Spices, to season the dishes for the most discriminating palates.” He rubbed his gloved hands together, his bare fingertips pink in the afternoon chill. “I had to purchase the wagon to carry it all, and traded the horses and pack mules for a brace of your Tzigani draft mules – I have never seen such large mules! The mares that birthed them must have been enormous. I had to send Navid to buy more feed...” At Zoya’s glare, he returned to his original topic. “If sales of the Tzigani merchandise are as profitable as I anticipate, I may have to allow time for a visit to Calisia to my travels each year.”

“How fortunate for us,” Zoya said, her flat tone communicating the depth of her disinterest. “When do we leave?”

Armin turned to look at the remaining silks displayed before him, his face breaking into a smile as he beckoned to a pair of Tzigani maids who were peering at his booth from a short distance. “I only need one more day to sell the remainder of—” he began.

“Let me rephrase,” Zoya said. “Queen Yolara is anxious for us to be on our way, and I do not wish to travel through any more snow than necessary—” she glanced at the loaded wagon “—especially if we are to go so heavily burdened.”

Armin turned to look at her, a stricken expression melting away his previous good humor. “But—”

“We leave at dawn,” Zoya said. “If you are not packed and ready, I will wrap you in blankets, tie you onto the back of one of your new mules, and we will ride to Rachusa at a gallop. If you are very lucky, your apprentice has learned enough to manage your inventory until your return, but I make no promises in that regard.”

⬧

The road to Sitara had been widened in the years since the Nizami River had failed and the people had moved into the mountains. Zoya had made the journey from Tzigane’s mountain capital to the trading cities at the desert’s edge many times in service to Queen Yolara. However, accustomed as she was to riding with other members of the Queen’s Guard for several hours in relative silence, Zoya was unprepared for the Kushari trader’s endless chatter.

Armin, it seemed, had an opinion about everything. Worse, he apparently felt compelled to share his views on the weather, the condition of the road, the number of birds that flew overhead, and the cut of the warm wool and leather coat he had obtained from one of the Calisian traders. Zoya wasn’t even sure who he was talking to. His nephew, Navid, had curled up on top of a mound of canvas bags near the rear of the wagon, pulled a canvas bag over his head, and gone to sleep.

Zoya had no such luxury.

“I know you are capable of traveling in silence,” Zoya said, guiding her mare toward the front of the wagon. “You were not so talkative on our way to meet with the Queen.”

“I was afraid for my life,” Armin said. “You might have killed me at any moment.”

“I still might,” Zoya said.

Armin waggled a finger at her. “Oh, no,” he said, grinning. “You need me. Your queen needs me. And my visit to your capital city and its marketplace was very productive. I am in an exceptionally good mood.”

“Perhaps you could try being in a quiet mood for a few miles,” Zoya said.

Armin shrugged, but he kept his thoughts to himself for nearly a quarter of an hour before his good mood again set him to talking. With a sigh, Zoya spurred her mare forward, putting just enough distance between herself and the wagon that the clomping of his horses’ hooves on the snow-packed road and the creaking of the overloaded wagon wheels mostly drowned out the sound of Armin’s reedy monologue.

They made good time, reaching the small town of Kirati in the hour before nightfall. The quickly-growing town served as a crossroads, connecting Sitara to the trading cities at the edge of the desert.

A small plaza lay ahead of them, the road branching around it to form a diamond with a well at its center. As they approached, the southeasterly road to Hatu, where Zoya had found Armin, lay to the left of the diamond, while the road to the right led southwest to Aywhai.

Directly to the south, at the far end of the diamond, was the now seldom-used road that had once led to the city of Nizam. That route had been severed by a deep chasm during the great earthquake a decade earlier – the same earthquake that had cut off the river that had previously sustained the now sand-buried oasis city. Queen Yolara had overseen the building of a bridge across the chasm, but the only people who used that road with any regularity were the farmers and shepherds who lived along it.

A small caravanserai – which Zoya knew to be more of a communal stable than a typical desert facility – bordered the road on one side of the plaza, and an inn on the other, the fragrant scent of grilling meat wafting out of the adjacent tavern and beckoning the travelers forward.

“We will stay here for the night,” Zoya told Armin, nodding toward the inn as they approached the plaza. She gestured for him to follow the pair of guards that had accompanied them to the caravanserai. “They will stand guard over your belongings,” she said, nodding toward the guards.

Sliding off her mare, she handed the reins to Navid, who had hopped down from the wagon when it slowed, and now walked alongside it. “I will secure our lodging,” she said. “Tell the whisperer that we will be leaving in the first hour after dawn, so he will know to grant us access to our animals.”

“You are letting me sleep in?” Armin said. “What a luxury.”

“I do not do this for you,” Zoya said. “I see few other wagons here. I do not wish to rouse the whisperer early solely on our behalf.”

Armin grinned. “You come through here often,” he said. “Want to stay in his good graces. I understand.”

Zoya just shrugged, then headed across the plaza to the inn. It had been a long time since she had served as a merchant’s guard, both she and her mare chomping at the bit as they plodded along with a loaded wagon or string of camels. She much preferred the work Queen Yolara usually asked of her – quick trips made at a gallop between the trading cities, stealthy observations of the merchants coming and going from the different countries. But the Kirati innkeeper kept a good house with clean beds, and the tavern served good food and drink, so she was content enough for tonight.

It would be four days’ journey to Hatu, another month along the coastal road to Kushar, and probably a couple of weeks there to locate the twins and report back to the Queen. After that, another couple of months to complete the return journey. If all went well, she would be back in Kirati in four months, just as the spring thaw touched the mountains, driving back the snow.

Zoya smiled. She was desert-born, and had never cared for snow. She would not miss the winter in Sitara.

⬧

“That is the road to Aywhai,” Zoya said, riding up alongside Armin. The Kirati whisperer had exchanged the brace of heavy draft mules that had pulled the wagon from Sitara with four strong, smaller mules that were better adapted to travel in the foothills, and Armin was guiding them toward the western road. Zoya gestured over her shoulder, toward the other side of the plaza. “The road east, to Hatu, is over there.”

Armin looked at her, a slight frown creasing his face. “Why would you want to go back to Hatu?” he asked,

“Because that is the way to Kushar.” Zoya said.

Armin tugged at the reins, bringing the mules to a stop. “That is the way to eastern Kushar, yes, east from Hatu, then south along the Lancaran Coast and through the Valley of Sighs to Khulan,” he said. “But we are not going to Khulan. And though that route is beautiful, it will add several weeks to our journey. I thought you wanted to travel quickly.”

It was Zoya’s turn to be confused. “You said the twins were in Kushar. The way to Kushar is through Hatu – so travels every Kushari trader I have observed. So, why have you chosen the road to Aywhai?”

Armin stared at her for a long moment, then beckoned her closer. “You have never been to Kushar,” he said.

“No,” Zoya said.

Armin spread a piece of cloth on the wagon seat next to him, then rummaged through the parcel of fruit, bread, and cheese the innkeeper had given them. With Navid watching from his perch on the canvas-wrapped packages mounded behind his uncle, Armin placed a large slice of bread in the middle of the cloth.

“Imagine this is the desert,” he said, pointing to the vaguely oval shape. Near the center of the lower crust, he placed a chunk of cheese. “This is Hatu, and this—” he placed a second chunk an inch to the right “—is Aywhai.”

“Yes,” said Zoya. She pointed to the rounded edge of the bread nearest her. “Lancara is here, along the coast, and this,” pointing to the edge of the upper crust, “is Kushar.”

“And therein lies the confusion,” Armin said. He pointed to the bread, running his finger the length of the upper crust. “This crust, in our example, represents the Janqurai Mountains, a massive wall of rock that separates the desert from the lands to the south...”

“I have heard of these mountains,” Zoya said. “But what do they have to do with our journey?”

“You have no idea how big Kushar is, do you?” Armin said.

Zoya did not answer. Tzigane was a small country, and while she knew where the borders of the neighboring countries met hers, she had never needed to know how far beyond the Tzigani borders those countries extended.

Separated from them by the desert, Kushar shared no border with Tzigane, so Zoya had made no study of it. She knew only what most people knew: the steppes between the mountains and the desert were inhospitable and sparsely populated, mostly by Kushari bandits and other outcasts, and the Kusharim had built their capital city, Khulan, on the coast, near where the mountains met the sea.

Armin just shook his head. Taking a second slice of bread, he tore it in half, lengthwise, and placed it next to the first, their upper crusts pressed close together.

“The Janqurai Mountains are comprised of row after row of jagged peaks and deep gorges, with the tallest at the center,” he said, pointing to the space where the crusts met. “The steppes of the northern foothills? That is Kushar. The mountains themselves? They are Kushar. The land beyond the mountains? From east to west and for several weeks’ journey to the south... all that is Kushar.”

Zoya stared dumbfounded, watching in silence as Armin balanced a grape on the border between the two crusts of bread, almost directly opposite the point where Nizam once stood, at the apex of a triangle formed by the bits of cheese that represented Hatu and Aywhai. He studied the arrangement for a moment, then moved the grape another inch to the right, away from Zoya.

“Here, in the mountains, is where we will look for your queen’s sisters,” he said.

Zoya stared at the bits of cheese and fruit. “The storm season is past,” she said. “Why do we not simply cross the desert here,” she drew a line across the bread toward the grape, “and then directly through the mountains? Even with the winter approaching, we could make the journey quickly—” she looked meaningfully at the wagon “—if we traveled light.”

Armin barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You think you know mountains,” he said, his tone serious. “But you do not. The Tzigani are like foothills to the Janqurai. The overconfident die in those mountains. Reckless travelers collapse for lack of breath as they ascend the heights. They fall into crevasses or are buried under the snows that never melt from the highest peaks and are never seen again. The route you suggest would be a fool’s journey. And while I am not particularly brave, I am no fool.”

He pointed to the edge of the bread nearest him. “In Aywhai, we will trade the mules and wagon for camels—”

“I am not trading my horse,” Zoya said.

“As you wish,” Armin said. “Though you may change your mind after you speak to the whisperer there. A short journey through the desert is no great burden for a horse. But lengthy journeys are hard on the creatures.”

“I have ridden with the caravans in the past,” Zoya said. She patted her mare’s neck absently. Armin might not give a second thought to exchanging his horses, mules, and camels, but her mare had served her well. She had no intention of trading it. Particularly not for a slow-moving camel. She shuddered at the thought.

“Good,” Armin said, seeming not to notice her hesitation. “We will join a westbound caravan in Aywhai, and follow the edge of the desert here, to Saresu, which lies between the forests of Tusya and Kushar.” His finger moved around the lower edge of the bread and up the side, stopping just below the point where the dark, upper crust began. “There, we will exchange the camels for another wagon and team before crossing the Janqurai and into Kushar through the Madia Pass.”

His finger moved to the second slice of bread, drawing a line about a third of the way from the outer edge to just below where he had placed the grape,. “Once we are in Kushar, we will follow the Ragusina River, which flows along the southern foothills, downstream until we reach Rachusa.”

“But all that will take months!” Zoya exclaimed.

“Three months,” Armin agreed with a nod, seemingly unconcerned. “Maybe four, if Madia Pass is closed when we arrive and we are forced to wait in Saresu until the snows melt enough to allow safe passage. I usually make that crossing in late summer, so I cannot speak knowledgeably about what the weather will be like when we arrive – though I should caution you: winter travel through the mountains is quite dangerous.”

He gathered up the bread and cheese, popping the plump grape into his mouth. He chewed it and swallowed with gusto. “But, with suitable precautions, we will make the crossing safely. Weather conditions on the other side of the mountains will be much more amenable.”

He picked up the reins and clucked to the mules. As the wagon began to roll forward, Zoya nudged her mare into motion as well.

“You might have told me this before we left Sitara,” Zoya muttered.

“I did not realize I would have to teach you the basics of Kushari geography,” Armin said. “I made the assumption – incorrectly, it would seem – that you had a basic education. You realize, of course, that the road to the mountain compound where the weather witches reside is also closed during the winter.”

He looked over at her. “Or would you prefer to wait until later in the season?”

Zoya closed her eyes in exasperation. “If we take the eastern route, through Lancara and Khulan, how long will the trip take?”

“Four months to reach Rachusa,” Armin said.

“So it is nearly the same in either direction?” Only her training kept her voice calm, held her frustration at bay.

“It is a comparable distance. I make this trip each year,” Armin said. “But, to your purpose, it makes little difference – the snows above Rachusa will only just have begun melting when we arrive. There is no point arriving any sooner.”

The wagon creaked as it rolled over the dusty road and Zoya wrapped a scarf around her face. They rode in silence for several minutes before Zoya had another question for Armin.

“Will it seem strange – or attract unwanted attention – if we go through Saresu instead of following your usual route?”

“Caravans flow both eastward and westward all year,” Armin said. “We will have no difficulty joining a caravan heading in either direction.”

“Then let the caravan decide. We will proceed to Aywhai and join the first caravan leaving the city, in whatever direction it is headed.”

Armin shrugged. “As you wish,” he said. “May the winds favor our journey.” After a moment, he looked over at Zoya and asked, “Do you speak Kushari?”

“I am desert-born,” Zoya said, referring to her native language, the multi-lingual hybrid tongue spoken across Tzigane and in all of the oasis cities, and used by desert traders such as Armin out of necessity. “I know some Kushari words and phrases, but I would not say that I speak or understand with any fluency.”

“If you are to spend time in Kushar, you will need more than a student’s vocabulary,” Armin said. He switched to his own language. “From this time forward, we will speak only in Kushari.”

Zoya made no reply, grinding her teeth together, as she reminded herself that she needed the trader alive if she was to complete her mission and locate the Queen’s sisters.

But then...

She grinned, contemplating the many torments she might inflict on him once she no longer needed his cooperation.

“I am not a trader,” she said, keeping her voice calm and controlled while she searched her mind for each word, hoping she was phrasing her thoughts correctly in the unfamiliar language. “And I am unfamiliar with the lands and customs where we will travel. If there is anything I need to know...” she took a deep breath before continuing, “...I thank you for teaching me.”

Armin immediately launched into a discussion of caravaner culture – in Kushari, of course – and it was all Zoya could do to stifle a groan as the foreign sounds hit her ears. Even though he spoke slowly and clearly, she understood no more than one word in ten... no, more like one in twenty... and most of them were not particularly useful in making sense of what he was saying.

Zoya sighed. It was going to be a long, long trip.

Chapter 5

Janek was saddened, but not surprised, when Sayha exchanged places with one of the other Kizrei for the remainder of the three-day trip up the mountain to Ayametu. He was confident she would come to see the wisdom of his plan. Not only was she an intelligent woman skilled in statecraft, she was also Kizrei, and had sworn the same oath of allegiance he had to serve and protect Kushar above all else.

Such was the way of the Kizrei, whose oaths, first to country and then to their fellow warriors, superseded even their oaths of obedience to the Kiz and, finally, loyalty to the king. Sayha would do as he commanded, though Janek much preferred willing service over oath-based compliance.

He reached out along the heartstring several times during the journey, a feather-light touch that allowed him to monitor her emotions unobserved. Sayha’s initial rage had dropped to simple fury almost instantly, as her training took over and she regained control over her emotions. And though she outwardly displayed nothing more than quiet reserve, her anger persisted for several hours before settling into the tumultuous emotions reflecting her internal struggle.

Janek knew that struggle. He had wrestled with his conscience before abducting the twins and come to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. And then he had spent the following year once again in conflict before implementing the next step of his plan.

He would have killed any man who subjected one of his own daughters to similar indignities, but the fourteen-year-old twins were of marriageable age, legally adults by the law of the land, and Kushar needed weather witches of its own. It was the only way they might ever hope to tame the monsoons, make the steppes habitable, or provide relief to those who suffered the scorching heat of the deserts. So, Janek had persuaded a healer to watch over the girls, and, when their bodies gave the appropriate signal, put them into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The twins woke three days later, unaware of either the time that had passed or what had transpired while they slept – until the signs of their first pregnancies began to manifest.

Janek had needed no heartstring bond to inform him of the depth of Katya’s anger. When he next visited Ayametu, three months later, the young weather witch had flown at him in rage, pounding at his chest with her small fists, the clouds in her eyes dark, tiny sparks flashing in the roiling currents. As she fought him, the wind whipped around them in a small cyclone, lifting them several inches from the paving stones of the courtyard before throwing them against the supporting pillars.

He had not realized Katya’s intentions until it was almost too late. Wrapping his arms around her, Janek twisted his body so that he took the brunt of the impact against the unyielding stone rather than allowing Katya to break herself against it.

Twice more she tried to harm herself, both times nearly succeeding. Janek had finally been forced to have the healers return her to the deep sleep for her own safety and that of the child she carried. It took two weeks of this, only waking her periodically, and keeping her under heavy guard at all times, before she finally resigned herself to the pregnancy.

Leisha, always the gentler of the pair, had accepted her pregnancy quietly, though the look she gave Janek was heavy with gray clouds that fully conveyed her disappointment at what she clearly viewed as a breach of trust.

Her reaction was fair, and he did not fault her for it. For two years he had repeated his promise to keep them safe – and allowing children to be fathered on them without their knowledge or consent did not meet Leisha’s expectation of “safe.”

Janek justified it all as necessary, though he never argued with either of the girls about it. Had he chosen to discuss it, he would have pointed out the many precautions taken each time they conceived.

Female Kizrei warriors had been present to ensure that no harm came to the girls during the act, which was only allowed when the healer determined their bodies were at the height of fertility. And he had bowed to the healer’s demand that the girls be allowed several months’ recovery time following each pregnancy.

Thinking to lessen their fears, the twins were put into a deep sleep for a few days surrounding each event. But, following their third pregnancies, the chief healer reported that the fear of not knowing when they might again discover themselves with child was more distressing to the twins than the idea of participating in the act. She recommended they be allowed to remain awake.

Janek had acquiesced, but only on that one aspect. By then, the twins were over eighteen, and understood what was happening to them, even if they did not always appreciate their roles in his plan. But all else remained the same, including the requirement that both the girls and the Kizrei he had selected to father their children be fully masked to hide their true identities from everyone present.

He had, of course, lied to the Kizrei as well. Janek had been both cautious and selective in his choices for bringing the Nizami bloodline into Kushar, choosing strong, intelligent men from across the many provinces.

He told them that they were performing a service for a nobleman – one that was desperate for an heir and had taken a young, new wife, in the hope of preserving his house – and emphasized the need for the utmost in secrecy and decorum. They could never speak of the service they had performed, or of the presumed noblewoman whose bedchamber they had been brought to.

They had been ten of his best warriors.

It had been a pity to have had them killed so soon after their children had been conceived, but letting them live – and possibly expose his plan – posed too great a risk. And so, now, a little over eight years since he first put his plan in motion, ten young children of Nizami royal blood were being raised in noble houses across Kushar, with no one thinking to question their heritage.

Of all the unspeakable things he had done in service to his plan, that was the only one for which Janek felt no remorse. Kushari kings had always fathered children by their concubines, and part of Janek’s role as Grand Vizier had included placing those half-royal infants in appropriate homes where they were adopted without hesitation. Unlike his father, Batuhan had never acknowledged even one, and rarely inquired after any of them – Janek was certain the king had no more idea of how many bastard children he had fathered than he did of how many other half-siblings he had, scattered across the noble houses of Kushar.

Taking the children Katya and Leisha had borne – six girls and four boys – and adding them to the distribution of royal bastards had been a logical choice. The children were of royal blood, after all, and would be well cared for, have every advantage, and be raised as privileged members of Kushari noble houses. And he would receive regular reports on their progress, just as he did for all of Batuhan’s offspring.

And while the boys would never wield the weather magic themselves – no man ever had in all the histories he had searched – there was always the hope that the gift might someday pass to their daughters or granddaughters.

Only time would tell if Janek’s plan would succeed, and if any of the girls would one day wake with clouds in her eyes.

⬧

A snowflake drifted lazily past Janek’s face, landing on his arm as he guided the pair of shaggy yaks pulling his wagon carefully along the icy road up the mountain. Overhead, the skies that had been clear, if cold, when they had set out on the final leg of the journey that morning were now heavy with gray clouds – clouds that seemed darker as he peered ahead through the overhanging canopy of the trees.

He shook the reins gently, urging the yaks to increase their lumbering pace from their slow, unhurried walk to a slightly faster walk. The air was thin at this altitude, and always cold, even in summer, and though they were much better suited to the climate than the horses the Kizrei rode, the yaks struggled for breath if pressed to greater speed. In addition, they had no animal whisperer with them to tend to the beasts if one should slip on an icy patch of road. It was not practical to urge them on, but Janek had no desire to be caught in the open if the dark clouds ahead proved to be as heavy with snow as he feared.

It was midafternoon when they reached Ayametu, the snow that had been settling on them in large, heavy flakes since late morning having grown thicker as the day had worn on, covering all in a blanket of white. Janek welcomed the warmth of the torchlit tunnel that formed the entrance to the hidden complex, pushing back his hood and shaking the wet snow from his cloak as they rode through the large wooden doors and out of the weather.

Long before Janek was born, stoneworkers had found and expanded the narrow, winding cavern that cut through the heart of the mountain. Using their magic, they had widened the passage and smoothed the floor, creating a road wide enough that six mounted riders could pass through side by side. Torches were set in occasional sconces cut into the rock, their flickering light casting odd shadows where it caught on the rough walls and sent out thin smoke trails that disappeared into the darkness above. Kizrei watched from recessed niches, almost invisible in their deep gray cloaks.

Janek nodded at the Kizrei as they passed through the dimly-lit tunnel, acknowledging their presence, but did not stop to talk with any of them as he often did. Nor did he let his thoughts drift to the marvel of the tunnel’s construction or the anticipation of the valley beyond. Today, his attention was less on the scenery and more on Sayha. He hoped seeing the extent of the twins’ magic would soften her anger toward him.

She rode ahead of him, speaking in a low voice with the Kizrei who rode at her side. Like him, they had both shaken their gray cloaks free of snow when they entered, but where Sayha pulled her hood back up onto her head in anticipation of more snow as they came around the last bend and approached the wooden doors that marked the far end of the tunnel. Her Kizrei companion, who had made this journey many times, did not.

As the doors swung open, Janek saw Sayha’s posture shift, the relaxed ease of the rider instantly replaced with the warrior’s alert stance. As they rode out into bright, warm sunlight, sheer astonishment reverberated along the heartstrings.

The tunnel opened onto a wide plaza at the edge of a cliff, leading to a long bridge over a deep chasm. At the opposite end of the bridge stood an elaborate villa – almost a small palace – its pale gold stone walls, delicate towers, and lacy balconies contrasting with the surrounding greenery and deep gray of the granite mountains that towered beyond, their jagged peaks scraping at the brilliantly blue sky. A river flowed past the villa, a ribbon of silver winding through an emerald green park, before plunging off the plateau and into the chasm.

Janek watched as Sayha took it in, only half-surprised when she wheeled her horse around and rode back to his wagon.

“What is this place?” she demanded.

“This is Ayametu,” he answered. He gestured beyond them, where a pair of dark-haired young women stood at the opposite end of the bridge. “Come. Let me introduce you to the weather witches who have turned this valley into a paradise.”

⬧

An hour later, Janek and Sayha, still dressed in their traveling clothes, strolled through the villa’s gardens with Katya and Leisha. Flower-covered vines twined over sturdy trellises, filling the air with their sweet, heavy fragrance. Trees labored under the weight of branches heavy with ripening apricots.

“I understand that you have power over weather,” Sayha said, reaching out to pluck a plump apricot. She studied the perfectly formed fruit. “But the harvest is long past. Beyond this valley, the mountains are already blanketed in snow.”

Katya pointed toward the high peaks that surrounded the valley. “The snow stays in the mountains. Here it is always summer.”

“Or spring,” Leisha said. “Sometimes autumn. But winter is mild here—”

“—When we allow it at all,” Katya finished.

The twins laughed in unison, Katya’s deeper tones a counterpoint to Leisha’s brighter ones.

Janek was taken, as he always was, by the contrast between the twins. They were like the weather they toyed with, Leisha a warm breeze moving serenely through the garden, her long hair unbound and swishing in careless waves down the back of her cream-colored linen dress like a dark chestnut waterfall highlighted by the sun.

But if Leisha was the embodiment of serenity, Katya was a summer squall, her hair framing her face in an explosion of curls that tumbled like laughter over her bare shoulders. Today she wore a light summer dress of rich turquoise silks embroidered in gold, each layer of fabric a deeper shade than the one above, creating a sense of movement even when she was standing still.

He had told Sayha it was easy to tell one twin from the other, and he had not exaggerated. At times, they were complete opposites. Sunshine and shadow. Winter and spring.

But Janek had more often seen them as they were today, distinct in manner, true, yet speaking as one, finishing each other’s thoughts, their voices blending in harmony, like a gentle breeze on a warm summer day.

He watched them now as they showed Sayha around the gardens, Leisha answering questions in her calm, quiet way. Ever in motion, Katya practically danced ahead, the bangle bracelets she wore on both wrists clinking merrily as she pointed at this flower or gestured at that tree that flourished here, in the perfect climate they had created.

“Can you grow anything you want here?” Sayha asked. She was speaking to Leisha, but glanced meaningfully at Janek as she asked the question. The heartstring between them thrummed with a blend of curiosity and amusement.

“If we know a plant or animal’s preferred environment,” Leisha began, “we can provide the appropriate weather.”

“But we cannot alter the soil,” Katya said, picking up the thread of her sister’s explanation. “And we have no gift for making plants spring from a stone or bear fruit out of season.”

“Theirs are gifts of weather magic only,” Janek added. “But, when combined with the plant magic of skilled cultivators—” he gestured around them at the expansive orchards and gardens, “—you see what can be accomplished.”

Sayha nodded. “It is truly a wonder to behold,” she said. “But, does the end justify the means?”

Katya answered, before Janek had a chance to reply.

“Does what we have done here justify being kept from our father’s house?” she asked.

“We might never have put our skills to the test,” Leisha answered, moving to stand next to her sister.

The twin stood there, arm in arm, facing Sayha and Janek.

“We are adopted daughters,” Katya said. “Much as we love our father—”

“And he, us,” Leisha interjected.

“—we would never have ruled in Gerlach,” Katya continued. “At best, we would have been given in treaty marriages. One of us would have been sent back to our sister, Yolara, to marry one of the nobles in...” she faltered, “...whatever she is calling Nizam now.”

“Tzigane,” Janek said, supplying the name of the small mountain country adjacent to Gerlach.

“Yes, Tzigane,” Katya said. “And father would have married the other to one of his nobles. Or, more likely, in treaty with Tusya—”

“—or Lechinska,” Leisha said. “Politics being the ever-shifting thing it is.”

“You follow the politics, then?” Sayha asked, clearly surprised. They had made the full circuit of the garden nearest the villa and returned to the courtyard.

“Of course,” Leisha said, sending a serving-girl for refreshment as they settled themselves on cushioned seats near a small fountain.

“Janek has seen to our education,” Katya said. “Though I suspect much of what we are taught has been... carefully curated.”

“Why would you say that?” Janek asked. It was his turn to be curious.

“There are gaps,” Katya said with a slight shrug. “It is like piecing together a puzzle. Sometimes we must guess at the content of a missing piece based on the patterns of those surrounding it.”

“Very interesting,” Janek said. It was true that he had restricted the twins’ education on certain topics – particularly those that revolved around Gerlach and Tzigane – but they had never before given any indication that they were aware of the lack of information. Or of their own efforts in filling in the blanks. He was impressed. He would have to discuss modifications to their education with Sayha. If they were to be presented at court, they would need to be fully prepared.

“But this much we are certain of,” Leisha was saying, having returned to the original topic. “We would have been separated, and used to further someone’s political goals.”

“If we are to be pieces on a game board,” Katya said with a look at Janek, “better to be here, together, on a board of our own design.”

“I understand,” Sayha said, accepting a glass of cool fruit nectar from the serving girl, who had returned carrying a tray laden with beverages and dishes of cut fruit. “I was to have been a treaty bride myself.”

“Truly?” Leisha said, leaning forward. “How is it that you are not?”

“I was a stubborn child,” Sayha said with an embarrassed laugh. “And when I refused, my uncle, King Batuhan, decided that the alliance he sought might be better served with a more... agreeable bride to seal the treaty.”

Katya fell back against her cushions, laughing.

“Lord Janek never pressed marriages on us,” Leisha said. “Though he undoubtedly could have.”

“That was never my intention,” Janek said.

Katya nodded. “Oh, yes. For all his faults, Lord Janek has treated us well.”

“You do not wish for freedom?” Sayha asked, ignoring the sharp glare Janek gave her.

“Of course,” Katya said. “And such has been promised – though it is a promise yet to be fulfilled.”

“And it would be nice to know what has become of our children,” Leisha said, a wistful tone creeping into her voice.

“They are safer in their anonymity,” Janek said, his manner deliberately relaxed. They had this conversation every time he visited Ayametu, and, while he had not wanted the topic to be part of Sayha’s initial introduction to the twins, he supposed it had been inevitable.

“Soon – maybe as soon as next year, but certainly in the next three or four – your daughters will begin to come into their power,” he said, hoping to mollify the twins and remind them of their purpose at the same time.

Leisha gasped softly, but Katya’s eyes narrowed.

“Our daughters will be revealed as weather witches – Kushari weather witches. That is what you want to say, is it not?” she said, fixing him in her gaze.

Janek shrugged. There was no point in denying it.

“And our sons,” Leisha asked. “What of them?”

He knew better than to dismiss her question. He had done so in the past, until he learned that the gentle twin had sunk into a deep sadness in the weeks after the birth of her third child. One of the Kizrei guards had written to him, calling her “the Lady of the Mists.”

“...she eats little, and does not speak, only wanders the valley shrouded in fog like a sad, silent ghost...”

Janek had been concerned and written to the chief healer, whose swift reply assured him that Leisha was in no danger.

“...her melancholy is nothing more than that which often follows childbirth. Her grief for the infant you have taken from her will pass, as it always has, and she will soon recover...”

Late the following week another falcon had come, bearing a hastily-written message in Katya’s hand.

“Leisha has not eaten in several days, and the healers do not know how long they can sustain her. I fear she will cry herself to death.”

Janek had stared at the message for a full minute, reading it twice more before leaping into action. Neither twin was given to exaggeration, so he had no reason to doubt the truth of Katya’s warning. He sent back an immediate reply that he was on his way, then raced back to the villa as rapidly as the oarsmen could be paid to carry him upriver.

He found Leisha weak and listless, a pale shadow of her usually lighthearted nature. Even the air around her was still and heavy, and that worried him almost more than the sunken hollows around her eyes.

He spent days at her bedside, answering nearly every question she put to him, reassuring both sisters that their children – all of them – were well. The only request he made was that Leisha take a bite of food or a sip of a restorative drink in exchange for each bit of information he gave her.

It wasn’t until the pallor faded from her skin, the clouds in her eyes again took on color, and a gentle breeze stirred the air that Janek finally allowed himself to breathe more easily. He replaced the chief healer with another who was more understanding of the twins’ needs, and from that time forward had always shared what news he could of their children’s progress.

“Your sons will not be weather witches, it is true,” he said, “though they may develop other gifts.” He held up a hand to forestall any interruption. “Regardless, they are sons of Kushar, and will take their place among us as they reach adulthood.”

He looked at Leisha, letting his expression soften. “They are being raised in good houses,” he said kindly.

“By their fathers?” she asked.

Janek was silent. The Kizrei warriors who had fathered the twins’ children had been good men, and likely would have been good fathers to their sons, had he allowed it.

“You know he will not say,” Katya said, laughing. She turned to Sayha. “He never says,” she told her. “It has become a little game we play. But Lord Janek is too skilled, and never reveals his secrets.”

“And who were the fathers?” Sayha asked.

“We do not know,” Leisha said.

Janek did not like the direction the conversation was taking – or the way Leisha was beginning to withdraw into herself. But Katya seemed to have also noticed her sister’s growing distress, because she jumped into the conversation even as he was opening his mouth to change the subject.

“He will never tell,” she said, waving it off as unimportant. “One day, I shall simply have to make my own choice – perhaps a merchant or a cultivator...” she paused as though to heighten the dramatic effect of her brash words. “Maybe I shall choose one of the Kizrei guards.”

At Leisha’s startled gasp, Katya laughed, the sound bright and cheerful.

“And if I remove all the men from the valley, and replace them with women and eunuchs,” Janek said, “what will you do then, with no men available to you?”

“You are a man, my lord,” Katya replied, her innocent tone in direct conflict with the wicked gleam in her cloud-filled eyes.

“Lady Sayha, you must be tired after your long journey,” Leisha said, jumping to her feet and grabbing Katya’s arm. She pulled her sister to her feet. “I am sure you wish to bathe, change into clean clothes. We should not have kept you here so long. Come,” she said, still looking at Sayha. “We will show you to your chambers.”

Half-dragging the laughing Katya behind her, Leisha disappeared into the villa, not waiting for Sayha.

Sayha rose and began to follow, pausing as she came alongside Janek. “Make no mistake, my lord,” she said, keeping her voice low, her words for his ears only. “I am still angry with you. But I also think I understand why you have done this thing. I will do as you command. The twins will be made ready to take their places in service to Kushar.” She dipped her head in a slight bow, then turned and followed the twins into the villa without waiting for a reply.

Janek leaned his head back, his eyes on the wispy clouds that drifted lazily overhead. A potentially difficult meeting had turned out well. Sayha would comply and Leisha had again been distracted from her melancholy by Katya’s quick wit.

But Katya’s suggestion that he father children by them lingered in his mind. She had said it to shock Leisha from her sadness, of that much he was certain. The more he thought about it, the more Janek wondered why the idea had never occurred to him.

Kushar was a land of contrasts and extremes. Arid steppes in the north and drought-stricken deserts of the south were divided by a massive wall of granite that formed the backbone of the country, running from the swamps and jungles of the west to the oft-flooded coastal marshes in the east. Kushar needed weather magic.

The twins had proven his theory in their first year in Ayametu. The remote mountain valley had been far from hospitable when he brought them there. Cultivators, both mundane and magical, had done what they could to create a pleasant environment, but the harsh winters and short growing season presented near-insurmountable challenges.

Then the twins arrived. In a single season, Ayametu was transformed. Plants previously unseen in the mountains grew and thrived in the altered climate. Birds and wildlife made the valley their home.

And Janek was convinced, once again, that the weather witches were the key to Kushar’s future.

The deserts could be made to blossom, the steppes flourish...

The mountains could be tamed...

And never again would another man have to dig through the muck as he had, searching for the bodies of his wife and young son after the monsoon rains sent a wall of mud sliding across the road, burying everyone in its path.

His vision grew hazy, the gently swaying tree branches blurring into a murky brown that made his breath catch and sent his heart racing. He sat forward, reaching for his half-empty glass and raising it to his lips with a trembling hand. He pushed the memory away, forcing himself to breathe more slowly as he sipped at the juice.

He had been helpless against the mudslide, had survived when others had not by the merest twist of fate. And now he was the one person with both the vision and the will to bring the gift of weather magic to the Kushari people.

Janek looked toward the villa, Katya’s laughter echoing in his mind like a ray of sunshine that pushed back the mud-soaked shadows of the past.

He was of noble lineage, the son of a king. If the twins were willing, why shouldn’t he mingle their bloodline with his own?

He would have to think on this.

Chapter 6

Leisha practically shoved her sister into one of the villa’s many sitting rooms. A startled serving girl, busy arranging a vase of flowers on a table near the center of the room, looked up in surprise at their entrance.

“My lady,” she said.

“Out,” Leisha commanded, pointing toward the door. “See to our guest.”

The serving girl left the room, hurried along by a gust of wind that first sent her sliding along the floor then slammed the door shut behind her.

When they were alone, Leisha whirled on her sister.

“How could you say such a thing to Lord Janek?” she demanded, her eyes unnaturally bright, like the sky on a day torn between sun and storm.

“It was nothing I have not done before,” Katya said, rubbing her arm where Leisha had grabbed her. She crossed the room, moving toward the large window on the opposite wall, well out of her sister’s reach. “I always torment Lord Janek.”

“Not like this,” Leisha said.

“You are overreacting,” Katya said. She flicked a small cushion at her sister, which Leisha easily deflected. “It was nothing more than a bit of humor, meant to knock him from his arrogant complacency. He will already have forgotten it.”

“Do not be so sure,” Leisha said. “He does not seem to be the sort of person who easily forgets. We should not risk his anger.”

Katya laughed. “Why not? Lord Janek needs us – he has said so himself. Often. He will not let us go.”

“No, but he could make our lives unpleasant.”

But Katya waved away her worries with that ‘it is of no concern to me’ attitude that always annoyed Leisha. “At least it would be different. I am much more curious,” Katya said, picking up one of the fallen flowers from the tabletop and twirling the stem between her fingertips, “about Lady Sayha, and why she is here.”

“She said King Batuhan is her uncle,” Leisha said thoughtfully. “Do you think he sent her?”

“That is one possibility,” Katya said.

“But why?” Leisha fought to hold back a rising sense of panic. “Do you think he means to take one of us away? That Lady Sayha is here to choose between us?”

“To what purpose?” Katya asked, gathering the remainder of the scattered flowers.

Though her tone was calm and her manner relaxed, Leisha knew her sister too well to be fooled. The tension in Katya’s bare shoulders was visible, and she added the flowers to the vase with a little more vigor than necessary.

“To heal another valley. To be given as a treaty bride. I do not know. What I do know is that we are tools the king can use as he wishes.”

“He would not send us away,” Katya murmured, staring at the flowers, her hands resting palms down on the table. “We have not yet borne enough daughters—”

“We would continue to bear children as treaty brides,” Leisha said, cutting her off.

Katya looked over, her face going pale as the clouds in her eyes darkened. “The king has two sons,” she murmured. “Unmarried sons, only a few years older than us.”

“You do not think...” Leisha began, but she could not finish the sentence. Her legs abruptly seemed incapable of supporting her, and she sank to a cushion.

“Why else would Lady Sayha be here?” Katya asked, “If not to judge our suitability?” She began to pace, her skirts swirling around her legs in a blur not unlike the darkening sky visible outside the window. “Think on it, Leisha. Janek has never told us everything and you know it. What better way to introduce the weather magic to Kushar than to give us to Batuhan’s sons? All that talk about treaty brides just now was not idle conversation. Lady Sayha is here for a purpose, mark my words.”

“They would add our magic to their royal line,” Leisha breathed. “It would be a bold move... but Father would never agree.”

“What could he do?” Katya said. “By the time he learned of it, the deed would be done. We would already be married and heartstring-bound, and the treaties binding Kushar and Gerlach would become unbreakable. King Batuhan is a clever one, to have waited until his sons were old enough to be looked on with respect by the nobility of both kingdoms, rather than to have given us to them when both we and they were mere children to be petted and ignored.”

“They mean to separate us,” Leisha whispered. Throughout her whole life, from sharing chambers in their father’s castle to the excitement and adventure of setting off on their fosterage, the twins had always been together. They had laughed together when they came to Ayametu, cried together when they realized the mountain compound was not at all what they had thought it to be. And they had learned to use their magic together. Leisha could not imagine life without her sister nearby. The thought was too terrifying.

She looked up at Katya. “What do we do?”

Katya had ceased her pacing and now stood near the window, the fingers of her left hand moving in an erratic pattern as she stared out at the rugged granite mountains. Gray clouds blotted out the view of the upper peaks. “We show them that we are not so easily controlled,” she said. Outside, the nearby trees shuddered against the strengthening wind.

“Katya, no.” Leisha rose from her seat and joined her sister at the window. Resting her hand over Katya’s, she pressed down, stilling her moving fingers, while simultaneously reaching out with her own magic to calm the storm Katya was summoning.

Katya pushed back, and for a moment their colliding energies sent leaves and flowers spinning in a clash of winds.

“We will find another way,” Leisha said, her tone firm, yet at the same time soothing. She had talked her sister out of numerous anger storms over the years, and while she shared Katya’s frustration, this was not a situation that a reckless display of magic would solve.

Katya snatched her hand away, balling it into a fist as she turned away from the window. Outside, the storm broke apart, the clouds vanishing as a crash of thunder shook the villa.

“What would you suggest?” Katya demanded, whirling to face Leisha, sparks flashing in her eyes.

Leisha met her sister’s glare, her own gaze an icy calm in the face of Katya’s trembling fury. A grim smile spread across her face as an idea came to her. It would be a temporary solution at best, but it would give them time to come up with something better.

“We follow Lady Sayha’s example,” she said. “We make ourselves unsuitable brides.”

Katya frowned. “And how do you propose we do that?” she asked. “Lord Janek has spent the last ten years turning us into the perfect treaty brides.”

Leisha’s smile widened. “That is not all we have done here,” she said. “As the king is surely aware.”

She moved closer to Katya, dropping her voice until it was only a whisper on the wind, for her sister’s ears only. “Even the king will not give us to his sons if we are with child by someone else.”

⬧

Katya stared at Leisha in shock for several seconds. Of all the things her gentle, kindhearted sister might have said, that was probably the last thing Katya would have expected.

“You are proposing that we avoid being given as treaty brides by getting ourselves pregnant?” she asked, speaking very slowly and clearly.

“That is what I said.”

“Yes,” Katya said. “I was just making sure I heard you correctly.” She dragged her hands through her hair, the energy sparking from her fingertips sending her hair spiraling into even tighter coils. “Are you mad?”

“What other choice do we have?” Leisha asked.

Leisha was not one to fight back. Katya had often wished she would, but her sister’s quiet, peaceful nature always served as a restraint.

Now there was a fierceness in her eyes that Katya did not remember ever seeing before. The clouds in her eyes were bright, her fingertips sparking with pent-up energy.

“We should think about this,” Katya said, the words feeling foreign to her tongue as she said them. This was all backward. It was usually Leisha who was talking her out of doing something foolish. Leisha who was the practical one.

Leisha who came up with the good ideas.

Katya frowned. As extreme as it sounded, if Leisha was suggesting it, it might actually be the right thing to do.

“It has only been six months since our sons were born,” Katya said slowly. “If we are mistaken, and everything continues as it always has, Janek will bring men to father our next children when the road opens at the end of the winter. But, if Lady Sayha is here to take us back to Khulan, the next men we take to our beds will be our husbands.”

“That is why we cannot wait,” Leisha said.

“No,” Katya said, cutting her hand through the air to stop her sister from saying more. “I will not take a random merchant or cultivator to my bed just to avoid a political marriage. Nor will I allow you to. Have you actually looked at them? I do not know if they even bathe—”

“They are not our only options,” Leisha said.

“The Kizrei are forbidden from consorting with us, on penalty of death,” Katya said.

“There is another.”

Katya stared at her, puzzled. “Who?”

“You said it yourself: Lord Janek.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Katya said, backing away from her sister until her back pressed against the wall. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am entirely serious,” Leisha said. “Truly, even if there were a hundred suitable men vying for our attentions, he is the only one we could choose. He is the one man with the power to protect us from the king, the one man the king will not kill.”

Katya turned the idea over in her mind, trying to look at it from her sister’s point of view.

Janek was fit and healthy. He was from a noble house and had the wealth and power that came from his lineage. And his position in the royal court would no doubt enable him to protect them from the king’s anger at having his plans disrupted.

“But will he do it?” Katya asked. “In defiance of the King?”

Leisha’s lips curved in a thin smile. “Think. What is the most important thing to Janek?”

“Our bloodline.”

“Our bloodline,” Leisha agreed. “If we offer to join our bloodline with his...”

“...the opportunity will be more than he can resist,” Katya finished. “I cannot fault your reasoning, sister. But I do not know if you are brilliant or have gone mad.”

Leisha shrugged. “I am desperate.”

⬧

While she dressed for dinner, Leisha turned the plan over in her mind for probably the twelfth time that afternoon, thinking about it from every angle. She did not deny that it was a desperate scheme, or that there were likely several better options if she only had time to apply her mind to the question.

But she did not have time.

She winced as the serving-girl assisting her tugged at her hair, which she was twisting into a series of elaborate braids. They always held a formal dinner when Lord Janek came to Ayametu. Leisha much preferred the more casual meals she took with her sister when the Grand Vizier was not in residence. She wondered if her life at court would always be formal, or if she would be allowed to lead a quiet life, only appearing in public on special occasions.

She knew better.

Even had she and Katya not been well-schooled in the many responsibilities they would have as members of the nobility, the truth of the matter was that they were weather witches. The only ones in the world, if what Janek told them was true, and certainly the only ones in Kushar.

The curious would want demonstrations of their skills. The skeptics would devise tests and challenges. And when they had proven themselves, then the true work would begin.

Their gifts would be needed across the country to relieve droughts, moderate the rains. And, the more they did, the more that would be demanded of them.

There would be no quiet life for either herself or Katya.

As she slid her arms into the many-layered blue silks of a formal evening suit – a gift from Janek – Leisha’s thoughts drifted to her other sister, Yolara. She couldn’t say she knew her, had only met her once, ten years ago, when she and Katya first came to Kushar at the beginning of their fosterage.

Yolara had been a year younger than Leisha was now, but only two weeks after their first meeting, had been summoned back to Nizam to take her place on the throne. Had she been as terrified as Leisha now felt? Or had the years of training supported her as she took control of the small desert kingdom? And how had she managed when the earthquake stole the river from them, forcing her to scatter her people and establish a new capital? There was nothing in the fosterage training that could have prepared her for that, yet somehow Yolara and her people had survived.

Leisha seldom thought of her older sister; but now, even more than she missed her parents, she wished she could talk to Yolara and ask her what she would do.

Of course, like so many other things, that simply wasn’t possible. She could not even send a falcon, as the falcon whisperer had bound all of the flock to carry messages exclusively between Ayametu and Lord Janek. She and Katya had discovered that for themselves years ago, when all of their panicked messages to their father went directly to Janek. He had been patient, but firm, and instead of punishing them had simply pointed out that they were putting an unnecessary burden on the falcons.

Janek.

It always came back to Janek. He was their captor and their mentor, their enemy, and the closest thing to a friend they had known for eight years.

The healers and serving-girls, cultivators and others who lived in Ayametu were not unkind, but they had made no effort to be friendly, either – and whenever one of them relaxed their manner, they were soon removed from their place and someone new installed.

It had not taken long for the twins to realize that, for reasons they could only guess at, the staff had been forbidden to form any but the most superficial of relationships with them.

Whether male or female, old or young, all treated the twins with deference, their conversations nothing more than generalities. The Kizrei who guarded them became suddenly formal and reserved whenever the twins were nearby. Even their tutors maintained their distance, never allowing their interactions to be anything more than strictly academic.

So, with only Janek to talk to during his occasional short visits, Leisha was not at all surprised to realize that she had no idea how to interact with anyone else. Even that afternoon’s visit with Lady Sayha had been more emotionally draining than she liked to admit.

She wanted to leave Ayametu. Wanted to see her parents, her children, her sister. But not yet. Better to stay for a little while longer. Use the time to think, to plan.

A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Are you ready, sister?” Katya’s voice called out through the door.

“One moment.”

Leisha settled a lightweight stole of blue cobalt embellished with silver embroidery over one shoulder, pinned it in place with a silver brooch set with a cluster of glittering sapphires, then thanked the serving girl and joined her sister in the hall.

Arm in arm, Katya in vibrant magenta alongside Leisha’s rich blue, the twins went downstairs to dinner.

Chapter 7

Zoya walked down the narrow alley, her boots raising little puffs of dust from the sand-bricks beneath her feet. How long had it been since the streets in this sector of Aywhai’s labyrinthine maze of closely-built houses had been refreshed? Even magic could only hold the sand together for so long, and the oasis cities were continually repairing their streets.

She knew from her time on the Queen’s Council that stoneworkers were permanently assigned to maintaining the major streets, which suffered under the feet and hooves and wheels of the city’s population. She would have to ask her father about the maintenance of the smaller byways and alleys, such as this one.

The alley opened into a small plaza, a communal courtyard shared by the dozen families whose homes clustered around it in an irregular rectangle. A girl was drawing water from the fountain at the center while a pair of younger children noisily chased after a chicken. Seated near the base of the twin palm trees that shaded the courtyard, two of Zoya’s sisters looked on, Maia using her minor stoneworker’s gift to sort dirt and rocks from a basket of beans, and Rhea with a nursing infant at her breast.

As the chicken led the boys on a merry chase, her sisters watched, laughing, as yet unaware of Zoya’s arrival, shadowed as she was beneath the archway formed where the second floor of two of the homes that spanned the alley.

Melora, her mother, was less distracted, and waved to Zoya from the balcony where she sat, before setting aside her mending basket and coming downstairs to properly greet her eldest.

As Zoya stepped into the familiar surroundings of her family home and smelled the pitas baking in the clay oven, combined with the sharp tang of meat – spiced lamb, she thought – on the brazier, she felt a pang of regret. Her duties in service to the Queen demanded a somewhat nomadic life, but had also allowed her to visit her family frequently. It was a near-perfect situation for a daughter from a large family, with no interest in settling down and contributing her own offspring to the ever-growing brood.

She glanced again at her sisters with a smile. From this angle, the slight distention of Maia’s current pregnancy was clearly visible, no longer hidden by the large bean basket. The child she carried would undoubtedly be at her sister’s breast by the time Zoya returned, while Rhea would have painted several more images of the desert born and their daily lives, if what Armin had said about both the distance and the potential for delays was true.

Zoya was jolted from those thoughts by the flutter and squawk of the chicken as it abruptly altered its course, running drunkenly toward her, its two, young pursuers close behind.

As the panicked hen reached her, Zoya reached down and scooped it up, one hand on either side of the bird’s plump body, smoothing down its flapping wings as she lifted it off the ground. Ignoring its feet, which were still trying to run, she tucked the bird in close, holding it steady with one arm and gently stroking it with her free hand, running her fingers lightly over the top of its head and along its back to calm it. The boys skidded to a stop at her feet, their momentum shifting from running to jumping up and down, clamoring for her to give them the chicken.

“Be still,” Zoya said, crouching to their level. The-boys settled immediately, eyes darting from their aunt to the bird in her arms. “Why are you chasing this hen?”

“She got out of the pen,” the older boy said. He was Rhea’s son, and nearly seven years old.

“Davi left the gate open when we went to fetch eggs,” said five year-old Kaden, the youngest son of Zoya’s third brother, Yisu. “Nonna said we had to catch her if we wanted any of the figs she brought from the market this morning.”

Zoya looked to Davi for confirmation. He nodded, though Zoya couldn’t tell if the color touching his cheeks was from embarrassment or merely the result of their exertions.

“Then return her to the pen you must,” she said. “Come.” She settled the hen in Davi’s arms. “Hold her like this,” she told him, wrapping his arm around the bird’s body. “If she feels safe in your arms, she is less likely to struggle.”

“Take her to the pen now,” Melora said, joining them. “Then you may go to the kitchen and ask Iza to give you each a fig.”

“Thank you, Nonna,” the boys said in unison, then scampered off, half-running, half walking, Davi’s head bobbing as he looked down at the chicken in his arms and then back at the ground with nearly every step.

Zoya smiled after them, then turned back to her mother.

Melora turned to Zoya, extending her hands. “Welcome, my daughter,” she said. “I did not expect to see you so soon returned. It has been little more than a month since the queen’s business last brought you to Aywhai...” She glanced around the courtyard before continuing, lowering her voice so only Zoya could hear. “Is something amiss?”

Zoya squeezed her mother’s hands in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion, grateful for the brief interaction with the children that had softened her expression. “I am on the Queen’s business, as always, but there is no cause for concern.”

“Your father will be pleased to see you,” Melora said. “Will you be here long?”

“A day, at least, but no more than three,” Zoya said. “May I again sleep under your roof, or should I seek a place with one of my other siblings?”

“There is always a place here for you,” Melora replied. “Though you may have to share,” she added with a laugh, tucking Goya’s arm into her own as she led her into the house.

The tension in her shoulders that had begun to ease when she entered the courtyard vanished completely as Zoya entered her childhood home. The familiar sight of her father’s steppers near the door, her mother’s favorite shawl hanging from a peg near the ottoman in the corner of the small lounge where she liked to sit with her children – and now, her grandchildren...

Zoya lingered just inside the door, remembering the laughter, the tears, the simple chaos of life in a large, boisterous family. So much had changed since she entered the Queen’s service, but coming home was always the same, in a way that both comforted her and reminded her of the importance of her work.

It would be several months before she returned. And there was no way to know whether finding the lost princesses would ensure the peace the desert-born enjoyed, or if it would spark a wave of chaos. But, before Zoya had a chance to reflect further on her concerns, her sisters joined them from the courtyard, enveloping her in hugs, her mother was pressing a plate of fresh, warm pitas into her hands, and her young nephews were tugging at her cloak, begging for tales of hot desert caravans and sword-wielding bandits.

Her duties to the Queen did not demand her attention this night. A smile she seldom let other members of the Queen’s Guard see spread across Zoya’s face, and she fell easily into the company of her family.

⬧

When Zoya found Armin in the caravanserai the following afternoon, he and Navid were sorting his inventory into a series of mounds corresponding to the small herd of camels relaxing a few yards away.

Armin looked over at her and frowned. “Where is your horse?” he asked, speaking in the Kushari tongue.

“I sent it back to Sitara with the Queen’s Guard,” Zoya said, replying in the same language. She had also sent a message to Queen Yolara letting her know that she was headed deeper into Kushar than they had first anticipated, would likely be away from Tzigane for several months, and would send word when she could.

“Of course you did,” Armin said. Shaking his head, he turned and shouted to Navid. “Redistribute that pile,” he said, pointing at a mound of thick, padded blankets, canvas bags, and other packages. He jerked his head toward Zoya. “She will be riding one of the camels.”

Navid looked from the mound to Zoya. “We will need another saddle,” he said.

Arman turned to Zoya. “You can get a saddle and blanket from the whisperer,” he said. “Do not let him overcharge you – he will try. You have a bedroll? Good. Waterskins? You will need at least three. I would have gotten the gear for you myself, had I known you were sending your horse back.” He frowned. “I see you changed your clothes.”

“It would not be wise for me to accompany you wearing the colors of the Queen’s guard,” Zoya said.

She had left her uniform locked in a trunk in her parent’s home, and was dressed in a well-worn, half-sleeved tunic and close-fitting trousers in the golden-brown shades of the ochre sands, strips of fabric wound around her forearms and ankles to keep out dirt and insects. The hooded blue cloak over her shoulder had faded unevenly after many seasons in the sun, and her pack was of soft, supple leather, sturdier than its many patches would suggest. Even her boots were scuffed and gave the impression of being well-used, though they were actually fairly new, fit her feet like a glove, and had cushioned inner soles made to order.

Armin shrugged, returning his attention to the tablet in his hand, drawing a line through some figures before dipping the quill into a thin vial of ink and beginning to write.

Zoya waited for him to finish. Armin’s tablet was a clever contraption – apparently, he’d grown tired of always losing the small squares of parchment he noted inventory on, so he’d taken two pieces of leather and stacked several sheets of parchment between them. Then he’d had a metalworker bind them together with an iron ring. He carried the tablet in a pouch he kept at his waist. Zoya would not be surprised to see other merchants copying his invention before many more seasons passed. Scrolls were useful, but the tablet let him find the page he wanted to write on very quickly.

After a moment, Armin looked in her direction with a questioning scowl. “Did you need something else?”

“Which way is the caravan headed?”

“To Saresu,” Armin said. “A group headed toward Khulan passed through here two days ago.”

“We would have met them, had we gone to Hatu.”

Armin sighed. “If you want to take the eastern route, say so. I will set up my vendor booth in the marketplace here, while we wait for the next caravan to arrive. It makes no difference to me.”

Zoya shook her head. “No. I would rather begin our journey than spend idle days here. I have already sent away the guards who accompanied us from Sitara,” she said. “Do you need me to hire guards for the desert journey?”

“No,” Armin said. “I did not expect them to accompany us further. I have already replaced them.”

He looked past her, and Zoya turned to follow his gaze. Just beyond the dozen camels of Armin’s herd, stood two exceptionally tall, slender warriors, covered from head to toe in long, flowing cloaks. The gauzy cloaks seemed to shift in color as they moved, making them difficult to see against the dusty orange of the building near which they stood. Though the sun was high in the sky, no part of their skin was visible in the deep shadow of their hoods or behind the masks that covered their faces.

“Business truly has been good if you can afford two wind dancers,” Zoya said, watching the guards. Their movements were graceful, yet powerful, hinting at the fighters’ strength.

Armin laughed. “Good, yes, but not that good. The shorter one is still an apprentice. No fee. And I am not paying you. So, I have three guards for the price of one—”

“One very expensive guard.”

“I have valuable inventory,” Armin said with a sly grin. “And if you think about it, anyone looking at us will focus on them. You will be almost invisible by comparison.”

Zoya looked back at the trader, nearly laughing at his smug expression. “Are all merchants as clever as you?” she asked.

“Not by half,” he said.

“And how often has your cleverness gotten you into trouble?”

“I am still alive,” he said with a shrug.

Zoya did laugh at that, and was still laughing as she went to bargain with the whisperer for a saddle.

Chapter 8

Katya had worked olive oil through her hair to minimize the otherwise unmanageable twists brought on by the surplus of stormy energy that always filled her, and struggled throughout dinner to comport herself properly in front of their visitors. Several times, she caught herself tapping her foot beneath the low table where they sat, or flicking sparks from her fingertips to the floor, adding to the charred marks that scarred the stone. That was just how the weather magic was for her, a buildup of energy that wound tighter and tighter until she had to release it.

“A snowstorm in the mountains, maybe?” Leisha’s voice whispered in her ear, carried across the table on a hint of breeze so soft it barely disturbed Katya’s hair.

Katya glanced up, “I am fine,” she whispered back, sending her terse reply on a puff of air that flickered the candlesticks on the opposite side of the room.

Leisha did not react, merely responded with a wind-whispered “Are you? Truly?”

“I think a thunderstorm would be most satisfying,” Katya whispered back, flicking her fingers to send her reply on a slight gust that carried with it the scent of lightning.

Leisha’s eyes crinkled in amusement as her lips moved in a faint, soundless motion. The fingers of her left hand fluttered almost imperceptibly, carrying both words and laughter to Katya’s ear. “I am sure it would. After all, no one remarked on this afternoon’s thunder, but a full storm could not go unnoticed.”

To their right and left, Lord Janek and Lady Sayha, who were seated at opposite ends of the rectangular table, continued their own conversation, apparently unaware of the twin’s wind-whispered cross-talk.

“However, pushing the excess energy away from the villa would be better than setting the villa on fire. Again.” Leisha continued. “Do you not agree?”

Katya refused to acknowledge her sister’s teasing. With a final flick of her fingers that sent sparks skittering across the slate floor, she shrugged in silent agreement. Covering the nearby mountains with snow during the night was undoubtedly the more sensible choice.

She looked over at Leisha, who was calmly enjoying her meal, and even seemed to be paying attention as Janek told Sayha about Ayametu’s long-ago origin as a Kizrei stronghold. Looking from Janek to her sister, Katya wondered if the afternoon’s madness that had prompted Leisha’s wild idea had passed, and her sister had been restored to her usual, practical self.

“You have reconsidered your plan, then?” Katya asked. Guided by magic, their wind-whispered conversation was inaudible to anyone else, but she could not bring herself to say more. Even the thought of seducing Janek sent an embarrassing rush of warmth to her face that she covered by pretending to cough. She reached for her wine, sipping at it, and hiding behind her glass.

“Are you all right, Katya?” Janek asked.

“Yes. A bit of spice caught in my throat,” she said. “It is nothing.”

“Liar,” Leisha whispered.

Katya glared at her sister.

“Here, have more wine,” Janek said, waving a servant forward.

“No, thank you,” Katya said.

“Look at him. He will be a most suitable father for our children,” Leisha whispered.

Katya choked on her wine.

“Katya?” Janek began to rise, but Katya shook her head, pushing her own low chair away from the table.

“Please, excuse me,” she said.

“You cannot escape so easily,” Leisha whispered to her. Aloud she said, “I will go with my sister.”

Once the two of them were out in the hallway, Katya spun to face her sister. “What are you thinking?” she whispered, the storm clouds in her eyes darkening as she threw the words at Leisha on a burst of cold air. “You would discuss this madness there, in front of both Janek and Lady Sayha?”

Leisha leaned against the wall as though unconcerned, her arms folded, her fingers fluttering as she replied. “You brought it up, not I.”

“That was a mistake,” Katya said, making no effort to conceal the sparks that fell from her fingertips.

“Why are you so angry?” Leisha asked. “This is a good plan. I thought we were in agreement.”

“It is a good plan,” Katya said. “At the same time, it is a very bad plan. It will change everything...”

“Being given as treaty brides will change everything,” Leisha countered. “If we are carrying his children, Lord Janek will do all he can to ensure our safety. More importantly, for the first time in our lives, we will hold a modicum of power.” The clouds in Leisha’s eyes were bright, their edges glowing with flickers of energy. “We must do this.”

“And if he refuses?”

“He is a man,” Leisha said. “I am certain we can persuade him.”

⬧

In the small hours of the night, with the moon hidden behind the heavy clouds her sister had settled over the mountains, Leisha led the way to the chamber where Janek slept. She fluttered her fingers, calling up just enough of a draft to cover the sound of their slippered feet on the stone.

When she reached the door, Leisha turned and looked back at Katya. Even after discharging most of her pent-up energy in the mountain storm, faint sparks still shone in her sister’s eyes.

“Ready?” she whispered.

Katya said nothing, just nodded silently, giving Leisha a bit of a nudge.

Leisha reached out, took hold of the door handle, and gently pressed the thumb-latch. With any luck, Lord Janek would not have thrown the bolt on the opposite side of the door, leaving it unlocked so a servant could slip into the room to light the morning fire without waking him.

If the door was bolted, she would have to knock...

The latch gave with a soft “click” and the door swung quietly open on well-oiled hinges.

Releasing a breath, Leisha stepped into the room, Katya close behind her. The spacious room was arranged with a sitting area and small writing desk near the fire, the reddish-gold of the still-glowing embers casting shadows on the large, curtained bed on the opposite side of the room.

“You light the candle, I will bolt the door,” Leisha told her sister.

As Leisha slid the bolt into place, Katya moved farther into the room, using the sparks from her fingers to light a candle she had brought with her, then touching the flame to the candle stubs in each of the glass lanterns set around the room. Soon the room was bathed in a warm, golden glow.

Janek had not stirred.

“Is he even here?” Katya whispered, glancing toward the bed curtains.

“Let us find out,” Leisha replied.

They moved toward the bed, Leisha on the left side, Katya on the right. As she reached for the curtain, it occurred to Leisha that Janek might not be alone. She did not know his habits, and the villa had serving girls aplenty, any of whom might have willingly warmed his bed. And though they claimed to be uncle and niece, she could not be certain she knew the true nature of Janek’s relationship with Lady Sayha.

But it was too late to worry about any of that now. Katya was already pulling back the curtain on the other side of the bed, and Leisha did the same, drawing the fabric back and letting the light shine in across Janek’s sleeping form. He lay on his back, his face turned slightly toward her, the blanket just low enough to reveal the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

Leisha glanced from Janek’s face to Katya’s. When her sister nodded, they both sat on the edge of the bed, one to either side of Janek.

Janek had not stirred to that point, but the weight of their bodies on the bed had him instantly in motion. In almost the same moment that they sat, Janek’s eyes flew open, and he sat up, his hands flashing out from under the blankets and catching the twins in his strong grip.

But as he looked from right to left, from Katya to Leisha, his expression shifted from fierce to confused.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

Leisha tried to twist her arm free, but he held her wrist tight. “Let us go,” she said.

“Answer me.”

“We have a proposition for you...” Leisha began.

Katya picked up the conversation. “...I told you earlier that we wished to choose our children’s fathers for ourselves...” she said as Janek’s attention snapped to her.

“...We choose you,” Leisha finished.

Janek turned back to her, his expression unreadable. Then he swore and pushed his way past Leisha, off the bed, and began to pace. He was barefoot, and wore only loose-fitting trousers, tied at the waist, but seemed completely unaware of his state of undress.

“Why would you ask this of me?” he asked, running a hand through his hair as he spoke.

“You must have considered it in the past,” Katya said.

Janek stopped and looked at her. “In all honesty, no. Before this day, I had not.”

“And now?” Leisha asked, rubbing at the spot where his fingers had pressed into her arm.

“I have always chosen fathers for your children from noble houses,” Janek said, resuming his pacing. “From bloodlines gifted with magical abilities, in the hope that your gifts would also take root.”

“Are you not of a noble house?” Leisha said softly. “Of a bloodline deserving of our gifts?”

Janek said nothing.

Leisha watched Janek in fascination. She had never before seen him when he was not calm and composed, in control of the situation. But now he seemed anything but in control, his conflicting emotions evident from the set of his jaw and the barely intelligible muttering about bloodlines that accompanied each step.

He was arguing with himself.

“He wants to agree,” Katya whispered, the breeze that carried her words to Leisha little more than a breath of air.

Until that day, the idea of carrying Janek’s child had been as far from Leisha’s thoughts as he claimed it had been from his, but the more she considered it, the more it seemed like the only possible solution, even if it served no other purpose than to delay the inevitable. She had expected Janek to reject them out of hand, refuse to undermine their possible political marriages. She had feared they would have to make some pitiful attempt to seduce him.

But now, like Katya, she took the fact that he was considering it at all as a good sign.

“Let him think,” she told Katya. “Let him convince himself this is what he intended all along.”

Janek continued his pacing and muttering for several moments, before stopping abruptly, facing the fire, his back to them. “You put me in a difficult position,” he said. After another moment, he turned to face them, his steady gaze taking in both of the twins. “Say nothing of this to Lady Sayha. She will draw her own conclusions, of course, but even should she press you, it is better that you not speak of it.”

It was all Leisha could do not to smile; she dared not glance over at her sister. If she understood his words correctly, Janek had just agreed to their proposal.

“My mother and uncle each possessed the cultivator’s gift,” he said clasping his hands together just above his waist. “My eldest daughter is a healer. Though I claim no gift as my own, there is magic in my bloodline.”

Leisha glanced at Katya, who looked as puzzled as she felt.

“Is he presenting himself to us?” Katya whispered.

“I think so.”

Leisha took a step forward, stopping near the bedpost at the foot of the bed. “If we are to do this,” she said, meeting Janek’s level gaze, “I have one question.”

He nodded, gesturing for her to speak.

“We know you desire daughters, who will one day come into the weather magic,” she said. “Should we bear sons, what will become of them?”

“Do you want him to deny us?” Katya demanded, an audible gasp accompanying her wind-whispered question.

“I must know,” Leisha replied in the same breath.

“She is right to ask,” Janek said, responding to Katya’s gasp. He turned then, and came forward, extending a hand to each of the twins. They met him in the middle of the room, each taking one of his outstretched hands while clasping each other’s, the three of them forming a triangle.

Janek looked down at them, his expression so intense Leisha almost wanted to step away.

“You know that I have two daughters,” he said. “What you do not know is that my wife and only son were killed in an accident the year you first came to Kushar. I never took another wife, nor thought to have another son.” His voice was thick with barely-concealed emotion, and he was silent for a long moment as he worked to regain his composure.

“If you bear me a son,” Janek said, meeting Leisha’s eyes, “I will acknowledge him as my own, raise him in my own house. As I have no other sons, he will be my heir.”

“You swear it?” Leisha asked, her own voice barely a whisper.

“I do.”

“And if we each give you sons?” Katya asked.

Janek turned toward her.

“Any sons you give me, I will claim as my own,” he said with a warm smile, tipping his head toward her. “I swear it.”

The twins glanced briefly at each other, then turned their clouded eyes to Janek, speaking as one.

“We agree.”

⬧

Janek remained in Ayametu for two weeks.

Despite his position, he allowed himself no other liberties with the twins than any of the Kizrei he had brought to them in the past. Taking the twins to his bed was not about anything as base as lust or carnal pleasures. It was about something far more important: extending the weather magic through his bloodline.

So, he waited. And when each of the twins came to him, telling him that the chief healer had declared her ready to conceive, he performed his duty.

Now, as he made his way down the mountain with his Kizrei guards, their horses struggling through the knee-deep snow that had accumulated in the days since their arrival, Janek was barely aware of the cold.

His seed had taken root. The twins carried his children. The chief healer had confirmed it the previous evening, when she found him pacing the courtyard like a nervous youth, with nothing but the silver disk of the full moon lighting his steps.

The royal bloodlines of Kushar and Nizam, Tzigane and Gerlach would, ever after, be inexorably joined. It was a possibility that, in all his careful planning, Janek had never contemplated, never anticipated.

A fierce pride welled up within him. Would they give him sons? Daughters? He almost did not care.

Janek grinned in anticipation of his unborn children and the power they would wield. He rode down the mountain, secure in the knowledge that the future of Kushar was safely in Ayametu.

Chapter 9

It was nearly a week before the caravan finally left Aywhai. Zoya chafed at the delay, but had to agree that the sandstorm that had blown in just before dawn on the morning they originally planned to leave was not something any of the caravaners was willing to endure in the open desert. Not when they could shelter within the protection of the caravanserai just inside the city walls.

So they remained, eating and drinking, telling stories and playing at dice while they waited out the storm, venturing outside only when absolutely necessary. Navid taught Zoya how to hobble a camel and showed her how to pack the two camels assigned to her – the one she would ride and the one that would carry food, water, and other supplies both she and the two camels would need for the crossing. She spent the storm delay practicing loading and unloading the camels, learning how to distribute the weight and tie the ropes so the load would not shift while the camel walked.

“It is not as bad here as the storms that plagued Nizam,” Zoya told Navid one evening as they sat around a small fire in an alcove of the caravanserai. Armin’s young apprentice had experienced few of the powerful storms, and was in awe of the ochre-colored blanket that had enveloped the city.

“I was there once, when the old queen – what was her name?” Armin asked, turning to Zoya.

“Nayira,” Zoya said.

“Yes, Queen Nayira,” Armin said, nodding. “I saw her stop a storm cloud that was headed directly at the city. The cloud rolled across the sands, growing darker and larger the closer it got. I was up on the city wall with some of the other members of our caravan, and more than a little terrified, I am not ashamed to admit, while around me the residents of the city were going about their business as though nothing was amiss. I was on the verge of racing back to take shelter in the caravanserai when the cloud suddenly stopped. It hung there, for days like a wall of boiling sand no more than a stone’s throw from the city walls.”

Navid’s dark eyes had gone round in amazement as his uncle spoke, and he turned to Zoya for confirmation.

“It is so,” she said, “Queen Nayira was the last of the weather witches to rule in Nizam. I, myself, saw her hold back the storms many times”

“Is not the desert wind also named Nayira?” asked Gia, her Kushari only somewhat better than Zoya’s, and thickly accented by her native Tusyan. Like Navid, this was the young guard’s first year in the caravans. In the sandstorm-dimmed caravanserai, the two wind dancers had removed the cloaks and masks that protected their unnaturally pale skin from the sun, and the weak-lantern-light reflected off her long silver hair like moonlight.

Gia’s brilliant blue eyes practically glowed as she continued. “They say the winds grieved when the queen died, and blew for an entire season.”

Navid joined in. “I heard the winds did not calm until the desert reclaimed the city, hiding it from the wind.”

Zoya gasped in amazement, but did not correct Gia and Navid’s story. She kept her knowledge of what had actually transpired after Queen Nayira’s death to herself, unwilling to claim more than a passing familiarity with Nizam. Her adopted identity as a simple caravan guard was key to the success of her mission.

Kemen joined them, having taken his turn checking on their camels and other belongings. He stood quietly in the entrance to their alcove, only Zoya noticing him amid the chatter that had followed Gia’s words.

“You should pay no heed to wild tales told by those who were not there,” he said, his deep voice taking on a somber tone. “The winds did not grieve Nayira’s passing, but welcomed her as one of them.”

They all turned toward him, Gia and Navid squirming under his disapproving gaze. After a moment, Kemen took a seat on a thin mat of woven grasses, folding his long limbs in much the same exaggerated way the camels did when lowering themselves to the ground. When he next spoke, his voice was low, but Zoya heard each word as clearly as if he was sitting by her side, rather than opposite her, his pale face lit by the flickering flames.

“It was the third year of my service to the caravans,” Kemen said, his bare, sinewy arms resting on his folded legs, his hands clasped. “I was in Nizam twice that year, as I had been during the previous two, and once again in the early spring of the year that followed. It is true that Queen Nayira protected the city well from the great storms, as Master Armin has described. But I also witnessed with my own eyes the shield of living sand created by Lady Yolara, the stoneworker queen who rose in the weather witch’s place, and I tell you now that it was nothing short of a marvel. Both the winds and the sands blessed Nizam and her queens.”

Zoya nodded. “I also saw the shield wall,” she said. “I believe Nizam would yet flourish, even without a weather witch, had the great earthquake not swallowed the river.”

Armin and Kemen nodded.

“A city has to have water,” Armin said. “Even the caravansaries would fail without wellsprings to find water and stoneworkers to dig the wells.”

“The wellsprings found no water beneath Nizam,” Zoya murmured. When the others looked to her for explanation, she continued. “I was there when the earthquake diverted the river. Wellsprings searched far and wide for water, but found none below the city or within a days’ travel in any direction.”

The crackling of the fire was the only response. They all knew the dangers of life in the desert – the lack of water being chief among them. With the loss of the river, the city could not survive. Outside, the wind howled around them, a grim reminder of other dangers they might face.

The shadows deepened and Zoya stared at the fire, lost in thought, pulling a blanket tighter around her shoulders. When she finally looked up, she saw that Kemen and Gia had slipped away and Navid had wrapped himself in his blanket and fallen asleep. Armin sipped at a small bowl of kumis, wrinkling his nose at the fermented horse milk between each swallow. Though a common beverage among the caravaners, it was clearly not to Armin’s taste.

She smiled, her mood lightening somewhat.

Armin handed the bowl to her. “You like this?” he asked.

Zoya took a deep swallow, the liquid burning the back of her throat as she finished off the bowl. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You do not drink kumis for its flavor,” she said with a shrug, and passed back the empty bowl for a refill.

They sat there for another hour, sipping kumis in silence as the fire burned down to embers. Even with the blanket around her, Zoya couldn’t shake off the chill, or the feeling that the wind was blowing right through her.

⬧

The full moon rested on one dusty horizon, the sun just beginning to brighten the opposite side of the sky, when they finally rode out of Aywhai two days later. Armin led their small group – somehow their collection of nearly thirty camels was considered a small group – as they took their place near the middle of the long caravan. Zoya, leading her second camel, rode behind Armin and his own second camel, followed by one of the hired camel drivers, who led his own supply camel along with four of the pack animals. Navid and another camel driver came next, with four more pack camels, then Gia and the third camel driver. Kemen brought up the rear of their group, following the last of the hired camels.

The other small trains that made up the caravan were similarly arranged, with merchants, guards, and camel drivers scattered amidst groups of heavily-laden animals. People and camels ambled along at an unhurried pace, knowing better than to expend their energy too early in the day.

The line of camels snaked along the hard-packed dirt and stone path near the base of the ragged sandstone cliffs that bordered Aywhai, the first rays of the morning sun transforming the towering stone walls from a deep, purple to a soft red-gold.

Zoya looked back, in the direction of the rising sun. Aywhai’s walls, made of the same red-ochre sandstone that surrounded them, were barely discernible at this distance, only the bright lanterns on the watchtowers marking the city’s location. She stared at it for several moments as her camel plodded forward, carrying her away from everything she had ever known.

She knew every inch of Tzigane, from the fertile fields of Hatu to the scrub-covered foot hills north of the dunes that now covered Nizam. She had visited the farmsteads and villages in the Tzigani Mountains and followed the jagged line where the earthquake had torn open the land and swallowed the Nizami River, letting the mist of the water plunging into the bottomless chasm hide the tears on her face. And she had clambered over the cliffs that now rose at her side, watching the falcons soar above the desert with the sun on their wings while her sister, Rhea, captured the scene on large, stretched sheets of canvas, three of which now traveled with them, securely in the packs carried by Armin’s camels.

But she had never traveled beyond the borders of her own country. It was a somewhat disquieting thought.

Was this what it had been like for Queen Yolara and her sisters, leaving their family at such a young age to enter the fosterage in a distant land? And, if she found the twins, who had lived so much of their lives in Kushar, would they willingly leave? Or had that country become their home, and their father’s house now a strange and foreign land? She reached up and touched the pendant Yolara had given her – a gift from one of her sisters to their adoptive mother that she wore on a cord around her neck. She hoped the journey would not be a wasted one.

Zoya shifted on her slowly plodding camel, leaving Aywhai behind her and turning her face once again toward the west.

From this point forward, she could no longer rely on past experiences as accurate predictors of upcoming events. There would be similarities, of course, but they would be altered from what she knew by new cultures, new languages, new customs. And she had little doubt that she would encounter much that would surprise her. She would have to remain alert, vigilant.

To her surprise, Zoya realized she was looking forward to the trip. She scanned the desert, then turned her gaze to the cliffs, searching for any sign of possible ambush, her lips pulling back into an almost feral smile as she rocked with the camel’s steady pace.

⬧

The one good thing Zoya could say about traveling through the desert in the winter was that it wasn’t blisteringly hot – although the moderately tolerable daytime temperature dropped precipitously at night. Zoya quickly adopted the caravaner habit of erecting a sleeping tent as close to her camel as the smelly, irritable beast would allow, taking advantage of its body heat and, on more than one occasion, woke with the side of her tent pressed snugly between her back and the camel’s ribs.

Their route took them along the northern edge of the desert, close to the rough, sandstone cliffs, taking advantage of the limited forage for the camels available near their base. When they turned south and headed across the open sands, the camels would have to rely solely on the dried grass and water they carried with them. Anything the caravaners could do to make their supplies last longer – and give the camels a fresher food source – was a benefit.

While much of her days were spent in solitary silence, scanning the desert from the back of the plodding camel for a stray puff of dust that might signal approaching bandits or a building storm, her role as a guard gave her the opportunity to get better acquainted with the other guards Armin had hired.

She was surprised to learn that Kemen, the elder of the two wind dancers, was a full six years younger than her, and only ten years older than his seventeen-year-old apprentice.

“I thought Gia was your daughter,” she said to him one evening during the third week of their journey. They were making camp, taking advantage of the last moments of daylight. Around them small campfires were flickering to life as the rest of the caravan settled into a close circle. Kemen had let his hood fall back, and the last rays of sunlight had turned his long, silvery hair into streaks of flaming gold.

Kemen shook his head sadly. “Wind dancers age rapidly, and rarely have children,” he said. “It is one of the curses of our gift.”

“We are like the stars that shine brightly as they streak across the night sky,” Gia said, coming up to join them. She was still swathed in the gauzy cloak that protected her pale skin from the sun – a cloak Zoya had learned was stronger than it at first appeared. Woven with metallic thread to protect the wind dancers in battle, their cloaks were made light with wind dancer magic. At Gia’s side, the small goat that rode behind her by day tottered on unsteady feet, reaching out to nip at the thin chain looped through the girl’s fingers.

“I am curious...” Zoya began, then hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Kemen said.

Zoya gestured to the goat. “I do not wish to give offense, but why do you travel with a goat? This is not a caravan of herd animals.”

Gia’s blue eyes glittered, and her merry laugh seemed to brighten the darkening sky, while Kemen merely chuckled. “If I told you it was part of a sacred tradition, would you believe me?” he asked.

“I do not mean to make light of your traditions,” Zoya said, not sure how best to respond. “I have never traveled with wind dancers before. I do not know your ways.”

Gia exchanged a glance with Kemen. When he nodded, she hooked the goat’s chain to her belt. Then she unwound the strips of cloth

covering her forearms and wrists and pulled off her gloves.

She extended her bare hands toward Zoya.

Zoya’s eyes grew wide as her heart began to pound, the sound filling her ears. She stared, dumbfounded, at the girl’s hands, barely able to believe what she was seeing.

Gia’s skin was not only pale, but nearly transparent, and stretched so tightly that Zoya could see the individual tendons wrapping the bones and dividing like cords across her hands. It was like looking at a boiled chicken wing that had been left in the cooking pot overnight. But, when she reached out and touched Gia’s hand, it was as warm as her own, and far stronger.

“I... I do not understand.”

“You already know that we cover ourselves to protect our skin from the light of the sun,” Kemen said. “What is less commonly known is that a wind dancer’s body does not process food in the same way as yours. The same magic that makes us tall and lean, that enhances our reflexes, comes at a cost. Without a proper diet, our muscles turn to bone and our bones become brittle. While another person might simply starve to death, a malnourished wind dancer will quite literally shatter.”

“So, we carry our own food,” Gia said, withdrawing her hand from Zoya’s. “As we have found that goat milk is particularly beneficial, whenever it is possible, we bring a goat with us.”

“But you seem so strong.” Zoya said.

“We are,” Kemen said. “Like so much else, our magic is both a gift and a curse. We are strong, but brittle – and so we take pains to use our gift and minimize the weaknesses.”

“You should join us in our practice,” Gia said. “It will be fun.”

And so, each evening, after camp was set and before they joined Armin and Navid for dinner, Zoya accompanied Gia and Kemen a short distance from the camp for an hour’s practice by the dim light of their flickering lanterns. Muscles she had not realized were growing stiff from days spent on a camel at first protested, but she relished the activity.

Kemen and Gia trained with their long spears, but gave Zoya a bladeless staff to practice with. She had never fought with a staff, only with blades, and quickly discovered that the slow ritual of revolving a staff while shifting it from hand to hand was far more than simply an exercise in focus. Though she lacked the magical ability to lighten the staff or lift her body so her feet barely brushed the sand, after a short time she was able to complete the forms Kemen taught her without repeatedly dropping the staff or hitting herself as she rotated the long rod across her back.

As the days passed, Zoya found herself looking forward to their nightly routine. She often practiced rotating a shorter baton from hand to hand during the day’s ride, while riding atop the camel – an exercise made all the more challenging by the beast’s rocking gait.

In addition to training with the staff, they also practiced with blades – both long and short – in which they were often joined by some of the other guards accompanying the caravan.

The Tusyan blades the wind dancers bore were longer, slimmer, and somewhat straighter than the wide, curved, Kushari blade Zoya and the other desert-born guards carried. They often fought with a sword in one hand and a long, straight dagger in the other, in a technique Zoya had never before seen, despite her years of training and experience.

She watched in fascination as Kemen and Gia sparred with a small group of the other caravan guards, their movements graceful and almost like a dance, feet whispering across the sand as they lured their attackers forward. Then, as if on some silent signal, they abruptly sprang forward in a blur of magically-enhanced speed and agility, blocking their opponent’s blades with their own, moving inside their guard for a dagger thrust or well-placed kick. In a matter of moments, their half-dozen opponents were down, the strong, burly men sitting or lying on the sand, staring up at the wind dancers in amazement.

Had they not been using blunted blades, they would have been dead.

Kemen might call them cursed and brittle, but, in Zoya’s opinion, the wind dancers were blessed and strong, and formidable in ways she had never before imagined.

Chapter 10

Janek nodded in satisfaction as he tore a strip of parchment into small pieces and dropped them into a small brazier that stood on his desk. The hot coal in the bottom of the brazier lit the parchment instantly, and soon curls of smoke wafted upward, then drifted out the nearby open window.

He watched until the last fragment of the coded message had burned, then pushed the brazier aside and returned to his work, only slightly distracted by the news he had just received.

Leisha and Katya were doing well, the nausea of the first weeks of their pregnancies past, and each safely into their ninth week. Lady Sayha had inquired after the twins’ health, concerned about the nausea, but according to the healer’s message, had been satisfied with the explanation that the twins were suffering from a simple case of stomach distress which would soon pass – the ‘truth’ of her story further confirmed by the addition of certain herbs to the occasional meal, causing a few members of the staff to also suffer mild nausea.

It would not be long before the truth became obvious, but Janek had wanted Sayha and the twins to have a chance to become acclimated – and for the snow to close off access to the valley – first. The latter objective had been accomplished. The heavy snows across the Janqurai Mountains would prevent anyone from traveling to or leaving Ayametu by the main road for the next four to five months.

As to how well the twins and Sayha were getting along... well, that would be up to the women themselves to work out.

As a precaution, though, he had reminded the whisperer of the importance of having all messages from Ayametu come only to him. It would not do to have Sayha report to Batuhan directly. He would tell his brother about the twins himself – when the time was right.

Right now, there were other concerns that occupied his attention.

He sifted through reports of silk and metalwork production from the southern provinces, wine and cheese stores in the midland provinces – all on the rise, now that the harvest season was at an end. Trade coming into Kushar from the west had declined for the fourth consecutive month, which was consistent with other reports he’d received from that region. These he set to one side. If all went as expected, he and Batuhan would be meeting at some point that day with the three governors of the provinces in the affected area who had arrived in Khulan the previous afternoon.

They had demanded an audience with the king immediately upon their arrival and, when Batuhan would not see them, had sent for the Grand Vizier. Janek had also declined, sending instructions to the palace steward that their guests should be shown to accommodations befitting their rank and position and offered all the hospitalities of the palace. He also instructed the palace guard to restrict the governors’ movements – politely, but firmly if necessary – through the night, and not allow them access to the king until late morning.

In all honesty, he was surprised the governors had allowed themselves to be put off yet again, and not insisted on a meeting immediately upon rising.

Or perhaps they had, and Batuhan had simply declined.

A grim smile crossed Janek’s face, and he returned to his work. It was a strange game, politics, always dancing around the expectations of the Ministers and other nobles at court. But he and his brother had enjoyed a great deal of success thus far, and Kushar had benefitted from their teamwork. With a great deal of luck, their inevitable meeting with the visiting governors would go as planned...

A light tap on his study door broke his concentration, and Janek looked up.

“Yes?”

“P-p-pardon the intrusion, my lord Vizier,” the young messenger said, his words a bit stiff once he got past the nervous stammer.

Janek did not recognize him, but guessed he hadn’t been working in the royal compound for very long, “Go on,” he said, rolling his hand in a circular gesture, indicating for the boy to continue. His pen sent a spatter of ink over the parchment he’d been writing on.

With a sigh, Janek returned the pen to the inkwell and reached for a blotter. “You had a message for me?” he asked, not looking at the boy as he cleaned up the splattered ink.

“Yes..., ah..., um... that is,” the boy said, his words never actually going anywhere.

Janek looked up. The boy’s face wore such a terrified expression, he was torn between laughter and pity.

Compassion won.

“Come here, boy,” he said, keeping his tone firm yet gentle.

The boy moved forward reluctantly, like a young goat hoping to not be noticed by a hungry leopard. After several slow, cautious steps, he stood, trembling, in front of Janek’s desk.

“What is your name?” Janek asked.

“Essen,” the boy said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“How old are you, Essen?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

Janek raised an eyebrow. Based on the boy’s small frame, he would have guessed twelve, no more than thirteen. If he was actually fourteen, he’d only crossed that milestone within the past fortnight.

“And you are newly in service here, yes?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord. I have no m-m-magic—”

Janek waved the explanation away. “Magic does not come to everyone,” he said. “I also lack magical gifts, so have had to develop other skills.”

Essen looked down, embarrassment darkening his brown cheeks. “I-I-I have no other skills, my lord. And no m-m-master would take me on as an apprentice.”

Janek leaned back in his chair and took a good look at the boy. He was thin, though not gaunt, but there was a bruise on his shoulder only partially hidden by the short sleeve of his tunic, which was rumpled on the same side. His belt was askew, and his hair had slipped out of what may once have been a neat queue at the nape of his neck. Janek sighed. How many fights had that nervous stammer led the lad into?

“Who sent you to find me?” he asked, returning the conversation to the original topic. It was not his job to oversee the squabbles among the many boys who carried messages throughout the palace compound. The boy would have to learn to fend for himself, or more bruises would join the first.

“The -k-k-king.” Essen’s trembling, which had almost stopped, began afresh. “I was on my way b-b-back from taking lunch to the bird-whisperer, and I l-l-lost my way. Then a large group of people came around the corner, all in formal dress. One of them saw me and asked me to f-f-find you.”

“And you are sure it was the king who spoke to you?” Janek asked, putting a stack of sensitive documents in a drawer and locking it. He had been waiting for Batuhan’s summons, but the palace held a number of nobles and courtiers the boy might have crossed paths with. It may well have been the visiting governors who had sent this boy to him.

“Oh, yes, my lord,” Essen said, his eyes bright, his earlier terror momentarily forgotten. “He wore a turquoise sash across his chest—” he drew a hand from his shoulder to the opposite hip “—and a large, red jewel on his coat, just like in the painting in the Great Hall.”

“And what message did the king ask you to give me?” Janek asked.

“I cannot remember the words,” Essen said. He looked down at his hands, which he held clasped before him.

“Try.”

“He said... he said... he said for you to meet him,” Essen said, almost triumphantly.

“Where?”

Essen closed his eyes, and Janek watched, fascinated, as the boy murmured his way through the snatches of conversation he had overheard. None of it had been of any great importance, but the boy seemed to be repeating it verbatim. If he listened closely, Janek could almost identify the speakers from the tones and turns of phrase the boy was reciting.

Abruptly, Essen opened his eyes and looked at Janek.

“Please ask Lord Janek to join the Council in the arboretum for the midday meal,” he said, so closely matching the rhythm and cadence of Batuhan’s speech that it might have been the king himself speaking.

Janek sat there, amazed, staring at Essen for several seconds.

“And then I came to find you, but I did not know the way and I had to ask so many people that by the time I got here, I had forgotten the message,” Essen finished, the words tumbling out in a rush. His confidence – and his own voice – had returned as he spoke, and he stood a little taller, a little straighter than he had before.

“Do you do that often?” Janek asked. “Remember conversations in detail like that?”

“Yes,” Essen said, blushing again, almost seeming to shrink back into himself. “My mother says I should not, that it makes people uncomfortable.” He shuffled, the dry, scraping sound of his shoe rubbing against the stone floor tile echoing in the momentary stillness. “That is why they sent me to work in the k-k-kitchen with my aunt.”

“I understand,” Janek said. His mind was racing. Such a talent! He would have to speak to the steward, have the boy reassigned to his staff. Young Essen might not have a magical gift, but a mind like his should be trained, educated, developed, not wasted running errands and delivering lunches. In time, he might even learn to control his nervousness.

“You have done well, Essen, “Janek said. He rose, unfastened the pouch on his belt, and withdrew a small copper coin which he gave to the boy. “I expect we will be seeing each other again. You are heading back to the kitchen?”

Essen nodded, the coin clutched firmly in his fist.

Janek stepped out from behind his desk, re-tying his coin pouch and gestured for Essen to precede him toward the door.

“I will show you the way.”

⬧

When Janek reached the arboretum, Batuhan was engaged in conversation with Larek, Tomor, and Yepwin – the governors of the western provinces of Mantea, Sigea, and Terai, respectively. They were elaborately dressed, as appropriate when seeking an audience with the king – Larek in layers of silks, a reminder of the primary export of his province. His long, eye-catching vest of orange and black silk glimmered in the sun over a deep blue shirt closed from collar to waist with gold buttons that perfectly matched the shine of his silken trousers.

Tomor, never flamboyant, wore what at first glance appeared to be an unrelieved coat and trousers of black silk, though when he raised his arm in a gesture Janek could see that the lower half of his sleeves were heavily embroidered in gold and the coat’s inner lining boasted a colorful pattern of purples and blues.

Yepwin’s seemingly simple choice of a creamy damask coat was accented by a gold silk sash draped over his shoulder, held in place by a belt trimmed in gold embellishments of the highest quality. Rather than draw attention to the governor’s short stature – nearly a head shorter than both Larek and Batuhan, while Tomor towered over them all – the understated elegance seemed to equalize them in importance.

Janek almost felt underdressed in his own indigo coat and trousers, though the silver worked around the collar and down the front was no less elegant than the governors’ wardrobe choices.

He could not hear their conversation from where he stood, but their body language was clear: unrest in the province of Qaiwi, with whom they all shared borders, had driven them to seek the intervention of the king.

While their visit was not unexpected, in Janek’s opinion it was long overdue. The trouble in Qaiwi had been building steadily over the past several months, and the report Sayha had delivered a few weeks before had confirmed many of his suspicions: the treaty that had bound Qaiwi to Kushar for the past ten years was crumbling.

He and Batuhan had already begun to act, quietly moving Kizrei operatives into Qaiwi and its neighboring provinces to monitor the situation. Qaiwi’s location at Kushar’s western border was a critical asset – one they did not wish to lose. Trade flowed through the province from Tusya to the west, as well as to and from the northern countries.

More important than trade were the vast deposits of tin that had been discovered in western Qaiwi, not far from that Tusyan border.

Kushari metalworkers were renowned for their skill in the working of bronze, and a large portion of Kushar’s trade with the northern kingdoms was for objects made of the metal. But making bronze required both copper – which was abundant across Kushar – and tin, which was much more rare. They could not risk losing access to Qaiwi’s tin reserves.

Batuhan’s marriage to Bacdi’s sister, the young Princess Sarnai, three years before had been more for the mines than for the trade routes Qaiwi controlled.

Yet, politics being what it was, Batuhan could not openly send troops into the province to rein in Bacdi’s nascent rebellion without the blessing of the Council – and they would not act without what they deemed ‘sufficient provocation.’ Civilization was a trap, it seemed – one could use force to gain control of lands and peoples, but not to retain them. For that, they were dependent on diplomacy.

Janek only hoped the visiting governors would not overplay their concerns to the point of alienating the usually diplomatic members of the Ministry. Turning his attention away from the king, Janek studied the others gathered under the pavilion.

A short distance from the king, Lord Enzo, the minister of the Treasury, and Lady Inaki, the Minister of Trade – both in garb that was more utilitarian than formal – bristled at each other in the day’s variation of their usual argument, each trying to impress upon the other the importance of their own agenda at the expense of all others. They were always jockeying for position, those two, as though unaware of just how interconnected their roles truly were.

A buffet had been set up under the pavilion that stood near the center of the arboretum, and the four ministers of the major magics were strung out along its length. Though they each stole occasional glances toward the governors and king, their casual clothing and relaxed manner toward each other was indicative of the same easy camaraderie today as most days.

Was it something about their magical gifts that tempered their emotions and made them less susceptible to the petty jealousies of their non-magical peers? Janek doubted it. He’d seen too many instances of magical folk acting rashly or being just as small-minded as those lacking magical gifts. No, the ministers had simply been well-chosen for their roles.

His lips curved in a thin smile. In a few years’ time, a fifth minister would undoubtedly join their ranks. No one would deny the weather witches a seat at the king’s table...

“Something amuses you, uncle?” said a voice just to his right.

Janek did not need to turn to identify the speaker – Rashid, Batuhan’s eldest son – but he turned anyway as a sign of respect for the Crown Prince.

“Lurking in the shadows again, I see,” Janek said as Rashid stepped out of one of the small alcoves that surrounded the arboretum. Similar niches scattered throughout the compound allowed the palace guards to ensure the king’s safety without an obvious presence. Though none were visible, Janek knew that two dozen guards could silently and instantly step from their hiding places in this very space, should the need arise.

Well, possibly only twenty-three, he amended, looking past Rashid into the alcove he had just vacated, but seeing no sign of a guard in the leafy shadows.

“I consider it part of my education,” Rashid replied, falling into step alongside Janek as they followed the path that led toward the pavilion. “How better to learn what the council members really think than to observe them in secret?”

“A lesson from your fosterage?” Janek asked.

“Hardly,” Rashid said, running a hand through the short brush of hair that ran like a neatly-trimmed mane over the top of his head before falling in a long, jet-black queue that hung halfway down his back. “I learned that at my mother’s knee – and have often practiced on you and my father.”

“That explains much,” Janek said. “You and your brother have always seemed to be aware of more than you should.”

Rashid shrugged, a grin lighting his bronzed features. Raised lines on the bare sides of his scalp sketched a variety of large predators, evidence of his whisperer’s gift, which now shifted and stretched. A lioness padded forward to crouch at his temple. Behind his ear, a prowling tiger bared its teeth, the tip of its tail flicking along the side of his neck. A cheetah ran across the side of his head, its long legs gathered beneath it, preparing for a burst of speed. A fourth cat – a leopard – reclined in the branches of a tree that grew along his hairline.

Janek had never understood the magic that allowed the images to move over the young man’s scalp. He was much more aware of Sudhi, the actual leopard that accompanied Rashid nearly everywhere. Janek had once seen a wild leopard bring down a gazelle and then drag the carcass into a tree – a memory that often came to mind whenever Sudhi turned her silent, knowing gaze on him.

As though thinking of her had summoned the muscular cat into being, Janek glanced ahead and saw Sudhi resting in the low branches of one of the trees along the edge of the path, her position an uncanny mirror of the image Rashid bore. Her spotted, golden coat shone in the mid-day light, in contrast to the lush greens of the arboretum.

“She announces your presence,” Janek said, gesturing toward Sudhi.

Rashid sighed. “Yes, she is sometimes too curious. And there are few good hiding places for her here.”

Sudhi leapt from the tree as they passed, landing lightly behind them, then catching up easily and pressing the top of her head against Rashid’s hand.

“Do you ever wonder what would have become of her, had you not been present that day?” Janek asked, thinking back to the day the members of a trade delegation from the south had struggled to control the hissing leopard cub they’d brought as a present for Batuhan. Rashid had only returned to Kushar from his fosterage a few days before, and had reached out with his whisperer’s gift, calming the frightened cub. Sudhi had bonded with him almost immediately, and the two had been almost inseparable for the six years since.

“Probably languishing in one of my father’s menageries,” Rashid said, stroking Sudhi’s shoulder. “Certainly not freely roaming the palace grounds—”

“And frightening our visitors,” Janek said. He gestured ahead at the not-so-surreptitious glances their approach had earned from two of the three visiting governors, men who were not as used to Sudhi’s presence as the ministers, and who had visibly stiffened when sight of the predator padding toward them had drawn their attention.

“Oh, that is a benefit, to be sure,” Rashid said. He patted Sudhi once again, and the big cat moved off, finding a spot near the entrance of the pavilion. She stretched out, her watchful gaze on everyone present. “She is better than a bodyguard,” Rashid added in a half-whisper.

The prince’s tone was light, but Janek knew him well enough to know he wasn’t joking. At twenty-four, Rashid was already a capable leader and strategic thinker. He’d positioned the leopard deliberately, fully intending for the visiting governors to see her, a demonstration of both the power he casually commanded and a subtle reminder that one day he would rule Kushar.

“Ah, you have found us at last,” Batuhan said when he spotted Janek and Rashid entering the pavilion. “Come, come. Fill your plates and join us at table.” He gestured them forward, his manner relaxed and affable.

Janek was instantly alert. Batuhan was rarely given to overt displays of casual nonchalance. He glanced up, meeting his half-brother’s gaze, and saw it then – a momentary flicker of determination, the hint of a nod.

Batuhan hoped today’s luncheon – and the presence of the governors – would finally convince the Council to act against Qaiwi!

Janek moved forward, keeping his breathing calm and steady after the manner of the Kizrei, though his thoughts raced ahead. He greeted the ministers as though nothing unusual was at hand and apologized for the delay in meeting them when he was introduced to the visiting governors. Of all present, only Batuhan – and perhaps Sudhi – was aware of the anticipation simmering just below the surface of his diplomatic manner.

“I thought it might be more pleasant for us to meet in the open air today, rather than conduct our business indoors,” Batuhan said when they had all taken their seats.

The subtext was clear. Batuhan wanted the visiting governors to be at ease, to feel they could speak freely. Whether the king himself was suspicious of listening ears, or thought one or more of his guests might be, was irrelevant; here, in the arboretum, the meeting offered the semblance of privacy.

Surrounded by unseen guards, in a place where anyone who might approach would be easily observed from a distance, the Council could discuss matters sensitive to the kingdom of Kushar under the guise of an informal meal.

⬧

“...and the caravans that do manage to get through Qaiwi and into Terai uniformly report having suffered serious losses – not so much from bandits, which the guards accompanying them can usually deal with, but from heavy taxation,” Lord Yepwin said. Terai had prospered under his governorship, and the decline in trade was a serious blow.

Janek nodded, but kept his expression impassive. Thus far, the discussion had proceeded just as he’d expected, with the governors voicing their concerns, and the Ministers urging patience and suggesting further investigation. In his opinion, the time for a diplomatic solution had passed, but short of sending the Kizrei into Qaiwi on a clandestine reconnaissance mission – which he and Batuhan had already done – his hands were tied.

“Have new import fees been authorized on caravans coming into Kushar through Qaiwi?” Batuhan asked Lady Inaki.

The Minister of Trade shook her head, her dangling earrings jingling with the movement. “No, my lord,” she said. “By all accounts, the new governor is behind this.”

“From the reports I have received,” Janek said, deliberately avoiding the word “spies,” which always seemed to leave the ministers unsettled, “Governor Bacdi is not exclusively the source of the trouble, though he did impose the tariffs.” He nodded to Lady Inaki before continuing. “There has always been a separatist faction in Qaiwi, but until recently they have limited themselves to simple harassment of local officials and the occasional, disorganized protest. However, in the months since the death of Governor Dygu, his son, Bacdi, has been advised repeatedly to take a firm hand with them. He has chosen to ignore this counsel, allowing the movement to grow and flourish like weeds after rain.”

“He is young,” said Lord Enzo, “and has much to learn.”

“True,” conceded Janek. “Nevertheless, he has a responsibility to both his province and country, and as he has done little or nothing to quell the faction, he must also be held to account.”

“Perhaps we could send more experienced advisors to guide him,” Lord Jakome suggested, rising to retrieve a carafe of wine from the buffet table.

“We have done that,” Batuhan said, responding to the healer. “My niece, Lady Sayha, served Dygu as an ambassador from my court these past three years and was well-versed in the particular needs of the province. A few weeks after Bacdi took power, he dismissed her from his council and subsequently denied her admittance to his court. I am told he has also had the ambassadorial residence closely guarded.”

The collective gasp from around the table communicated the outrage of the ministers and visiting governors at the insult Bacdi had made against the king’s ambassador.

“Lady Sayha is safe,” Janek said with a reassuring gesture, hoping to ease any worry they might have had for her safety. “She and her staff were able to slip out of Qaiwi unobserved. I spoke to her when I was in Rachusa some weeks ago. Governor Bacdi currently guards a residence occupied by former vagrants dressed in Kushari finery.”

Everyone laughed, and raised their glasses in salute to Lady Sayha’s cleverness.

“At some point, Bacdi will realize he has been tricked,” Governor Larek said. “And he will notice the refugees who are fleeing Qaiwi and slipping into Mantea – their numbers are increasing.”

“True,” Janek agreed. “But until he does, and forces you to close your borders against them, we have the advantage of him.”

“What more do you know of the situation?” Batuhan asked.

“In the last three months, the separatist faction has become emboldened, and the movement has gained momentum,” Janek said. “It is they who have been harassing not only the caravans but also the general population, pressuring people to pay exorbitant fees for protection from injury to their families and businesses.”

“But to what end?” Lord Kostas asked, his long, green, cultivator’s beard now faded to winter-gray. He pushed back from the table and stood to pace the room. “Such egregious policies will drive trade away—”

“It is already doing so,” Lord Yepwin cut in. “In these same three months, we have seen a noticeable drop in caravans entering Terai from Qaiwi.”

“Likewise,” Governor Larek agreed. “Fewer caravans now cross into Mantea from our northern border, while those arriving from Tusya have grown larger, as traders wishing to enter Kushar have begun avoiding Qaiwi altogether.”

“Better to spend a month circling Qaiwi, traveling through Tusya from Saresu and crossing the border into Mantea, than to risk losing the bulk of their goods and profits to the separatists,” Lord Enzo said, tapping his steepled fingers together.

“This is true,” Lady Inaki agreed – one of the few occasions where Janek had heard them in accord. “But, if the situation continues, trade across the region may fall to levels we have not seen in over a decade. The signs are all there.”

“He is building an army,” Rashid said, his voice low, tone thoughtful.

Conversation cut off as instantly as if the prince had swept his blade across their throats.

“Explain,” Batuhan said, gesturing for his eldest to continue.

While the ministers and visiting governors waited expectantly, Rashid took a drink of his wine. Then he set his goblet down and began to speak.

“Consider: Under Governor Dygu, the separatists were a minor nuisance and easily controlled. But Governor Bacdi has not even tried to keep the faction in check. If he does not actively support them – which I think is likely – he does not appear to feel at all threatened by them, which suggests he is being bribed to ignore their activities.”

Lord Enzo nodded. “It makes sense. Governor Bacdi is filling his coffers in preparation for funding a rebellion.”

Janek said nothing, but exchanged a glance with Batuhan, who nodded slightly. They had come to the same conclusion the previous day, when the arrival of the three governors coincided with reports they had received about the situation in Qaiwi.

“He would risk breaking the treaty?” Governor Yepwin asked, aghast. Of the provinces neighboring Qaiwi, Terai had the most to lose.

“He may not feel it applies to him,” Janek said. “The treaty was made between King Batuhan and Governor Dygu. Batuhan married Dygu’s daughter. Neither action involved Bacdi directly.”

“Shortsighted child,” Governor Larek muttered. “If you are right, my lord,” he inclined his head toward Rashid, “he will have us at war before the year ends.”

A general murmur of agreement went around the table as the ministers reached the same conclusion.

Janek breathed thanks to the winds for Rashid. His assessment of the situation had done more to bring the ministers to agreement of the need to bring Qaiwi to submission than any cajoling or intimidation he and Batuhan might have tried.

“He will not wait that long,” Janek said. “I have had no reports – yet – of troops massing in Qaiwi, but if he has even one competent advisor in his council, he will be preparing to launch a campaign against us when the rains come, knowing it will be more difficult for us to gather our own troops during that time.”

“Then we must act,” Batuhan said, his hands flat on the table, his voice firm. “We acquired Qaiwi by treaty rather than conquest to minimize the need for bloodshed.” He stood, drawing a short, curved dagger from his belt and holding it high. “But our blades remain sharp, and our warriors true to Kushar.”

He drove the point of the dagger into the table, then slowly looked around the gathering, from person to person, meeting and holding their gaze before moving on.

When Batuhan next spoke, his voice was low and cold. “I am a peaceful man, with no desire to plunge my people into a needless war. But neither will I be betrayed.”

He turned to Rashid, gesturing for him to stand.

Rashid rose, facing his father, hands clasped behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Janek saw Sudhi stir, the big cat attentive but not threatening.

“Prince Rashid, my son and heir,” Batuhan said. “Here, before these witnesses, I appoint you Governor of Qaiwi, with all the rights and responsibilities to both the province and to Kushar that accompany this position.”

Rashid bowed deeply. “I serve at your pleasure, my lord.”

Batuhan returned the bow. “Gather your armies and do as you must to secure the province before the rains come.”

“It will be done,” Rashid replied.

Batuhan then turned to Janek. “We cannot assume Bacdi does not have spies of his own among us. Summon the Kizrei – as many as you deem necessary – and proceed to Qaiwi with all due haste. Identify, locate, and dispose of the leaders of the rebellion with all efficiency, and minimal destabilization to the province.”

He paused slightly before continuing.

“And bring Bacdi to me, alive...” his teeth shone in a feral smile, his white teeth contrasting with the deep tan of his skin, “...as my guest.”

“As you will,” Janek said.

Chapter 11

“If we can just address any member of the nobility as ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady,’ what is the point of learning the various titles?” Katya asked, flicking sparks from the fingertips of one hand to the other and ignoring both Leisha’s frown as well as her wind-whispered remonstrations.

The twins were seated comfortably on brocaded cushions in the villa’s large salon, where Lady Sayha was instructing them in the finer points of etiquette in the northern kingdoms. Katya was annoyed. If Janek was going to provide them with another tutor, as he had done during their teenage years, she was far more interested in learning about what was happening in the kingdoms beyond Ayametu than in the list of appropriate courtly titles Sayha had insisted they memorize.

She wondered how difficult it would be to fake a bout of nausea and excuse herself from the salon. Thinking the twins ill, Sayha had only begun scheduling regular lessons as the queasiness of early pregnancy had finally subsided.

“You have lived here, in isolation, for many years,” Sayha said. “It should come as no surprise to you that this is not a normal situation. Should you ever leave this valley, there are many things you must know if you are to be taken seriously.”

“I am sure this will be taken seriously,” Katya said, flicking her fingers toward Sayha. A small, dark cloud formed above their tutor’s head, sparks of lightning flickering against the shadows.

But before the cloud let loose with a small downpour, Sayha twisted her wrist, her fingers pointing upward. Instantly, the silver stitching on the cuff of her sleeve streamed upward, forming a protective canopy over her head and shoulders. As the rain fell, the water streamed from the edges of the canopy, puddling on the carpet to one side of her chair.

“As I said,” Sayha said, continuing as if there had been no interruption. “There are those who will recognize your gifts for what they are, and those who will view them as mere novelties. Entertainments wielded by spoiled children, but lacking any usefulness.”

Annoyed, Katya clenched her fist, and the lightning in the small cloud increased, tiny bolts arcing down to strike at the silver canopy. A sweet, pungent aroma filled the air.

“Do not be peevish,” Leisha hissed, dissipating Katya’s little storm with a wave of her hand.

“I am more than willing to learn something useful,” Katya said, shooting a glare at her sister. “Lists of titles and lineages and forms of address serve no purpose.”

“No immediate purpose, perhaps,” Sayha said. “But, when you are approached at court by a noble from another kingdom, it may serve you to know if you are addressing a king or a nobleman, a queen or one of the three doyennes of Zuria.” She raised her fingers and the canopy retracted, the silver filaments returning to her sleeve in a new pattern – one that looked suspiciously like the outline of a storm cloud flecked with lightning.

She looked at Katya, no humor in her dark eyes. “You were born to privilege, child, but you will not have true power until you learn that you are not the only one who wields it.”

⬧

Leisha went outside, paused near the elaborately-etched stone railings of one of the villa’s many courtyards, and let the view work its calming magic over her. From here she could gaze down the length of the valley, and imagine – if only for a moment – that she was not surrounded by steep, snow-capped mountains on either side. Bright green leaves fluttered in the breeze alongside stately conifers, their dark needles covering branches in brush-like blurs.

Small, dark birds twittered as they flitted from tree to tree, their red bills and legs a match for the flowers where they typically sought insects. Hidden in shadows, a woodpecker tapped, and though she could not spot it, she thought she heard a blue and gold thrush clinging to a distant branch being chattered at by the squirrel whose territory it had invaded.

Leisha breathed easier, her mind and mood settling. Katya had retired to her room after the morning confrontation with Sayha, and it was probably for the best. Her twin was fractious enough on a good day, and frequently irritable during the early stages of a pregnancy.

Keeping their condition a secret hadn’t made things any easier, but Janek had assured them that giving Sayha time to adapt to them first would be in everyone’s best interest.

Leisha wasn’t sure she agreed, but she had done as Janek instructed and said nothing about the child she carried to anyone other than her sister and Lonila, the healer who was looking after them.

As an attendant in the royal household, surely Sayha would have had enough experience with other noble ladies to recognize the signs. Of course, Sayha was also the king’s niece, and had served as a diplomat for the past three years, an appointment made not long after she completed her fosterage. It was possible she had not been around pregnant women for any length of time before.

Her reaction, when she realized that not only were she and Katya pregnant, but that Lord Janek had fathered their children, would be interesting, to say the least.

As if the thought had somehow summoned her, the soft swish of silks announced Sayha’s presence. Leisha turned and smiled, nodding politely in greeting as she approached. She never knew what to say to her – it would be inappropriate to speak to her as she did to the servants, and, though Sayha was acting in the role of tutor, Leisha suspected that a higher level of deference was expected by a member of the royal family.

“Lady Sayha. I hope you are well,” she said, in spite of the fact that they had been together only an hour before.

Sayha smiled. “I am,” she said. “Though I am concerned about Katya. I do not know either of you well, but she seems more easily annoyed than when we first met. I hoped you could tell me – have I somehow offended her?”

“No,” Leisha said. Thinking quickly, she added, “She is always more restless when the snows close the road to Ayametu. Though we do not leave the valley ourselves, it is...” she searched for the right word, “...diverting to see others come and go. While nothing is changed, knowing the road is open removes the feeling of our being trapped here.”

Sayha nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, I understand. In many ways our reality is much more about how we perceive things to be than how they truly are.”

“And how do you perceive your reality here, in Ayametu?”

Sayha was silent for a moment, taking her own turn to look out across the valley. “I find myself between lives,” she said finally. “The palace has not been home to me for many years, and, though interesting, my work as an ambassador was, in the end... less satisfying than it might have been.”

“You will have to tell us about your experiences one day. You were in Qaiwi, yes?”

“Yes. I served as an advisor to Governor Dygu until his death a few months ago. He was a good man, though not strong, and cared for the people. His son, Bacdi...”

The sentence dangled, and Leisha watched Sayha’s expression harden. There were clearly deep undercurrents there, troubling memories. “You need not speak of him now,” she said, resting a hand lightly on Sayha’s arm.

Sayha nodded and smiled, but it was a thin smile, that did not reach her eyes.

They stood in silence for a time, staring out over the valley. A gentle breeze fluttered the leaves on the trees; closer, a servant plucked leafy green herbs and plump orange and yellow squash from bushy garden plants, putting them into a basket to carry to the kitchen where they would become part of the evening meal.

“It is beautiful here,” Sayha murmured.

“When we came to this valley, it was dry and cold,” Leisha said. “There were few trees, struggling to survive, and no songbirds. Only a handful of nimble goats foraging the cliffs for the occasional bite of small, prickly shrubs. Lord Janek built the villa, but it was Katya and I who turned a gray, rocky valley into the garden you see before you.”

“How long did it take?”

Leisha laughed at the memory. “Janek gave us leave to do whatever we wanted here, and sent cultivators to assist us with our every whim, no matter how improbable or ill-advised. It was such an adventure! Though, in truth, I think he wanted to test the extent of our gifts, see what we could accomplish without the restrictions of the fosterage mistress – oh, we vexed her so!”

“I can only imagine,” Sayha said.

“We left Khulan on a boat, a wellspring pushing us against the current of the Ragusina. As the river left the more arid coastal region, and came into the shadow of the mountains, it was as though we had entered a different world. We had never before seen a jungle, and were utterly captivated... overwhelmed...”

Leisha closed her eyes, remembering the lush, tangled masses of vines overhead, the boat sliding along slippery fronds of river grass, the canopy of large, glossy leaves overhead nearly blotting out the sun. “The air was so thick and warm we could almost taste it – syrupy-sweet but, at the same time, heavy with decay.”

She opened her eyes and turned to Sayha. “We did not know if we could attract any of the colorful birds we saw along the river, and the whisperers assured us we would never see monkeys swinging from vines here, but during our first year we turned this valley into an almost perfect jungle.”

“What happened to it?”

“It was so much work, and we were so new to our gifts – we had only come into our power a little more than a year before.”

She held out her hand, a small cloud forming just above her upturned palm. “It is one thing to create a storm, to make the wind blow or warm the air in the middle of winter – simple enough in a small space, or for a short time.”

She let the small cloud dissipate.

“But, to change the weather for an entire valley – and maintain that change for days, weeks, months at a time? That requires constant attention, and, at thirteen years of age, Katya and I were far too flighty. Once the novelty of our mountaintop jungle faded, we abandoned it. It was not long before most of it withered and died.” She chuckled. “I daresay the mountain goats were well-fed that winter, and the birds of prey built their nests of exceedingly rare materials.”

“Does nothing remain?” Sayha asked. “The cliffs are covered in greenery, there are jungle ferns in the courtyard, and the flowering vines growing over the balcony outside the salon are certainly more at home in a warmer climate.”

“Oh, yes, we kept a few of our favorites of the jungle plants – again, maintaining conditions in a small area is not particularly difficult. You have seen the pattern of tangled vines that covers the bridge across the chasm, yes? The bridge was not always so embellished. Janek had the stoneworkers add that to please Katya.”

“Truly?”

Leisha smiled. “Katya nurtured a great vine about halfway down the valley for many years because she was obsessed with growing it into a bridge across the chasm. But, once she had accomplished her goal, there was no place to go – we could not climb the cliffs, even though we covered them with vines. Eventually, the effort was more than she was willing to continue. Janek recreated the vine on the stone bridge for her.”

“That was very thoughtful of him.”

“He has done much for us,” Leisha said, growing pensive. Reflecting on their early years in Ayametu, she thought of the many kindnesses Janek had shown them. They had lacked for nothing – short of being allowed to leave the valley.

“I have not thought of that vine or wandered down to see it for many seasons. It may still survive, after a fashion, but in the climate we now have established, the vines that cover the cliffs will never be strong enough to allow us to swing across the chasm like monkeys, as Katya first envisioned.”

They both laughed at the image.

“Even without monkeys, what the two of you have done here is quite an accomplishment,” Sayha said.

“We have learned much during our years here,” Leisha said. “If we leave this valley,” she said, “we will be asked to use our gifts for more than simple entertainments – though creating personal storms has always been a favorite amusement of ours.”

They both laughed.

Leisha continued, not looking at Sayha. “Lord Janek speaks of altering the weather patterns – taming the monsoons and bringing rain to dry lands,” she said. “Even if every one of our daughters is blessed with the gift of weather magic, I do not know if we can truly accomplish these goals – or even if we should. The rains may bring floods to one area, but those same rivers carry lifegiving water to another. Dry regions cannot be plowed or planted, but there are plants, animals, and people who live their entire lives there. Who are we to make sweeping changes of the kind Lord Janek expects?”

“Those are questions worth considering,” Sayha agreed.

“It is our gifts – together with those of the cultivators – that keep this valley green. When we leave, it will be the work of a season, probably less, before it returns to its former state.”

Leisha turned to Sayha, her concerns giving the courage to speak boldly. “Before I willingly alter the weather for anyone else, I would know more about the people whose lives our gifts will also impact. You say you are here to prepare us to leave this valley. Teach us about the world we will be tasked to change.”

⬧

Among the luxuries of the villa in Ayametu was a well-stocked library. Sayha spent three days pouring through stacks of scrolls, searching for the weather-related information Leisha had asked for.

It had seemed like a simple request, but turned out to be more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. The scholars and historians who had chronicled the histories of Kushar hadn’t considered the weather to be worth commenting on in any specific way. They only mentioned the rains if a noble’s property was destroyed by a landslide, or a drought when the subsequent fires in the dry fields laid waste to a nearby village.

By the time she left the library late the third evening, Sayha’s eyes burned from the strain of reading through dozens of scrolls. She headed down the hallway toward the healer’s rooms in the hopes Lonila would still be awake and might have suitable herbs she could use in a compress for her burning eyes.

But as she reached a bend in the hall, Sayha heard the low murmur of voices. She stopped, pressing her back against the cool stone wall, and listened.

“...I would have Calla serve something spicy at every meal,” Katya was saying, her tone bordering on petulant.

“But why do you want me to tell her?” Lonila asked. The matronly healer sounded perplexed and a little frustrated by the request, and Sayha did not blame her. It did seem odd for Katya to have gone to the healer instead of approaching the cook directly. Before she had a chance to think on it further, the conversation continued.

“Because she will not listen to me,” Katya said irritably, a muffled stomp of her foot accompanying her words. “She seems to believe too much spice will be bad for the child.” She huffed loudly. “This is not the first child I have carried. I know how this works. I do not want a diet of nothing but couscous, yoghurt and, flatbread...”

Katya continued to speak, but Sayha was no longer listening. Her head was spinning, and it was all she could do to keep from gasping aloud. Katya was with child? How was that possible? There were no men in Ayametu during the winter – only the princesses and their Kizrei attendants, all female – and no tradesmen had come to the valley since the winter snows closed the mountain road. The men standing guard across the bridge, like those who dwelled in the Kizrei camp at the far end of the valley, were forbidden from the villa on pain of death. None of them would have dared risk a dalliance with one of the princess and the wrath of the Kiz.

It had been nearly three full turns of the moon since Sayha had last seen a man, not since Lord Janek had left, the last of the male members of the household traveling with him...

Janek.

No. He wouldn’t have...

But even as she tried to deny it, Sayha knew it was true. Lord Janek had fathered a child on Katya.

Did he know?

Surely Lonila would have informed him of Katya’s condition. He was the Kiz, and the healer was true to her Kizrei oaths.

And what of Leisha? Had Katya taken her sister into her confidence? Sayha had witnessed Leisha’s reaction when Katya had openly flirted with Lord Janek when they first arrived in Ayametu. Sayha had only known the twins for a few weeks, but could not believe Katya would have tried to keep her pregnancy a secret from her sister.

Only from Sayha. The outsider.

She turned on her heel, tired eyes forgotten as she stalked down the hall. The twins owed her no allegiance, had no reason to trust her with their secrets. Very well. She would do her duty by them, neither offering friendship nor expecting it in return.

And Janek? Who surely knew but had said nothing? He was the Grand Vizier of all Kushar, the leader of the Kizrei, second only to the king. He owed her no explanation.

Sayha had always been true to her Kizrei oaths – loyalty to country and then to her fellow warriors, obedience to the Kiz, and loyalty to the king. She would remain obedient.

She paused, stepping into a shadowed alcove and schooling her features. With the exception of the twins, all of the women who lived and worked in the villa were highly-trained Kizrei warriors, regardless of the role they had been assigned to in the household. As one of the senior among them, second only to Maia, the local captain – who went by the title of ‘matron’ in the villa’s terminology – it would not do for any of them to see her so unsettled.

Fortunately, she was not heartstring bound to anyone here.

When she emerged from the alcove, outwardly she was the model of serenity.

Inwardly, her emotions still churned, try as she might to bring her thoughts under control.

Janek might be the Kiz, but he was also her uncle and – or so she had always believed – her friend. That he would have installed her here, given her responsibility over the twins, and then kept such a vital secret from her...

Sayha shed no tears at the sense of betrayal she felt. She walked down the hall toward her room, unaware of her clenched fists, the pressure of her silver-tipped nails digging crescent-shaped gouges into her palms.

Chapter 12

The bandits attacked the caravan in the late afternoon, when the western sun forced Zoya and the other guards to shield their eyes. The caravan had moved away from the relative safety of the cliffs the day before and were now heading southward through the borderlands, a place where rocky spires marched out into the desert, the sun tinting them shades of fiery red and gold, and their shadows rippled across the sands.

No king or queen claimed the borderlands, nor was this region patrolled by any other than the wild goats that foraged on the sparse vegetation and the bandits who found safe haven in the shelter of hidden crevasses. A band of them now poured out from behind a towering cluster of rocks, the sand raised by their horses’ thundering hooves obscuring their numbers.

The front ranks of caravan guards leapt into action, racing forward to engage with the bandits. In almost the same moment, the caravan leaders immediately turned the long, straggling line of camels back upon itself, in a desperate attempt to cluster the caravan together and make it more difficult to attack.

But, even as they tugged on the reins of the now-frightened camels, shouting commands and forcing them into a panicky trot, Zoya could see it would not be enough. The bandits would be upon them too soon.

The caravan had been divided into three sections, with Armin’s position near the end of the second section. With both the forward and rear sections quickly gathering toward the center, there was no safer place for him to be.

Zoya broke from the line, drawing her sword and cutting her baggage camel free before kicking her mount into a run. Kemen and Gia had done the same, the three of them taking up defensive positions, leaving Navid and Armin to look after their confused pack animals.

It was tempting to rush forward to challenge the bandits, but there was no way to know if there were more of the brigands amid the rocky outcroppings behind them, waiting until all the guards had been drawn away by the obvious frontal attack before sweeping in on the unprotected traders.

It was what she would have done.

So, Zoya guided her camel a short distance from the line, ignoring the shouts from the caravanners and grunts and bellows of the camels behind her. She turned this way and that, studying the rocks, scanning for any sign of movement.

“Do you see anything?” she called to Gia. The young wind dancer had taken up a similar stance a short distance from Zoya, the metallic threads in her flowing cloak glowing softly in the late afternoon sun.

“I see nothing,” Gia replied. “But, I think I hear...” she paused, cocking her head to one side. “Horses. There!” She raised her sword and pointed into the shadows just beyond the last camels in the caravan. She spurred her camel forward and Zoya followed on her heels, Kemen behind them.

More of the caravan guards joined them, falling in behind Gia. Wordlessly, they raced across the sands toward the wide band of deepening shadows on the far side of the cluster of rocks, their camels’ feet kicking up clouds of reddish-orange dust in their wake.

As they rounded the rocks, Zoya saw movement, a flash of sunlight reflecting off a drawn blade. Pointing with her own curved sword, she screamed, “Bandits!”

Tugging on her camel’s reins and kicking its sides, she plunged into the shadow, a score of other guards behind her.

⬧

Her camel’s eyes adjusted to the dim light more quickly than Zoya’s, which was fortunate, or they would have slammed right into the nearest horse and bandit. As it was, they turned just before colliding.

Instinctively, Zoya drew her blade back, shifting it to cover her exposed left side. The bandit’s blade struck hers, metal scraping against metal as she swept past him.

And then they were in the middle of the cluster of bandits. Men and horses screamed, camels bellowed, swords and bodies crashed together. Camels drove forward, foam flying from their mouths as they rammed into the smaller, lighter horses, heedless of the sword-wielding bandits. Zoya had never fought on camel-back before, and rocked on the charging animal’s back, several times coming dangerously close to falling off. With no stirrups in which to brace her feet, and no way to press her knees around the camel’s body as she would have done on horseback, she lost precious moments shoving her feet through the straps that anchored her saddle on the camel’s body.

Finally stable, she used the camel’s swaying motion to her advantage, dipping forward with blade extended, then rocking back, her enemy’s blood flying from the edge of her sword.

⬧

Like most fights Zoya had been in, the skirmish with the bandits both seemed to rage on forever and at the same time was over in a moment.

When she wheeled her camel around, breathless, sword raised and ready to engage, but saw no more bandits either fighting with the other guards or heading toward the caravan, she ran her arm across her forehead, wiping away the sweat that dripped in her eyes.

Kemen pulled up alongside and looked down at her from atop his large camel. “Livo, of the spice trader’s caravan, is gathering the uninjured horses. I know you prefer horses to camels. You may find one among them that suits you. I am sure Armin would not argue.”

Zoya looked around at the aftermath of the chaos. The sun had gotten lower while they fought, and the shadows had grown deeper, but she could clearly see the bodies of fighters and animals from both sides – caravan guards and bandits – sprawled in the dirt and rubble at the base of the rocky pillars.

Kemen’s eyes followed her gaze. “There were thirty of them,” he said. “None reached the caravan. A dozen fled into the desert. Gia and Ontar pursue them.”

“How many guards did we lose?”

“Of the nineteen who joined us in battle, the desert has claimed seven. Another five are injured – two of them severely.”

“We should check on the caravan, and send assistance to the guards who engaged with the first group of bandits.”

Kemen said nothing, but held up a gloved hand to indicate for her to wait. Zoya could not make out his features beneath his hood, now bathed in shadow, but watched in silence as he tilted his head in a manner of deep concentration, much as Gia had earlier when listening for the bandits.

After a long moment Kemen looked at Zoya. “There is no sound of fighting, and no cries or lamentation from the merchants. The first battle is over as well.”

Zoya dug a cloth from a pouch tied to her saddle and began to wipe the blood from her sword. “The way you and Gia listen, and hear the smallest sounds over a great distance... is that part of the wind dancer gift?”

“It is.”

“Useful.”

“Only when we wish to hear,” Kemen said. “There are times it is equal parts blessing and curse.”

Zoya nodded, thinking of the many times she would not have had someone hear what was said of them when they were not present. Satisfied that her sword was clean enough for the moment, she returned it to its sheath. She would clean it properly that evening, after the caravan had made camp.

Beyond them, Livo was leading a string of horses away from the stone pillars and toward the caravan.

“Did you want to claim a horse?” asked Kemen, gesturing toward them.

Zoya looked after the horses. “Perhaps later,” she said. With a wry smile she leaned forward and patted her camel on the shoulder. “For the moment, I think I will keep my camel. He served me well this day – better than I had any right to expect.”

⬧

The caravan remained at Bandits’ Pillar for three days.

When Zoya and Kemen returned to the caravan after the battle, they discovered that the other guards had easily dispatched the first group of bandits – a small band of only a dozen.

They had also captured one of the bandits alive – a golden-haired Tusyan who admitted to the plan to distract the guards while the larger force attacked from the rear of the caravan. When the larger force never appeared, he broke down, begging for mercy for his family who he claimed were hiding in a cave in the interior of the cluster of rock pillars.

Guards were sent, and discovered not only the woman and small children the bandit had spoken of, but a dozen such families, women and children living in homes cut into the rocks. A small spring provided much-needed water, and a herd of goats nibbled at tufts of grass and clambered on the rocky walls of the narrow cleft. A few thin chickens fled at their approach, and frightened children peered out at them from the shadowed interiors of their cave homes.

The following morning, the caravan master called the merchants and guards together for an informal council. As a merchant, Armin would be allowed to speak if he so chose. The guards were there more as a formality – or so it seemed to Zoya, who stood between Armin and Kemen throughout the meeting.

For the most part, the women accepted the fate of the bandits in stoic silence.

“We were part of a small caravan passing through this region in the spring and took refuge in these caves during a sandstorm,” a Tusyan woman named Vani explained. “When the bandits returned, they killed those who opposed them and forced the rest of us to serve them. Their deaths are not unwelcome to us.”

“The desert will take their flesh,” the caravan master told them. Vultures had already gathered – and the morning echoed with the squabbles between the large birds and a pack of wild dogs that had found the remains during the night. The carcasses of so many men and beasts were a feast the always-hungry desert scavengers could not ignore.

“We will camp here, and replenish our water before continuing on,” the caravan master decided. “When we leave, you may stay here, if you so choose. If you wish to leave, you may accompany us into Tusya or head eastward, as you choose.”

“We have only three camels,” Vani said. “Though we would happily offer a portion of the bandits’ hoard in payment for safe passage to Tusya.” She glanced around her at the other women who had also been captives. They all nodded in agreement.

“Do you believe her?” Armin whispered. They were far enough away from the caravan master to not be overheard. “For all we know, they are actually the wives of the bandits.”

“It is not for us to decide,” Kemen said. “But I cannot deny it is possible.”

“Agreed,” Zoya said. She looked past the Tusyan women to their children. She knew from her time in the Queen’s Guard that young, hungry children made excellent thieves. “We will watch them closely.”

While they were speaking, some of the other merchants had raised concerns of their own. After a moment, the caravan master raised his head to signal an end to the discussion.

“I accept your proposal,” he said. “We will take one-half of the bandits’ hoard and provide you with three additional camels for the journey. We leave in two mornings’ time.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Vani said, bowing deeply, as though before a nobleman.

The caravan master nodded approvingly, then added, “My guards will accompany you to ensure all is divided equitably.”

Vani stiffened briefly, then nodded.

“She knows how much the bandits have hidden in the caves,” Zoya whispered to Kemen.

“I believe she does. The caravan master is wise not to trust her too easily. The story of their captivity may be true, but time spent in difficult conditions can change a person until they behave in ways they once would have found unthinkable.”

Zoya’s thoughts turned to Queen Yolara’s sisters. After so many years, did the twins think of themselves as captives awaiting the opportunity to escape and return to their homeland? Or had their time among the Kusharim changed them? Would they willingly accompany her to Tzigane, or would she find them only to discover that they had no desire to be rescued?

And, if forced to choose between her Queen’s orders and the Princesses’ wishes, what would she do?

⬧

Zoya had assumed that the entire caravan would continue all the way to Saresu, if not into Kushar itself. So, when nearly three-quarters of the travelers – including the women and children they had picked up at the Bandit is Pillar – turned west while Armin directed their group south with the remaining merchants, she was more than a little confused.

“We have crossed the border into Tusya,” Armin said simply, as if that should explain everything.

She tried to reason it out.

In most respects, the three weeks since leaving Bandit’s Pillar had been uneventful. The caravan had not been attacked again and they had encountered no significant storms. The further west they traveled, the more the nightly guard duty was tasked with chasing away packs of wild dogs slinking out of the nearby hills than with worrying about human bandits.

It should have been fast, easy travel.

But the addition of the women and children had been even more disruptive than she had imagined.

The children – there were more than thirty of them, though she never got an accurate count – were constantly underfoot, laughing and shrieking as they chased their goats up and down the lines of camels. The camel-drivers had to watch out for them, slowing their pace, though Zoya was glad to admit that they did not appear to have turned to thievery, as she’d feared they might.

The women were the bigger problem. Not that they were difficult traveling companions, but, after three months in the desert, the men of the caravan found the dozen golden-haired Tusyan women difficult to resist. As a result, the caravan frequently stopped earlier in the evening, or broke camp later in the morning, with too many of the caravaners packing their camels slowly or sloppily, still groggy from lack of sleep.

Zoya did not fault them. She just had no patience for any unnecessary delays. So, when the women and children headed west with the bulk of the caravan, she was not sorry to see them go.

But she was still confused as to what crossing into Tusya had to do with the caravan dividing – and why so many were heading west.

“Do caravans always split like this?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Armin said. “It depends on the individual traders. Sometimes a caravan grows, sometimes it divides.” He reached into a pouch at his waist and removed a piece of flatbread. “It is still winter in Saresu. Most will not want to wait for Madia Pass to clear. They will travel through Tusya, circling around the western end of the mountains, trading at the cities along the way. Those who are heading to Kushar will enter further south.”

He turned to look at Zoya. “We could go with them.”

She was skeptical. “How long will that take?”

“Eight weeks, maybe ten. But we will do good trade along the way.”

“I am not here for trade.”

“More’s the pity.”

“And if we continue through Saresu?”

“At this time of year? At least six weeks; could be as much as twelve. It all depends on how deep the snow in the pass is and how long it takes to clear.”

Zoya raised an open hand to the sky. “By the winds, what did I do to deserve this?” she muttered, speaking in the desert tongue.

“So on to Saresu, then?” Armin asked, speaking in Kushari, and not even trying to conceal his amusement.

“Yes,” Zoya said, also in Kushari. “On to Saresu.”

Over the following week, they gradually left the area of shifting dunes, their path taking them toward the steppes that divided the open desert from the mountains. The hard-packed earth made travel easier, though the days were much colder, and both goats and camels frequently paused mid-step to snatch a bite of the dried clumps of grasses that dotted the ground. Small rodents were abundant, darting across the path and disappearing into crevices among the rocks, and their evening meals were often supplemented by the addition of a desert rat, skewered and sizzled over the cooking fire.

On the day Gia speared a large hare with a well-aimed blade, Armin was so pleased he unpacked his big cooking pot and used some of their precious water and a handful of barley to make a curry stew. While the broth was thin, the meat stringy, and the root vegetables sparse, Zoya’s praise for the meal was sincere.

The five of them huddled around the cooking fire, wrapped in heavy capes and furs, and sopped up every drop – even Gia and Kemen, who had contributed some herbs and dried beans. When they finally finished eating, Armin leaned back and patted his stomach.

“Not bad, I think. Been a while since I last made a real curry.”

Navid was looking despairingly at the empty pot. “We finished it all,” he said, gesturing to both the pot and the large, flat stone they had cooked the flatbread on. “What will we eat tomorrow?”

It was a fair question. They typically cooked only once each day, after making camp, preparing enough for both the evening meal and what they would need for the following day.

Armin ruffled his nephew’s hair. “So like the young. Sits here with a full belly and already worries about how he will fill it again.”

Everyone laughed.

“We will just have to make more,” Armin said when Navid just stared at him. The young merchant’s apprentice grunted, then pushed up from the ground, shoved the baking stone back into the coals, then trudged off in search of the supplies for making more flatbread.

Always talkative, the meal had loosened Armin’s tongue further than normal. He regaled them with tales of banquets-past as he cleaned the heavy cast-iron pot.

“My mother was the best cook,” he said, scooping some sand into the empty pot and scrubbing at it with a rag. “At least, that is what we always told her. Truth was, most of her cooking was awful. My brothers and I drew lots each day to see who would have to sneak a handful of peppers or a scoop of spice into the pot without her knowing.”

“Risky,” Kemen said.

“Oh, yes,” Armin agreed, dumping the sand from the pot and wiping it clean. “Though her punishment was usually to forbid you from eating that night, which was not so bad.”

“Grandmother’s cooking isn’t awful,” Navid said, returning to the circle, carrying a small bowl and a bag of ground meal.

Armin shook his head. “Someone still helps season the food,” he said. “In all these years, she has never cooked anything without help that does not taste like mud.” He reached for a bit of fat he’d saved when butchering the hare and began smearing it on the inside of the pot. “There was one time – I will never forget it – when my brothers and I had all been away from the house for most of the day, and returned home just in time for the evening meal. Thinking to avert another miserable dinner, we each snuck over to the pot and added something to it.”

“What did you add?” Gia asked.

“There were bundles of peppers hanging from the wall outside the door, drying in the sun. I had pulled a handful of tiny, reddish-orange peppers from one of the bundles and put them into my pocket, and when she sent me to bring the curry to the table, I quickly dumped them into the pot.” He shoved the greased cooking pot into the coals, then looked around with a grin. “I did not know that each of my brothers – and our father, also – had already added offerings of their own to the pot. The dish was so spicy we could barely eat it. But we did.”

“What did your mother say?” Zoya asked, laughing.

“She could not understand why we were all red-faced, tears streaming down our faces as we ate – she thought the curry was perfectly fine. It was only then that we learned that she had little ability to taste the food she prepared. Sweet, sour, salt, spice, it all tasted the same to her.”

Gia gasped in surprise, then clapped her hand to her mouth. Kemen just shook his head.

“I do not know who I feel worse for,” Zoya said. “Her, or your family.”

“We survived,” Armin said, turning the now-sizzling stew pot around so it would heat evenly. “And when my sister was old enough to begin helping with the cooking, our father made sure his sister taught her, and not our mother.”

Navid grinned, looking up from the flatbread dough he was squeezing into small round balls. “Uncle Armin can make a curry stew out of anything. But my mother is the best cook.”

They sat around the fire chatting for some time while the seasoned stew pot cooled and the second batch of flatbread baked. When Kemen left the group to take the first watch of the night and Gia and Navid retired to their sleeping tents, Zoya tugged her cape closer around her shoulders and turned to Armin, her thoughts shifting from food and back to her mission.

“When we reach Rachusa, how will we...” she began in a low voice, then paused, searching for the Kushari word for “infiltrate” or “sneak into,” and swearing when she could not come up with anything close to either.

“If you are going to curse,” Armin said, “at least do it in Kushari. We have much better swear words.”

“I doubt it,” Zoya muttered. “The trader tongue has incorporated the best words from many languages. If yours were so good, I would know them.” The worst part of learning a language, she decided, was not having enough of a vocabulary to ask the right questions.

Armin merely shrugged, then produced a skin of kumis and offered it to her.

Zoya declined. The brew was potent, and she wanted to keep her wits about her while they talked. Once again, she looked around them for signs of anyone lurking in the shadows. When she was certain they were not being spied on, she tried again, choosing a simpler Kushari vocabulary.

“You have been to the mountain compound,” she said. “And you said it is well-guarded. How will I get in?”

“I have been thinking on this,” Armin said, stoppering the kumis and returning the skin to the folds of his cloak. “Numerous merchants are called upon each spring to resupply the compound after the snows have melted. If we reach Rachusa in time, I may be able to secure a place for you with one of them.”

“Such as your friend?”

“The same. Though he is only one of many who will make the journey at that time.”

Zoya nodded. “That will work. I am glad we did not take the western road – that may have delayed us too long to implement your plan.” She continued, thinking out loud. “I will not have much time – only as long as it takes to unload a wagon – and there will be guards...”

“You make many assumptions, Lady Guard,” Armin said. “Few are allowed entry into Ayametu—”

“You told Queen Yolara that few men are not allowed. I am not a man. And if a group of women drive a wagon of supplies up the mountain, there is a better chance we will be admitted to unload our own goods.”

Armin considered. “It could work. My own experience in this area is so limited, I cannot speak with any authority.”

“But you can help me join a team of women? It will be much easier to slip away to look for the weather witch if I am already in the compound.”

“Indeed,” Armin said. “That will be the only way – and, even then, there is no guarantee that you will accompany the supplies into the compound. You would not be allowed to cross the bridge otherwise.” He shook his head. “Even one such as you could not span the distance unobserved.”

Zoya felt her face slipping into a feral smile. “You make many assumptions, my merchant friend. While a simple entry is preferred, there are always alternatives. Now, tell me more about this bridge.”

They talked well into the night, Zoya drawing every detail of Armin’s recollection from his memory and committing them to her own. When at last she settled herself amid her blankets and closed her eyes, she could almost see the long narrow bridge spanning the deep cleft in the mountains, and the golden palace of Ayametu in the distance.

⬧

Zoya frowned, squinting at the faint gray line that ran the length of the distant horizon, extending in either direction as far as she could see. It was too regular to be a storm – and the wrong color, besides. Sandstorms swept across the desert in a boiling, churning, tumbling mass, carrying the ochre sands into the sky and blurring the colors. Rainstorms bled downward from a graying sky. Neither simply drew a flat, perfectly straight line across the desert.

She urged her camel ahead, the recalcitrant beast only marginally increasing its pace so that it was nearly a quarter of an hour later when she finally rode alongside Armin.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing at the gray line. Her earlier concern had been assuaged somewhat by the indifferent attitude of virtually everyone else in the caravan during the previous quarter-hour, so now her question was more out of curiosity than apprehension.

“The steppes,” Armin said simply. He reached into a small pouch, broke off a chunk of something hard and caramel-colored, and offered it to her. He was always eating something unusual that he’d gotten in trade with the other merchants in the caravan, and Zoya never had any idea what he would offer next.

“I do not understand,” Zoya said. “It is nothing but a flat line. How can that be the steppes?”

“It will grow clearer as we get closer,” he said, and no matter how she pressed him, he would not explain. She let her camel drift back to its place in line as she nibbled at the sweet he’d given her. It was very brittle, and broke into fragments that spilled into her lap when she bit into it. But the unusual greenish nuts it contained were flavorful, and the sweet fragments, dusting of salt, and occasional flakes of what she believed were some of the spicy red pepper Armin loved, teased her tongue with the combination of flavors.

A few hours later, she spotted what at first looked like a village in the distance. Clusters of rounded white huts huddled together, reflecting the midday light, glowing against the yellow-orange of the ochre sands.

“Will we stop there?” Gia asked.

Zoya was about to tell her it was likely they would – they’d rarely passed an opportunity to replenish their water – when Kemen spoke up. “No one stops there,” he said, his deep voice even more somber than usual.

“Why not?” Gia asked.

The older wind dancer rode in silence for a moment before speaking. “It is said that long ago the desert and Shakri, the southern wind, fought over that village and its people,” he said. “I cannot say why, for the winds are capricious and who understands the ways of the ever-shifting sands? But the battle was fierce, both sand and wind trying to claim it for their own. By the time they realized neither could win, all that remained of the village were the whitened bones of its people and animals.”

He shook his head. “It is a place of death. The caravans pass by, but do not stray too near. None but drifting sand now enters the empty homes, while the wind scours the ground and laments the loss of so long ago.”

Zoya strained her eyes to see better. She saw no sign of ancient, skeletal remains, but the buildings themselves stood like so many whitened bones, battered by centuries of wind and sand. Chilly gusts blew through the caravan, and even the camels grew silent and quickened their pace as they rode past.

Zoya murmured to Nayira, the desert wind who had once been her queen, asking her to speak to her sister-wind and grant them safe passage. In response, a slim coil of sand rose from the ground midway between the village and the caravan, and an eddy of warm air pushed back against the harshest of the chill gusts.

I can do no more than this, a whisper said in Zoya’s mind. My sister is old and her grief is deep. I will not deny her pain.

Zoya gasped in surprise and nearly fell off her camel. “Thank you, my lady,” she whispered, not bothering to wipe away the tears that spilled down her cheeks. “We so miss you.”

I am always with the desert-born, Nayira said, drying Zoya’s tears with a warm, gentle breath.

Zoya took a chance. “I travel in search of your granddaughters,” she said. “Do they yet live?”

The daughters of the wind bring me great joy, Nayira said, laughter in her voice as a stray breeze curled around Zoya, causing her scarf to flutter. But the wind said no more, and soon blew away, dancing through the low grasses, and would answer no more questions.

Zoya rode in silence the rest of the day, her mind racing. She barely noticed as the gray band of the steppes resolved into a shadowed cliff face, separating the dry plateau from the sands and lowlands of the basin.

Like everyone in Nizam at the time, she had heard the story of how Queen Nayira had been taken by the winds and become one of them, but had always thought of it as more of a legend than truth, a story told to console the grieving people of Nizam after the old queen’s death. It had never occurred to her that it had really happened, or that the wind would actually speak to her.

And, though the wind hadn’t told her where to find the twins, it had confirmed that they were alive – or at least so it seemed. It had very clearly said ‘the daughters of the wind.’ Who else could it have been talking about but the weather witches?

Energized, Zoya nudged her camel to walk just a little bit faster.

Chapter 13

Three days after their initial meeting with the visiting governors, Janek joined them on one of the larger flat-bottomed cargo barges headed upriver.

Rashid met him as he boarded.

“Yepwin is grumbling already,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder toward the piled crates and other goods that ran most of the length of the barge.

“He does not like the accommodations?” Janek asked. Rather than use one of the king’s personal barges, which would allow them to travel in comfort while at the same time calling attention to their party, the Kizrei had selected the cargo barge, outfitting it to carry their large group in relative anonymity. They had stacked the crates holding the food and other supplies they would need for the trip to form walls, and made a roof out of carefully positioned screens to let in air and light, and had a supply of oiled cloths which could be quickly put in place to protect from rain.

Paths and narrow passages between the crates led to the interior of an enclosed pavilion. The Kizrei had divided the space into three large rooms – a sleeping room at either end, and a common room taking up about half of the space in the center of the structure. It was here they would take their meals and plan the incursion into Qaiwi – far from the curious eyes of anyone on shore.

At first glance, it all looked like any other heavily-loaded barge – except for the leopard reclining atop one of the stacks, carefully watching the activity on the dock. Janek shook his head when he caught sight of Sudhi.

“Oh, Yepwin understands the need to travel inconspicuously,” Rashid said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “He is just annoyed that we have only a single wellspring on board. He is demanding we send for at least two more.”

“And what did you tell him?” Janek asked.

Rashid shrugged. “That one wellspring will improve our speed enough without causing anyone to question why a simple cargo boat is in such a rush to get upriver.” He looked at Janek, a knowing expression on his face. “But I suspect that was not your sole reasoning. A boat this size could be reasonably served by two wellsprings, maybe even three – as he suggested – without anyone giving the slightest notice.”

“True. One wellspring will cut a three-week journey down to fifteen days; ten if we employ two, which is the most I would be willing to consider,” Janek said, not mentioning that he already had a second wellspring awaiting his summons. “We need the time during the journey to finalize our plans, ensure that all is ready to implement as soon as we reach Terai. I have little desire to linger in the swamps.

“Kiran and I raced to Terai once,” Rashid said. “Last year, right after he returned home from his fosterage, just before the rains came. Father would have been furious, had he known.”

“Indeed,” Janek agreed. “Who won?”

“I did, after a fashion. We each had four wellsprings, and I worked mine around the clock.” He paused, looking upstream as if remembering. “I reached Terai in six days—”

“Six!”

“Yes. But by the time we arrived, my wellsprings were used up. One nearly died. I sat there in the marsh for three days, being eaten by mosquitoes while the wellsprings slept, until Kiran finally arrived and rescued us.”

“And your oarsmen—?”

Rashid actually blushed, shaking his head. “I had no oarsmen – and no oars. Nothing but an empty boat.” He shrugged. “Anything we could leave behind, or dump in the river to make the boat lighter, we did.”

Janek attempted to remain solemn. “I have heard that covering yourself in mud will protect you from mosquitoes.”

“I have heard the same thing... It does not work as well as you might think.” Rashid shuddered. “Let me just say that I share your desire to spend as little time in the marshes of Terai as possible.”

Laughing, the two of them joined the governors on the boat. Janek agreed to send for the second wellspring, and a short time later the oarsman pushed the boat away from its berth.

When they reached the open water of the bay, the captain pointed the boat toward the mouth of the Ragusina River. As the four oarsmen set their rhythm, the wellsprings took their positions at the rear of the barge.

Here, with the incoming tide at their backs, the wellsprings reached for the water, pulling it toward them. Behind the boat, the water rose to form a small wave, no higher than the height of a man’s knees and barely wider than the boat. The wave slid toward them, gaining momentum as it moved. When it reached the boat, it nudged it forward – and kept on nudging, sending the barge moving forward, almost doubling its speed.

The oarsmen pulled in their oars. They would not be needed again until the wellsprings rested.

The boat moved forward, the palace receding from view as they slipped into the river’s wide channel. Janek headed to his desk in the makeshift pavilion. There was much work to do if they were to stop Bacdi’s ill-advised insurrection and reclaim Qaiwi before the people realized they were in the process of breaking free of Kushari rule. The province – and its resources – were too important to lose.

Janek paused in the doorway, looking back toward the palace. Ten days was not going to be enough time.

⬧

Sudhi stirred, and Rashid, always a light sleeper, opened his eyes. The first light of day was only just beginning to filter into the sleeping room through the screened ceiling, providing just enough light to reveal Janek tucking his blanket in one of the open crates along the wall.

Other movement told him the six Kizrei with whom they shared the room were also waking. A moment later, Rashid joined them, rolling his blanket and putting it away, then following, barefoot, down the short passageway to the common room, Sudhi padding silently behind.

When he arrived, he saw Janek, shirtless and eyes closed, seated cross-legged in the center of the room, swaying slightly from side to side. The cushions and sections of the low meeting table the room had been furnished with had been pushed to the walls, leaving the large space open.

The Kizrei moved out into the room, sitting at a distance from each other. As each sat, he also began to sway.

After a few moments, all seven men leaned forward as if on an unseen signal, touching their foreheads to their feet, before slowly returning to a sitting position. Without a pause, they next raised their arms high above them, extended them to the sides, and slowly brought their hands back to their laps.

They repeated this movement several times before shifting position to unfold their legs and – or so it seemed to Rashid – rose to their feet as though pulled by imaginary strings. They then began to reach and stretch, up and down, to the right and left, arms swinging, bodies twisting – and all moving to the same rhythms like dancers on a stage.

As he watched, Rashid recognized simple blocking and striking motions, but performed in slow-motion, with none of the force of an actual fight. Their leg lifts and stretches, too, he realized were actually slow kicks, their feet tensing and flexing as they flowed through the movements.

Rashid was fascinated. While he did not know the pattern of their kata, he felt himself swaying slightly to their silent rhythms. He pulled his sleeping tunic over his head and dropped it near the wall as he entered the room. Two of the nearby warriors shifted position to make a place for him, and he joined them, awkwardly mimicking their movements, always a beat behind, Sudhi watching from the shadows of the passageway.

It was harder than it looked.

Rashid considered himself fit, but it wasn’t long before his muscles burned in protest and sweat trickled down the sides of his face. He persevered – to quit now would be worse than to never have joined them. He was the King’s son, the governor of Qaiwi, in command of the soldiers who would reclaim the province for Kushar. But he would earn his place here, among these men, on his own merits, and not by virtue of his noble birth.

He cleared his mind of any other thoughts, and let the rhythm flow through him.

Sometime later, after they had finished the kata and taken turns diving into the river to rinse their sweat-soaked bodies, Rashid seated himself on a cushion by Janek at the now-restored breakfast table.

“How do you know the Kizrei kata, uncle?” he asked. “I have never seen you wear the grey cloak.”

Just because you have not seen a thing does not mean it is not so,” Janek said, passing him a bowl of fruit.

“You are Kizrei?”

“I have always been Kizrei,” Janek said.

Rashid sat in stunned silence. How had he not known this? He had been around Kizrei all his life – the men and women of the elite warriors comprised the royal family’s personal guard – but had never suspected Janek to be one of them.

“You know that I am half-brother to your father,” Janek said. “My mother was a Kizrei charged with guarding the queen – I will leave the circumstances of my birth to your imagination.”

Rashid knew the story. Rather than cast off his illegitimate firstborn as a bastard, the king had claimed Janek as his rightful son, though naming his second son, Batuhan who was born to the queen only a few weeks later, as his heir. By the time Rashid was old enough to have heard the story, Batuhan was king and Janek his Grand Vizier, the scandal of his parentage a faded memory.

“When I was five years old,” Janek continued, “my father charged my mother with the task of training me as Kizrei. ‘You will never be king,’ he told me. ‘Instead, you will be the king’s right hand, the eyes that watch the shadows, the ears that hear the silent whispers. You will be the blade that protects him – and all Kushar – from enemies both seen and unseen.’”

Janek paused to take a sip of his kahveh. Rashid did the same, only noticing, as he sipped at the small cup of dark, bitter brew, that the other Kizrei seated with them had stopped eating, as interested in the story as he was.

“And so I became Kizrei,” Janek said. “Trained in secret at first by my mother and the warriors assigned to her, then openly as I grew older.”

He reached for a piece of flatbread and tore it in half. “This is not a story I share often,” he said. “Nor one I would have repeated.” His manner remained relaxed, even calm, but a note of command had crept into his voice.

Rashid glanced around the table, hiding a smile as the warriors suddenly grew very interested in their food.

“So why tell it now?” Rashid asked.

“One day you will be king. My oath to serve and protect you does not wait for the crown to be placed on your head.”

The breakfasting warriors seemed to take an instruction from this. Almost as one they rose, bowed first to Janek and then to Rashid, cleared their places, and left the room.

“You will not be Kizrei,” Janek said softly, placing a hand on Rashid’s arm when he started to rise. “That is not your path.”

“I would not have them see me as another helpless noble,” Rashid said, the words coming out more harshly than he had intended

“They will give their lives for you, Rashid. Do not waste them. Train with them, learn from them, earn their respect.”

“Is that what my father did? How he leads them?”

Janek paused before answering, as if deciding just what to say. “He did,” he said finally. “And still does. But... Batuhan does not lead the Kizrei.”

“Who does?” Rashid leaned forward in anticipation, but Janek shook his head

“Another.”

He rose, gathering his empty plate and cup. “Come, now. We have much to do and few days to accomplish it.”

Rashid finished the last of his own kahveh, scooped up his empty plate, and followed Janek, a sense of curiosity blending with anticipation hastening his actions. He’d grown up around his uncle, and always thought he knew him as well as anyone could. Now, it seemed, he had much to learn, both about and from him. This was going to be a most interesting trip.

⬧

“Yes, the king has approved this plan,” Janek said for perhaps the fifth time that day.

“I find it difficult to believe our king would sanction such dishonorable actions,” Governor Yepwin said, his voice a nasal whine that was particularly grating on Janek’s nerves.

For all his skill at administering his province, the man’s near-constant complaining was pushing Janek to the limits of diplomacy. He’d complained several times over the limited menu, the need to dress in lower quality clothing, the shared sleeping quarters, and more during the past five days, to the point that Janek had actually considered tossing the little man overboard and letting the river crocodiles have him.

But diplomacy ruled, and Yepwin lived to whine another day.

They had passed Rachusa in the night, and were now a little more than halfway to Terai – and still debating the best course of action to follow when they arrived. Not that Janek had paused in his own preparations. He had sent numerous messages to Kizrei operatives, employing a significant portion of the flock of blue-green parrots the whisperer had brought along for the purpose. At least, with fewer of the constantly chattering birds on board, he was able to think.

Of course, at that moment, a free-flying parrot decided to investigate the caged birds. It landed near the screen just above the common room, its own whistles and squawks setting the entire flock shrieking.

Stifling a sigh, Janek turned back to Yepwin, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Governor Larek spoke up.

“Would you have the king do nothing, and let Bacdi’s betrayal stand?”

“No. No, but—” Yepwin began.

Governor Tomor cut him off. “Of course, he would not.” The tall, slender man leaned forward, staring down at the large map in the center of the table. “Yepwin is a man of action. He would have us march the king’s troops into Qaiwi without delay.”

“No, no!” Yepwin cried out, jumping to his feet. “I just—”

“Please, Yepwin,” Larek said. “Have mercy. You surely cannot believe the entire population of Qaiwi supports Bacdi and deserves the same punishment.”

“No, no, of course not,” Yepwin said, sinking back to his cushion, a confused, deflated look on his face.

Tomor turned away from the map, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “You are undoubtedly correct,” he said. “I suppose we can postpone a full-scale invasion for a short time – at least a month. Give the Kizrei time to do their work.”

“Ensure the king’s justice is meted out against those who truly deserve it,” Larek said solemnly.

Janek put on his best glowering expression and folded his arms across his chest – though inwardly, he was biting his tongue to keep from laughing. He did not dare glance at Rashid. Across the room Larek and Tomor took up similar, thoughtful stances. They had neatly boxed Yepwin in, leaving him little recourse but to accept Batuhan’s plan.

Now they all waited for Yepwin to speak.

“Well,” Yepwin said after several awkward moments had passed. “I suppose we could assemble the king’s army in Terai – in the south, near the border we share with Sigea...” He looked to Tomor, who nodded. “And while they gather, if the Kizrei were to enter Qaiwi quietly and begin to identify Bacdi’s supporters, learn where his weaknesses are, and provide us with intelligence on how to best exploit them, that would be acceptable.”

Janek nodded as though considering and accepting Yepwin’s plan – a simple enough action, as it was no more than a summation of the strategy he and Batuhan had already put in motion.

More significant was how deftly Larek and Tomor had maneuvered Yepwin over to their side, while at the same time, allowing him to not only save face but even feel magnanimous for accepting the plan.

Janek glanced over at Rashid, whose face bore an expression of mild amusement. So, he had seen it, too. Good. The boy still had much to learn before he became king – and the manipulation of powerful men was only one of many lessons the coming months would provide.

He moved to the map.

“We will cut off supplies coming into Qaiwi here, here, and here,” he said, pointing at the major roads that connected Qaiwi to Terai and Mantea. “And put soldiers – in the guise of bandits – along the smaller border routes to discourage travelers heading into the province—”

“What about the refugees leaving Qaiwi?” Larek asked.

“Anyone who wants to leave Qaiwi is free to do so,” Janek replied. “Though we will want to question them to make sure they are not separatists attempting to escape punishment or foment rebellion elsewhere.”

Larek nodded, and Janek continued.

“It will be more difficult to restrict imports from Tusya, but we will assign teams of Kizrei to watch the border. We need to isolate Bacdi, force him to use his reserves rather than build them.”

“It will go hard on the people,” Tomor said. “If Bacdi cannot import what he needs, he will take it from the people. From your report, he appears to have already begun this.”

“It is unfortunate,” Janek said. “But there is little we can do besides prepare to move in as quickly as possible. The army will gather in Terai, as Yepwin suggests,” he placed markers in northern Terai, and a second in central Terai, a few hours’ ride north of the border with Sigea. He then placed a third marker on the map. “Also in Mantea. They will be ready to move into Qaiwi in no more than a month’s time.”

He looked over to Rashid, who was leaning forward, listening intently. “The army will be at your command, my prince.”

Rashid came over and studied the map. “I will make my headquarters here,” he said, pointing to the marker in northern Terai, near a town labeled Nakham. “And I will want to meet with the commanders leading each division before we move into Qaiwi.”

“It shall be done.”

Late that evening, Janek stood on deck near the rail, listening to the sound of the boat cutting through the water. The wellsprings’ quiet magic had a calming effect he greatly appreciated.

It had been a long, but productive, day and, though he was tired, he was not yet ready for sleep. He and Rashid had chosen to bunk in the forward room with the half-dozen Kushari. It made for tight quarters, but neither of them were inclined to share the other sleeping room with the three governors.

He smiled. It had been some time since he had traveled in company with his elite warriors. Of the many troublesome aspects of this journey, the camaraderie he enjoyed with the Kizrei was one thing he was grateful for. And Rashid had joined them daily for their morning kata, an action Janek had not anticipated.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, and Janek glanced over to see Governor Larek approaching, his tall, solid form outlined by the low torches set at intervals along the railing.

“Am I disturbing you?” Larek asked.

“Not at all,” Janek said. He gestured out into the deepening shadows. “I like to still my mind before retiring, especially after a busy day.”

“Ah, yes.” Larek joined him, leaning an arm on the rail. The two men stood in silence for several moments, listening to the water swishing by and the clicking and chirping of insects on the indistinct shore.

“Mantea has tin,” Larek said softly. “Though not in the quantities Qaiwi does, to be sure.”

Janek said nothing, waiting to see where Larek would take the conversation.

““We also have copper—”

“And clever metalworkers.”

“Certainly.”

“King Batuhan places great value on the work of Mantea’s metalworkers.”

Larek quietly reached into the folds of his tunic and removed a sheathed blade. “Then he may be interested in seeing what they have been working on lately,” he said, passing it to Janek.

The blade slid from the hard leather sheath with barely a whisper. Janek held it up to inspect it. It was well-balanced, the weight of the handle a perfect counterweight to the long, gently curved, tapered blade, half the length of his forearm. But there was no strengthening rib running down the middle of the lightweight blade. He shook his head and returned the blade to its sheath.

“Excellent craftsmanship,” he said. “But it is so light, I fear it may be too fragile to be anything more than ceremonial. What is it made of? It is too pale to be bronze. Is it tin?”

“Iron.”

“Not possible,” Janek said, taking a few steps to the nearest torch as he again removed the blade from its sheath. The torchlight reflected off rippling patterns in the silvery metal and glinted off the sharpened edge. “This is too bright for iron. Why would anyone go to such length to polish a blade?”

“It is a new type of forging – not the casting usually used to create farming tools. I do not know all the details, but as you see the result is a lighter, stronger blade – stronger even than bronze. We call it stiel, after Stielen, the metalworker who developed the technique.” Larek shrugged. “As you said, we have clever metalworkers in Mantea.”

Janek held the blade out to the light, turning it slowly from left to right. Then he shifted his grip, quickly raising it as though thrusting it at an opponent.

He turned back to Larek. “Stronger than bronze,” he murmured. If that was true, it could be a major advantage in battle. He sheathed the blade and extended it to Larek. “The Kizrei will want to test them. Did you bring only the one?”

Larek smiled and held up a hand, refusing to take back the sheathed blade. “That one is yours to keep,” he said. “I have another in my belongings. And I can have more sent to us in Terai.”

“Ask Stielen to join us there, and anyone else who is familiar with the technique,” Janek said, tucking the sheathed blade into the sash at his waist. “I suspect we may keep them extremely busy.”

“I will seek the whisperer and send word at once,” Larek said.

Janek was pacing along the boat’s railing now, his shadow flickering over the water. “I do not know how many others Stielen has shared this knowledge with,” he said, “but, if it is possible, I would that he not share it widely – at least, not for now.”

“I have told him the same,” Larek said. “And shall be sure to remind him. It can be difficult to keep such an exciting discovery a secret.”

With that, Larek bowed and hurried off in search of the whisperer.

Janek rested his hand on the blade’s hilt. It was a simple thing, but a handful of strong blades with sharp edges in the hands of trained warriors could determine the outcome of their mission to Qaiwi.

Indeed, it was much more than that. If wielded properly, this stiel blade could change Kushar’s place in the world.

⬧

Janek had been pleased to note that, once convinced that their strategy was not only sound but had the king’s blessing, Yepwin had risen to the occasion. When they reached the borders of Terai, a small boat carrying Ozias, Yepwin’s steward, was waiting for them. He had brought with him a box filled with jars of an ointment he instructed them all to spread on their faces and arms. Janek thought it smelled of lemons that had sat in the sun too long, but if it would prevent the mosquitoes from biting them, he was willing to try it.

“Everything has been done as you requested, my lord,” Ozias said to Yepwin. “Horses and wagons await you, and a camp established near the town of Nakham. Food stores and other supplies are being gathered.”

He turned to Larek. “A metalworker arrived, bearing your letter. We gave him a place in the camp and provided him with a forge and the materials he requested. He indicated that two other metalworkers would be joining him in the coming days.”

“Very good. Thank you,” Larek said.

The barge followed Ozias’ small boat through the swamp, the oars stirring up the murky water.

“It does not smell as bad as I remember,” Rashid said, standing along the rail and looking out over the waterway, which was green with the broad, flat leaves of prickly water lilies.

“Have you ever been to Madia Pass, my lord?” Yepwin asked, coming over to stand beside them.

“I have not,” Rashid said.

“If you have the opportunity, you should visit it. It is narrow and treacherous, true, especially in winter, but also a place of wonder for both stoneworkers and wellsprings alike, when the headwaters of the Ragusina are blocked by ice and heated water rising up from the ground fills the air with steam.”

“Heated water coming up from the ground?”

“Yes, yes, it is a sight to behold,” Yepwin said. “In places, the water in the pools is nearly boiling! And filled with minerals that cover the ground, forming spectacular terraces and coating the rocks in a variety of colors.”

“I must see this place,” Rashid said.

“Oh, yes. It is a land of fascination,” Yepwin agreed. “Right now, when the pass is buried in snow, the hot mineral-laden waters flow more slowly – enough that the natural movement of the swamp dilutes it before it settles in the shallows.” He gestured at the waterway.

Large dragonflies flitted among the tall reeds, and a long-legged heron barely gave the boats a glance before returning to the task of spearing a fish or frog for its dinner.

“We have come at a good time. Over the coming weeks, as the snows in the pass melt and the weather grows warm, the headwaters of the Ragusina will once again begin to flow. As the water passes over the heated water, it warms – and it lifts the minerals, carrying them into our swamp. The fish will flee for cool, clear water, and the air will grow heavy and dank with the foul smell.” A melancholy seemed to come upon him while he talked and, for a moment he grew silent.

Abruptly, he shook it off, his mood brightening. “But, when the rains come, the river will cleanse itself and the air will once again be fresh and clean. If all goes well on your venture into Qaiwi, I should be happy to show you more of Terai – and join you on an excursion farther upriver to the mineral terraces of Madia. They are truly a sight to behold.”

Janek and Rashid exchanged a look.

“My last visit was clearly at the wrong time of year,” Rashid muttered.

Chapter 14

It took a full day for the caravan to wind its way up the narrow, boulder-strewn, zig-zag road from the desert plain. As they ascended, Zoya noticed the rough, gray stone of the cliff wall bore only occasional veins of the ochre color that formed the sands below. It also grew noticeably colder, each turn of the road taking them gradually higher.

When they finally reached the steppe, the setting sun little more than a bright bar on the far horizon, Zoya understood why the caravan master had insisted they begin the ascent at the first light of dawn. Her back ached from sitting for so many hours at an odd angle, and she was exhausted.

But there was no time to rest or idly gawk at the expanse of flat, snow-dusted land before them. As soon as they were again on level ground, they immediately urged their camels into a trot.

“It is not safe to camp too close to the edge,” Kemen explained to Zoya and Gia when they finally reached a place the caravan master considered a safe distance. “Rocks fall away—”

“Like those that littered the way up?” Gia asked.

“The same. And when the steppes are covered in snow – even a light dusting such as this – the desert draws the moisture toward it. It is easy for a man or a camel to become lost in the mist and stray too close to the edge of the cliff.”

Zoya saw no sign of mist as they made camp, the sky growing dark and star-filled above them. Armin dug a variety of small, brass braziers from one of his camel’s pouches, and after they finished their evening meal, gave one to each of them, filled with hot coals to warm their sleeping tents during the night.

She had set up her own tent near her camel, as was her habit, and like the others had placed layers of oiled cloth on the ground where she would sleep to prevent the snow from soaking through her blankets. Then she scooped out a small indentation in the earth, just big enough to nestle the base of the brazier, so it would not shift during the night. It radiated warmth, the glowing embers casting patterns onto the roof of her tent through the small holes in the lid.

Sleep did not come easily.

Instead, she sat, leaning against her snoring camel, shifting frequently as different parts of her body chilled and turning to be closer to the brazier. She would be warm now, if she were in her mother’s home, had Queen Yolara not sent her away from Nizam, away from everything she had ever known. She had thought travel to distant lands would be more interesting, but all she had seen was day after day of swaying camels, shifting desert, and endless sky.

And unusual rock formations... and a dead, ancient village. Who else did she know who could say they had been spoken to by the wind itself? Or trained with wind dancers? Or eaten some of the strange foods Armin continually pressed on them?

She sighed, pulling the blanket closer around her. Perhaps, now that they had reached the steppes, things would change. According to Armin, they were only a few days from the Tusyan protectorate of Saresu, which was a short distance to the Madia Pass, past the Janqurai Mountains, and then they would finally be in Kushar. She tried to imagine the land Armin had described – one of broad rivers and broad-leafed woodlands – but her mind balked at the idea of taking his descriptions too literally. No place could be as lush and green as he described.

Zoya could not be sure that she slept, though images of snow-covered forests filled with bright-colored flowers seemed too real to not have been part of a fitful dream. By the time Gia came to wake her, in the darkest hour before morning, to take her turn at guard duty, the brazier had grown cold, and she had given up any pretense of sleep.

Wrapped in her blankets, she stepped out of her tent and into swirling mist. Indistinct blurs of torchlight reflecting off the snow-covered ground lit the fog flowing around her.

“Gia? Where are you?” she hissed.

“Here. Reach out your hand.”

Blindly, Zoya extended her hand, sending the mist swirling madly. A moment later, another hand clasped hers. “Gia?”

“Yes,” the young wind dancer said. She stepped closer, speaking softly. “The mist flows away from the plains and toward the cliff. You must move slowly, and not disrupt the clouds too much. That will let you see better.”

Zoya looked around. It was hard to see at first, but as her eyes slowly adjusted, she could see what Gia meant. The lines of fog that wrapped around them were moving in more or less the same direction.

“It is easier if I look at the ground,” she said. “It does not swirl around so much there.” She pointed down where the fog was flowing across the snow almost like water, only shifting when she moved her foot, forcing it to curl around and over her boot before resuming its path.

“Yes, that is right,” Gia agreed. “And if you listen, you can hear the camels breathing—”

“And Armin snoring,” Zoya said.

They both laughed.

Gia went to her tent while Zoya slowly, cautiously, made a circuit around their small encampment, her hand resting loosely on the hilt of her sword as she made her way through the shifting fog. The camels, hobbled and sleeping, were easy enough to find, in part from the sound of their breathing, though primarily due to the sharp odor of their bodies. Most of them were clustered together at one end of the camp, near where the three camel drivers had set up their sleeping tent, while some, like Zoya’s pair, had settled closer to their riders’ tents.

She made the full circuit, chuckling softly as she passed Armin’s and Navid’s tents. The merchant and his apprentice had set up small, fully enclosed sleeping tents, unlike the large, three-sided one they had shared down in the desert. They likely thought the smaller, brazier-heated tents would be easier to keep warm.

Zoya hoped they’d been right. Her own sleeping tent was little more than a pair of blankets wrapped around a trio of long poles poked into the ground. It provided a small amount of privacy – except when the wind was blowing – and even with the brazier, was a poor substitute for a properly sewn tent that would protect her from the cold. She wondered if it would be warmer to drape additional blankets over the frame, or to simply wrap herself in them during the night.

If what Armin had told her was true, it was only going to get colder – and the snow deeper – as they drew closer to Saresu and the mountains.

If they ended up staying in Saresu long, she was going to have to purchase some warmer clothes.

⬧

After three weeks in Saresu, Zoya had learned four things.

First, the capital city of Saresu – which was also called Saresu – was much larger than it first appeared. Trees were rare on the open steppes, and what shrubbery they passed grew shorter and buried deeper in snow as they crossed the vast plateau and began ascending into the foothills of the Janquari Mountains. By the time they reached Saresu, the camels could easily step over the few snow-covered shrubs they encountered – when they did not reach down to snatch a bite as they passed.

So, when they first approached the city, the low hill covered with stone-fronted buildings, muddy footpaths, and steep stairways seemed normal to Zoya, who still found the wooden buildings in Tzigane flimsy by comparison.

But when they reached Saresu, rather than stopping at the foot of the hill, they continued on, the road widening as it meandered among a series of similarly-populated hills.

Zoya shook her head in wonder as they wound through the city, the buildings that clung to the hillsides growing increasingly elaborate as they progressed. Broad stairs and deep terraces, largely free of snow, climbed the hills, and skillfully crafted facades adorned the buildings, evidence of the wealth and power of the trading city.

For nearly an hour, they followed the brick-paved road. While smaller, side streets led off in different directions, the main road was sandwiched between the base of the hills and a small stream that trickled through a channel as deep and wide as Armin was tall, spanned periodically by elegantly arched bridges. Children, bundled against the cold and carrying heavy water jugs, scrambled up and down steep steps cut into the sides of the channel, darting between the camels, and disappearing up into the homes that covered the hills, ice forming where the water splashed from their jugs as they ran.

At the southern edge of Saresu, they came to the marketplace, a large, busy collection of colorful merchant stalls filling most of a wide-open space near the southern edge of town. The caravanserai lay just beyond, nestled into the base of yet another hill. A few hours after their arrival, when the local whisperer had directed them to their place in the merchant lodgings and taken charge of their camels, Armin returned to the marketplace, set up his merchant’s stall, and waved the three guards away, insisting their looming presence was bad for business.

The second thing Zoya learned was that, though the Kushari language still often frustrated her, practicing with Armin had given her enough of a grasp on the tongue that she drew little attention when conversing with the merchants in the Saresu marketplace. Nestled between Tusya and Kushar, and a major stop on the caravan routes, traders from many lands were commonplace here, and there were too many people speaking in variations of borderland Tusyan-Kushari to pay any attention to her mistakes.

On her first trip into the marketplace, she bartered successfully with a Tusyan trader for a heavy coat, gloves, and boots, all made from the hide of a creature the shopkeeper called a ‘yak’, and lined with fluffy sheep’s wool. While she had no idea what a yak was – though she did encounter some of the massive, long-horned, ox-like creatures a few days later – she did not care. Her hands were warm for the first time in a week, and she no longer noticed the ankle-deep snow as she tightened the coat’s hood around her ears and wandered amid the vendor’s stalls.

Much to her surprise, Zoya soon learned a third thing about Saresu.

Nearly every one of the seemingly small, stone-fronted shops she entered actually extended well into the hill it was built against, often doubling or tripling the perceived size of the shop. Taverns and travelers’ lodgings burrowed into the hillsides, while businesses on lower levels disappeared into well-lit tunnels. And, while she had wondered at the strange, clay chimney-pipes that poked up along the streets at random intervals, warm, sometimes flavorful smoke wafting from them, she now understood that they were venting the heating and cooking fires from homes and businesses located deep below.

“There may be as much city below the ground as there is above,” she remarked to Kemen as they walked down the street eating heavily seasoned hot kebabs from long, thin skewers.

“It is so in much of eastern Tusya,” he said. “Where the land offers no protection from the summer sun or winter snow. The stoneworkers’ gifts allow them to build into the rock, wellsprings direct them to unseen rivers, firestarters bring light and heat, and cultivators provide food, grown both above and below. I lived in such a place, and as I recall, did not see the sky until I was in my third year.”

Zoya stared at him, mouth agape. She had never heard of such a large, ongoing endeavor. Then again, what the Tusyans were doing was no different than what the desert-born had done for centuries, using their combined gifts to bend a river to their will and turn a trickle of water into a flourishing oasis city defended by even more magic. Still, this was something Queen Yolara would be most interested in learning.

While pondering how to send a report to the queen, Zoya learned the fourth thing about Saresu. Not only could she not find a bird whisperer who would send a falcon bearing a message on her behalf, but simply asking around had raised suspicion about her.

“Why would you want to do such a thing?” the caravanserai’s whisperer asked. “Sending falcons is only for nobles – or spies. And you are clearly not a noble...” He left the rest unsaid, looking at her suspiciously.

“I just wanted my mother to know I arrived safely,” Zoya said, hoping she looked sheepish, if not innocent.

The whisperer shook his head and turned away, more interested in the horse he was tending.

She asked other whisperers, with a similar lack of success. Three days later, when Zoya approached a tavernkeeper and asked where she could find the local bird whisperer – for surely a city of this size would have one – the man looked frightened, then suggested politely, but firmly, that she leave his establishment.

“I do not understand,” she said to Armin that evening as she helped him prepare the evening meal in their quarters in the caravanserai. “Why does wanting to send a message seem so strange to everyone? Whenever I ask after a bird whisperer, the reactions are guarded at best – sometimes outright wary. What are they all afraid of?”

“Maybe you have not been listening,” Armin said, choosing a round, pinkish root vegetable from a small pile and beginning to cut it into large pieces. “Or perhaps your language skills are still lacking. Saresu sits at the northwestern tip of Kushar – and rumors are circulating that the Kusharim are thinking of expanding their borders once again, as they did some years ago when they acquired Qaiwi, the province just beyond the pass. Any Kushari in Saresu is suspect – and one who asks for a falcon—”

“...cannot be trusted,” Zoya finished. Shaking her head, she set the cooking pot over a small fire. “You are right, I had likely not understood what I was hearing.” Or not hearing at all, she thought, remembering how many conversations had grown silent at her approach over the past few days.

She looked over at Armin. “I suppose it is too late to convince them that I am desert-born, and not Kushari?”

Armin stopped cutting the vegetables, pulled his sleeve back, and held out his arm. “Your skin is bronzed and your nose long and thin, while my nose is wide and my skin more brown. This only tells the Tusyans that you are from Khulan, and not from Rachusa.”

“So, they do not only believe I am Kushari, but that I come from the capital,” Zoya said.

“More than that, your demeanor is not that of a caravaner, but of a warrior – dangerous, and always watchful. Merchants talk. There are those who believe you to be Kizrei.”

“Kizrei? As in a member of your King’s Guard?”

“They are more than that... much more. But, yes.”

Zoya threw up her hands in frustration. “But, I am supposed to be a guard.”

“And you are very good at guarding,” Armin said, returning to his chopping. “But, look at the other caravan guards. You are different.”

“Kemen—”

“Kemen is a Tusyan and a wind dancer. Everyone expects him to be dangerous. Caravan guards are nothing more than bandits we pay in the hopes they will protect us from other bandits. They have no order, no discipline. There is no sense of them surveying a room as they enter it, assessing everyone present. Looking for danger, looking for an escape route.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?”

Armin sighed, and looked at her, lowering his knife. “A leopard cannot change his spots, just because he climbs into a different tree. I could teach you our language and enough of our history and culture to help you avoid some of the worst errors during your time in Kushar, but I could not make you into something you are not. I did not think it would be a problem here – and if it were not for the rumors coming from the border, it is likely no one would pay you any mind. Pass me that bag of onions and garlic, there.”

Zoya handed him the small woven bag. The onion greens were pale – the plants grown in one of the underground gardens – but otherwise they looked just like the onions her mother grew in the small boxes in the courtyard outside her kitchen. A wave of melancholy washed over her. She had never been so far from home. And, with none of her trusted advisors to guide her, all she could do was trust to her training.

“They think I am Kizrei,” she murmured. Not because she believed it, but because she was trying to think how she could use the locals’ misapprehension to her advantage.

Armin wagged his knife at her. “Yes, they do, because they have never seen a Kizrei. They only know the stories they have heard. Do not fool yourself, Zoya. If a Gray Cloak does not want to be seen, you will not see them. If they want you dead, you will die. Even as skilled as you are, you would not long survive an encounter that pitted your skills against theirs.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Now that the Tusyans think you are one of King Batuhan’s spies?” Armin said with a wry smile. “We watch and we wait – their fear of you will buy us a little time – and be ready to leave the moment the pass opens. I have sold all the camels and purchased wagons and enough horses to pull them.”

“Good. Good,” Zoya said, pacing back and forth in the small alcove. She looked at Armin, who was scooping the vegetables into the cooking pot. “Each day, when you prepare for the day’s trade, set out a smaller selection of your goods. Have Navid pack the rest, the things you are least willing to leave behind. We can keep it hidden – to some degree – under our blankets and tents, at least for a few days. But we will want to be prepared to leave with little notice.”

“It grieves me,” Armin said. “But you are the expert in such things.” He stirred the pot, adding a handful of barley and a pinch of spice before folding the packets of each and tucking them away with the rest of his cooking supplies. “What will we do if the whisperer refuses to release our horses?”

“We will steal them,” Zoya said.

“And if he is a master, and speaks in the horses’ minds, forbidding them to leave?”

“Then I will have to kill him. I hope it does not come to that.”

⬧

Though they all remained vigilant, watching and listening for any sign that the locals were preparing to turn against them, Zoya was surprised when Navid burst into their lodging one afternoon, breathless, eyes wide, and unable to do more than choke out a few unintelligible syllables to her and Gia. They had been resting while Kemen took his turn watching the wagons. Armin was in the marketplace – and so, Zoya thought, had been Navid.

“Breathe,” she told the boy. “Do not try to speak.”

Gia held out a waterskin and held it up to him. “Sip slowly, do not choke. Do I need to send for your uncle?”

Navid shook his head, coughing on the water.

Zoya took the waterskin away from him and slapped him on the back a couple of times. “She told you to go slowly.”

Navid nodded, and after a couple of minutes got control of his breathing enough to ask for the water.

“They will come for us when the river floods,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand while he handed the waterskin back to Gia with the other. “They believe the snow in the pass is the only thing holding back the king’s army – and when the snow melts and the river floods, the army will soon follow.”

“What good will it do them to capture us then?” Gia asked.

“They think we are important enough that they can use us – use her,” he pointed at Zoya, “to negotiate. But they are too afraid of her to try to move against her sooner. The flood will be both a distraction and their last chance.”

“Then they are fools,” Zoya said reaching for her coat. “Even if we were who they believe us to be, it would still be a wasted effort. If your king wants Saresu, he will take it. No one is important enough to lose a country over.” She looked at Navid. “How did you learn this?”

“I am just an apprentice. No one sees me,” the boy said with a shrug. “People talk around me all the time as though no one is there to hear.”

Zoya patted his arm. “You did well to report this.” She paused, thinking rapidly while she fastened her coat. The next few hours would be critical. “We cannot let anyone realize we are aware of their plans, nor can we wait for the river to flood. You two pack up what remains here of our belongings – but take care and only carry small parcels to the wagon. Do nothing that might raise an alarm. If you see anyone watching, wait at least an hour before making a second trip.”

“I will tell Kemen,” Gia said. “No one will think it odd that I speak to him.”

“Good. I will go to Armin.”

“He will not be happy,” Navid said.

Zoya shrugged. “It is what it is. Make haste. We leave tonight.”

Three hours later, when Armin pushed his vendor cart from the marketplace to the caravanserai, he casually turned toward their two wagons instead of the group’s assigned alcove. Zoya watched from a discreet distance, taking note of the pairs of eyes that watched his movements, as well as those that glanced furtively in her direction.

The whisperer had agreed to have their horses ready in the small hours after midnight, when most in the caravanserai would be asleep and the townsfolk keeping watch would be struggling to keep heavy eyelids open. True to his word, when they crept from their alcove after only a couple of hours’ fitful sleep, a pair of sturdy horses had been hitched to both of Armin’s wagons. Three other horses stood saddled and ready for Zoya, Kemen, and Gia.

“They are Kabardian,” the whisperer told them, securing heavy woolen blankets on each horse. “Strong and sure-footed, from the mountains of eastern Tusya. They will carry you safely over the pass.” He had attached small charcoal burners – lidded clay pots nestled in wicker baskets – to the wagons’ frames, with instructions for burning them safely during the night, to keep the horses warm when they were not moving. Zoya had seen people carrying the small burners everywhere in Saresu, tucking them up under their cloaks or holding them in their laps, and appreciated the whisperer’s generosity, even if it was primarily focused on the horses and not the travelers he was certainly glad to be rid of.

“Why do you help us?” Zoya asked the whisperer, looking down at him from atop her horse as the others took their places. Armin would drive one wagon, and Navid the other.

“I know what you are,” the whisperer said. “And I have no desire for you to spill blood within these walls. If sending you on your way protects my foolish friends while granting me any small measure of favor with your king, I will freely give my aid.”

“You do not fear the anger of your own people?”

“What might they do to me that is worse than you could do?” he asked, meeting her eyes briefly before abruptly looking away.

Zoya raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. If he wanted to be afraid of her, she would let him.

“Take care in the pass,” the whisperer said as she turned to go. “The melting snow is treacherous – if you stray from the cliff face, you will find yourself falling into the river. I gave you good horses. They do not deserve such a fate.”

They left Saresu in silence, picking their way cautiously, the road lit only by a quarter moon. They had not yet lit torches, and would not do so until they were well out of sight from anyone who might be watching. The snow muffled the horses’ hoofbeats, though it seemed to Zoya that the creaking of the wagon wheels echoed eerily from the low hills, announcing their departure.

Kemen took the lead, riding ahead to ensure the way was clear. Armin and Navid followed with their wagons, urging their horses to a faster walk once they left the city behind. In the dark, they could not risk the misstep of traveling more quickly. Gia and Zoya followed more slowly some distance behind, frequently looking back for any sign of pursuit.

They traveled thus for half an hour, alert to even the slightest sound. A wolf howled in the distance; closer, a trio of the strange, short-eared, rabbit-like rodents that populated the steppes scrambled across their path and disappeared into the underbrush. Noises that at other times might have gone unnoticed – the trickle of water over rocks, crunch of horses’ hooves on the snow, and creaking of wagons under the weight of their loads – now competed for her attention with the as-yet-unheard footsteps of pursuers Zoya was sure followed them or lay in wait.

They think I am Kizrei.

Zoya shook her head. Though she was not frightened, she knew she was nothing like the fearsome warriors Armin had described.

Movement ahead revealed Kemen, coming back to join Gia and Zoya, the wind dancer’s cloak ghostly in the faint moonlight.

“There is no one waiting ahead,” he said.

In the same moment, Gia hissed out a curse. “They come,” she said, turning her horse and pointing her spear into the darkness.

Zoya likewise turned back and drew her sword, but where the wind dancer’s sharp ears heard movement in the distance, Zoya heard nothing above her own breathing and the stamp of her horse’s hooves in the frozen snow.

“I do not want to kill frightened townspeople,” Zoya said. “But neither do I relish the idea of being taken captive by them.”

Kemen had leveled his own silver-tipped spear, and the three sat in silence, their horses’ breath rising in small clouds on the frosty air. While they watched, the shadows moved closer, albeit slowly, as though their pursuers had realized the warriors were waiting for them.

“Come no closer!” Zoya called out.

The shadows hesitated, but soon began creeping forward once again.

“If the Kusharim are really preparing to invade, it would be foolish for either myself or Gia to go there,” Kemen said, keeping his voice low, for only Zoya and Gia to hear.

Zoya looked at him, but his gaze was fixed firmly on the shadowy forms of the townspeople. “What are you suggesting, Kemen?”

“We are Tusyan. They have no reason to fear us. We will stay here.”

Gia gasped slightly, but Kemen continued as though he had not heard her.

“Perhaps the townspeople will agree to let you and Armin go, in exchange for our service.”

“And if they do not,” Zoya asked.

Kemen finally turned to look at her. “Then we will give you a better head start. Go now, before they get too close.”

“Armin will not like this.”

“There is much Armin does not like,” Kemen said. “This is our choice, not his.”

Zoya looked over at Gia. “You agree?”

Gia nodded. “Kemen is right,” she said. “It is not safe for you here. We will remain, and defend these people if the need is there – though I hope their fear is simply the product of too many months spent below ground.”

There was much Zoya wanted to say, but there was no time. Even she could now make out the dozens of people filling the road beyond them.

“May the winds be with you,” she said. Then, before she was tempted to change her mind, she wheeled her horse and rode off after the wagons.

She had not gotten far, though, before she heard the pounding of hooves behind her. She looked back and saw Gia racing toward her, her horse sending puffs of snow flying with each step. Zoya reined in her horse.

“What is it?” she asked.

Gia pulled up alongside her and thrust a bundle of silvery cloth into her hands. “My cloak,” she said. “May it serve you well.”

“But you—”

“Can easily obtain another,” Gia said, her tone light. Uncovered, her white hair spilled around her shoulders, glowing in the moonlight. “Take it, my friend, and travel in safety. If I pass through Aywhai again, I will look for you in the house of your mother.”

Zoya reached out and squeezed Gia’s gloved hand. Then, clutching the cloak, she turned away from the wind dancer and rode into the night.

⬧

For the first three hours after leaving Saresu, Zoya rode behind the two merchant wagons, watching over her shoulder for signs of pursuit. When it became clear that Kemen and Gia had been successful in stopping their pursuers, Zoya rode ahead to consult with Armin.

The moonlight that had guided them during the first hour was blocked now by the steep cliff walls that rose alongside the road, and the wagon’s torches lit the way only a few steps ahead of the horses’ hooves.

“We should stop soon, light the charcoal burners, and rest, at least until dawn,” Zoya said.

“Mmmf,” Armin replied, his words lost in the wool that lined his hood. He had pulled it so close around his face and sat so still, hunched over the reins, that Zoya could barely see his eyes. Only the steamy mist of his breath rising from the hood assured her that the merchant still lived.

Zoya was in no mood to put up with his ill temper. Reaching across for the reins, she brought his horses to a halt. “What do you say?” she demanded.

Armin shifted, adjusting his hood, revealing a small portion of his face. The normally jocular merchant wore a hardened expression, glaring at her as spoke.

“You have cost me my guards, cost me trade, and may yet cost me my life,” he said. “You do not want to hear what I have to say in this moment.” He snatched back the reins. “I will watch for a place where the horses can safely rest.”

Then he tightened his hood around his face, flicked the reins, and drove on, leaving Zoya on her horse.

She waited for Navid’s wagon to pass her as well, then fell back into line, mindful of the whisperer’s advice to keep close to the cliff wall. Tired and angry, she followed the wagons as they pushed onward, up into the mountains and into the night.

Chapter 15

Katya’s bare feet skimmed the mossy ground, her skirts swirling around her ankles as she danced through the garden, humming a lively tune. She hadn’t felt the nausea in three days, and was hoping that phase of the pregnancy was well behind her.

It was a warm, sunny, midwinter day. The previous afternoon, which had been gray and cloudy, Katya had overheard Maia, the villa’s current matron, hoping for a nice day soon so they could air out the villa and wash the larger linens. So, this morning, before coming downstairs for breakfast, Katya had stepped out onto her still-chilly balcony, stretched out her hands, and pushed the clouds away toward the mountains to the north.

As the clouds drifted away, Katya closed her eyes and extended her senses, searching for any trace of warmth. This was the trickiest part, especially in winter when the sun shone cold over the valley, but she persisted, enjoying the challenge. It was much easier to enhance the existing weather and turn it to her will than to create warmth where there was none to begin with. During the winter, when naturally occurring sources were fleeting and hard to find, she often drew on the warmth from the hearth. And she would again, if she could not find a hint of warmth in the air.

At last, she brushed against a warm current, little more than a whisper of warm air that swirled among the much cooler eddies.

Her eyes still closed, she reached out and gently grasped it between her fingertips, then pulled it toward her. Catching it in her free hand, it soon formed a droplet of light, no bigger than a teardrop, glowing with the pale gold of the morning sun.

Katya curled her fingers around the droplet, sheltering it from the cold, then gently blew on it, much the way she would blow on a spark to help it catch fire.

The glow flickered, then brightened, the droplet growing larger, warmer, and brighter as she worked, its energy feeding on her own. In a matter of moments, it was too large to contain in her cupped hands. Katya smiled at the melon-sized ball of sunshine.

“Looks like it is laundry day, today,” she said, tossing the ball into the sky, then gesturing with both hands for it to spread across the valley like a blanket.

Immediately, the temperature warmed. Birds began to sing, and Katya felt the sun on her face.

Moments later, shutters were thrown open across the villa. The day had begun.

Katya smiled. She would need to replenish the magic several times throughout the day or it would dissipate, but with the warmth flowing over the valley, maintaining it would be a simple matter.

Now, enjoying the warm sunshine in the garden, she breathed out a little gust of wind, fluttering the silken panels of her skirt. It was one of her favorites, with a wide black band that hugged her body from her waist to her hips before bursting out in layers of red, orange, and yellow silks that flickered like flames as she danced. It was probably the last time she would be able to wear it for the next several months – she’d had to adjust the lacing at her hips to keep the fabric from pressing uncomfortably on the slight bulge of her fourth-month belly.

As she danced, her scarf slid from her shoulders. She paid no attention to it, until a stray breeze caught it, carrying the lightweight silk cloth into the branches of a nearby bush.

Katya blew a countering breeze, intending to lift the scarf and return it to her, but stopped when the delicate fabric tugged against the twigs, threatening to tear. Going over to the hedgerow, she gently began to unwind the cloth.

“Some things cannot be resolved with magic,” she said, teasing the branches open where the knotted tassels on one end of the fabric had become entwined.

Laughter and voices on the other side of the hedge caught her attention.

“...Be careful, you are going to make me drop them!”

“We are spreading them on the bushes to dry anyway, what does it matter?”

Katya did not recognize the voices – Janek rotated the various members of the villa’s staff at random intervals, seldom leaving anyone there for more than just a few months – but she was curious about their conversation. The women who looked after the villa and its grounds were always polite to both herself and Leisha, but they never really became friends. Katya did not know if it was because they knew they weren’t going to be staying long, or if her sister’s suspicions were correct and their reticence was because they’d been ordered to keep their distance from the twins.

Either way, it made Katya feel like a prisoner here almost more than her inability to leave the compound.

She wanted to meet people, to have a normal conversation with someone other than just her sister. She’d even talk to Sayha, if she and Leisha hadn’t agreed that befriending the king’s niece while at the same time trying to undermine her task here and keep their pregnancies a secret might be too complicated to juggle all at once.

Katya laid a hand on her belly. She’d never admit it, but the idea of leaving the compound now, after so many years, terrified her. Maybe that was the real reason she’d gone along with Leisha’s plan.

So, she satisfied herself with listening in on conversations around the villa, drawing the words to her on a breath of air.

“...Drea and Gayane went hunting today,” the first voice said.

“I would have liked to have gone with them,” said the second, her tone petulant.

“Only to get out of the washing,” the first said, laughing. “You are always trying to get out of the household chores, Farza.”

The petulant one – Farza – grunted, then said. “I just hope they bring back something more substantial than a brace of marmots this time – perhaps a deer, or even a wild goat. I am so tired of curried root vegetables with no meat.”

“It has only been four days.”

“Yes, and that is nothing to you, Jima, because you smile at everything,” Farza said.

Katya was sure Farza had rolled her eyes along with the statement.

“Of course,” Farza continued, “even if there is fresh meat, the best of it will go to the noblewomen. You notice we do not get any of the chicken or the lamb.”

The talk of food reminded Katya that it had been nearly three hours since she’d last eaten. Now that the nausea had passed, she was always hungry... and it would be nice to have some meat. Her mouth watered at the thought.

“They are only three,” Jima said. “Unless Gayane loses all her arrows and breaks her bow, they will certainly bring back enough for all.”

“Are they even really noblewomen?”

“The ladies of the house? How can you ask that?” Jima was aghast. “Lady Sayha is daughter of the king’s sister.”

“Well, yes, of course, she is of a noble house,” Farza conceded. “But, the other two... No one knows who they are, what house they belong to – I have asked. For all we know, they are not noble at all. So, why does the Grand Vizier keep them here? One begins to imagine...”

Katya glowered at the unseen gossipers, tempted to push a small raincloud their way.

Who was Farza to doubt that she and Leisha were not of a noble house? And to suggest they were being kept there... as what? As Janek’s concubines? It was too much – and the rumors would only get worse when their pregnancy became known.

She bit her knuckle, stifling back a scream of frustration.

Farza was still speaking, but had lowered her voice as though speaking confidentially, “I heard—”

“I heard that you two had a job to do,” a third voice broke in. It sounded like Sayha. Jima squeaked in alarm; Katya started.

“What honor is there in washing filthy sheets in a brothel?” Farza muttered.

“Enough!” snapped Sayha. “Think on your oaths, Farza. If you want a better assignment, you must serve faithfully, without question, and without complaint. Another word against our charges and I will personally have you cleaning the privies for the duration of your time here... and then see that you are sent to an actual brothel.”

“But...” Farza’s voice trailed off.

Katya could almost feel the heat of maybe-Sayha’s glare. Farza deserved it – if it were up to her, the wretch would be cleaning the privies for the rest of her life.

It was all she could do not to bring down a hailstorm on the woman’s head. She’d not cared to see them before, and couldn’t think which of the villa’s staff went by those names, but now she leaned forward, trying to peer through the branches to see the speakers.

Ever the traitor, her stomach chose that moment to growl, nearly loud enough to reveal her presence.

With a sigh, Katya eased away from the hedge. With a sigh – and wondering what kind of oaths might have been required of a simple serving-girl – she caught up her scarf, draped it around her shoulders, and went off in search of food.

⬧

Leisha squinted at the fading notes on the old square of parchment she held, then made an adjustment to the large relief map of Kushar that covered most of the table. It had been more than six years since one of their tutors had insisted she and Katya build the map out of wood, clay, and stone as a way of learning more about the country they lived in, and she had been both pleased and surprised to find the pieces carefully packed away in one of the villa’s storage rooms.

She’d had the boxes and a large table brought to this third-floor sitting room – it was one of her favorites, adjacent to her sleeping chamber, with a deep balcony that looked out across the valley – and spent most of the morning attempting to reassemble the map.

Unfortunately, whoever had taken it apart all those years ago had not labeled the pieces, and the pages of notes she and Katya had written, and which she had hoped would guide her, were so faded in places as to be barely legible.

“Maia says you have not come out of your room all day. Are you well? She sent up a tray...” Katya said, her words trailing off as she came into the room. “What are you doing with that? Reliving our childhood?”

“Oh, good,” Leisha said, not actually answering the question. She went over to her sister and held up the parchment. “This is your writing – at least I believe it is – but I cannot make sense of what it means.”

Katya set the heavily-laden lunch tray on a narrow side table, then turned to look at the parchment. She frowned at it for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my, yes! Rilka was being so strict about our notes, I decided to write them as messily as possible.”

She pointed to a blurred set of words. “We had just learned of a tiger attacking cultivators in the central grasslands, and I was very angry with Janek for not letting us leave the mountains – I wanted to see a tiger for myself. So, I wrote ‘the tigers wait for his return’ to describe that part of the map, hoping Janek would visit and be eaten.”

She gave the parchment back to Leisha. “It would have served him right, or so I thought then.”

“I am glad he was not eaten,” Leisha said, accepting the parchment, then matching the section of the map drawn on it with one of the irregularly shaped stone pieces on the table and fitting it into place.

“As am I,” Katya agreed. “Most of the time. But you have not answered my question.” Leaning against the side table, she plucked a small cluster of grapes from the tray and popped one of them into her mouth, then gestured at the map. “Why are you rebuilding this?”

“I am trying to understand what will happen across Kushar if we do as Janek wishes and alter the weather.”

“So you have decided to do it?”

“No. But I am considering it.” Leisha returned to the side table, selected a wedge of flatbread from the tray, and used it to scoop a generous amount of hummus. Nibbling at the flatbread, she turned back to the map. “A gilded cage is still a cage,” she murmured.

“Do not misunderstand,” Katya said. “I want the freedom to come and go as much as you. I want to choose my own partners, decide when or if to conceive. But we know nothing of the outside world.”

“We are not stupid.”

“There, we agree. But we have no experience in the world.” Katya walked over to the map, gesturing at the towns and villages Leisha had already pieced together. “Where would we go? How would we survive?”

“Father would take us—”

Katya shook her head. “No. He would not. He could not. Not after what we have done—”

“What we were made to do,” Leisha said. “He would understand, would forgive.”

“Perhaps,” Katya said with a shrug. She walked over to the window, and stood there, looking out across the valley as she nibbled her grapes. After a short time, she turned back to Leisha. “When our daughters come into their magic – you know as well as I that at least one of them will – do you really believe anyone across the Seven Kingdoms will be so quick to forget or forgive? They will not. We have no lives there. Can never have lives there that will not be filled with secret glances and hushed whispers – just like those of the women here.”

“They are good to us!” Leisha said, the heat in her voice matching that warming her face. “They take care of us.”

“And they talk about us when they think we are not listening. I have heard them. If you do not believe me, use your magic. Listen.”

“I will not.”

“As you choose.”

Leisha had no response, and was turning back to her map when she noticed Katya helping herself to a delicate-looking spring roll – ground spiced chicken rolled in clear rice paper wrapper.

“You know those are my favorite,” Leisha said, elbowing her sister in the ribs.

Katya dodged, just managing to avoid spilling the tamarind sauce she was spooning onto the roll. “You were ignoring the food. I was not willing to let it go to waste.”

Clearly concerned for her well-being, Maia had loaded the tray with several of Leisha’s favorites, hoping something might tempt her.

As if only just seeing the other offerings on the tray, Leisha was suddenly tempted. The nausea of the first weeks of pregnancy had finally faded, and it seemed she couldn’t get enough to eat. Laughing, she picked up a small plate and both she and Katya helped themselves to the contents of the tray. Soon mounds of delicate spring rolls, scoops of spiced nuts, and tiny lettuce cups filled with a savory blend of dried apricots and seasoned lamb joined servings of flatbread and hummus and clusters of luscious grapes on each of their plates.

The two of them settled on a pair of chairs that had been moved out onto the balcony to make room for the map table.

“It is a pleasant day. Your doing?” Leisha asked, drawing a stole over her shoulders before using a touch of her gift to further warm the shaded balcony.

“Maia was wishing for a day warm enough to do the washing,” Katya said with a shrug. “She did not know I was near enough to overhear.”

“That was good of you.”

They ate in silence, enjoying the chirping of birds and movement of leaves on the trees.

“Assume for a moment that we defy Janek, that we refuse to change the weather—” Leisha said after a few minutes.

“He would be furious.”

“Yes, he would. But we are not his only recourse. He has our daughters. As you say, surely one of them will share our gifts; maybe more—”

“Maybe all,” Katya said around a bite of cheese.

“Unlikely, but possible,” Leisha agreed. “And then there are their daughters, and the daughters of our sons. You are correct. At some point, the gift will manifest in Kushar—”

“True.”

“I want to know what will happen when it does.”

“And the map will help you how?”

Leisha finished off a lettuce cup, then wiped a bit of sauce from her lips before answering. “Do you remember the entertainers who came to our father’s palace just before we left for our fosterage? The ones who walked on their hands and balanced on top of each other’s shoulders?”

“I do.”

“What I am trying to do is something like that.” At Katya’s puzzled frown, Leisha continued. “I asked Sayha for information about the weather patterns across Kushar – where it rains and for how long, where it floods, where there is perpetual drought. She is still searching for more, but has brought me what she has been able to find. I intend to add that information to the map—”

“Ah, yes, juggling. To see how a change in one place might affect another,” Katya said, nodding.

“And if Janek points to a place on the map and says, ‘make it rain here,’ and you see that it will cause a flood somewhere else, what will you do?”

“I will show him what we have learned,” Leisha said. “He is a reasonable man. He will not want innocent people to be harmed.”

“We were innocent,” Katya said, her wind-whispered words gentle on the breeze. “When you think of all Janek has done for us, sister, remember this: he is not above hurting the innocent when it will further his plans.”

⬧

Sayha headed upstairs to Leisha’s chambers. She couldn’t imagine the flock of large messenger birds it had taken to deliver the pile of small scrolls she’d found on her writing desk when she returned from her midday meal. But there they were, together with an itemized list in the Grand Vizier’s hand saying that they contained the information Leisha had been seeking.

There had been a note for Sayha, too, but though he told her that he and Prince Rashid were on their way to Qaiwi to deal with Bacdi’s small rebellion, Janek’s message had said nothing to indicate he was aware of the results of his dalliance with Katya. Sayha was not going to be the one to inform him – not yet, anyway. She would say nothing that might distract him from his mission.

It had been nearly three weeks since Sayha had discovered Katya’s pregnancy. During that time, she had watched the headstrong princess grow increasingly irritable with the villa’s staff – who she seemed to regard as servants instead of the trained Kizrei warriors Sayha knew them to be. Unsurprisingly, most kept their own counsel – though there had been the incident with young Farza that morning, which she would need to discuss with Maia. It was not the first time Farza had been disruptive, though she had not heard the young warrior speak openly against the twins before. She must be admonished quickly, by her heartstring-bonded captain, before such behavior became a larger problem.

Katya’s behavior, though... for all Sayha knew, perhaps this was perfectly normal for her. No one else seemed to pay any mind to the fractious twin’s outbursts.

Sayha’s own patience was wearing thin.

And, while Leisha was the only one who even attempted to occasionally take her sister to task for her flashes of temper, most of the time she seemed to go out of her way to be accommodating. She certainly knew.

How long did the sisters think they could keep it a secret? True, Katya wasn’t yet visibly pregnant, but it had been four months since Janek had visited Ayametu – soon her belly would begin to swell, and loose-fitting dresses and long, casually draped scarves would not hide the truth indefinitely.

This was proving to be one of her stranger assignments: lady-in-waiting to princesses who had neither need for her or desire for her presence – but who actively avoided her. When their daily tutoring sessions in court etiquette and deportment were over, the twins vanished to other parts of the villa – which was large enough it might be considered a small castle in some of the countries she’d visited during her fosterage – and she often did not see them until the next day, unless she sought them out.

Sayha could understand why they might have been reluctant to talk to her initially, a stranger, lower in rank than they were, though far more familiar with the ways of noble courts. But that had been weeks ago. They couldn’t keep up their seclusion forever.

If this continued, they would be no better prepared to leave Ayametu when the snows melted than they had been when she arrived.

She sighed. Janek was counting on her. She would find a way.

She hoped she was making some small headway with Leisha. Searching out the weather information the usually reserved, soft-spoken princess had asked for had at least given them something to talk about.

Leisha’s idea of noting the weather patterns on the large relief map she’d created was a good one, but the villa’s library had not given her much to work with. Sayha hoped the scrolls Janek had sent might contain the information the princess had been seeking.

The doorway to Leisha’s sitting room stood open, and Sayha entered without knocking. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, rooted to the spot.

Leisha stood in the open balcony doorway, hands pressed against the small of her back, the fabric of her dress pulled tightly against her as she arched her back, tilting her head backward. The afternoon sun silhouetted the stretch – and clearly revealed her slightly distended abdomen.

The scrolls tumbled from Sayha’s hands. Without a word, she turned on her heel and stalked back down the hall, all but oblivious to Leisha’s cry of surprise.

Leisha was pregnant.

Katya was pregnant.

It could only have been Janek. He’d fathered a child not just on one, but on both of the princesses. How could he have done this? How long had this gone on? She thought back to Katya’s lighthearted flirting with Janek on the day Sayha had first come to Ayametu.

How had she not seen?

A white-hot rage filled her, the silver threads in her gown melting and burning the fabric as they dripped down the pale blue silk cloth. Her anger only grew hotter as she considered the laughable, inadequate justifications for Janek’s actions she had been telling herself for the past three weeks.

He is my uncle.

No! He did not trust me enough to keep his deepest secret. He is family to me no longer.

She reached the stairs and ascended, ignoring the curious stares and whispers of the household staff at her charred, steaming gown.

He is the Grand Vizier.

No! By his own admission, he had enacted his plan without the knowledge or consent of the king – and pursued it in secret for years. She did not know his ultimate goal, or what else he had done in service to his plan, but what she had seen were not the actions of a loyal advisor to the throne.

Her dress in tatters, the silver threads now nothing more than a trail of molten silver in her wake, Sayha stormed into her chambers, crossed the room, and went out onto the balcony. Clutching the wide, smooth stone railing, she looked up at the snow-covered mountains that separated her from the rest of Kushar.

From Janek.

He is the Kiz.

No! The Kiz was supposed to put the needs of Kushar above their own personal desires. The tips of her nails softened, lengthened, sharpened, scratching the stone beneath her fingers.

Janek had broken his highest oath.

He must die.

And Sayha would be the one to kill him.

Chapter 16

They had been in Terai for nearly a week, and the war camp outside the village of Nakham was growing each day, with soldiers filtering into the province in small groups of six and ten. With luck, it would be some time before Bacdi learned of them and altered his plans – whatever they were.

Janek was standing near a map of Qaiwi that had been set up on a large table in the center of the large command tent. He and Rashid met daily with the governors, the commanders of the king’s army, and Mikael, one of the Kizrei captains, solidifying their strategy.

They were well into this afternoon’s meeting when Janek had the sense that something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Abruptly, he staggered back, away from the table, the breath knocked out of him as though he’d been punched. As a sharp pain pierced his chest, he barely managed to grasp Rashid’s arm in time to prevent himself from falling.

“Uncle!” Rashid cried out, catching hold of Janek. “A healer! Quick, send for a healer!” Half-carrying his uncle, he helped him to a chair.

Janek dropped into the seat, clutching at the arms of the chair, gasping for air, trying not to topple to the ground. He alternated between freezing and feverish, beads of perspiration bursting out on his forehead and running into his eyes He tried to wipe it away, to wave away the people crowding around him, their faces a blur, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t lift his arms.

His pulse pounded in his ears, first blurring, then blotting out the voices around him, and his vision dimmed, until all he could see were bright sparks of light winking in front of his eyes.

Then, as the darkness was closing in, a thin, glowing stream of cool, healing energy began to flow into him, delivered along an invisible thread.

A heartstring.

He gasped, drawing in air as though having just broken the surface of a deep pool. A second heartstring found him, then a third, then more than he could count, each wrapping around him, enveloping him in an invisible, life-giving cocoon.

Gradually, his breathing steadied, his heart stopped racing, and his body temperature righted itself. His eyes were closed – when had he closed them? Janek was about to blink them open when he changed his mind.

He was aware now of each individual heartstring wrapped around him, the bond he, as the Kiz, shared with every Kizrei both far and near. If he focused, he could identify each connection by name.

He could also see the single, white-hot thread that had pierced him. It was cooling now, though it still stood out among the healing blue tones of the other threads.

Had something happened to one of the Kizrei he’d sent into Qaiwi, causing them to lash out in pain and anger? Were they injured? In danger? Now that he could breathe, he would not leave them alone.

Janek reached out with his mind, probing the thread with the lightest of touches. He did not want to cause one of his warriors more harm than they had already suffered...

Sayha?

He touched the thread again, to be sure.

Sayha. Not injured, but furious...

Breathing deeply, he pushed threads of energy toward her. Calm, to cool her fury. Questioning, to know the cause – though if he was honest with himself, he already knew the answer.

She’d learned about the children he’d fathered on the twins.

Sayha’s thread tried to pull away. Janek held it tighter, demanding the reason for her rage, forcing the calm on her like a wellspring pushing a wave upriver.

Her emotions pushed away the calm and came flooding back at him.

Anger. Betrayal. Sadness.

Her thread held its heat, like the slow burning of coals deep in the night.

Janek let it slip from his grasp. He’d known Sayha would be angry with him. He hadn’t thought she would be murderous. But there was little more he could do now, not with the way to Ayametu closed for at least another month.

The scent of the torches being lit, filling the air with their spoiled-lemon fragrance, reminded him of where he was. As unpleasant as he found the scent, he had to admit that the mosquitoes kept their distance when they were burning. The murmur of voices followed, together with the touch of a cool cloth on his brow.

With a sigh, Janek opened his eyes.

“My lord, you gave us quite a scare,” said a young man with a healer’s badge sewn to his short-sleeved tunic. He sat on a low stool in front of Janek’s chair, one hand holding the cloth he’d used to wipe the sweat from Janek’s face, the other resting lightly on the bare skin of Janek’s forearm. A warm, healing energy radiated up his arm and into his body from the young healer’s hand.

“I am quite well,” Janek said. “You need not trouble yourself.”

“Indeed,” the healer said. “I find nothing wrong with you – nothing at all. But, for the sake of the noble lords behind me, who fear for your life, please allow me to continue my examination for another moment. It will ease their concerns.”

Looking beyond the healer, Janek saw Mikael standing guard, preventing anyone else from drawing too near.

“How long have they...” Janek asked the healer.

“About five minutes,” the healer said. “I was told you collapsed and could not be revived.” He looked into Janek’s eyes and frowned. “You are Kizrei?” he asked in a low voice.

“Why do you ask?”

“I have only sensed similar energies when treating injured Kizrei. If you do not wish to speak of it, of course, I will not pry. Though, as a healer, I am curious as to what magic you employ that so speeds your healing.”

“What is your name, healer?”

“Eliseo.”

Watching Eliseo’s eyes widen, Janek silently pushed reassurances and gratitude to the many Kizrei who had come to his aid, then gradually unwound the threads of energy from his own, encouraging them to withdraw.

“Speak nothing of this,” he said as he then nudged the surprised healer’s energy away. “I am ready to return to work. Would you be so good as to reassure my companions that all is well?”

⬧

Rashid was troubled. While he had learned much during his fosterage about the day-to-day tasks of administering a kingdom, there had been little to no instruction on military strategy and tactics. He had hoped to develop those skills by observing how his father’s commanders and Janek led the engagement in Qaiwi.

But, after Janek’s short, but dramatic, moment of ill-health three days before, it seemed everyone now looked to him, as the king’s son, for guidance. Even Janek himself appeared to condone the shift in power, though Rashid knew his uncles continued to meet privately with Mikael at odd hours when they presumably thought no one would notice.

Sudhi noticed.

And the big cat’s observations tickled at the back of Rashid’s mind. He did not know what the two men discussed during those meetings – he assumed it was on Kizrei business, but his bond with Sudhi did not allow him to see through the leopard’s eyes or hear what she heard. All he knew was that they met, sometimes briefly, as though in passing, and sometimes for as long as an hour, and neither seemed distressed or agitated in any way.

In fact, their meetings had grown so routine since their arrival at the war camp in Nakham that even Sudhi now paid them scant attention, only noting that they occurred. They had simply become a routine part of her day.

Except for last night. Sudhi’s curiosity had awakened Rashid in the small hours of the night, and upon investigating, he saw both Mikael and Eliseo, the doctor, leaving Janek’s tent.

Was his uncle truly ill, and attempting to conceal it? Was that why he had allowed the mantle of responsibility for retaking Qaiwi to land so solidly on Rashid’s inexperienced shoulders? It was a great weight – and one he would simply have to learn to bear.

With that thought, Rashid pulled on his coat, adjusted the chains of his rank, and left his tent, Sudhi at his side. The luxury of learning by observation was over. Now he would have to listen to the counsel of the army’s commanders, weigh their recommendations, and make the final decisions.

If they reclaimed Qaiwi – or if they lost it – the responsibility would be on his head.

⬧

Janek adjusted the positions of the markers on the map as Mikael made his report to the war council, which now consisted of himself, the Kizrei captain, the three commanders of the king’s army, and Rashid. The governors had returned to their respective capitals two days before, but remained involved by way of messages sent by all manner of messenger birds.

“All but three of the Kizrei we have sent into Qaiwi have completed their missions,” Mikael said. He pointed out the locations where a dozen of Bacdi’s more vocal supporters had been identified and quietly eliminated, mostly in the province’s larger cities.

“Where are they still searching?” Rashid asked.

“Here,” Mikael said, pointing first to the region where the majority of the tin mines were located, second to a town near the northern border with Tusya, and third to the province’s capital. “I have sent an additional warrior to each of these places, while the remainder continue to monitor the situation.”

“Order in the province is far from restored,” Janek said, turning to face Rashid. “New voices will soon arise to fill the voids that have been created. However, all is in place to move forward with the next phase of the plan, as you see fit.”

Janek waited, along with the commanders, watching to see what action the prince would next take. The distraction provided by Sayha’s attack had proven useful in one regard – it had given him the opportunity to step back and observe Rashid as the prince was abruptly thrust into a leadership role.

Until now, the prince’s choices had been mildly cautious and somewhat restrained, appropriate for someone asked to lead in a field where he had no experience. He had asked for opinions, then issued orders largely based on those recommendations.

His next decision, however, would test his mettle. Would he lead the king’s army into Qaiwi and challenge Bacdi directly, or would he leave the military action to the commanders and wait until order was established before taking the governorship of the province?

Neither was a wrong choice, in and of itself, but whichever way the prince chose to proceed would likely have a lasting impact – not just on his success in Qaiwi, but on his eventual rise to the throne.

So Janek waited, more curious than concerned, as Rashid studied the map.

After a long moment, Rashid looked up and turned to the waiting commanders.

“It appears everything is in place, as we intended – though there will undoubtedly be some surprises along the way.”

All three commanders nodded at that, and one – Janek wasn’t sure which – chuckled.

Rashid continued. “Commander Delgar, go to Agheh with all possible haste.” He tapped at a town in Mantea near Qaiwi’s southern border. He pointed to a second border town, this one in Terai, along the north-south boundary shared with Qaiwi. “Commander Kabon, go to Thunu. Commander Nirek and I will lead the soldiers from here, in Nakham to the border here, in the north, near the edge of the swamps.”

He turned to Nirek and asked, “That will take what? Two days? Three?”

“If we leave straightaway, my lord,” Nirek said, “we can have our full force at the border by midafternoon, two days hence.”

Rashid considered that, then turned to Delgar and Kabon. “Send word ahead to advise your troops. We march into Qaiwi at dawn, three days from now.

To Janek and Mikael he said, “Uncle, Captain, I leave the Kizrei to you, as always.”

As they nodded their assent, Rashid turned back to Nirek.

“I would lead our army into Qaiwi. Will you consent to ride at my side?”

Nirek nodded so deeply it was almost a bow. “It would be my privilege, My Lord High Commander.”

Janek suppressed a smile, though he allowed a measure of pride to shine in his eyes. Rashid still had much to learn before he equaled his father, but he would become an excellent king.

Chapter 17

As the first rays of the morning sun lit the dawn sky, Rashid led his battalion into Qaiwi. Over his deep blue leathers he wore a wind dancer cloak, its metallic weave dyed in the same blue as his armor and edged in gold to indicate his rank. Commander Nirek, similarly robed, bore an edging of silver.

Behind them rode two-hundred mounted soldiers, their sturdy leather armor dyed in the deep blue of the king’s army. In their scabbards they bore the new stiel blades from Mantea.

Foot soldiers, also in blue, armed with spears, blades, or bows and arrows followed, marching in step to the bell-like tones of the hand drums that set an energetic pace. After a half-hour’s quick march, they reached the first village. Early risers fled, ducking into their homes and barring doors and windows at the sight of the soldiers who quickly surrounded the village and neighboring fields.

Rashid paid no attention as he and a half-dozen mounted officers and a score of foot soldiers made their way to the small plaza where the village’s primary well stood. He was content to let the villagers hide, knowing their curiosity would soon bring them out.

Consulting a list Mikael had provided, based on intelligence the Kizrei spies had gathered over the previous weeks, Rashid directed soldiers to a handful of specific houses, where traitors to the king were known to reside. As the drummers beat a summoning rhythm, the traitors were dragged from their homes and thrown to the ground before Rashid.

At a glance from Nirek, the drumming ceased.

He stared down at them from his horse, some openly defiant, others cowering in fear as Sudhi paced among them, a low growl rumbling from her throat.

“Whom do you serve?” Rashid demanded.

The prisoners called out their answers at once.

“The King.”

“Batuhan.”

“His Highness.”

“My Lord Bacdi!” said one woman, glaring up at Rashid.

“Lord Bacdi is a traitor,” Rashid said. “And so is anyone who swears their allegiance to him.” As he’d expected, the villagers had crept from their houses, slipping into the plaza to watch the spectacle, and he raised his voice, speaking loudly enough that all those who had gathered might hear.

“I ask again, Whom do you serve?”

The prisoners once again called out their allegiances, all but the woman swearing fealty to King Batuhan.

The woman rose to her feet, then spat on the ground in front of Rashid. “Batuhan stole this land from our people. He has no rights here. Lord Bacdi is our rightful liege.”

“No, Galilea!” cried out a man from the crowd of onlookers. He held a young child in his arms while two other children clung to his legs.

“You would condemn your family?” Rashid asked. At his gesture, a pair of guards dragged the man and children forward.

Others in the crowd drew back, some crying out in alarm, some begging for mercy on the family’s behalf. One woman called out to the defiant Galilea, pleading with her to swear fealty to the king and save her innocent children, but the rebellious woman remained unmoved.

“I ask you one last time,” Rashid said. “And in this I show you more mercy than you perhaps deserve.”

A hush had fallen over the crowd, the soldiers awaiting his command, the villagers awaiting his judgment.

His voice low and cold in the silence, Rashid asked, “Whom. Do. You. Serve?”

Galilea looked at her husband and children. “I am sorry,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I cannot—”

With a thought, Rashid signaled to Sudhi. The big cat pounced, catching one of the children and knocking her down. She then waited, teeth bared, one paw on the struggling child’s back, pinning her in place.

“Choose!” Rashid commanded.

Choking back a sob, Galilea dropped to her knees. “I... serve the... k-k-king,” she gasped, her words broken by her tears. She reached out to Rashid. “Please, my child!”

“Sudhi,” Rashid said. The big cat released the child, then padded over to the weeping woman and snarled at her. Turning away, she moved to Rashid’s side and sat, tail flicking, her eyes never leaving Galilea.

“Know this,” Rashid said, again speaking so all those gathered could hear. “Qaiwi is now and forever a province of Kushar, and subject to her king. Those who would challenge his rule will be put to death, and their families with them – or they may be scattered across Kushar as slaves, as the king sees fit. After this day, there will be no second chances.”

The villagers dropped to their knees, in loud voices, swearing their fealty.

Variations on this scene were repeated many times that day in towns and villages across Qaiwi as the three segments of the king’s army moved through the province toward its capital city.

Sometimes the dissenters chose to swear allegiance to the king and live; sometimes they did not. And in each town, a small force remained to ensure the king’s law would be obeyed.

And so they pressed forward through that day and the next.

The sky was a brilliant blue, several shades lighter than the uniforms of the soldiers who surrounded Akkah, Qaiwi’s capital city at midday of the second day. Rashid had hoped to have reached the Governor’s Palace and thrown Bacdi down the steps by sunset, but that had been an unrealistic goal at best. It took time to move men and horses across the countryside.

He was not dissatisfied with the day’s progress.

“A message for you, my lord,” a runner said, skidding to a stop only a few feet from where Rashid stood. He held out a rolled strip of parchment, bound in a thin blue cord.

Rashid accepted the message, unknotted the cord, and quickly skimmed the lines. “Kabon has retaken Gasho,” he told Nirek. “They encountered strong resistance from a large number of the townspeople.”

Rashid considered a moment.

Delgar’s forces, advancing from the south, had faced minimal resistance. Farther from the capital, and last in line to receive the benefit of the governor’s promises, they had little love for Bacdi and just wanted to live in peace. The battalion was now only a few hours’ march from the capital, and anticipated no significant delay.

Rashid’s own assault from the north had likewise seen only minimal fighting, as people in this region had been divided in their opinions about the validity of Bacdi’s claims. But, with few trained soldiers among them, even his supporters had quickly backed down in the face of Rashid’s battalion.

Kabon, however, had been forced to fight his way across Qaiwi’s central valley, a region of fields and farmers they had assumed would be peaceful and non-violent.

The truth had been quite the opposite.

Farmers in Vayasha had taken up their crude tools and fallen in battle against blade-wielding soldiers. In Gasho, rebellious whisperers had driven herds of crazed pigs and maddened cattle into the armies. The animals had been slaughtered – along with their whisperers – felled by a rain of arrows, but not before trampling dozens of soldiers under their hooves.

Rashid looked down at the messenger, a boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen, the edges of his face smeared with grime he’d missed when trying to make himself presentable before the High Commander.

“Have you pen and ink?”

The boy pulled the items from a pouch at his waist and handed them to Rashid.

Turning the parchment over, Rashid wrote his orders on the back:

They made their choice. Sequester children younger than fourteen; they will be relocated later. Execute the adults.

He signed the note, then inked his signet and pressed it to the parchment. When it was dry, he rolled it, bound it, and returned it to the messenger.

“Deliver this into the hand of the whisperer, and no other. It must be sent to Commander Kabon with all possible haste.”

“My lord,” the boy said, bowing. He tucked the pen, ink and message into his pouch and was off in an instant.

Rashid watched the boy go. He was barely older than the Qaiwean youths he had just condemned to slavery, the consequence of their parents’ choices. But better that than burning the whole town to the ground, as his grandfather had done in similar circumstances. He had listened to the stories of King Kevoran and those long-ago wars in terror as a young boy, and only now, his own blade edged in blood, began to understand the message the brutal action sent to those who survived.

Given the choice, letting the children live seemed almost merciful. Almost.

He sighed. The winds blew as they would. If he needed to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and punish a few so that others might see and learn from their pain, so be it. He only hoped the lesson would be quickly learned.

He turned back to Nirek.

“Have your scouts returned? How many of Bacdi’s soldiers stand between us and the Governor’s Palace?”

“No more than four hundred,” Nirek said. “If that many. We were successful in arriving before the governor had fully established his forces. However, if we take Kabon’s experience this day as a guide, we could be facing many times that number—”

“The city’s residents.”

“Indeed. Not all will side with the governor, but we have to prepare for the worst.”

Rashid thought on the problem as his soldiers made camp. He met with soldiers and spies who had spent time in Akkah, listened to the counsel of his commanders, and drew invasion strategies with a stick on the ground, rejecting them one after another, scrubbing them out with his boot, and beginning again.

He kept coming back to variations on the same idea.

“The Raugia flows through the center of Akkah,” he said, drawing a wavy line representing the river, “and the Governor’s Palace sits on the western shore. It is a small river, and almost never floods – it comes down from the western mountains, wanders northward, and empties peacefully into the Ragusina here,” he drew another wavy line some distance to the north and connected the two.”

Nirek, Janek, and Mikael all looked on, nodding quietly.

“On the other hand, the Ragusina often floods, filling the swamps of Terai and overflowing its banks all the way to the Ajolite Sea.”

“This is all true, my lord,” Nirek said. “But I do not see how it helps us.”

“What if we use the river against Akkah?”

“You said it yourself: the Raugia is too small,” said Mikael. “How could it be of any use.”

Rashid drew a circle at the junction of the Raugia and the Ragusina. “It provides us with access to the waters of the Ragusina.”

“It could work,” Janek said, tapping a finger against his lips.

Rashid looked at them. “Summon every wellspring you can find. We have much to do.”

⬧

Crossing the Madia Pass was a test not only of Zoya’s patience and stamina, but also her ability to believe what she was seeing. While she had grown accustomed to climbing the soft, gentle slopes of the Tzigani Mountains while traveling from Queen Yolara’s mountain palace to the cities on the edge of the desert, the Janqurai Mountains clawed at the sky in angry spikes, the pass cutting through them like a gash.

As she craned her neck upward at the jagged peaks, recalling that they were at the shorter end of the mountains, she began to understand Armin’s respect for the towering walls of granite that surrounded them.

Then there was the narrow, snow-covered road, little more than a ledge running along a cliff face. On their first morning, while Armin and Navid extinguished the charcoal burners and tended the horses, which they’d kept in harness to keep them from wandering to their death during the night, Zoya poked into the snow with her fighting staff, searching for the edge.

When the staff sank to nearly its full height only a few feet from the side of Navid’s wagon, and a large chunk of packed, semi-frozen snow broke off and fell away from the side of the road, Zoya realized the wisdom of the whisperer’s warning.

For the remainder of their journey, Zoya took the lead. Gia’s cloak was surprisingly warm, despite the lightness of the fabric, and she wrapped it over her coat, letting the length of fabric drape over her horse, capturing what little body heat they each produced for them both to share. Her horse gamely picked its way through the snow, hooves breaking through the icy crust, then sinking in soft, wet snow halfway up its foreleg.

Behind her, Armin and Navid followed the path she broke, taking care to hug the cliff face, staying so close that they were often in danger of scraping against the rock.

For two days, they rode in relative silence, too far away from each other to talk, the creak of the wagons, crunch of hooves, and wheels rolling through the snow the only sound marking their passage.

But the pass was far from silent.

As the days warmed, the sun only shining directly into the pass for a few hours at a time, ice snapped and cracked, sending cascades of snow down into the crevasse in a rush, often forcing the wagons to stop and wait until the air had cleared before they could again move forward.

Below, the stream that ran through Saresu had grown into a small river, fed by the melting snow. The once-pleasant burble of water over rocks had increased in volume as they moved deeper into the valley, with dozens of tiny snowmelt streams tumbling down the sides of the mountain and into the swiftly flowing river far below, the echoing roar filling Zoya’s ears.

And then there was the smell.

She hadn’t noticed it during most of the first day, or the second. The air was simply crisp and cold, her nose filled with the scent of her horse’s sweat mingled with the charcoal from the burner that dangled, unlit, from her saddle during the day. But when the wind picked up in the early afternoon of the third day of their crossing, blowing toward them from the south, it carried with it the faint scent of eggs that had sat too long in the sun before being gathered.

Zoya wrinkled her nose, certain the cold was simply playing tricks on her, but over the next hour, the smell increased.

By midafternoon, their way had grown both easier and, at the same time, more difficult. The valley had widened, and the increased sunshine had caused the snow covering the road to grow soft and mushy. They had to keep the horses to an even slower, more cautious pace than before, ever aware of the danger of ice beneath their hooves.

The rock wall opposite them now rose above a rocky slope, a strange misty fog covering the lower part of the valley, while the sky above was a brilliant blue. The rushing of the water was louder here, though both fog and snow glittered in the sun, obscuring the source of the sound. It would have been a lovely sight, were it not for the pungent scent that was heavy in the air.

Zoya pulled her hood tighter over her nose, hoping to block at least some of the malignant odor, but with little success. Her horse, who she had taken to calling “Sari” – short for Saresu – was snorting and breathing more heavily as well, as if in protest.

“I am sorry,” Zoya murmured to Sari, patting his neck. “This trip would have been over by now had we waited for the road to clear, and you would be again breathing clean air. Be strong. I promise you a good brushing and a hot barley mash when we finally reach level ground.”

Sari shook his head, and Zoya patted his neck again. The slow walking pace forced on them by the slushy route had been difficult on them all. She was looking forward to sleeping on solid ground again, instead of clinging to Sari’s back with a basket of burning charcoal on her lap.

A glint of light caught Zoya’s eye. Squinting into the distance, a thin stream of water came into view, falling in a roaring, silvery ribbon down the face of the opposite cliff wall and disappearing into the fog. The source was barely visible, partially obscured by wisps of clouds high above.

Zoya had never seen such a sight.

As she stared, a gust of wind blew through the fog near the base of the waterfall, revealing a large building. A series of flat-roofed terraces of different heights came into view, set into the stone at the base of the falls, not unlike some of the more elaborate buildings she’d seen in Saresu.

While Sari picked his way forward through the deep, slushy snow, Zoya stared in awe at the buildings. Water flowed over them, pooling on the flat rooftops and running down the sides in rivulets of yellow, orange, and green, undoubtedly the source of the foul odor. The misty fog gave the structures an otherworldly appearance.

“Who builds a palace under a waterfall, Sari?”

Sari just snorted in reply.

Zoya patted him again – she’d taken to talking to the horse and patting him often to help keep him calm. She was no whisperer, but it seemed to be reassuring to the horse, so she continued.

“I agree. The smell is probably all that is left of the builders’ rotting corpses.” She shuddered at the thought of a palace of frozen dead, just beginning to thaw, and was more than a little relieved when the fog cleared enough for her to realize the structures weren’t abandoned buildings at all, but a cluster of bizarre – and unusually smelly – rock formations.

“As a stoneworker, I am sure my queen would be fascinated to learn about this place – and when I am well away from it, I will be happy to describe it to her. Right now, I just want to breathe again. Keep moving, Sari. We will be past it soon.”

The road, which had ascended steadily and steeply for the first two days, began to descend as they left the strange rock formations behind. With the wind in her face and pushing the foul-smelling air beyond them, Zoya was just beginning to breathe more easily when a loud crack reverberated through the canyon.

She looked back, just in time to see an enormous block of ice and snow plummeting down the path of the waterfall, a massive flood of water in its wake, pushing it downward.

“Watch out!” she cried, moving Sari up against the cliff wall. The river gorge beside them was deep, but narrow, and she had no way of knowing if the floodwaters would rise above the ledge where they sat, helpless.

A heartbeat later, the block of ice smashed down in a thunderous explosion, sending shards of ice and stone in all directions. Zoya leaned forward, pressing her face against Sari’s neck as a rain of stinging needles hit her, doing her best to calm the horse as he flinched from the onslaught.

Behind her, she barely heard the other horses frantically neighing, their terrified cries all but drowned out by the roar of the water barreling toward them.

There was nothing she could do but wait and hope. Navid’s wagon was last in the line – he and his team would have suffered the most from the blast, but they were also higher above the water than Zoya herself was.

She tightened her grip on Sari’s reins and held on.

No sooner had she braced herself than a churning mass of water swept down the river gorge, boulders and chunks of ice tumbling in the froth mere feet below Sari’s hooves. In its wake, the water level continued to rise, the leading wall, for all its speed, not moving fast enough to outpace the flood that drove it forward.

As the water rose and began to flow over the road ahead of her, Zoya urged Sari backwards. Glancing behind her, she saw that Armin, too, was easing his wagon away from the rush of water that was rapidly gaining on them. With no room for error, he skillfully guided his horses back one step at a time up the steep slope.

Beyond him, Navid was still struggling with his team, only just managing to keep the panicked horses from plunging into the river below.

The water continued to rise, soon covering Sari’s hooves. Armin had backed his wagon as far as he could, the outside rear wheel now dangerously close to the edge. Sari, too, could go no further, his tail only inches from brushing the nose of Armin’s horses, the fast-moving water now swirling around the horse’s fetlocks.

Behind them, the thin ribbon of falling water had become a wide, foaming flood, falling with such force that much of it turned to mist before reaching the river.

Catching Armin’s attention, Zoya pointed at the waterfall.

“It is stabilizing,” she shouted, not sure if he could hear her over the thundering river.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder, then nodded, the bulk of his attention on his horses. The water on the road had risen to nearly halfway up the wagon’s wheels and was pushing the heavily-laden wagon toward the cliff wall and nudging his horses into Sari.

Trembling, Sari stamped his hooves in the water, moving out of the way of Armin’s team. Zoya patted his neck and leaned forward, murmuring soothingly into his ear.

“Nothing we can do but wait it out,” she said. “But, if it comes to it, I hope you are a good swimmer, because I am not.”

She continued talking to him, mostly nonsense talk in the desert tongue, as much to soothe herself as to calm the horse. Behind her, she heard Armin muttering in Kushari, a collection of his favorite expletives, which seemed to be directed in equal intensity to both herself and the flood.

Whether calmed by her words or chastened by Armin’s, the river gradually began to withdraw, slowly receding until it settled into what appeared to be its normal flow, with small whitecaps dancing on the water’s surface some twenty feet below the ledge.

The road had been washed free of snow as far ahead as Zoya could see, leaving a clear path of gleaming black, freshly-scrubbed granite.

A quarter-hour after the flood had begun – a half-hour at the most – they resumed their journey, following the road at a good pace as it led downward, out of the pass, and into Kushar.

⬧

Janek and Mikael rode through the army’s temporary camp on the outskirts of Akkah, the soldiers they passed reacting to their deep gray Kizrei cloaks as they would to badges of rank. The blue-uniformed soldiers stepped out of their way, raising clenched fists to their chests in salute as they passed.

Janek seldom donned the gray, preferring to be known simply as the Grand Vizier. He was relatively certain that most who saw him now simply assumed he’d taken advantage of his rank to borrow the cloak while working with the Kizrei.

It was what it was.

“Where will we find the High Commander?” Mikael asked, catching the attention of a passing messenger.

“Near the river,” the youth said, pointing. “With the wellsprings.”

Janek raised an eyebrow. “He is planning something,” he said to Mikael.

“I am intrigued,” Mikael replied.

They rode toward the river as the messenger had directed and soon came upon an unusual sight: several pairs of wellsprings, seated along the river’s edge at intervals of about ten feet. Each pair was watched over by four guards – two to protect them, and two to carry them to safety, should the need arise.

A good distance up the waterway, they found Rashid, talking with one of the Kushari captains. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw them and, when he had finished with the captain, walked over to them.

“I am glad you have come,” he said. “Here, let me summon someone to look after your horses.” He turned and beckoned to nearby soldiers and, after giving him instructions, turned back to the two Kizrei.

“The intelligence from your people has been invaluable,” he said as they dismounted. “I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge it straightaway.”

Mikael nodded his thanks.

“But you are undoubtedly wondering what we do here,” Rashid continued.

“Indeed,” Janek said. “I see no boats or barges, yet it would appear you have employed the wellsprings in the river trade.”

“Even so,” Rashid said, his expression as animated as that of an inventor with a new discovery. “The wellsprings are working together to draw the waters here.”

“To what end?” asked Mikael.

“We cannot hope to fight our way through the city without great loss of life if a sizable percentage of the population sides with Bacdi,” Rashid said. “Differences in skill and weaponry notwithstanding, sending the army against the populace will only result in a massacre.”

“I cannot fault your reasoning,” said Janek., looking up and down the river at the wellsprings, all of whom were in the deeply-focused, meditative state they adopted when employing their gift. “But, how do the wellsprings solve this problem for you?”

“I intend to flood Akkah,” Rashid said. “With enough water, we can drive the river beyond its banks and divide the city into a series of islands. It will not stop those who are determined to fight us, but others will either choose to remain at home or be engaged in dealing with the rising water.”

“And you intend to march on the Governor’s Palace while the city is so besieged,” said Mikael. He nodded approvingly.

Janek looked again at the wellsprings and frowned. “From what source do they draw the water?”

“From the Ragusina.”

“The Ragusina itself is at the low levels of winter,” Janek said. “Would you have them drain the swamps of Terai?”

Rashid met Janek’s eyes and held them. “If it will allow me to take this city without throwing away the lives of my soldiers, yes. I would drain the swamps dry.”

It was a bold plan. Not without its flaws, but certainly not something Bacdi would be anticipating. With a slight nod, Janek said, “How may the Kizrei be of service, High Commander?”

It was an acknowledgement, not only of Rashid’s plan, but of his position in command of the mission. Rashid accepted Janek’s deference with a nod of his own and invited them to join him a short distance away where they could more easily continue their conversation.

A half hour later, with the sun beginning to brush the tops of the mountains beyond the city, their discussion had progressed to determining the best places to deploy the Kizrei. Several would scale the walls during the night, taking their places on each of the islands they planned to create where they would watch and, if necessary, act to subdue rebellious residents. Others would ride with Rashid and his forces to the Governor’s Palace.

Abruptly, a shout went up from the guards standing with the most distant of the wellsprings.

The three ran forward to look.

A massive block of ice, snow, and rock floated in the engorged river. Behind it, the water had reached the upper banks and was steadily rising... upward, into the air, easily the height of a man, held in place in a frothing, churning bubble stretching as far upstream as the eye could see.

“I do not understand,” Rashid said. “This cannot all be from the swamps.”

Janek looked at the ever-expanding mass of water building up in front of them. Laughing, he clapped Rashid on the shoulder. “It seems, my prince, the wellsprings have outdone themselves. They have summoned the very headwaters of the Ragusina to your service.”

During the night, they let the floodwaters seep into the city, rising slowly over the course of several hours.

Inside Akkah, a tradesman walking home from his supper might have noticed the river flowing a little faster than usual.

Later in the evening, the young men, laughing as they staggered from one tavern to the next, might have thought they had stepped too near an overflowing fountain and complained about ruining their fine shoes.

In the small hours of the morning, the Night Watch would have pounded on doors, waking the residents of homes with water already rising over the thresholds.

And by dawn, crowing roosters would have awakened the residents of Akkah to a changed landscape. Wide rivers had replaced the streets connecting every major plaza across the city, the water so deep that a child could lean out of an upstairs window and splash her hands in the chill water.

So afflicted were so many that they never thought to ask what the army beyond the city walls was doing – though it had been the topic of many of those late-night tavern conversations.

And fewer still noticed that the road that ran alongside the actual course of the river was not flooded, though it ran blue enough – colored by the uniforms of the Kushari soldiers marching into Qaiwi.

Chapter 18

Exhausted and wet from the spray of the river that tumbled downhill alongside them, continually threatening to overflow its course, Zoya, Armin, and Navid finally reached the simple wooden barrier that marked the border between Tusya and Kushar. The sun was just brushing the tops of the western hills, bathing the broad, wooded valley beyond in alternating bands of light and shadow, the river a wide golden band winding through it. Spots of light suggested a town ahead, and Zoya was hopeful there might be an inn, or at least a stable where they could spend the night.

Zoya reined Sari to a stop a few feet from the barrier, then sat there, staring at it, while the horse took advantage of the opportunity to nibble at the early spring grass peeking up through the snow along the side of the road.

“That is it?” she asked Armin, when his wagon rolled to a stop next to her. She gestured at the thin wooden bar set between a pair of posts pounded into the ground on either side of the road, the river on one side, a thinly-wooded area spreading out along the other. “What is to stop us from knocking it down? Or simply riding around it?”

Armin scratched his head. “True, it is not much, but there has never been any sort of barrier here before. On this side of the pass, you are in Kushar, on that side, Saresu. As long as I have been trading, it has always been as simple as that.”

Navid had ground-tied his horses and came up to the front of his uncle’s wagon. “You think maybe there is something to the rumors we were hearing in Saresu?”

“I suppose it is possible—” Armin began.

“Wait,” Zoya hissed. Movement ahead of them had caught her attention. “Navid, go back to your wagon. Quickly.”

As Navid scrambled back, Zoya squinted into the shadows. Though the wind dancer cloak she wore was an exceptional gift, at the moment she would have preferred Kemen’s excellent hearing or Gia’s superior vision.

A few steps closer, the movement resolved itself into a pair of bulky men clomping toward them along the snow-covered road. A moment later, they were close enough for one to call out.

“Welcome to Qaiwi, travelers,” he said, arms spread wide and affecting an air of hospitality. “You will find food and lodging in the village below, but first—”

“First, taxes,” said the second, his breath rising in a frosty puff of air. From a distance, it looked like that one had begun his nightly drinking early. He shuffled his feet to keep from slipping on the snow and narrowly missed running into his companion several times just in the short distance since she could see them clearly.

The first glanced to one side with a half-whispered “hush,” to the second before resuming his too-wide smile and continuing his prattle.

“We are the border guards here – I am Aldo, and this is Tugi, at your service.”

“May we pass?” Zoya asked.

“Of course, of course,” Aldo said, stepping forward toward the barrier.

“Taxes,” Tugi growled.

Aldo grabbed him by the sleeve of his heavy coat and pulled him back. “Not until they cross the border,” he muttered.

“I do not like this,” Armin said, his voice so low Zoya barely heard it.

“You keep mentioning ‘taxes,’” she said to the two guards “Please explain.”

Aldo straightened and cleared his throat. “By the order of Lord Bacdi, Governor of Qaiwi, we are empowered—” here he gestured to himself and Tugi, “— to confiscate ten percent of whatever you might be bringing into our fair land.”

“Ten percent?” Armin said, barely keeping his voice from squeaking. “The levy has never been that high before.”

Tugi elbowed Aldo.

“Governor’s order,” Aldo quickly added.

“Certainly, you mean the king’s order,” Zoya said. “As he rules over all of Kushar, including its borders.”

“We take another ten percent for him,” Tugi said, leering at her.

From the way they both looked her up and down, Zoya had no doubt what they planned to confiscate from her. Unlike the people in Saresu, it was obvious that neither of these had mistaken her for Kizrei.

She turned Sari away from them and rode over to Armin.

“I do not know the protocol here,” she whispered to him.

“There is always a levy at border crossings,” he said. “You never saw it because it was part of the fees collected by the caravan leader. Here, we’re on our own.”

“And they have the advantage of us.”

“They do. But ten percent? That is more than triple the usual rate.”

“Twenty percent,” Zoya said. “I do not think they were joking about their claim to a second levy.” She glanced over her shoulder. Aldo and Tugi had lifted the log barrier, and the road stood open, the guard’s tracks the only sign anyone had passed this way. She turned back to Armin. “It is up to you. What do we do?”

“Go back to Saresu.”

Zoya looked at him sharply. “Are you serious?”

Armin shook his head. “No. I just wanted to see your reaction. We cannot outrun them, our horses would never make it. No choice. If we wish to cross into Kushar, we must pay the levy.” He sighed. “But, ten percent! Ah!”

Zoya moved Sari away from the wagon as Armin shook the reins and urged the horses forward. Aldo met the wagon at the border, taking hold of one of the horses’ halters and guiding them forward.

As Navid approached her, Zoya rode back to meet him. “That one might be a problem. Speak little and do as he says. We do not want to cause any trouble here.”

The apprentice grimaced, but nodded in acquiescence and drove his team across the border, Tugi meeting his team and leading them away.

Zoya followed.

“Close the barrier,” Tugi called out, turning his head slightly, but not actually looking back at her.

She ignored him. She wasn’t going to let Armin and Navid out of her sight.

“So, the old man,” Tugi asked Navid. “Your father?”

“My uncle.”

“And her?” Tugi gestured toward Zoya.

“Their hired guard,” Zoya said, before Navid could speak.

Tugi looked at her and laughed. “Could not afford to pay for proper protection, I guess. Well, we will see what levy he can afford.”

Zoya said nothing. Up close, she could see that some of the guards’ bulk was due to their heavy boots and coats. It was possible they were more formidable than they at first appeared.

They led the wagons to the far side of a small hut a short distance from the border gate. It was made of rough wood, and so well tucked in among the trees that Zoya did not see the building until they were nearly upon it.

A bench sat against the building, and after leaving their wagons in the care of the guards, Armin and Navid were told to wait there. Zoya rode over and dismounted near them.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we wait while they rummage through my merchandise,” Armin said, cringing at the sound of pottery breaking near the farthest wagon. “And hope they leave enough intact to justify the trip.”

They sat there, shivering in the deepening shadows for twenty minutes, listening while the guards pulled various packages from the wagon and inspected the contents by torchlight. More than once tearing and breaking sounds were followed by harsh laughter, the pair of guards taking no real care with anything they found.

“I have had enough of this,” Zoya said, after a wet-sounding crash was followed by a frightened neigh from one of the horses. She stood. “I am going to offer them something better.”

“What is better than simply taking what they want?” Navid asked.

“Staying alive.”

She walked over casually, projecting a calm, not quite subservient attitude as she reached the horses. One of them had a dark smear running down its hindquarters on one side, shards of a broken jug on the ground nearby. Zoya touched the wet area and raised a finger to her nose. Oil. It was a good thing the coals in the burner hanging from the wagon no longer glowed, but had cooled in the hours since morning.

She shook her head, then checked on the other horses. Aldo saw her, dismissed her with a glance, and went back to grabbing bundles of woven textiles and tossing them over his shoulder. He’d already emptied nearly a quarter of the wagon’s contents, which now lay scattered in loosely-organized piles in the snow, including the currently growing mound of textiles.

When Tugi saw her, he grinned. “Do not worry, we have not forgotten about you,” he said.

“I would hate to think you had.” She patted the horse’s nose. “In fact, I was hoping the two of you were nearly finished with your work.”

“Ha,” Aldo said, sending another length of woven fabric sailing. It fluttered like a banner before landing, a slash of red against the snow. “Do I look finished?”

“Actually, yes, you do,” Zoya said, her tone firm. The two guards looked at her, surprised by her shift in attitude, but she continued before either had a chance to speak.

“You have already taken more from this wagon than your governor’s mandate entitles you to,” she said. “If you stop now, we will be on our way, and will not report you to the authorities.”

Because of the way they had packed the wagons before leaving Saresu, Zoya knew the merchandise Armin considered most valuable was at the bottom of the wagons. If her ploy worked, Armin might still retain a worthwhile share of his merchandise.

Tugi burst out laughing. Aldo leaned against the edge of the wagon and stared at her. “Authorities? Girl, we are the authorities here.”

“And what do you...” Tugi began, speaking with some difficulty around his laughter. “What do you intend to do if we do not stop?”

“I could kill you both. Then, while I drag your corpses into the woods – or better yet, throw them into the river – my friends could repack the wagon,” she said lightly. “Of course, we would leave a suitable amount of merchandise as levy inside the building there – we are honest citizens, after all, and have no desire to cheat the governor.”

Tugi just stared at her, open-mouthed, as though unable to form a response.

Aldo shook his head. “You should not have said that,” he said. “For now it will be your body floating down the river. Tugi, take care of her.”

Tugi charged, coming at her with arms spread hands open wide.

Zoya drew her blade as she jumped away from the horses, giving herself space to fight.

She dodged his first lunge and the second, each time edging farther out of the pool of light cast by the torches Aldo was working by. Her wind dancer cloak had taken on the color of shadows and snow-covered trees, making her difficult to see in the darkness, and Tugi barreled past her a third time, his arms flailing wildly, groping for her.

“Where have you gone, wench?” he growled, spittle flying from the sides of his mouth. “Run into the forest like a scared rabbit?”

“Not at all,” Zoya whispered, ducking as she ran behind him, her blade slashing at the back of one thigh.

The big man cried out, collapsing to the ground Blood smeared the snow where he rolled, moaning in agony.

“Stay down,” Zoya said. Or I will cut the other one.” She flicked her blade at his leg. “Wrap that tight, so you do not lose too much blood—”

Behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. Spinning, she raised her sword in time to meet Aldo’s. His blade crashed down again and again, driving her backward, her arm vibrating from the clash of their blades.

She moved away from Tugi, not wanting to be within reach of the big man’s flailing arms, and toward the piles of merchandise from Armin’s wagon. Aldo was taller than she was, and surprisingly agile for one fighting in a heavy coat. She ducked to the left, avoiding another strike. Slashing down with her sword as she turned, she felt the tug of the blade passing through the padded cloth of Aldo’s coat.

He turned to follow, not seeming to notice – had she cut through to his flesh, or only sliced the coat? – and pursued her with long-legged strides.

She caught a small earthen bowl with her toe and kicked it toward him, as she and her brothers would kick stones in the courtyard. Aldo batted it away and it crashed to the ground, shards flying in all directions and startling the horses.

She scooped up a small metal tin and threw it in his face. He swung at it, coughing as a cloud of pungent spice bloomed around his head.

Taking advantage of the moment, Zoya tugged off her cloak and ran past Aldo, whipping it into a thick cord as she ran past the already choking man. When she was behind him, she threw one end of the length of fabric around his throat, dropping her sword as she reached up to grasp the fabric as it appeared over his shoulder.

Holding tightly to the wound cloak at either end, she leapt up, planting her feet against Aldo’s back, just above his belt line, and tugged.

Aldo grabbed at the wound cloth, trying to pry it away from his throat. He slashed at it with his blade, but the magically-enhanced metallic cloak did not tear. As Zoya pulled, his bucking and thrashing grew weaker and weaker, and she was forced to jump to the ground as Aldo first dropped to his knees, then fell on his face.

Zoya was pulling her cloak out from under the unconscious man when there was a loud crack followed by a grunt behind her.

She spun around to see Navid, standing a little way from Tugi, Zoya’s fighting stick in his hands. Tugi had managed to crawl toward her, but now lay on his face in the mud and snow.

She scooped up her sword and sheathed it as she crossed to Navid. “Well done,” she said. She noted his stance and the way he held the stick, properly gripped with both hands. “I did not know you knew how to use a fighting stick.”

“Kemen was teaching me,” Navid said. “At night, when it was his turn to watch. I told him I did not want to be helpless.”

“And so you are not.” Zoya shook out her cloak and swung it back over her shoulders. She glanced down at Tugi, whose leg was still bleeding. “Did Kemen teach you how to bind a wound or tie someone up?”

“I can bind his wound,” Navid said. “But, I am very poor with knots.”

While Armin loaded his goods back into the wagon, Zoya found a length of rope and bound Tugi’s hands behind his back while Navid used strips of cloth to wrap the gash in the large man’s leg. She then tied Aldo’s hands and ankles together. Rolling him onto the heavy canvas tarp they used to cover the wagon’s contents while traveling, she dragged him over to the small building. It was simply furnished, with a cot, two rough wooden chairs at an equally rough table where it looked like the two men had been eating a meal of bread and stew and cheap wine. A low fire still burned on the hearth.

Zoya left Aldo on the floor and, with Navid’s help, put him on the cot with his leg raised. The bleeding had stopped, and he was breathing easily.

“A healer should be able to tend his wound,” she told Armin as they drove away. “We can send someone from the village.”

“What? And have the whole village after us?” Armin protested. “Someone will come looking for them soon enough. I want to be long gone when they do.”

He’d reluctantly agreed to leave a five percent levy, stacking the goods on a shelf inside the border guards’ hut. And he wasn’t wrong – it would be better if they weren’t around when the guards were discovered. Of course, the only reason she hadn’t killed them and tossed them into the river as she’d promised was because she didn’t know how that would be received in Kushar.

So, Zoya shrugged and said nothing. She was willing to ride on – the horses were rested, they were on a good road, and, if it came to it, they had enough charcoal to warm them for another night. She patted Sari’s neck. “I knew he would say that.”

⬧

Even with the bulk of Akkah’s residents distracted by the flood, Rashid’s armies still encountered fierce resistance as they rode toward the Governor’s Palace. Stiel blades flashing, they cut their way ever deeper into the city, each block gained a hard-won fight, staining the river with the blood of the fallen from both sides.

Too many of those now blocking Rashid’s path were ordinary citizens, men and women with no armor, attacking the King’s army with clubs, axes, and cooking knives. Some had tied knives to long poles to create makeshift spears. These should have been effective against Rashid’s mounted soldiers, but more often than not their inexperience with the weapon led to their deaths.

The pointlessness of it all infuriated Rashid, as he cut his way forward through the mob filling the wide road. In the back of his mind, he sensed Sudhi pacing back and forth in the army’s base camp, and well understood her frustration. He was glad he had made her stay behind. She would have fought bravely, but a leopard in among so many fighting so closely would have been too much of a distraction for both horses and their riders.

Rashid sent her a calming thought along their connecting bond, and used the moment to focus his own attention as well, drawing on Sudhi’s senses to sharpen his own. He became the hunter. The scent of his quarry’s blood and sweat and fear filled his nose. Sunlight outlined his prey, showing him where to turn, where to strike. He raised his blade to meet his victim’s, the swish of their blade in the air guiding his own for the kill.

After nearly four hours of fighting, it was with a combination of satisfaction and frustration that Rashid heard one of his soldiers call out, “Look! The Governors Palace!”

Rashid brought down his blade, the sharp edge slicing easily through the Qaiwian fighter’s unprotected shoulder. The man fell, blood spraying across Rashid’s leg. Before the next lunged forward to take his place, Rashid caught a glimpse of the Palace, still several blocks ahead.

“No wonder he thinks himself a king,” Rashid muttered.

The golden ziggurat rose like a small mountain, its terraced levels lush with greenery – and to Rashid’s mind, offering innumerable hiding places for Bacdi’s soldiers. The rebellious governor would have barricaded himself in his island Palace, surrounded by as many trained fighters as he could gather, leaving the militant, but unskilled people to carry his battle to the city’s streets – and to die there.

“We need to get archers... close enough... to begin raining arrows on the Palace,” he shouted to Nirek, calling out the order in snatches as he drove back the two fighters who had come at him from either side.

Behind him, Nirek acknowledged the order by calling out an abbreviated form of the command, and a moment later, “Archers, forward, fire on the Palace,” was repeated, relay style, back through the lines.

Rashid drove forward, he and the mounted soldiers surrounding him, forcing their way, slashing at fighters, Their sturdy horses shouldered the injured off the road and into the fast-flowing river. He doubted anyone even noticed that the river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrying the bodies toward the Palace.

On the opposite side of the road, a wall of water blocked access to the side streets and cut off any escape for the inexperienced fighters – or any hope of reinforcements.

Rashid hoped the sight of the undulating bubble was as disquieting to the Qaiwians as it was to him. He could barely look at it himself without becoming mesmerized, so forced himself to ignore it whenever it appeared beyond the fighter he was actively engaging.

It was as one of these unfortunates fell that movement from above drew his attention upward.

A score of blue-clad archers, accompanied by what appeared to be a nearly equal number of gray-cloaked Kizrei, ran across the rooftops of the nearest of the flooded buildings. The side streets, much narrower than the broad road where Rashid was fighting, presented little obstacle, and archers and Kizrei jumped easily from rooftop to rooftop on their way toward the palace.

Good. With any luck, the archers would be able to bring down the numbers of Bacdi’s personal guard before Rashid’s army engaged them. While Nirek was frequently rotating the soldiers who fought at the front of the long column, those farther back were not resting. The city’s residents – flooded, besieged, and outmatched as they were – were putting up quite a struggle.

Rashid reached down and grabbed one of the improvised spears from the hands of a fighter. The man roared up at him, his words unintelligible, an intense madness in his eyes. He lunged forward, grabbing Rashid’s horse, fingers pinching the animal by the nostrils.

The horse reared, striking out with its hooves and shaking its head, trying to loosen the man’s grip. Rashid clung to his seat, his legs pressed tightly to the horse’s body. Flipping the man’s spear around, he drove it downward, through the side of his neck.

The man dropped like a stone, dragging the horse’s head down with him.

Rashid pulled the spear free and thrust again, this time cutting into the man’s arm.

His fingers relaxed, releasing their grip on the horse, who stamped his hooves and shook his head, snorting, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

Ahead of them, arrows sliced through the air. Not only in a steady rain on the Palace, but also on the fighters who filled the road. Screams of pain competed with the rushing of the river, filling Rashid’s ears such that he could hardly distinguish one sound from another.

And so the king’s army drove forward for another two hours. Finally, bloodied and sweating, Rashid and Nirek reached the bridge leading across the river to the Palace. There was still some fighting going on behind them but, for the most part the opposition had withdrawn. Rashid didn’t know if they’d given up, been killed, or were simply regrouping. For the moment, it didn’t matter. His focus now was on getting to Bacdi.

“Why is it so quiet?” he asked. The ziggurat’s four high terraces were littered with bodies, but showed no sign of movement.

“Those they did not kill, the archers have driven inside,” Nirek replied.

“Then let us find them.”

Foot soldiers swarmed around and ahead of the mounted soldiers as the King’s Army surged forward on Nirek’s command. Some rushed up the stairs and spread out along the terraces, while others poured through the gates and into the palace itself.

Rashid, Nirek, and a full squad of the mounted soldiers rode their horses up the stairs, through the massive gates and into the Palace. While the greenery made the Palace seem lush on the outside, the interior was a work of art. Enormous marble pillars rose like tall trees, supports spreading out across the ceiling like branches. Elaborate murals covered the walls, depicting scenes from Qaiwian history.

Skirmishes broke out as soldiers moved down side corridors, but Rashid and the mounted soldiers rode forward, their horses’ hooves like drumbeats on the polished stone floors. At the far end of the hall stood a trio of Kizrei – a woman and two men. As Rashid reined to a stop before the warriors, they raised their fists to their chests in salute.

“Well met, my Lord High Commander,” said the taller of the three, a man with deep brown skin and tightly curled hair falling in a series of long coils over his shoulders and down his back. “I am Teo, squad leader of the Kizrei here in Akkah. These are Maya—” he gestured to the woman, “—and Neece.”

Maya was a trim woman of nearly Teo’s same height, who stared at Rashid from intense gray eyes shining out of a face at least two shades darker than her squad leader’s.

“You are a stoneworker,” Rashid said, indicating her hands.

“I am,” Maya said, making no effort to either hide or display her ebony-tipped fingers.

Pale by comparison to the other two, Neece was closer to Rashid’s own medium-brown, with wavy hair pulled back into a short queue. The powerfully-built young man stood with his bare arms folded across his chest, feet planted on the floor in such a way as to suggest he would not be easily moved.

“Well met,” Rashid said, returning their salute. “Captain Mikael leads the Kizrei assisting the army. Lord Janek rides with him.”

Teo nodded at this, while Neece and Maya exchanged a glance.

Rashid continued. “Have you been successful in locating and securing Lord Bacdi?”

“We have, and will take you to him now,” Teo said. He snapped his fingers and a timid-looking man stepped forward.

“Karon will see to your horses,”

They dismounted, handing off their horses to Karon and a group of men and women he had called to assist, then followed Teo down a winding maze of hallways.

“The blue sashes Karon and those others wore,” Rashid asked Teo. “What do they signify?”

“They would not swear fealty to Bacdi,” Teo said as they descended a narrow flight of stairs. “They were forced to wear the sash as a warning to all that they were not to be trusted. Many were simply killed, others thrown into cells on the lower levels.”

“Lord Bacdi is a spoiled child,” Maya said. “He likes to play games with people, torment them. From time to time, he would summon a group of blue sashes and force them to fight each other for his amusement.”

“Or worse,” said Neece.

“We could do nothing to help them – until today,” Teo said. “When the word came that you had entered the city, we secured Lord Bacdi and freed the prisoners.”

He stopped turning to look at Rashid. “We told them you would judge them fairly, my lord.”

“And so we shall,” Rashid said, reaching out to clasp Teo’s forearm. “I so swear.”

Teo clasped Rashid’s arm in return. “So it is sworn.”

The two men nodded in agreement, then released each other and continued down the narrow, torch-lit hallway. The rooms here were small, little more than cells, many with doors standing open and signs of having been hastily abandoned. Bedding was disturbed, clothing lay in piles on the floor.

“At least the prisoners were in clean rooms,” Nirek said.

Neece laughed. “These are the servants’ rooms,” he said. “The prisoners were kept much lower.”

Rashid, frowned. “Why bring us here?” he asked, his hand drifting to his sword.

“Have no fear, my lord,” Maya said. “This place is filled with hidden passageways – and we only know a few of them. It seemed prudent to keep Lord Bacdi in a room we knew to be free of secret exits.”

They came around a corner and found a pair of Kizrei guarding one of the simple wooden doors. With an exchange of passwords, the guards opened the door for Teo.

“Nirek and I alone will enter,” Rashid said to the rest of his squad. “I daresay the room will be crowded enough without an additional dozen bodies.”

The soldiers stepped back, Neece with them, while Rashid, Nirek, Teo, and Maya entered the room. As Maya reached for the door to close it, Rashid stopped her.

“Leave it open, that all present may witness. We do not work in secret here.”

Maya nodded, pushing the door all the way open so it lay flat against the wall. The Kizrei and soldiers in the hall moved closer, though they stayed outside the room.

Bacdi sat on a rough wooden chair in the center of the room, his hands bound behind his back. As an additional precaution against escape, his feet had been tied to the chair’s legs.

Rashid studied him. They were similar in height and coloring, but Bacdi’s features were sharper, his hair straighter – or simply well-oiled. His eyes, a shade of blue that suggested a Northern ancestor in his bloodline – stared back at Rashid with contempt. A purpling bruise just below his left cheekbone marred his attempt at a princely demeanor.

“Who did this?” Rashid asked, gesturing at Bacdi’s face.

“Are you here to make them apologize?” Bacdi asked with a sneer.

“No,” Rashid said. “I had actually intended to thank them on behalf of my cousin.”

“I have no idea—”

“Lady Sayha.”

Bacdi laughed. “Ah, yes, now I see the family resemblance. How is my lady wife?”

“Sayha never would have accepted you.”

“Check the records,” Bacdi said. “Better still, ask her yourself.”

“I shall,” Rashid said. He shifted the topic, unwilling to let Bacdi’s unexpected revelation distract him further from his purpose.

He stepped forward, reaching out for the large medallion resting on Bacdi’s chest, suspended there by a heavy chain around his neck. A glint in Bacdi’s eyes stopped him, and he drew back his hand.

“Someone find me a piece of cloth,” he said to the room at large.

There was some shifting and rustling, and a moment later a piece of fabric – part of a torn apron or perhaps a servant’s kerchief – was pressed into his hand.

Reaching out again, Rashid used the cloth to grasp the medallion. “I don’t trust you,” he whispered as Bacdi laughed.

Raising his voice, Rashid said, “Lord Bacdi, by order of his royal highness, Batuhan, King of Kushar and all her vassal states, and as a consequence of your treachery and open rebellion against the king, I now strip you of your rank, position, lands, and titles.” Pulling on the medallion, he snapped the chain.

Raising it above his head for all to see, he said “Bacdi, son of Dygu, your life is now forfeit.”

As he turned away, wrapping the medallion and chain in the cloth, Bacdi chuckled.

“Sayha will not be pleased that you just threw away her inheritance.”

When Rashid did not respond, Bacdi added. “She paid such a high price for my lands and titles—”

Rashid spun, his fist smashing into Bacdi’s right jaw and sending the former governor toppling to the floor.

Rashid turned and strode out of the room, the soldiers making way for him to pass. As he stalked down the hall, all was silent except for the sound of Bacdi’s laughter.

⬧

Janek walked around the reinforced wagon and nodded in approval. One of the local cultivators had grown the ironwood box as a single piece, with no seams or joints save for the door. He had even grown in narrow rows of small slits to serve as barred windows. Inside, a simple bench grew out of the wall.

A metalworker – or possibly a smith - had wrapped the bars in iron, attached the door with sturdy hinges and latches, and secured the box to the wagon frame in preparation for transporting to his new prison in Khulan.

“You are sure you do not wish to wait, Uncle?” Rashid asked, joining Janek in the private service courtyard at the rear of the Governor’s Palace. Staff and servants unaccustomed to Sudhi backed away from the large leopard that walked at his side.

“It will be days yet before the waters flow normally again,” Janek replied. “Tensions in the city are running too high to risk keeping Bacdi here any longer than necessary – better to go now. With a team of fast horses, we can be in Ragusa inside of a week, and from there take a barge to the capital. Your father is very eager to see this situation resolved.”

“As am I,” Rashid agreed. “Though I do regret the need to retain the army for any length of time. I fear we will need to keep the squads scattered across the province for several weeks, perhaps longer.”

“As you see fit,” Janek said. He tapped at the medallion resting on Rashid’s chest – the real one, rather than the one rigged with poison-tipped barbs embedded in the rim, which Rashid had taken from Bacdi two days before. “You are the governor, now.”

When Rashid squirmed at that, Janek laughed.

“The lessons of your fosterage have prepared you for rule, and the governorship will let you put those lessons to the test. You have already proven yourself a peer of the neighboring governors as well as the military commanders with whom you have served. Seek their counsel. You will succeed.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“I only say what I know to be true.”

The two stepped back when Bacdi was led from the palace, surrounded by six of the king’s blue-uniformed soldiers. Heavy chains bound his hands and feet, and he shuffled forward awkwardly. When he caught sight of Rashid and Janek, he gave them a mock bow.

“My Lords,” he said. “I do hope you enjoy your stay in my Palace”

They did not respond, watching in silence as Bacdi was loaded into the wagon and the door closed and bolted.

“We have already discovered several traps in the Palace,” Rashid murmured. “It may be some time before we are able to safely put the building to use. Many of those who knew it best are gone – either fled or dead.”

“Is there a cultivator nearby?” Janek asked abruptly, staring at the locked wagon.

Rashid looked around, then beckoned to a woman near the kitchen doors, unloading a cart of vegetables. She put down her basket and crossed the courtyard to them.

“Yes, my Lord?” she said. Her hair was the silver grey of trees in winter, though her unlined face suggested she was no more than Janek’s same age. “How may I serve?”

Janek pointed to the ironwood box. “Can the door be grown into the wood, so no hinge or lock is needed? And the box grown to the frame of the wagon on which it sits?”

The cultivator walked over to the wagon, placed a hand on the box, and closed her eyes. “The heart of the woods still beats, albeit slowly,” she said. She moved her hand to the wagon, and almost immediately shook her head. She looked back at Janek. “I can seal the box, if that is your wish. But the wagon is long dead. I can do nothing with it.”

Janek nodded. “Seal the box, then – leaving a small window similar to those on the other sides. We would not have our prisoner suffer for want of air.”

The cultivator placed one hand on the door and the other on the body of the ironwood box. As a green aura surrounded her hands, the wood began to shift, root and vine-like tendrils spreading from one piece of wood to the other.

As the tendrils coiled around each other, they merged into one, fusing the segments together. The hinge pieces fell to the ground with a clank, soon followed by the now unnecessary lock.

When the woman stepped away from the wagon, no trace of the door remained.

Bacdi glared at them from the new window – a twin to the original on the opposite wall “Seems excessive,” he said dryly.

“I prefer to be prepared,” Janek said. He thanked the cultivator, then asked for a metalworker.

“My Lord?” said a large man, one of many who had paused in their labors around the courtyard to watch. He scooped up the fallen hardware as he stepped forward. His fingers were tipped in the same dull gray iron, and thin, dark lines on his bare arms traced the path of his veins.

“We have no further need for those pieces, “Janek said. “But, I would feel more confident of our cargo if you would encircle it with metal bands – as you might do for a container being transported a great distance.”

The metalworker weighed the pieces of iron in his hands, then nodded. “One moment, my lord,” he said. In a few long strides, he crossed the courtyard to the workshop adjacent to the stables and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying a length of heavy chain, most of which was looped over his right shoulder.

As he approached the wagon, he began swinging one end of the chain. Faster and faster it spun, and soon the end began to glow, first a dull red, then yellow, then white.

When several feet of the chain had been transformed to white hot metal, he flung it toward the wagon. A ribbon of super-heated iron flowed from his hands, wrapping itself around both the wooden box and the wagon, twisting first in one direction and then in another as it bound them together. Beneath the strap, the wood hissed and charred as the metal embedded itself.

“Water!” the metalworker shouted.

Palace servants ran toward the wagon, carrying sloshing buckets.

“Not there. On me!” roared the metal worker. His leather vest had begun to smoke where the last coils of the iron chain still hung from his shoulder.

Confused, the servants hesitated.

Janek rushed forward, snatched one of the buckets, and threw the water at the metalworker.

With a sizzle and crack the heated chain cooled, pieces falling to the ground.

“Thank you,” the metal worker said to Janek, the scent of seared leather lingering as he stepped up to the wagon.

Taking the still-glowing ends of the hot metal straps in his hands, he bent them into place, sealing them together in a complex, knotted pattern. When he stepped away, where the strap began and where it ended were impossible to tell.

“You do remember that I am in here, do you not?” Bacdi said, peering through the bars of his small window.

“Are you too warm?” Janek asked.

“You could say that, yes.”

The bucket Janek held had only a few drops left in it. “Find him a waterskin,” he asked one of the guards who had escorted the prisoner to the wagon.

“Are you satisfied now?” Rashid asked, coming up to study the augmented wagon.

“I will not be satisfied until I present this traitor to your father,” Janek said. “But this will do.”

He turned to Rashid. “Mikael and a full squad of Kizrei ride with me,” he said as they walked a short distance from the wagon to where Janek’s horse stood, saddled and ready. “But we have left two squads with you.”

“Yes. Teo told me this morning that he is staying, as are Maya and Neece. I am grateful already to have them at my side – they know this place and these people far better than I do.”

“Is there any message you would have me take to your father?”

Rashid looked toward the wagon and Bacdi, glowering at them through the small window. “No. He is message enough for now. I will report to you both regularly.”

“Very well,” Janek said as he mounted.

“It is a shame Sayha is not here,” Rashid added. “Not only would I value her counsel, but I have much to discuss with her.”

“As do I,” Janek said. He raised his fist to his chest in salute. “Be well. Remind the Qaiwians what it means to be Kushari.”

As he rode out of the courtyard, the wagon holding Bacdi behind him, Rashid’s parting words took Janek’s thoughts to Sayha. He had practically torn apart Akkah’s Hall of Records, but he had found the proof of Bacdi’s marriage to Sayha, just as the traitorous lordling had said – signed and sealed by Batuhan himself, and dated nearly a month before Governor Dygu’s death, placing the marriage nearly eight months ago.

The small scroll – the only official copy – now rested in an inner pocket of his vest, much to the annoyance of the officious little man who maintained the records.

Yes, he had much to discuss with Sayha. Their next meeting, when he was finally able to return to Ayametu, promised to be extremely interesting.

Chapter 19

They left the Governor’s Palace with no fanfare, though many people leaned out of upper-level window to watch in curiosity as they passed. Janek hoped the wellsprings holding back the floodwaters – and the healers sustaining them – would have the strength to release the water slowly, island by island, according to Rashid’s plan. At least the river had reversed course, and begun to flow in the right direction, carrying the excess water away from Akkah.

Not his immediate problem, though one he would receive reports on from Rashid, Teo, and Nirek in the coming weeks.

At the moment – and, as it turned out, for the next two days – Janek’s primary problem was listening to Bacdi’s complaints. If the wagon hit a rock, Bacdi complained about the roughness of the road. If they went too quickly down a hill, Bacdi complained about the lack of cushions inside his box. If a breeze blew through the tiny windows, Bacdi complained that they had not provided him with a coat.

“We should have gagged him,” Janek told Mikael a few hours’ from Akkah, when they stopped to exchange their horses for fresh ones. “It is well that he is so well locked in the box, or I would open it and cut out his tongue, just to silence him.”

“Leave it to me,” Mikael said. He walked over to the wagon, where Bacdi was complaining about not having eaten since before they left Akkah. Stepping up to the small window, he said a few words in a quiet voice..

Bacdi grew silent.

Mikael walked back to Janek and mounted his new horse.

“What did you tell him?” Janek asked.

“That if he persisted in his incessant prattle, each time we stopped I was going to block one of the openings until I could no longer hear him.”

It seemed to work. Bacdi held his tongue most of the rest of the way across Qaiwi, through the night, and during the following day’s journey to the army camp in Terai.

As they rode into Nakham, Janek observed just how much it had changed in the week since he was last there. Then, it had been an organized camp of soldiers, lodged in neat rows of identical tents, men and belongings kept orderly beneath the watchful gaze of the military commanders.

Now the camp could best be described as chaotic. Families camped wherever they had stopped their wagons. Some had tents, some stretched blankets from wagon to the ground, and still others slept in their wagons, among their belongings. Dogs and goats and children and chickens ran wild in a cacophony of sound.

“What is this?” he asked Commander Kabon when they finally made their way through the chaos and reached the large tent at the center of the camp.

Kabon gestured him toward a smaller tent, off to one side. He looked as though he had not slept in days. “I lodge here,” he said, drawing open the flap and leading Janek into a tent every bit as cluttered inside as the rest of the camp. “We gave over the command tent to the healers,” he said by way of explanation as he moved a saddle from a chair and onto a pile of blankets in a corner. “There were so many injured, we brought them back here. It seemed only right. Please, sit.”

“And the rest of... that?” Janek asked, gesturing to the radically altered camp as he sat.

“Refugees from Qaiwi,” Kabon said, dropping onto a stool. “Some want to return to their homes once the fighting has stopped. Others are eager to move on and find new homes elsewhere in Kushar. But I dare not let them leave without authority from the King.”

A group of children chased a goat past the tent, their laughter drawing a smile from Kabon’s tired face. “I am glad you have come,” he said to Janek. “I do not know what to do with all of these people. They look to me for help, but we have no stores of food here. When they run out of what they brought with them...”

“Have you sent word to Yepwin? To the king?”

“Yesterday. Whenever I see a bird fly overhead, my breath catches, as I hope that is the one that will tell me what I should do.”

Janek steepled his fingers, thinking.

“How many soldiers do you have here – healthy, functional soldiers, not the injured?”

“No more than three hundred, and many of them are only recently recovered from minor injuries received in battle. We have more than twice that who continue to require the healers’ care – and only a single squad of healers.”

Janek nodded.

“Let your healthy soldiers move through the camp, and take a census of the refugees – men, women, children. What skills they have, what gifts they possess. Make a note of those who have provisions to last them for at least two weeks and wish to move on into Kushar. Each day send away ten of these wagons, in different directions, with a mounted escort to accompany them as far as the border of Terai.”

“That will help to reduce our numbers,” Kabon agreed. “What of those who are waiting for it to be safe to return to Qaiwi.”

“In three days’ time, send them home,” Janek said. “On my order. I will not burden Yepwin overlong with people who do not intend to remain in Terai. Remind them that Qaiwi is part of Kushar and as long as they are loyal to King Batuhan and do as their new governor, Rashid, commands, they have nothing to fear from the king’s army.”

Kabon nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” He sighed. “I am best when confronted with a sword or a spear. When presented with the unruliness of families... there I admit defeat.”

Janek laughed. “Take heart, my friend. We will reduce your burden here to a manageable level – though if my own experience serves me, it may be some time before you no longer have children running through your camp.”

Kabon shook his head. “I fear you are correct. But I forget myself. You have come from Akkah? What brings you? And have you had refreshment of any kind? The refugees have set up marketplace of sorts—”

“Not necessary,” Janek said, waving off the offer. “I am here only for the night. I travel with a small group of Kizrei... and one other. We made camp well away from your refugees.”

“Ah,” Kabon said, understanding without naming him, who Janek referred to and their caution in keeping their distance. “You take him to Khulan, then?”

“Yes. We would exchange our horses for fresh ones, that we may leave at dawn.”

“I will call for my whisperer, to see to your needs.”

“Thank you. And then I will walk through your camp, observe the refugees. Perhaps visit this marketplace you speak of. It will help me to better frame the situation when I send my recommendations to the king.”

⬧

Zoya had not known so much green existed in all the world. It was not that she had never seen trees or shrubbery before, of course she had. Trees covered the mountains of Tzigane. Cultivators grew crops in the meadowlands.

But, in the days since she had crossed the Madia Pass and come to the southern side of the Janqurai Mountains, it was as though her eyes had forgotten how to see in shades of brown. The snow-covered conifer forest the pass had opened to had been enough like the mountain forests of Tzigane to feel familiar to her. But, instead of the hillside growing dry and brown and treeless as they descended into the valley and left the snow behind them, the conifers gave way to tall, broad-leafed trees whose spreading branches filtered the light that reached the ground.

Everywhere she looked, she saw a riot of green in every imaginable hue, from the deep green leaves of the overhanging tree canopies to the gentler shades of the delicate ferns that covered the forest floor. Even many of the birds flitting back and forth through the trees bore green plumage.

Though it was not raining, her skin felt strangely damp. The air was heavy here, thick to breathe, and tasted oddly of rotting wood. Small, grayish-brown animals with long, thin tails leapt from tree to tree, sometimes chattering at them, other times staring down at them with large brown eyes while clinging to the branches. Insects chirped and buzzed from their hiding places among the leaves.

And, if Armin was to be believed, it was still winter, though her limited experience with greenery of any sort argued that it must be high summer. Spring would arrive in the coming weeks, or so he insisted. Zoya could not believe there were yet more shades of green that could be added to the palette spread before her.

“Not just the bright greens of new growth,” Armin told her. “But, also pinks and purples, oranges and yellows. Flowers in every color you can imagine. You have not seen the world until you experience Rachusa in the fullness of spring.”

“I cannot imagine,” Zoya said.

As they traveled through the Kushari province of Qaiwi, Zoya tried not to stare too much at her surroundings. After all, a native Kushari would not be surprised to spend half a day riding through foothills cut into deep, flat steps.

“What do they grow there?” she asked Armin after he’d explained the local process of terracing the hills to create fields that were less susceptible to flooding than the surrounding lowlands.

“This is Qaiwi,” he said, as though that should be answer enough. When he saw her confused frown, he added, “they grow whatever they like here. Beans, vegetables, flowers for spices.” He squinted at the deep brown and green layers of the nearest hillside, then pointed. “Right now, they appear to be growing goats. Or sheep.”

Zoya looked where he was pointing and saw the animals moving across the hillside. “They let the animals clean the fields and help them prepare it for the next planting.”

“See?” Armin said. “You answered your own question.” He grinned at her. “Though if you truly want to know more, you will have to ask a cultivator, not a traveling merchant. I know about buying and selling; I do not know much at all about growing.”

After the incident with the border guards, they had chosen to bypass the nearest village and continue down the road, hoping to put some distance between themselves and anyone who might decide to follow them. They had driven on for two more hours before finding a place beneath the trees at the side of the road large enough to shelter their horses and wagons. They ate a cold meal and slept on top of the wagons, each taking a turn at watch.

So, it was with a sense of anticipation when, late in the afternoon of the following day, they approached a second village.

But, when they reached the village, they found it all but deserted. No one fetched water from the central well, no groups of women chatted near the marketplace while children ran about chasing chickens, and the marketplace itself was empty but for a single vendor with a small pile of rounded loaves of dry, brown bread.

Armin and Zoya exchanged troubled glances. But they needed food and water. So, while Navid got water for the horses and refilled their waterskins from the well, Zoya went to the bread vendor and Armin headed across the village commons to the town’s small tavern.

The bread vendor was happy enough to sell Zoya a half-dozen loaves for a decent price. “Told the wife no one would be coming to the market today, but she insisted. ‘Even soldiers need to eat,’ she says, and sent me with a full dozen loaves. These are my last for today. An entire day to sell a dozen loaves. Can you imagine it?”

“Where is everyone?” Zoya asked.

“Gone. Hiding. Who knows?” he said, bundling a waterskin and clay pot into the cloth from his table as he spoke. “My wife is baking bread for tomorrow even though there will be no one to buy it, and now that these loaves are gone, I am going to the tavern before the wine seller locks his doors.” He looked up at Zoya. “You should go home – it is not safe to be out after nightfall these days.”

“Why?”

But the man had already scooped up the cloth, tossed the bundle over his shoulder, and was trotting off toward the tavern as quickly as his legs could take him. Zoya shook her head, adjusted the loaves in her arms, and walked back to the wagons.

A moment later, Armin came out of the tavern. “We must go,” he said. He led the horses away from the water, scrambled up to his seat, and snatched up the reins, seeming more troubled than Zoya had seen him before.

“What is it?” she asked, mounting Sari, then guiding the horse over alongside Armin.

“The king’s army,” he said, urging the horses forward. “There is trouble in the provincial capital – the tavern keeper would not say more, except that the local whisperer may have a place for us. He was insistent that it is not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“The bread seller said the same, though he would not say why.”

“Having the army in the area makes everyone reluctant to talk to strangers,” Armin said. “No one wants attention drawn to them.”

They located the whisperer’s stable and settled in for the night. A dozen families had also taken shelter there, rather than stay in isolated homes at some distance from the village.

The next day, they joined the flow of refugees heading east, out of Qaiwi and into Kushar.

Groups of soldiers dressed in blue-uniforms occasionally passed them, heading in the opposite direction. Twice they were accompanied by pairs of hard-looking warriors in dark gray cloaks.

“Kizrei,” Armin whispered in response to Zoya’s unasked question.

Unlike Zoya’s wind dancer cloak, which had taken on a muted shade of green, not unlike the fallow fields they road past, the Kizrei’s gray cloaks seemed to absorb the light. Watching them ride past, Zoya found herself agreeing with Armin: no one who had seen a Gray Cloak, even in passing, would ever mistake her for a Kizrei.

She forced herself to sit straight and tall on Sari’s back. She might be equal to a Kizrei, but she knew her job and was good at it. Her queen relied on her.

The deeper they rode into Qaiwi, the quieter were the villages they passed, residents peering furtively at the refugees before slamming their doors. From time to time, they saw signs of recent fighting – broken wagons, torn clothing, dark stains on the ground that could only be blood. They saw no bodies, but fallen horses had been left to rot, the flies buzzing around them while carrion birds and wild dogs of a sort Zoya had never before seen picked the flesh from the carcasses, barely bothering to growl at the passing travelers.

The groups of blue-clad soldiers grew larger and more frequent the farther east they traveled. Several times, they were stopped and questioned before being allowed to continue.

On one occasion, it was a Kizrei who questioned them. The stocky, gray-cloaked man was no taller than Armin. Though his skin was somewhat darker, his broad shoulders and strong arms the product of extensive training, his facial features suggested he might be of similar lineage, from somewhere in central Kushar. “Whom do you serve?” he asked. “To whom do you pledge your fealty?”

This was the first time they had been asked this question, and Zoya listened closely to Armin’s response.

He answered without hesitation. “I am a merchant from Rachusa, and have been away from Kushar for several months. When I left, Batuhan sat on the throne in Khulan. If he sits there still, he is my liege. If he no longer rules, my loyalty lies with his rightful successor.”

The Kizrei studied Armin, then nodded. “Batuhan yet rules, friend,” he said. Then a hint of a smile touched his mouth – though it did not reach his eyes, Zoya noticed. “And the markets of Rachusa await your return,” he added.

As they began to move forward, the Kizrei guided his horse to walk alongside Zoya.

“You are not from Rachusa,” he said.

“I am not,” she said. “I am desert-born. The merchant hired me as a guard for his travels. As I had never before visited Kushar, I agreed to accompany him. Your land is quite different from any I have before seen.”

“I have not been to the deserts of the north, but have heard many tales,” the Kizrei said. “Speaking of tales, there are rumors that one of my squadron recently passed through the Madia Pass. You would not have seen her in your travels, by chance?”

Zoya shook her head. “You are the first of your rank we have spoken to in our journey. Before today, we have seen no other wearing the gray.”

“A pity,” he replied. “I would have heard the tale of her travels.” He turned away, to rejoin the soldiers. “Safe journey to your home, merchant. Keep to the road, and find shelter before dark.”

“I am glad this province was not our destination,” Zoya said to Armin when the Kizrei and soldiers were out of sight.

“You are a decent liar,” Armin said. “And do not get flustered easily. You would have been fine.”

“You mistake my point,” she said. “I was not afraid. I did not fully understand his question until I heard your answer.”

Armin began to laugh. “I suppose not,” he said. “The vocabulary of the caravan is of little use to the refugee.”

He was still chuckling a half-hour later when the small party they traveled with joined a much larger group of refugees being directed toward the border by more of the king’s soldiers.

They spent the night in a makeshift encampment, not unlike the nightly caravan camps. Except, instead of hired guards standing watch, here the refugees were guarded – and watched – by blue-clad soldiers.

“I do not like this,” Armin muttered. They had tended the horses and eaten a simple meal, and now sat listening to the sound of other travelers around them, voices dropping abruptly whenever the soldiers passed by.

Zoya watched the guards. “Neither do I,” she agreed.

“I will keep watch,” Navid said.

“Good. Wake me in two hours.” Zoya turned to Armin. “We will each take a turn.”

And so the night passed, and the next, and the next, each in a different camp a few miles farther down the road. Navid took the first turn, then Zoya, then Armin, who would wake Zoya again for the last turn before dawn. She watched in silence, little more than a shadow listening to the quiet conversations of the guards making their rounds through the camp.

Then she would spend a few hours of each afternoon’s travel sleeping on one of the wagons, Sari tied behind, when she began to feel the effects of the short nights’ sleep.

⬧

On the morning of the third day, as the refugees were finishing their breakfasts and preparing for the day’s journey, Zoya’s attention was drawn by a soldier speaking in a loud voice as he rode through the camp.

“We do not travel today,” he said. “Everyone is to remain in the camp.”

In response to multiple inquiries as to how long they could expect to say, his only reply was a vague, “I do not know – I was not told.”

With a sigh, Armin pounded the stakes of his large tent back into the ground, securing the ropes that held it in place. Zoya, who had already packed her own small sleeping tent as the sun was rising, tossed it and her saddle under Navid’s wagon. Grabbing her blanket, she crawled under the wagon, and was asleep in minutes.

When she woke, hot and sweaty a few hours later, she found Navid brushing down one of the horses. Armin – and one of the wagons – were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is your uncle,” she asked Navid.

“Marketplace,” Navid said.

“Of course, he is.” She picked up a waterskin and let a few drops fall on her face.

“We have plenty of water,” Navid said.

Zoya looked at him in confusion. “Why would I want more?”

“To wash...” Navid began awkwardly. Embarrassed, he left the sentence unfinished.

Zoya laughed. “The desert-born use sand to clean the sweat from our bodies, and oil to protect our skin from the sun. Water is precious to us. We do not waste it for something as mundane as washing.”

When Navid said nothing, busying himself with the horse he was grooming rather than look at her, she took pity on him and changed the subject. “Tell me of this market. Are we so near a village or a town?”

“We are in a place called Nakham, in the province of Terai—” he began.

“So, we are no longer in Qaiwi?”

“We left Qaiwi yesterday. This was where the army camped before they marched into Qaiwi – it is now the place where the refugees gather.” He finished with the horse and tucked the brush into the sash at his waist before moving to the next one in the line. One foot at a time, he lifted its legs and inspected its hooves while he talked. “The market is part of the refugee camp, not the town. My uncle is not the only trader here. As they talked – I am surprised they did not wake you – they agreed that buying and selling will help to keep the people from feeling so displaced.”

“A nice lie,” Zoya said. “They are merchants. They do not wish to miss an opportunity for profit.”

Navid laughed. “You may be right.”

Zoya headed in the direction Navid indicated, finger-combing through the stray ends of her long hair and rebraiding it as she walked. It felt good to walk after so many days in the saddle. About fifteen minutes later, she found the cluster of wagons and chaos the refugees were calling a marketplace.

A handful of traders, including Armin, had lined up their wagons and set up their vendor stalls in a short row, somewhat shaded by the branches of nearby trees. Opposite them, other vendors sat on blankets tossed haphazardly on the ground. These shouted to anyone who passed by, energetically waving them over to look at their often-meager offerings.

“They are mostly selling their own possessions,” Armin grumbled when Zoya reached him. “Exchanging things they brought from their homes and now realize they no longer need—”

“Or do not wish to carry,” Zoya said. She plucked a mango from a neatly-stacked mound on his counter and began to roll it between her palms, ignoring his frown. “I did not know you sold fruit.”

“I received the basket of fruit for one of the lengths of fabric that was torn by the border guards. It would have been wrong to have asked for more. And you are eating my profits.” He made to snatch at the mango, but she easily dodged him and climbed up onto a pile of woven textiles. She perched there, noisily sucking at the juicy fruit.

When one of the gray-robed Kizrei approached his counter and began looking at some of the fabrics and fused-sand jars he had brought back from Tzigane, Armin tossed a cloth at her. “Don’t drip on the textiles,” he hissed, then turned to talk to the warrior.

“I have not seen jars like these before,” the Kizrei said. “Are you also the artisan?”

“No, my lord,” Armin said. “I am but a traveling merchant, recently returned to Kushar after several months in the north.” He gestured around the vendor stall. “I brought back many interesting items from Tzigane and Tusya.”

“Tzigane...” the Kizrei said. “I am intrigued. My youngest daughter will marry soon. A gift from a foreign land might please her.”

Armin showed him a variety of items – intricately-dyed fabrics, braziers worked in two and three metals, jars and pots of fused sand – but while the man was polite and complimented the craftsmanship, none of them seemed to particularly catch his attention.

As he thanked Armin for his time and turned to walk away, Zoya slid down off the textiles, stepped over to Armin, and whispered in his ear.

“Wait one moment,” Armin called out to the Kizrei. “My assistant reminds me that there is one more case whose contents I should show you.”

He bustled to the back of the stall, and pushed open the flap that gave him access to his wagon. “I have not opened this since leaving the desert,” he said over his shoulder, rummaging through the wagon for a moment. He soon returned with a large, flat case wrapped in fabric dipped in wax and tied with a length of jute.

As Armin fought with the knots, then gently unwrapped the package under the Kizrei’s dark, watchful eyes, Zoya found her own attention split – anticipation at seeing the contents of the package, curiosity as she studied the Kizrei, and caution as she tracked the refugees who had paused in their own shopping and now craned their necks for a view while at the same time keeping a healthy distance from the gray-robed warrior.

He was taller and leaner than the stocky warrior who had talked to them that day in Qaiwi, but his eyes held a similar intensity. His hair was thick and full and pulled back in a short queue at the nape of his neck, a sprinkling of silver at the temples suggesting he might be close in age to Kusan, consort to Queen Yolara. In fact, in many ways, this Kizrei reminded Zoya of Kusan – particularly in the way his casual, easy attentiveness masked hidden power. For, though he never looked around at the gathering crowd, Zoya had the sense that he was entirely aware of them.

At last Armin had the package open, revealing three large paintings, desert scenes her sister, Rhea, had painted.

Pride welled up in Zoya as the Kizrei leaned forward, studying the first of the three, an eagle soaring over the rough, ochre cliffs outside Aywhai. He lifted it up, holding it at arms’ length.

“This is spectacular,” he said softly.

Rhea had painted the second scene while sitting on the cliffs above Aywhai. She had captured the energy of the city below and the desert beyond – and of the cloud of sand billowing up from the desert and turning the blue sky orange as a storm approached.

A tear came to Zoya’s eye as she remembered urging Rhea to leave the cliff and take shelter before the storm arrived. She’d become something of a storm herself, throwing paints and brushes into a bag while her sister sat calmly painting until the last possible moment. This scene, too, received high praise from the Kizrei, and he studied it for some time before setting it aside to look at the third.

Zoya was far more familiar with the scene in the third painting than she had been when Rhea had climbed up onto the wall of the caravanserai and painted the view of merchants and camels resting in the shade of the clusters of palm trees that dotted the grounds. At the time, Zoya had thought it an odd choice for her sister to paint. Now the image now brought back the memory of her camel’s rocking gait, the taste of the sand on her dry lips. She was almost certain she could hear the merchants’ shouts and the sharp smell of men and beasts.

The Kizrei looked up at Armin. “I will have them all,” he said. “Wrap them well – I would not have them damaged. There—” he pointed to a sack of Tzigani fabrics Armin had shown him before. “Wrap them in two lengths of this cloth... this red one, and this purple one.” He reached for the money pouch at his waist, revealing the dark hilt of a sword.

Zoya took a step away from the counter, putting her knuckle to her mouth, and pretended to lick the last of the sticky mango from her hand. Actually, she was trying to prevent herself from whooping with joy. The Kizrei’s reaction to the scenes had been exactly what Rhea always said she was working to convey – to transport the person to the desert, if for only a moment, when they looked at her paintings.

And he had bought all three!

While Armin wrapped the paintings, the Kizrei counted out several coins. “You said you are only recently returned to Kushar,” the Kizrei said. “Where is your home?”

“We travel to Rachusa, my lord,” Armin said. “I had hoped to be there by now, but...” he left the sentence unfinished, gesturing generally at the refugee camp around them.

“Ah, yes,” the Kizrei said. “The situation in Qaiwi has been a trial for us all. We hope to resolve matters soon, so those who have fled will feel safe in returning to their homes – and those who wish to make new homes elsewhere in Kushar will know they are welcome.”

Zoya was certain he had raised his voice a notch so those gathered behind him could hear without having to come closer. She met his eyes in challenge and he did not look away.

“How long will the refugees have to stay here?” she asked.

“I do not know,” he said, and she sensed no lie in his words. “We are doing what we can to secure the peace in Qaiwi, while also protecting the refugees from harm.”

Zoya nodded in acknowledgement. He was a warrior. It would have been unreasonable to expect him to know any more than that. “We are grateful to the king’s army – and the Kizrei – for their protection,” she said, dipping her head in respect.

Armin held up the wrapped package, the paintings now securely cushioned in layers of cloth, all bound in yet more of the protective waxed fabric.

The Kizrei reached for the bundle, then withdrew his hand. “Hold,” he said. “Do you have a sheet of parchment? Quill and ink?”

“Yes, my lord. Do you wish a receipt?” Armin asked, digging in a box below the counter and producing his small, square tablet, a vial of ink, and a quill. He turned to a blank page, then opened the vial of ink, preparing to write.

The Kizrei smiled. “No,” he said, taking the quill from Armin’s hand. He looked at the tablet curiously for a moment, before looking back at Armin. “What is your name, merchant?”

“I am Armin of Rachusa.”

The Kizrei nodded. He turned the tablet, dipped the quill in the ink, and wrote a few lines. Dipping the quill into the vial a second time, while a perplexed Armin held it for him, he signed the document with a flourish. Then he inked the large, ornately carved signet he wore on his right hand and pressed it to the page.

“This will grant you and those in your company safe passage throughout Kushar,” he said, handing the pen back to Armin. “You have provided me with gifts for those I hold most dear. Consider this a sign of my personal gratitude.”

And then, while Armin stood there staring at the still-drying ink, his mouth hanging open but unable to form words, the Kizrei picked up the bundle of paintings and strode away.

The crowd of refugees dispersed, returning to their shopping and gossiping, while Armin murmured insensibly, slowly picking up the tablet. He clutched it in both hands, holding it away from his body as though he was afraid it might burst into flames.

Zoya peered over his shoulder. “I cannot understand you. What are you saying?”

Armin pointed at the signature and seal. “Do you know who that was?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “That was Lord Janek.”

“Someone important, I assume,” Zoya said. “But that name means nothing to me.”

Armin looked up at her. “Lord Janek is the Grand Vizier of all Kushar. If there is anyone who would want to stop you on your mission, who would put us all to death if he had any suspicion of who you are and why you are here, it would be him.”

Chapter 20

Like most of the refugees, Zoya stayed up far later than she should have that night. Perhaps because they were trying to forget they had nowhere else to go, the refugees sang and danced and drank late into the night, groups moving through the camp like a traveling party. The air rang with the rhythmic, bell-like tones of hand drums. From time to time, drummers in different parts of the camp would break into spontaneous competition, the speed and intensity of their drumming echoing off the distant hills.

Zoya drank whatever was offered – there was wine, but no kumis, and several frothy cups of bitter beer. As the evening wore on, flutes, which had whistled lively tunes when the refugees danced around the fires, grew melancholic.

Armin’s mood had been close to frantic all day. Zoya tried to calm him, reminding him that no one – not even Navid – knew of her true purpose for traveling to Kushar. But Armin would not be calmed. He had tucked the tablet safely into the pouch at his waist, but all day muttered to himself about having made a bad deal.

So, when she awoke the next morning, her head throbbing, blinking in the light of a too-high sun, she was somewhat confused to find Navid packing up his wagon.

“I thought we were staying here until the army gave us leave to go,” she said.

“Yes, and they did,” Navid said. “About a half-hour ago. Someone came through taking a census—”

“Where is Armin?”

“He went to talk to one of the other vendors,” Navid said.

“Of course. Tell me about this census?”

“They wanted to know how many people were in our group, and if we had enough food to last us for several days. Armin told them we did, and they said a guard would come in an hour to guide us to the road to Rachusa.”

“And no one woke me?”

“Armin said to let you sleep. You have less to pack than we do.”

“Hmmmf,” Zoya said. When Navid had nothing further to add, she went over to Armin’s wagon and dug through the box he kept under his seat, emerging with a handful of figs. She studied them, trying to decide if they were going bad or just not fully dried, sniffed one, tasted it, and decided that Armin wouldn’t have kept them if they weren’t still edible.

She nibbled at one and put the others in her pocket. “I guess I should pack,” she said.

A short time later, they joined three other wagons and a few other refugee families on the road to Rachusa.

“How long?” Zoya asked, bringing Sari up beside Armin.

“At this pace? Two, three weeks. If everything else stays normal,” Armin said.

It was the most he had spoken to her since the previous day. Zoya decided not to comment on it, keeping her occasional remarks to non-threatening topics like the weather and how much longer it would be until the rains came, which he said wouldn’t be for a little more than three months.

The blue-uniformed soldiers who accompanied them from the camp left them at the border of the neighboring province of Sigea about an hour before nightfall. They made camp there, the general chatter that evening much quieter than the previous night’s revelry.

For three days they rode thus, Armin’s wagon leading the way while the handcarts and smaller wagons of the refugees followed along behind. As the refugee families had no paid guard, Zoya periodically circled back around them, checking on stragglers and reminding all to keep to the high, packed earth at the center of the road. No one wanted to risk becoming mired in the thick mud that bordered the road on either side.

“Is it usually like this?” Zoya asked Armin on the second day, gesturing around them. Fog filled the air, making it difficult to see more than a few wagon-lengths ahead. Tall trees with large, flat leaves rose from the mud, where they stood like ghostly sentinels, the marks of the water line high on bent roots, giving them the appearance of having paused in mid-march. Tangled vines dangled from the branches, and spider webs heavy with dew often brushed her face, but the humid air was quiet, with few birds or insects breaking the silence.

“A river of mud?” Armin replied. “No. I have never seen it so low. With the headwaters running free, I am surprised there is not more water here. Something must be blocking the river behind us. We will want to stay alert – you have seen how fiercely the water flows when not held back.”

“And the fog?”

“That is normal. Though more common during the rains.”

By the fourth day, the water level had risen somewhat, though still barely enough to hide the mud, if the long-legged birds picking their way through tall grasses were any indication. They poked their sharp beaks into the mud, occasionally retrieving a splashing fish or squirming frog. The fog had mostly receded, though a layer of mist still hovered over the water well into the day. Insects, too, had again begun to buzz in the trees.

Neither Armin nor Zoya could make any sense of the change, and dismissed as improbable the general opinion of the refugees that it was somehow the fault of the conflict in Qaiwi.

As she had since the beginning of their journey, Zoya rode her usual path, circling around to check on the refugee families every two hours, before returning to take her place three wagon-lengths ahead of Armin’s team. That position kept her close enough to hear, should anyone in their mock-caravan need her help, but also far enough ahead to see and alert the wagons to any approaching danger.

A movement to the right of the road caught her eye.

She glanced over, but saw nothing more than a large, rough, half-submerged log floating in the shallow water beneath the mist. But even as she turned her attention back to the road, Sari reared, snorting and fighting the reins.

Zoya kept her seat, but found herself fighting to get the horse under control while at the same time staring uncomprehendingly at the creature climbing out of the swamp and onto the road.

If lizards could be as long as a man – larger still – and have skin the greenish-brown color and knobbly texture of a dead tree... She glanced back at the floating log, not surprised to see it staring back at her from dark eyes, and turning lazily in her direction.

The giant lizard ahead of her had reached the road, and was now waddling rapidly toward Sari, its long mouth open to reveal rows of sharp teeth.

Sari was still fighting Zoya. She managed to get him under control long enough to jump from his back without tumbling to the ground, and the horse immediately fled, racing toward the wagons.

Zoya didn’t have time to watch him go or worry about whether someone would catch him. She spun, drawing her sword and taking several steps backward, away from the advancing lizard. It had slowed, lowering itself more closely to the ground and taking a few quick steps before stopping and watching her carefully for a moment. Then it would move forward again, claws half the length of her fingers digging into the packed dirt for purchase.

She watched it in return, looking for any sort of weakness she could exploit. Its flat head was broad where it joined the body, its wide-set eyes protected by knobby protrusions. The tooth-filled mouth formed a large wedge, opening on strong jaws just below the eyes and narrowing to a rounded snout. The hide covering its shoulders and body was textured like heavy armor, with tall ridges running all the way to the end of its sinuous tail, which was nearly the length of its body.

In Zoya’s opinion, the creature looked extremely well-defended against any predator, including her. The only vulnerability she saw would be at the back of its head, where its swaying head joined the body. But to get there...

Very slowly, as if hoping she wouldn’t notice, the lizard began to rise up onto its legs.

Zoya held her sword ready.

The creature charged, tail whipping from side to side, as though pushing it forward.

Zoya sprang forward.

The two raced toward each other, both adjusting course as they ran – Zoya swerving and dodging to stay out of range of the open mouth, the creature twisting to keep her in its sights.

Zoya leapt past the creature’s snout, slapping its nose with the flat of her sword as she flew just beyond its reach. Momentarily stunned, the creature was still for a second – just long enough for Zoya to leap onto its large, wide body.

There was nothing to hold onto. Grasping for the bony ridge over the creature’s eye, she missed, her left fist coming down on its forehead, momentarily pressing it to the ground. It thrashed, tail flailing about in its anger, and it was all she could do to keep from falling off.

She let her legs slide off to either side, like she was riding it, her body laying forward on its back, one hand holding onto the rough, knobby flesh of its front leg, grabbing it just where it joined the body. It thrashed its head back and forth, trying to reach her with its snapping jaws, but could not bend tightly enough upon itself.

Its back legs, though, were well within reach of hers, and she felt it clawing at her with its powerful feet.

As it swung its head up and down, from side to side, she saw clearly where the head joined the body. Turning her sword in her right hand so she held it more like a dagger, she squeezed the sides of the creature’s twisting body with her knees. Then she let go of its leg and smashed her left fist down on the top of its head again. In almost the same breath, she raised her sword and drove it down, into the spot she had identified as her target.

The creature shuddered, then went still.

Zoya sat there for a moment, then pulled her sword from its neck.

“There will be more,” Armin called out.

Zoya looked up, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. He had stopped a reasonable distance from the battle, though close enough to observe. Navid stood beside his uncle’s wagon, holding Sari’s reins. On the other side, several of the refugees had clustered together, peering over each other, craning their necks to see the spectacle.

She glanced out at the water. The swimming creature had drifted farther out, no longer interested in her – though it kept a watchful eye on the horses and children. Biding its time.

Zoya stood, stepping away from the dead creature, then reached up and tore a broad leaf, the size of her hand, from an overhanging branch. Wiping her sword with the leaf, she walked up to Armin’s wagon. “What was that thing?” she asked. “I have never seen such a lizard.”

“It is called a crocodile,” he told her. “They are common along the river, but most prefer the swamps of Terai.”

“Seems they like this swamp just fine.” Zoya muttered. She turned to Navid. “Thank you for holding Sari. He had quite a fright.”

“Excuse me, but are you just going to leave it there?” one of the refugees asked. She was a motherly woman named Jela who rode in one of the three horse-drawn wagons.

Zoya gestured at Sari. “I have no place to carry it.”

“May we take it?”

“If you wish.”

Jela, two of the men, and another woman rushed forward, already brandishing knives. In a matter of minutes, they had skinned the crocodile, rolled up the hide, and cut the meat into pieces. While the parents worked, several of the children gathered large leaves and lengths of thin vines which were used to wrap the meat into parcels. These they distributed throughout the small caravan.

Zoya watched the process with interest, toying with the pendant she wore around her neck. It had slipped out from her collar during the fight, but at least the cord hadn’t broken. She tucked it securely inside her shirt.

When the refugees were finished butchering the crocodile, Jela came over to her and offered her one of the bundles. “For your evening meal,” she said.

Zoya thanked her, slipping the parcel into one of the large pouches that hung from Sari’s saddle.

When they finally moved forward again, Zoya noticed that everyone stayed much closer together now, none of the families lagging behind. Nothing remained of the dead crocodile except a dark stain in the packed earth of the road.

⬧

Ten days and two more dead crocodiles later, Zoya got her first glimpse of Rachusa. They had passed several small, riverside villages, the houses built well away from the water and under the sheltering branches of large trees. These were often roughly constructed, with bundles of tied leaves forming the roofs and openings, with no coverings for doors and windows – though in one village Zoya saw several that had the look of having been grown in place, roof and all, by a talented cultivator.

“I have seen several houses like that,” Zoya said, pointing at one of the houses, rising above the ground on tall legs, with a ladder leading from the ground to the open door. “It is most unusual.”

“The river floods often here,” Armin said. “So, they build their homes above the level of the waters.”

Zoya considered this. Armin might be right, but she had seen the crocodiles in and along the river, and was certain the houses had been raised to protect their residents from more dangers than just water.

Of the ten refugee families who had accompanied them out of Terai, only three traveled all the way to Rachusa.

The two families pulling handcarts were the first to leave, choosing to make their new homes in one of the larger villages they came to, nearly a week after Zoya had killed the first crocodile. The river had been gradually returning to normal, and the town seemed healthy, though not prosperous. Armin used his writ of passage from the Grand Vizier to introduce them to the town elders, and the rest of the refugees showered them with gifts from their own meager belongings, wishing them well. The women of these two families were sisters, and took comfort in beginning their new lives with someone they knew close by.

Another family left their small caravan the next day, the broad fields spreading out from the riverbanks beckoning to the heart of the cultivator who traveled with several young children under his care.

“Do you think those are all his children?” Armin asked in a low voice.

“They all call him ‘papai,’” Zoya replied.

Armin scratched his head. “I do not know... I heard rumors in the camp that the army was gathering up the children whose parents had been lost in the fighting.”

“To what purpose?”

“To send them to new homes elsewhere in Kushar.”

“Truly?”

“Better that than selling them as slaves,” Armin said. “I wonder if our cultivator claimed the children as his own to protect them.”

“He has no wife to contradict the claim,” Zoya said. “And they all seem very tightly-bound to each other.” She shrugged. “If that is what he did, I applaud him. And now, thanks to you, he has the Grand Vizier’s blessing on his assembled family.”

As they left the town, Armin glanced back briefly, then clicked the reins, chuckling.

“What?” Zoya asked, turning but seeing nothing amusing.

“The young women of the town have already taken interest in our cultivator and his brood,” he said, grinning. “They will be just fine.”

Over the next few days, the road improved and the towns grew closer together. Two of the refugee families settled in a busy little town, where they were welcomed with open arms in the hopes that one of them might be willing to step into the role of the town’s retiring baker. A small family quietly found a home in a neighboring town – or at least that was what Zoya hoped when a couple with their infant did not rejoin them when it was time to leave the town after their midday stop.

The following morning, another family stayed behind, leaving only Armin, with his two wagons, and the three families who also had large wagons. They were all headed to Rachusa, now less than two full days’ journey away.

The villages and towns had changed as they traveled, from the small, rough houses along the river they had seen earlier to homes that, while also made primarily of wood – a fact that Zoya continued to marvel at – were larger than many of the village houses. Like the village houses, they sat up on high legs, but many of these had broad stairs from the ground, proper doors, and window openings filled with intricate latticework. It was only as they neared the city that the buildings – larger, but still raised – began to be made more often of stone than of wood.

And, everywhere, there were trees, and vines, and brightly colored flowers unlike any Zoya had ever seen before.

“You cannot convince me we are still in winter,” Zoya said, raising a deep pink flower the size of her fist to her nose and inhaling its syrupy sweetness.

“Not here in the river valley, no,” Armin said. “Here it is spring. In the mountains, the winter makes its last claim on the highest peaks. But the sun shines even more brightly there than here, and the spring will soon take root there as well.”

After journeying for so long, and through such varied country, Zoya had no idea what to expect from Rachusa. Armin had spoken of a rich city of stone buildings, tall towers, plazas, and fountains, but his descriptions failed to convey the spectacle that was the city. When they came around a bend in the road where the trees parted allowing them a view of the opposite shore of the now wide, smooth river, Zoya found herself at a loss for words.

The city rose from the water’s edge –steps descending right down into the water in some places, where boats unloaded their cargo. Like the planting terraces she had seen in Qaiwi, the city climbed the steep foothills in high levels, each covered with buildings of creamy stone ribboned with gold. Tall, slim towers were topped with translucent globes, while many of the buildings were crowned with egg-shaped domes in vibrant shades of green, blue, orange, and red.

Throughout the city, enormous trees of all shapes rose, their branches swaying in the light afternoon breeze. Broad-leafed palms, like those that once grew throughout Nizam, clustered around the base of fountains, and vines, heavy with pink, purple, and yellow flowers climbed up the sides of buildings and spilled over railings.

“Ohhh...,” Zoya breathed.

“You like my city?” Armin asked.

Zoya nodded, unable to form words. There was so much to see. As she looked at a crenelated wall along the flat roof of one building, saw movement on it, and realized the tiny figure visible just above the top was a person, the scale of the city nearly overwhelmed her. There were people everywhere! Holding her hand above her eyes to shade them from the sun, she squinted, bringing the sight into better focus. Patches of bright color revealed themselves as the swing of colorful silks as people walked through courtyards, into and out of buildings, up and down stairs.

“And see! The melting snow already begins to flow,” Armin said, drawing her attention to the multiple waterfalls cascading down in bright ribbons between the buildings.

Zoya raised her gaze to look beyond the buildings. Beyond the brilliant green of the terraced foothills where the city sat, the craggy snow-covered peaks of the Janqurai Mountains outlined a hazy shadow scraping the sky.

“Ayametu is there?” she whispered.

“It is.”

It took another two hours following the curve of the river before they reached the wide, high bridge that would carry them into the city proper. There was no shortage of activity on this side of the river, either, where a merchant town had sprung up and river barges docked at quays unloaded their goods into waiting wagons.

“It is like the caravanserai and marketplace all in one,” Zoya said to Armin.

“In many ways, yes,” he agreed. “Much of the trade comes into Rachusa on this side of the river, where it is loaded onto wagons that will take it into the heart of Kushar.”

He pointed to a tall building with a blue dome, not unlike some of the smaller buildings across the river. “We will turn there,” he said. “And take the wagons to the warehouse of Navid’s father. He, of course, will chastise me for returning so late in the season and will have already counted the daily cost of our delay. I will blame it on the trouble in Qaiwi, of which he will be apprised, and all will be well.”

“And what will you tell him of me?”

“You are a guard I hired in the north, and have served me well. As you wished to see our fair land, and we were traveling through distressed areas, I retained your services... indefinitely. If you wish, I will arrange lodging for you with the other guards in our employ.”

They moved forward, slowly, but steadily through the increasingly noisy, busy road. Zoya glanced back and saw the refugee wagons doing their best not to lose sight of Armin.

“What about the refugees?” she called to him.

“I have not forgotten them,” he said. “We will ask my brother-in-law what part of town we should set them in. Not in the merchant quarter, of course, nor across the bridge – at least not until they have had time to decide for themselves what kind of life they wish here.”

He steered around a fallen cart whose load of fruit had spilled into the street when a wheel had broken. “Unless they happened to have fled from their capital – Arrak or Akkar, I believe it is called – they have not likely seen a city like this before.”

“It is... magnificent.”

“Yes. I feel the same whenever I return home after a long time away.”

His words were simple, but Zoya heard the pride in them. She understood. She had felt that way about Nizam, before the beautiful oasis city had been lost to the desert.

They wound through the streets of the merchant quarter and finally reached the large, square building that Armin called a warehouse. Again, Zoya saw the similarity to a caravanserai. There were stables for the horses and rooms for the goods to be stored until they were sold or sent elsewhere. Drivers and guards who did not have homes in the city were given rooms on an upper floor.

Armin’s brother-in-law, Dulan, was large and dark-skinned, fully a head taller than Zoya, with broad shoulders and thick arms. His domed head was completely bald, all the hair having migrated to his long, thick beard which he wore in the Tusyan style, tight twists bound with many multicolored beads. He rushed out of the open gates of the warehouse, running with a limp, a heavy walking stick creating a three-legged gait. With a wide smile on his face, he practically lifted Navid off his seat, spinning the slim young man around as he crushed him to his chest in a tight hug.

When he finally set his son on his feet, murmured a few words to him, then strode over to Armin, the limp now more pronounced after all the spinning and running, Zoya was prepared for him to do much the same. Instead, he planted his feet on the ground, braced himself against his cane, and looked up at the short merchant.

“You are three and one-half weeks late,” Dulan said, his voice deep and gruff.

“There was a war,” Armin said with a shrug.

“You came through Qaiwi? Why would you do that?”

“I did not know there would be an army blocking my way. All things considered, we could have been later.”

“You could have been earlier. If you had come from the east, you would have missed the army altogether.”

“True.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Zoya wondered if there was going to be a fight. But, as she was inching her hand toward her fighting stick, the two men suddenly burst into laughter and smiles.

“It is good to have you home, my brother,” Dulan said.

“It is good to be home.” Armin replied. He gestured to the refugee wagons. “We need to find places for them – refugees from Qaiwi.”

Dulan looked over at the refugee wagons. “What skills do they have?”

“I do not know. We have been rather occupied with survival of late. But I gave them my word we would shelter them for a few weeks, until they are able to find homes and employment suitable for their skills.” At Dulan’s scowl, Armin leaned forward. “They accompany me with the blessing of the Grand Vizier,” he said softly.

“Is that so?” Dulan scratched his head, the beads of his beard clicking as they swung together. “Then we shall do what we can for them.” He jutted his chin toward Zoya. “And her? Another refugee?”

“A hired guard, from the north.”

“Good idea, keeping a guard with you while traveling through a warring province. There are many coming from the west who have not yet returned.”

Dulan was more somber, less chatty than Armin, but knew his business. After a little more banter, he directed the wagons to their places inside the warehouse, gesturing with the walking stick, which he also used as a pointer. Zoya rode with the refugee families to a place at the far end, where Dulan assured them their belongings would be safe and not become mixed in with the rest of the merchandise.

“This is only temporary, until they can find you appropriate lodging,” she told them, sliding off Sari’s back and looping the horse’s reins over a post. She turned to help them unhitch the horses from the wagons.

She had just closed the gate on the large stall holding two of the refugees’ horses when Jela, the woman who had given Zoya the leaf-wrapped portion of crocodile, approached her.

“My lady,” she said.

“I am not a lady,” Zoya said. “Only a simple soldier.”

“Yes, my lady,” Jela said. “We – all of us – wanted to thank you for watching over us as you did. We cannot pay you, but... here.” She thrust out a large package, tied with a thin cord made of dried vine.

“There is no need—” Zoya began, but Jela cut her off.

“You watched over us in the night, made sure none were left behind, and battled the crocodiles on our behalf. Please allow us to show our gratitude.”

Embarrassed, Zoya nodded and accepted the package. Jela’s family and the families from the other two wagons had gathered behind her, all watching while Zoya untied the cord and slowly unfolded the greenish-brown leather.

Jela had taken the hides from the crocodiles Zoya had killed, and somehow over the several days of their travel fashioned it into an armored vest. Leather straps connected to the vest attached a waist pouch, and the whole thing was lined with a colorful patchwork of fabrics. A pair of matching bracers lay in the folds of the vest.

“This is... I am... how did you?” Zoya stammered. “Here, help me.” She held the vest out for Jela to hold while she removed her wind dancer cloak. Taking the vest, she pulled it on over her tunic, adjusting the sleeves and fabric of the linen tunic so it would lay flat beneath the leather. It was then the work of only a moment to tighten the laces down each side of the vest, pulling it snug around her body.

“It is perfect,” she said, running her hand down over the knobbly hide, which the women had somehow left strong yet made supple at the same time. Looking up at Jela, she smiled. “I have never had anything like it. How did you manage it?”

“All of the women helped,” Jela said, handing one of the bracers to her, and talking while Zoya fitted first one then the other around her forearms. “Scraping the hide and tanning it in the smoke of our cooking fires. We cut the pieces during our evening camps, each taking pieces to stitch together while we rode in the wagons during the day.” She touched the brass loops and brown leather straps that held the waist pouch in place. “The men contributed these pieces from their own coats and boots, and the lining is made from pieces of the children’s clothing.”

“I do not know what to say,” Zoya said, holding her arms out, admiring the bracers. “That you all would do this for me...” She looked back down at the vest. “This is a warrior’s vest. I am honored.”

Just then one of the children, a boy of no more than seven, pulled away from his father and ran up to her. “This is for you, too,” he said, raising his fist to her. “We all have one.”

Zoya held out her hand and the boy dropped a large crocodile tooth into her palm. A hole had been drilled into it, and a braided cord passed through it.

“All of the children who traveled with us were given a tooth,” Jela said.

“The crocodile had many teeth,” the boy said. “Our papai made these for us. Told us to wear them, to be good. To be brave. Like you.”

The other refugees drew closer, and Zoya saw then that all of the children wore crocodile tooth pendants. Her eyes brimming, she looped the cord over her head and settled the pendant on her chest.

“You showed us that it is not enough just to be strong,” one of the men said – Zoya guessed he was the boy’s father. “You have to be good and be brave. We wanted our children to remember that. To remember you, Zoya, desert-born.”

⬧

Over the next two weeks, most of Zoya’s time was spent running errands for Dulan. The merchant seemed determined to prove her worth to himself before fully accepting her as a member of his staff.

Zoya didn’t mind, much. Dulan’s errands – mostly deliveries to noble houses in Rachusa or to shops in towns a short distance up or downriver – kept her from lying about, idle. They also gave her the opportunity to explore the area.

She saw little of Armin in those days, though she did locate his house – a three story riad that was as simple and unassuming in its exterior design as the merchant himself. The inside, however, was nearly the opposite, a lively, colorful gallery reflecting Armin’s travels. Finely wrought pots and jars in distinctive styles, some Zoya recognized from the marketplaces of Tzigane, sat on tables or in niches in the walls. And the walls were covered with paintings – scenes depicting the desert, mountain, seashore, and savannah, populated with birds and animals Zoya had never seen. A trio of tall, thin palms grew from large pots in the central courtyard, reaching upward through the open ceiling while offering shade to the balconies on each of the upper floors.

“You travel in simplicity, yet live in splendor,” she said when he came out of a room to greet her. He was barefoot, and wore a pale cream tunic and pants of fine linen, with a long-sleeved robe of turquoise silk trimmed in gold.

“There are benefits to my travels,” he said with a shrug. “First pick of the merchandise. Dulan sent you?”

“Yes.” She handed him the small packet she had been instructed to deliver. “The refugees have all found homes and employment. Was that your doing?”

“Mine and Dulan’s,” Armin said with a chuckle. “I wanted them seen to, he wanted them out of the warehouse.”

“No surprise,” Zoya said. “The parents were hard-pressed to keep the children from climbing on the crates and hiding between stacks of carpets. There are some beautiful carpets there, by the way.”

“They come from a vendor in the south. His family makes them. If you are interested—”

Zoya waved the offer away. “What would I do with a carpet?” she asked.

“Must you leave so soon?” he asked as she turned toward the door. “At least allow me to offer you some refreshment.”

“Thank you, but no. I have several more packages to deliver, and though I am becoming more familiar with the city, it still takes time to find each shop or house.”

Armin glanced around, as though assuring himself that no one listened, then lowered his voice. “Dulan tests you,” he said. “Though the situation in Qaiwi appears to have been resolved, at least for now, the tensions continue to disrupt the flow of trade from the west. Our house has been contacted about conveying supplies up the mountain when the road opens. You are one of those he is considering sending.”

“This is good.”

“This is more than good. It is very important for the future of our house. Dulan can no longer go himself, and will send only those he trusts.”

“Then I will endeavor to be worthy of that trust,” Zoya said. She reached out and clasped Armin by the forearm. “I must serve my queen, first and foremost, but in doing so, I will do all I can to avoid bringing dishonor to you and your house. This I promise you.”

He returned the handclasp. “You are an honorable person, Zoya of Tzigane.”

She smiled, releasing his arm. “I must go now.” She took the last few steps to the door, then paused, her hand on the latch.

“Should it come to it,” she said softly, not looking back at him. “Deny it all. Say that I presented myself as nothing more than a guard, and made many claims of my prior employment as such that you since learned to be false. Take no responsibility for my actions, Armin. Let the sword fall on my neck alone.”

Not waiting for a reply, she left the riad. Sari was tied nearby, and Zoya was in the saddle and riding away before she heard Armin’s door click quietly closed behind her.

Chapter 21

Yolara, Queen of Nizam, seldom had occasion to run. But, on this day, she ran from her study and through the villa in search of Kusan, a message scroll clutched tightly in her clenched fist.

“Where is my husband?” she asked each servant she encountered, not stopping when they did not know his whereabouts.

She had to find him.

“He is in the stables, my lady, with the Queen’s Guard,” answered a porter just coming from the kitchens. “Shall I fetch him?”

“Thank you, no. I will go myself,” Yolara said, barely slowing as she changed her direction.

“But the snow—”

Yolara ignored him, though she did pause to snatch up a warm cloak before dashing across the empty courtyard and down the long, winding path to the stables, oblivious to the weather. The late spring storm would melt as quickly as it had come, though now it blotted out her footprints only moments after her passage.

She burst into the stables in a flurry of snow, the cold, dry flakes swirling in with her, only to melt in an instant in the warmth of the sheltering stone walls and shuttered windows.

“My lady, what is wrong?” Kusan said, rushing toward her, leaving the whisperer he had been talking with.

Yolara held out the message scroll. “We must talk.”

Kusan took the scroll, immediately studying the glyph on the broken seal. “This is from Zoya,” he whispered.

Yolara nodded.

“You have read it?”

“Yes.”

Snatching up a lantern, Kusan led her deeper into the stable, until they came to an empty stall where they would not be disturbed. He hung the lantern on a hook, then unrolled the scroll and began to read.

My dear sister, at long last I have found the packages you were looking for...

“She has found them,” Yolara breathed.

“Yes.”

...Though they were hidden on an extremely high shelf, and were difficult to find, they are secure and have been well cared-for...

“In the mountains?” Kusan asked, looking at Yolara.

“That is my understanding,” she said. “And it matches what the merchant told us. The Janqurai are vast. There would be many secret places in those mountains.”

...It will be challenging to retrieve them...

“I must tell Reinhard,” Yolara said. “And send word to Zoya to bring them home.”

“Hold,” Kusan said. He held up the scroll. “Zoya says here that she does not know if she can bring them home. Why risk bringing more grief to Reinhard and Angelina when we do not know what may yet transpire?”

Yolara paced the empty stall, reaching into her pocket to turn the small, veined stone she kept there, a reminder of her connection to the mountain. “My uncle is not a young man,” she said at last. “If we wait too long, he may go to his rest never knowing his daughters – my sisters – are still alive.”

She walked from one side of the stall to the other, then turned to face her husband. “I must tell him, Kusan. It would be wrong not to.”

Kusan stepped to her and put his arm around her. “No falcon will want to fly in this weather. When the sun shines – tomorrow, the next day – if you still feel as you do now, then we will send messages to Reinhard and Zoya. But, think on it carefully, my love. Once those birds take wing, we will not be able to stop the events that follow.”

⬧

King Reinhard of Gerlach paused in mid-bite, gesturing with the large turkey leg for the young messenger to come forward. “What news has the whisperer received today?”

“Three messages, my lord,” the youth said, placing a small stone tray bearing three rolled and sealed message tubes on the table within easy reach of the king.

Reinhard glanced at the seals as he took another bite. Two were from nobles he had recently sent as part of a trade delegation to the coastal country of Lancara. A beautiful country, if small, and a popular stop on the trade routes. And though it was currently a Kushari protectorate, they were just far enough away from their parent country to enjoy a certain level of autonomy. With a sigh, he pushed the two scrolls aside. Undoubtedly, the bickering nobles were each trying to outdo the other with reports of their successes.

He would read their messages later.

The third message bore the seal of his pretty young niece, Yolara. He smiled. It was hard to think of her as a queen in her own right, even after nearly ten years, and not of the young girl who had discovered her stoneworker’s gift in his palace. She too seldom wrote.

He began to reach for the scroll, then realized that his greasy hands would likely smear the ink.

“Open that one,” he told the messenger.

The youth did as he was commanded, and opened the scroll for Reinhard to read. But the tightly rolled parchment rolled back on itself as soon as the messenger let go.

“Read it to me.”

“Pardon, my lord, but I cannot read.”

Reinhard scowled, shaking his head. “Of course, of course,” he said. Choosing youths who were unschooled to carry the messages to and from the whisperer’s tower, where the falcons and other messenger birds roosted, was intended to ensure the secrets the birds carried remained private. It was just one of the many changes Prince Liam had suggested after coming home from his fosterage.

It seemed to be working, at least as far as Reinhard had observed thus far. He had long questioned the fosterage program, seeing it as little more than a way to arrange advantageous political marriages. The young nobles so often came home with outlandish ideas from other cultures, it was frequently unsettling – especially to someone like Reinhard, who had not left Gerlach in years, and was long accustomed to ruling according to tradition rather than adopting the innovative ideas of the young.

Or they didn’t come home at all, like his young daughters. He didn’t like to think on that, and tore off another chunk of the roasted bird, the juices dribbling down into his beard, darkening the grey and gold curls.

But Liam had married well – a quiet little thing from Zuria who, after nearly a year, no longer froze like a rabbit whenever he came into the room. And, both Liam and his younger brother, Matias, had made many good and useful suggestions based on the education they had received during their time abroad. So, perhaps the fosterage wasn’t entirely a waste of time.

Reinhard took a last, large bite of the roasted bird, then pushed the plate away and wiped his hands on a large square of cloth. The queen had begun insisting that every meal be accompanied by such cloths – some notion she had learned in correspondence with one of her friends from another court, no doubt.

It was mostly a bother, something he tolerated out of deference to his wife, but today Reinhard was glad for it. His hands clean, he reached for the message, unrolled it, and began to read.

And as he read, the fingers of his free hand tightened, pressing into the stone surface of the heavy granite table like it was nothing more than soft wax. A moment later, he pushed away from the table with a bellowing roar, his chair falling over backward behind him.

The young messenger had begun to ease quietly back, but froze when Reinhard fixed his furious gaze on him.

“Find my sons and send them to me. And Lord Jochen,” he said, his voice low and cold. When the youth hesitated, he added a roaring “Now!”

Reinhard stood there, trembling, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. His daughters, whom he had believed to be long dead, were alive! It was impossible, but, even young as she was, he knew Yolara would have made sure it was true before bringing the news to him.

Alive!

And being held captive by the Kushari king. Though Yolara had not said as much, that was clearly the situation. His daughters would have been returned to him if it had been anyone else. Only that clever southern snake would have had the audacity to imprison his daughters.

King Reinhard of Gerlach considered himself a reasonable man, as stable as the stone of the castle he lived in. Solid as the mountain beneath his feet. But, at nearly sixty-seven years of age, with over fifty years of statecraft under his belt, he was not so old that he had lost the capacity to be cunning.

Matias rushed into the dining hall. “Father, you sent for us?” he said. “Liam is right behind me.”

“I am here, Father,” Liam said, entering the room close on his brother’s heels.

Reinhard held up his hands, steadying his breathing. “We will wait for Jochen,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

His sons waited. They knew better than to press him for details until he was ready to speak. Matias, at nearly nineteen, had not been home from his fosterage for even a year, but was steady and solid, his fingertips bearing the dark gray of granite nails like his own, the sign of their stoneworker’s gift. Liam, a little more than a year older than his brother, had no magical gift, and was the more volatile of the two. He wore a cloak trimmed with the fur of a gray wolf at the shoulders, and now prowled the dining hall as though seeking his prey.

It was too bad, really. Matias would have made the better king, but Liam was his heir. With luck, the camaraderie that existed between the brothers would continue, and Liam’s wolf would be tempered by Matias’ steadier nature.

His lips curved in a faint, hard smile. Today, though, it was time for the wolf.

Jochen entered the hall, an expression of concern shifting at once to curiosity as he took note of the look in his cousin’s eye. He closed the door behind him.

Reinhard did not waste time with greetings. Holding up the message scroll, he said simply, “Katya and Leisha are alive, captives of the Kushari. I tell you this, and require that you share this with no one.” He looked at his sons. “Not even – especially not – your mother. Not yet. I will tell her myself when the time is right.”

“What are we going to do?” Liam asked.

“We are going to get them back.”

“You are not suggesting we go to war?” Jochen said.

“If it comes to it,” Reinhard said. “If I have understood her message correctly, Yolara has sent an envoy to secure the twins’ release. It will take them at least a month to cross the desert. I have another idea – one which should yield faster results.”

He turned to Matias. “Go to the fosterage mistress. I want to know what youths of the Kushari are in fosterage – not just in Gerlach, but across the kingdoms.”

To Liam he said, “Summon two or three of your most trusted warriors. Be ready to ride within the hour.”

He looked around at them. “If luck is with us, there will be at least one or two youths in fosterage King Batuhan considers valuable enough to be worth a trade.

⬧

Zoya stared at the marks she had made on the wall of her lodging in Dulan’s warehouse, a row of charcoal lines counting the days. It had been over three weeks since she had sent the message to Queen Yolara. Allowing three or four days for the falcon to make the flight – it would likely have gone around the mountains, rather than over them – and as much time for a message to return, she had expected to receive a reply in little more than a week. Certainly not more than two.

Had her message reached the queen? Should she send another?

It was too risky to send a falcon from Kushar directly to the Tzigani court, so she had followed their agreed-on plan and sent a message to her mother, letting her know she was well and telling her about the sale of her sister’s paintings to a nobleman. Accounts that would cause no suspicion were the message intercepted by anyone other than their intended recipient.

Inside the message tube, she had enclosed a second, tightly-rolled and sealed parchment with instructions for her mother to send it to her ‘older sister’ in Sitara.

To Yolara.

This message, too, she had written as a casual note – but the queen would understand the meaning behind her words.

Perhaps the falcon had never arrived... it was a long journey across the desert, and even a strong, fierce bird might encounter dangers along the way.

With a sigh, Zoya made another mark as she did each evening before retiring. She would wait one more week. Then she would send another message.

At least the delay had been somewhat productive. After the success of the first supply trip, Dulan had been contracted to provide supplies every two weeks, with Zoya as part of the regular team.

So, the merchants carried bags of rice and leaf-wrapped packets of fish and meat on their twice-monthly trips. They took several bundles of silks and textiles, and once they delivered a large basket full of heavily embroidered pillows. Anything the residents of the villa might need, that they could not grow for themselves, was taken up the mountain in the wagons.

She had not seen the twins since that first delivery, when they crossed the bridge to meet the supply wagons, poking in baskets and peeking in boxes like a pair of excited schoolgirls, their loose-flowing silk robes fluttering in the light breeze. But she was assured of their presence, as the warm sunshine and pleasant breezes that made the lush, green valley possible could only exist as the result of magic.

Though she had been up the mountain three times, Zoya had not yet been able to cross the long bridge from the unloading area to the golden villa and gardens of Ayametu. And though she had only seen a handful of people, the supplies they provided had given her a good idea of the number of people who lived and worked there.

By her estimation, there were at least thirty in residence, possibly forty – including the Kizrei warriors who guarded both ends of the bridge and the tunnel. They stood like statues, barely visible in the niches cut into the walls of the winding tunnel that passed through the mountain – and which appeared to be the only way in or out of the twins’ lush valley. She had a few ideas for how she might slip past them to get into the villa, but short of leading them over the mountains, was still uncertain about how she would get the twins out of the valley.

So, she waited for Yolara’s reply, and when she wasn’t running errands for Dulan, used the time to study, observe, and plan.

Finally, on the twenty-third day after she had sent her message, she returned to her chamber an hour before sunset to find a falcon perched on the ledge of her window.

Zoya offered it a bit of dried meat, murmuring quiet reassurances as she removed the message tube from the falcon’s leg. As many times as she had sent and received messages over the years, she still only half-trusted that the whisperer’s magic compelling it to deliver its small burden only to her would keep the bird from attacking.

But the falcon merely cocked its head and watched as she verified the queen’s seal and unrolled the scrap of parchment. Three words stared up at her, the message straightforward, written in Yolara’s hand:

Bring them home.

Chapter 22

Batuhan always found it annoying when Janek was out of town. Whenever urgent business required the Grand Vizier’s personal attention – or, more often lately, forced him to travel in his role as the Kiz – six or seven more urgent issues arose, and, in the two months since the recapture of Qaiwi, Janek had spent more time away from the palace than in it. Rashid was doing an acceptable job managing the wayward province, but Bacdi’s treachery had deep roots, and the Kizrei, with Janek at their head, were scattered across the western region, seeking their secret cells.

Leading the Kizrei was the role their father had groomed Janek for, and Batuhan did not fault his brother for his dedication to it. But, for the moment, it left him without a competent vizier.

While the various ministers of Trade, Treasury, and Finance handled the routine matters that affected their various areas of interest, Batuhan relied on Janek. He always knew what was going on, not only with the ministers, but also the myriad trivial things that kept Kushar running.

Things that fell to Batuhan to deal with when his Grand Vizier was away.

Like the report he had just received from Lady Amalia, the fosterage mistress who stood before him now in his private library. Of the nine Kushari youths who were currently living in other countries as part of their fosterage, seven of them – including his fifteen-year-old son, Sadavir – had gone missing over the course of the past two weeks. Batuhan had scanned her written report, but she had more she wished to say.

“This cannot be a coincidence, my lord,” Lady Amalia said. “The mistress in Zuria, Lady Oyun, is certain they planned it together, but I do not see how that could be so. The youths have no way to communicate with each other – someone surely would have noticed if the messenger falcons were being heavily used by the students.”

“Why did it take so long for this to come to our attention?” Batuhan asked.

“It is common for the youthful nobles to... spend time exploring their host countries...” Amalia said, sounding like she would prefer not to have said it at all.

“You are saying they often run away?” Batuhan said.

“Yes, my lord. But seldom for more than a few days. And, of course, we take steps to locate them – make inquiries of their friends and fellow students, visit places they have either been known to frequent or expressed an interest in. There is rarely any need for concern.”

Batuhan thought back on times he had slipped away in secret during his own fosterage days. Climbing to the top of a waterfall in Gerlach. Spending three days with a girl in Tusya. There had been other excursions, sometimes with a friend or two, sometimes on his own. But Amalia was right – each had been brief, isolated events, escapades he and his friends had laughed over when he had returned.

“So, what has happened here? Why so many, and all at once?”

“I do not know. A few days ago, I received a message that Minister Inaki’s son had disappeared from Zuria nearly a week before,” she said, wringing her hands. “Two days later, I received a similar message from Erembourg, reporting the disappearance of Lord Enkh’s daughter. It seemed too much of a coincidence, so I sent to each of the fosterages, inquiring after all of the noble youths.”

“And?” Batuhan looked down at the report he held and skimmed the names and dates. There was definitely a pattern here, but he could not see it.

“They are all gone,” Amalia said, blurting out the words. “All of the Kushari youth. No... in Gerlach none are missing—” she gestured to the report. “— your daughter, Princess Jiani, and Lord Mardig’s eldest son who was to come home in just a few weeks. They are safe. But everywhere else...” her words faded as her hands dropped to her sides.

A tear slipped from one eye and rolled slowly down her face. “It is only the Kushari youth – our youth – who are missing, none from the noble houses of any other land. I went to consult with Lord Janek yesterday, but he is away. So, I have come to you.” She tried to choke back a sob, failed. “My lord, I do not know what to do.”

He rose, came around his desk, and put a hand on Amalia’s shoulder. “You were right to bring this to me,” he said, hoping to reassure her.

As he walked her to the door, his concerns as parent over his own missing son warring with his duty as a king forced to think of the impact of the situation on his country, he found himself wishing for Janek’s speedy return. The situation in Qaiwi had kept him traveling from one end of the country to the other several times in recent weeks.

He went to his desk and penned a brief note on a thin strip of parchment, signed it with his personal glyph, then rolled it tight, sealing it closed with a bit of acacia gum. Crossing the room, he spoke to the Kizrei guard posted outside his private library. “This message needs to be sent to Lord Janek at once,” he said, handing him the note. “Also, I would speak to Prince Kiran.”

The guard nodded and strode briskly away. Batuhan returned to his desk, not at all surprised when another Kizrei came to stand in the previous guard’s place.

A pile of message scrolls sat on a tray on one side of his desk, waiting for his attention. He flipped through them idly, glancing at the seals and glyphs on each one, identifying the sender.

Lord Enzo... he would be reporting on the current state of the treasury (which was fine), and complaining about the cost of keeping soldiers in Qaiwi (which was necessary). He would look at it later.

Nydra of Zuria... one or another of the Doyennes wrote him almost weekly now, trying to get him to agree to a marriage between their families. They didn’t care which of their many daughters married either of his sons. He would write the three of them a polite note postponing the discussion... later. Maybe after Sadavir was found.

Three petitions from noble households...

One invitation to attend a festival in the south the following month. It would be worth considering, if for no other reason than to be out of the rains for a short time...

Reinhard of Gerlach... While the monarchies of the Seven Kingdoms maintained a semblance of open communication, mostly conducted through their various ministers, Reinhard hadn’t written directly to Batuhan in years. What could the old king possibly want?

Batuhan broke the seal on the scroll, unrolled the parchment across his desk, and began to read. As he read, his breathing slowed and his jaw clenched as his anger passed from hot fury to cold ice.

...I have the children of Kushar, your son, your daughter. I will return them all, unharmed, when you return my daughters to me...

⬧

Prince Kiran walked quickly down the hall to his father’s private library, a mixture of concern and curiosity tickling at the back of his mind. It wasn’t often that Batuhan summoned him, and he did not wish to keep him waiting. He knew that Rashid was in Qaiwi, dealing with the separatist movement there, and hoped that this summons did not signify bad news.

He quickened his pace.

When he reached the king’s private library, the Kizrei standing guard signaled for him to enter. Nevertheless, Kiran tapped lightly on the open door.

“Enter.”

Batuhan’s private library was a large room, with a full wall of windows opening onto a deep balcony overlooking the bay. A group of cushioned chairs, embroidered with patterns of vines and flowers, sat near a fireplace along the long wall opposite the windows, and a table surrounded by a half-dozen high-backed, ornately carved wooden chairs dominated the end of the room where Kiran entered.

At the other end of the room sat Batuhan’s personal work table, a large cabinet divided into many sections full of scrolls against the nearby wall. This was where Kiran expected to see his father, so he was momentarily confused when the library at first appeared to be empty. It was only after he took a few steps into the room that he spotted him, standing on the balcony, his hands clasped behind his back.

Like Kiran, Batuhan was tall, slim, and stronger than his lean frame suggested. He wore his wavy, black hair close-cut, foregoing the long queues that were a common style among so many of the noble class. Kiran, too, kept his hair and beard cut short, though both were thicker and more tightly curled than his father’s.

“There is a message you should read,” Batuhan said, gesturing toward the work table without turning to look at him.

Kiran crossed the room in silence, his apprehension building. He found the message from King Reinhard, read it, then read it again. When he looked up, Batuhan was staring at him.

“He wants to exchange Sadavir and Jiani for his daughters?” Kiran asked, frowning. “I do not understand. I thought his daughters died ten years ago. I remember... it was a tragedy.”

“It was nine years ago. But, yes, that is what I have always believed as well.” Batuhan gestured at the message. “Clearly something has given Reinhard cause to believe... differently.”

He came into the room, his dark eyes glittering with cold fury. “Perhaps it is simply his mind beginning to fail. He is old – as old as my father would be, did he yet live.”

“You do not believe that,” Kiran said. He knew his father well, and Batuhan was not one to simply explain away another’s actions. The success of his rule had been based on accountability.

“No, I do not,” Batuhan said. “And that is why I have called you here. Word of this has already begun to spread through the fosterage network – they are only now coming to realize that the disappearance of the Kushari students is more than a series of youthful escapades.”

“What would you have me do?” Kiran asked.

“The reports I have from your fosterage indicate that you are adept at working out puzzles, and finding that which is lost—” A hint of a smile touched Batuhan’s lips. “Oh, do not look surprised. Did you think I was not regularly apprised of your progress?”

Kiran shook his head, hoping his father had not noticed the color rushing to his face.

Batuhan grew serious again. “Work out the puzzle of what happened to the Gerlachi daughters. If they are to be found in Kushar, find them.”

Kiran raised his fist to his chest and nodded. “I will.”

“But have care, Kiran,” Batuhan said. “If they truly still live, there are those who would have them kept secret. Tell no one what you seek; trust no one – even those you would otherwise think to trust with your life. Trust only goes so far in statecraft; all too often, it ends in bloodshed.”

He was quiet for a moment before adding, “I may have already lost two children to this; I do not wish to lose another.”

He looked at Kiran. “Bring me the truth.”

Kiran didn’t want to believe it, but his father was right. His mind was already churning with questions to ask, people to seek out. He nodded and turned to go.

“And do it with all possible speed,” Batuhan added. “The kidnapping of Kushari youths from the fosterages will soon reach the ears of their noble parents, who will clamor for revenge, and rightly so. Before that day comes, I must know the truth of the matter.”

⬧

Everything that was known about the reported death of the Gerlachi twins was in the records of the fosterage. Of course, Kiran only discovered that after nearly a full day of being sent from one librarian to another, as no one seemed to know who might have been responsible for recording their deaths.

The royal clerk, a withered old man with gnarled fingers, their tips stained with the same ink that streaked his silvery beard, refused even to look. “As they were not Kushari, nor did they die in Kushar, there would have been no reason for any record of them to be kept here. There is little enough room for the records of the Kushari nobility.”

When he went to the fosterage mistress early the following morning to ask if he could see the old records, he found her seated by a window, staring out into the gardens, her face pale and eyes red-rimmed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.

“It is nothing,” she said. “Nothing I can speak of. What can I do for you, my lord?”

“If it is not too much trouble, I hoped I might see the old fosterage records.”

“This is not the first time,” she murmured,

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” she said. Fishing in her pocket she produced a ring of keys. She removed one and handed it to him. “Go to the end of this passage and turn left. This key opens the fifth door,” she said, her voice listless.

Kiran thanked her. As he turned away, heading down the hall, he was sure he heard her sad, soft voice repeating, “This is not the first time, but they have always come home before.”

She grieves for the missing youths, he thought, lighting a lantern and beginning his search for the old records. She does not know they are being held hostage. He understood, wished he could assure her all would be well. But he did not know himself if that was truly the case.

If he could not find out what had happened to King Reinhard’s daughters, his own brother and sister might be the next to die. They were siblings by a different mother – his father’s second wife – and young enough that he barely knew them, but none of that mattered.

They were his blood, and he would give his own to save them.

He searched through dusty scrolls for most of an hour before he found what he was looking for. Thankfully, the record-keeper’s organizational abilities had made it easy to find the scrolls from the correct year. Still, each scroll represented a single month, with sometimes fading notes made by the fosterage mistress, tutors, and others about each of the noble youths under their care, all on the same scroll. So, he worked backward through the year, skimming through the scrolls, looking for any mention of either Leisha or Katya of Gerlach in the spidery handwriting.

When he finally found the brief note recording their death – ...taken by the desert during a storm on their way to Tusya... – the next line contained the additional comment that the information had been provided to the fosterage mistress by Lord Janek. She wrote: “...I would that I had seen them one last time, that I had closed their eyes and wrapped their lifeless bodies in silk before they were sent home to their father. Then I might believe they were truly gone...”

Kiran read this a second time and wondered. If the fosterage mistress, who would have known the girls well, had not seen their bodies, who had identified them? And if they were sent back to their father, why did King Reinhard believe them alive?

So many questions. And Janek would have answers to at least some of them, as he had been the one to notify the fosterage mistress of the twins’ deaths.

He was about to roll up and replace the scroll, when an earlier note caught his eye. “...Lord Janek came to personally bid Leisha and Katya farewell, and gave them each a small gift. He has been so attentive to them...”

That was curious. Why would Janek have cared at all about the daughters of a foreign king? And what did it mean that he had been “so attentive to them”?

He read on, searching back through the scrolls, and copying out every entry relating to either Leisha or Katya from the day they arrived in Kushar to the day they left. Like an artisan creating a detailed mosaic from small bits of tile, he pieced together a picture of the twins’ time in Kushar and his uncle’s interest in them.

Most of the entries were routine – they were much like other girls of their age, one on the quiet side, the other more exuberant. But, after they came into their magic, a little more than a year after their arrival, the entries shifted. From that point forward, the records not only commented on their experimentation with the magic, but also on the many visitors who came to observe them, mostly in secret, as though they were some sort of entertainment. Kiran found it both tragic and somewhat understandable, as no one in Kushar had ever seen an actual weather witch.

Janek had actually met the twins, very briefly and quite by accident. They had slipped out of the fosterage hall and were exploring another part of the palace, playing pranks on the nobles there when he came upon them. The fosterage mistress had written of her embarrassment over the incident, in fear over her position, but no punishment had come of it. Quite the contrary. Over the course of the following year, until the very day the twins left Kushar, Janek was one of those who visited the fosterage – infrequently, but often enough for the fosterage mistress to take notice and make a record of it.

Sometimes, he watched for a few minutes while the girls practiced forming clouds or raising the wind. At other times, he would speak with them, and ask them questions about their gift and their progress in mastering their abilities.

“...it was not as if they could tell him much; with no one to properly teach them, they often floundered. Those poor girls, the only ones in the world with their gift...”

She went on to commend Janek.

“...it was a great kindness he showed them – though he has no gift of his own, he let them ask questions and made suggestions for how they might focus their power. In the face of our inability to guide them magically, his visits filled them with greater confidence in exploring their abilities. In truth, our Grand Vizier may have been the best mentor the young weather witches could have found in our land...”

Kiran needed to speak with Janek.

It was well into the afternoon, and his lantern was sputtering, when he finally left the records room and returned the key to the fosterage mistress. She had moved from the windowsill to the shelter of a high-backed chair, but was otherwise in much the same condition as when he had spoken to her that morning. The poor woman was in such distress, and there was nothing he could say or do that would relieve her suffering.

He was still thinking of her as he made his way to Janek’s office, and, when he passed a serving girl carrying an empty tray toward the kitchens, he stopped her.

“The fosterage mistress is not well,” he told her. “Will you find a healer and tell them Prince Kiran asks that they look in on her?”

The girl nodded, her burden preventing her from bowing as court etiquette would demand, but she did her best. “I will, my lord.”

Wishing he could have done more for the distraught woman, Kiran went on his way, anxious to talk to his uncle.

But Janek was not in his office, and did not appear to have been there for several days, if the closed shutters and stack of unread scrolls on his desk were any indication.

Kiran opened the shutters to let in the afternoon light, then dropped down in Janek’s chair, idly sifting through the scrolls, arranging them in the patterns cast by the light coming in through the grillwork over the window.

He was going about this the wrong way.

Yes, knowing what had happened to the twins nine years ago was helpful, and might help to prove to King Reinhard that his daughters had truly been lost.

But he also needed to look at the problem as if he actually believed Reinhard was right, that his daughters were alive, and hidden somewhere in Kushar.

Why would the twins have been kidnapped in the first place? That much was simple – for their weather magic. It was a rare gift, and, as their former fosterage mistress had noted, they were the only ones in the world known to possess it. Janek would not have been the only person in Kushar to have been fascinated by them.

Where might the twins have been hidden? It was possible they’d been moved around from place to place over the years, but Kiran doubted it. The more often they moved, the greater the risk they would be discovered.

No, wherever they were, it was somewhere remote, where nearly ten years of them manipulating the weather would not have been noticed or remarked on.

He pushed the scrolls around, until they represented the most isolated regions of Kushar on an invisible map. The central desert. The rocky eastern coast. The swamps of Terai. The mountains in the north, and further north, the steppes.

He removed the scroll representing the swamps. Though the swamps themselves were largely unpopulated, and represented a good – if unpleasant – place to hide, too many people lived in the surrounding area for unusual weather to have gone unnoticed for so many years.

Probably not along the frequently stormy eastern coast, either, unless the weather witches had been somehow convinced to not practice their art. Surely someone – a fisherman or trading vessel – would have reported long periods of unusually pleasant weather. He removed that scroll.

He considered the three remaining regions – desert, mountains, and steppes – thinking the isolation of the steppes might prove the most likely place to look. The steppes were sparsely populated, yet accessible, and, because the area was separated from the rest of the country by the great wall of the Janqurai, were seldom remembered by most Kushari.

He was sitting with his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands, contemplating a journey to the steppes, and the preparations he would need to make, when a sound drew his attention.

A boy dressed in the white trousers and blue tunic of a palace messenger stood in the doorway, head cocked to one side, a puzzled look on his face.

“Lord Janek?” the boy asked.

“Do I look like Lord Janek?”

The boy shook his head slowly. “You do not l-l-look like Lord Janek, no. But he does n-n-not always look like himself. He always s-s-sounds like himself, though. You do not sound like him.”

Curious, Kiran asked, “And when he does not look like himself, who does he look like?”

“Sometimes a fat m-m-merchant leaves by the secret d-d-door when no one has been here. And then this r-r-room is left empty.” He did not say more, whether not wanting to further clarify or because he was nervous from having said so much, Kiran could not guess.

“And how do you know about the secret door?”

“I notice things,” the boy said. “Just like Lord Janek asked m-m-me to. I noticed you were here. Who are you?” He stood just a little straighter when he said that, and his mild stutter faded as his confidence increased.

“I am Kiran. Who are you?”

“My name is Essen. I am learning to be a scribe.” Essen held up the sheaf of parchments he carried, his eyes shining with obvious pride. “I brought these to show Lord Janek.”

Kiran touched the corner of the desk. “You may leave them for him. Do you know where he has gone or when he will return?”

“No one ever knows – he does not say.”

“That is too bad. I wanted to speak to him as well.”

“When he is the fat m-m-merchant, I think he goes to Rachusa,” Essen said. “Once he brought back a basket of mangoes, and a green lizard was sleeping in it. He let me carry it out to the gardens.”

“Does he always dress like the fat merchant?” Kiran asked. It was not a surprise that Janek would disguise himself when he traveled. It would be easier to move around without the burden of pomp and ceremony – or the half-dozen Kizrei guards his father always grumbled about accompanying him whenever he ventured out of the palace.

Essen squirmed. “He also wears a gray c-c-cloak. I do not know where he goes when he wears the g-g-gray cloak.”

He was getting nervous again; understandably so. Many people were uncomfortable around the Kizrei. If Janek had a Kizrei cloak – and Kiran would not be surprised to learn that he did, with his recent travel into Qaiwi – it was not surprising that young Essen would be uneasy talking about it.

“Thank you, Essen,” he said. He tapped the corner of the desk again. “Be sure to leave your pages here, so Lord Janek will see them when he returns.”

The boy darted forward, dropped his pages, then dashed away like a rabbit afraid of being pounced on by a hunting eagle.

Kiran smiled, shaking his head. Who knew Janek was such a champion of vulnerable youth? It was certainly not a topic he’d ever heard his uncle mention, yet here he’d discovered two instances in one day – Janek mentoring the twins, when no one else knew how to teach them. And now, encouraging this boy, who must have come from difficult circumstances, to become a scribe, a position that would greatly benefit both him and his family.

Knowing Janek as he did, Kiran was certain his actions were not entirely altruistic. His uncle was too much of a political creature. Even so, he could not help feeling a measure of pride. He straightened the messages on his uncle’s desk, then left the palace, heading toward the docks.

Essen’s comment about the fat merchant had given him another line of reasoning in his search for the Gerlachi twins. If there was anyone who might have heard rumors of oddities of the weather, it would be the merchants who crisscrossed Kushar. And while Khulan was the country’s capital, Rachusa was its center of trade.

A fast barge would have him in Rachusa in just a few days. And while he searched for information that might lead him to the weather witches, he would also keep his ears open for any mention of a certain fat merchant.

Kiran grinned as he headed toward the docks. Janek was not the only spy in the family.

Chapter 23

After receiving the queen’s message, Zoya had just over a week to finish her preparations before the next scheduled supply run to Ayametu. While much of her time was spent on Dulan’s errands, she had become very familiar with the layout of the city, and she had always been good at gathering information. As a result, she was often able to slip an errand of her own into her day’s business.

Late one morning, she went to the forge of the man she had been told was the most skilled metalworker in Rachusa. It was on the second tier of the city and, like many of the buildings she had seen here, had rounded walls and a high, domed roof – though instead of being made of marble or any of the other fine stone, it was built of clay bricks. Zoya thought it resembled a large baker’s oven.

As she approached, the smell of hot metal and burning coals stung her nose, but it was the heat pouring out of the open doors of the large, domed building that she was most aware of. With the sweat already beading on her forehead and trickling down her throat, she reached over her shoulder and pulled her wind dancer cloak up over her shoulders. She did not pretend to understand the magic it held, but not only had the cloak keep her warm in the freezing weather of Madia Pass, it somehow cooled her in Rachusa’s sweltering heat. It was one of her most prized possessions and she wore it always.

“Light as silk, strong as iron,” a rich, male voice said.

Zoya looked over to see a short, barrel-chested man staring at her – no, at her cloak – an expression of near-reverence on his face. His dark hair was cut very short, and it was only after she glanced a second time that she realized he wore no shirt, only a soot-stained leather apron nearly the same shade as his skin, over equally darkened trousers.

“I am seeking the metalworker, Malthe. Are you he? Or are you the local smith? I mean no disrespect.” She added the last hastily, remembering after she had spoken that the people in Rachusa did not make a distinction between those with magic and those without in the same way they did in the mountains of Tzigane.

The man laughed, drawing the back of his arm across his brow. “I am Malthe,” he said. “Both metalworker and smith.” He gestured at her cloak. “But you are no wind dancer. How did you come by one of their cloaks?”

“I was in great need, and a friend gave me hers,” Zoya said.

“A true friend indeed,” Malthe said. “I have seen very few wind dancer cloaks. Does it change color as if it does not want to be seen?”

Zoya nodded. “It does, yes,” she said with a laugh, noticing as they spoke that the cloak had shifted its hue to the mottled gray tones of the metalworker’s forge.

“That is how you know it is genuine,” he said. “There are merchants that would try to pass off a lesser quality garment, but even the gray cloaks of the Kizrei – while exceptional – are not as fine as the cloak you wear.”

Zoya remembered the Kizrei warrior who had eyed the cloak with interest back in Qaiwi. It made her smile to think that one of the most fearsome warriors in the country should envy her.

“I suspect you did not come to my forge to discuss your wardrobe,” Malthe said. “And I daresay you do not want to come into the furnace with me. So, let us to your business.”

“Yes, of course,” Zoya said. Her hand slid to her waist pouch. “Do you accept Tizgani or Tusyan coin? I have very little bearing the Kushari glyph.”

Malthe held up a hand for her to wait, then turned and stomped back into the forge. He returned a moment later and gestured her forward.

Zoya followed him into what passed for a small antechamber, the heat singeing her face and hair until she tugged her hood up. Malthe had set up a small wooden bench with three trays. Beyond, through a large set of open doors, the main forge glowed a deep orange.

“Put whatever coin you wish to exchange in these trays. Gold, here,” he said, pointing to one tray. He pointed to the other two trays. “Silver, there, and bronze in that one. You need not exchange tin or copper – a coin is a coin, and those are too small for anyone in Rachusa to complain about whose glyph they bear.”

Zoya counted out the coins – ten gold, twenty silver, and another twenty bronze – sorting them into the trays as Malthe had instructed. It was a great deal of money – particularly the gold – but Malthe had been highly recommended as trustworthy.

When she was finished, she took a step back.

Malthe reached a hand out to the first tray, letting his palm hover over the coins. As Zoya watched, the pile of round gold coins began to shimmer, then abruptly melted, filling the tray with glowing liquid.

In another breath, the liquid began to form into the eight-sided coins of Kushar. When Malthe pulled his hand away, every drop of molten gold had been completely transformed to octagonal coins, the glyph of the Kushari king emblazoned on their surface.

He moved to the silver tray, and then to the bronze, each time melting and reforming the coins in a matter of only a few heartbeats.

When he was finished, he gestured to the trays.

Zoya scooped up the coins, which were surprisingly cool to the touch, and dropped them back into the compartments of her waist pouch, leaving a silver coin in the tray for Malthe. It was more than the service typically cost, but not so much more as to make it appear she did not understand the value of her coinage.

“You are most generous,” Malthe said, pocketing the coin. “Is there anything else you require?” He grinned, his dark eyes twinkling. “I happen to know you can pay.”

Zoya smiled in return. “Actually, yes, there is a commission I would like to discuss with you.” She pulled her cloak a little further forward, the magic cooling the air she breathed. “If you need to return to your work, I would be happy to discuss it with you there.”

She spent just over a half an hour in the forge, explaining what she wanted Malthe to create for her. Though the wind dancer cloak stood up to the challenge of protecting her from the heat, when she finally left – with instructions to return in three days – her next stop was to a juice vendor’s stall, where she spent several of her copper coins.

The following week, when Dulan’s wagon made its next scheduled trip up to the mountain compound, Zoya failed to appear in the warehouse courtyard in time for their pre-dawn departure. When a messenger was sent to fetch her, they found her chamber empty, and her horse gone.

“I sent her upriver yesterday to deliver the order to Corsa,” Armin said. “But she should have made it back easily by now.”

“Well, we cannot wait for her,” Dulan grumbled, the beads in his beard clacking together as he smacked the wagon with the flat of his hand. “And no time to call in someone else. Keep your wits about you. If the Kizrei who guard the way watch the mountain as well, you should be safe enough from fang or fur.”

The yak-drawn wagon creaked as it rolled out of the yard.

Inside the wagon, where she had spent the last few hours of the night, Zoya lay quietly, listening. Wrapped in her cloak and hidden under the tarp that protected the goods they transported from road dust and the weather, she planned to stay hidden through the two-day journey up to the encampment.

“There is no reason for anyone to search the wagon,” she had told Armin, when enlisting him in her scheme.

“And when you get there, then what?” he asked. “When they unload the wagon, you will be discovered.”

“Not if I slip out of the wagon while it is in the tunnel,” she said. “I know where the Kizrei watch, and where they cannot see.”

“And then?”

But she would not tell him. “The less you know, the less anyone can force you to tell,” she said. “Keep Sari in your personal stable. Dulan will undoubtedly recognize him – I have seen no other Kabardian horses here besides those we brought from Saresu – but he has served me well and deserves to be well treated.

“I will keep him until your return,” Armin said.

“My return is unlikely.”

“What other merchant has a fine Kabardian stallion like Sari and four equally exceptional mares?” Armin asked, ignoring her comment. “Holding Sari against your eventual return—” he gave her a challenging look “—whenever that may be – may well prove to be a profitable venture for me. I am not a young man. And I have seen much of what there is to see in the world. Perhaps it is time for me to stop traveling the caravan route and settle down to become a horse-breeder.”

Zoya laughed. “Whatever you choose, I am sure you will make a success of it.” She sobered. “I will do what I can to keep from being discovered. I would not bring retribution to you or Dulan.”

“That is appreciated,” Armin said.

And so Zoya and Armin had slipped into the warehouse during the night, carefully rearranging the goods in the wagon to make a place for Zoya to hide. With sacks of grain as her bed and crates of wine as her walls, she could almost call her travel accommodations comfortable. She had a waterskin and a small package of provisions, and her light pack contained a few necessary supplies, including the pair of specialized climbing gloves she had obtained from the metalworker Malthe.

She was both anxious and eager to put them to the test.

The ride was long. The yaks had been chosen for their stamina on the long climb up the mountain, and not for their speed, and it was nearing sunset when they reached the waystation at the end of the first day. Zoya had eaten little and only sipped at her waterskin, and waited until it was fully dark before cautiously working her way out of the wagon and slipping into the woods away from the waystation to attend to bodily matters. The next day would be much the same, and she was glad for the chance to move around.

She was about to return to the wagon when the sound of hoofbeats on the road sent her back into the shadows. A moment later, a man on horseback rode into the clearing where the waystation sat. He dismounted, spent a few minutes looking around before leading his horse into the small paddock, and then returning to the main building. He had to pound on the door several times to awaken the drivers, and even then they did not let him enter without an argument, but eventually he entered, the door closed, and the latch slid back into place.

Zoya waited for several minutes after the flicker of light inside the waystation was finally extinguished. When she was satisfied that everyone was asleep, she crept back to the wagon, climbed in, and painstakingly re-tied the fastening on the tarp that held it in place above her.

The stranger rode with them the following day. There was nothing inherently wrong with this – from what Zoya could hear of the wagon drivers’ conversation, he had been polite and asked very few questions about their business on the mountain – but his presence made Zoya’s day more uncomfortable than the previous had been. From the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats, he often alternated between riding ahead of the wagon to following along behind. This meant that Zoya could not freely move around in her small compartment, but had to be very careful about jostling the canvas covering above her.

She could not risk the rider seeing movement.

So, she shifted into the most comfortable position she could manage, closed her eyes, and sank into a deep meditation, clearing her mind of all thoughts of the road, the rider, and the sacks of grain beneath her. Instead, she visualized herself leading the princesses through the mountains and across the desert to the home of their ancestors, the lost, golden city of Nizam.

In her dream, they walked the sand-covered streets and through plazas where icy water tumbled from colorfully-tiled fountains. Above them, palm trees waved in the gentle breeze. Street vendors offered them fresh, hot flatbread and plump, sweet figs, and children laughed and played as they ran to and fro.

And, so, Zoya’s day passed, as she drifted between waking and sleeping, and the yaks lumbered up the mountain. The air here was cool, and even beneath the canvas the fragrance of evergreen trees filled the air. Deprived of sight, Zoya found herself trying to picture the various sounds she heard – a woodpecker tapping away against the trunk of a tree, a squirrel chattering at them for disturbing his morning meal, the grunts of the yaks, the occasional snort of the horse, the chirping of myriad small insects that often grew quiet as they approached, only to resume their songs after the wagon had passed.

After several hours, Zoya heard the rider gasp in astonishment, his words unintelligible, but their meaning clear. He spurred his horse ahead of the wagon, and she knew they had come at last to the end of the road. Ahead of them stood the façade of a large building, cut directly into the face of the mountain, its massive doors open wide.

She well understood the rider’s surprise – after two days’ journey up the forested slope, the first sight of the building, with its elaborate carvings and the delicate arches of its many windows, had stolen her breath away, as well. Other than the simple merchant’s lodging outside the doors, Zoya had never had a chance to explore the building, but thought it might be where the mountain’s Kizrei guards lived.

The wagon slowed as the drivers spoke with the Kizrei guarding the entry to the passage. After only a brief pause, they moved into the long tunnel that would take them through the mountain.

Zoya got ready to slip out of the wagon. Moving slowly and carefully to not attract attention from the Kizrei watching from the niches carved into the rocky walls of the tunnel, she shifted herself around, restacked the bags of grain that had served as her mattress just enough to obscure her use of them, and slipped the loops of her supply bag around her arms, puling the bag tightly against her back.

The tunnel was lit very dimly, with only the occasional torch set in a high sconce casting flickering light. She loosened the bindings on the tarp, and lifted a corner of the canvas to peer out. She would have to time her exit from under the canvas perfectly – between the fourth and fifth torches on the left-hand side, when the only watching Kizrei would be ahead of them on the opposite side of the tunnel and the previous one would have just lost sight of the wagon.

As if that weren’t going to be tricky enough, she would then have to lay perfectly still and flat on the top of the wagon, spreading her cloak over her – in the dark, it would not be easily distinguishable from the canvas covering. In the very last moment of darkness, she would then slide off the wagon, slipping into the shadows of the plaza just outside the tunnel’s exit.

It would be all about timing.

The wagon moved forward, one plodding step at a time, finally passing the second torch. Zoya had tied the cord holding the canvas above her in place herself and, as they approached the third torch, she tugged at the cord, releasing the series of loosely-tied knots. As the cord slid free, she coiled it in her hand and tucked the bundle into a pocket. When the drivers discovered the untied canvas, they would think the knot had come loose and the cord fallen to the side of the road. In Zoya’s experience, it had happened often enough to be bothersome, but otherwise of little concern.

They passed the third torch.

Zoya inched into position, stretching herself out on top of the crates along the length of the wagon. She moved carefully, so not to draw the attention of the Kizrei watching them in the tunnel’s dim light.

They passed the fourth torch, entering the curving section of the tunnel. Zoya tensed, then relaxed, preparing to make her move. But just as she was about to pull back the canvas and roll on top of it, she hesitated, rethinking her plan. There was simply no good reason to take the additional risk of being seen – not when she could slide out from under the canvas more easily than trying to ensure her cloak would cover her all the way to her boots.

No. It would be better to hold her current position.

Decision made, she watched as they approached the fifth torch and then passed it.

The wagon drivers were laughing at the rider’s obvious amazement as he rode ahead of them, looking up at the rough-hewn tunnel walls and carved niches where Kizrei guards stared back at him impassively. Zoya smiled, holding back her own chuckle. They had all been equally awe-struck on their own first visits to this place. Soon the great doors at the end of the tunnel would open and then the rider would get his first glimpse of Ayametu.

She wondered who he was, and if he would just sit there, staring at the valley and blocking their way, or if he would actually fall off his horse. That would be both amusing and a good distraction – and take the focus away from her just when she needed it.

As it turned out, however, he did neither.

The sound of his horse’s hoofbeats did not slow as the great doors swung open. Rather, they grew faster, as the rider urged his horse into a quick trot. Then she could no longer hear the horse over the shouting of the Kizrei guards who pursued him and the laughter of the wagon’s drivers.

Zoya slid out of the wagon, pulling her cloak around her. She stayed near the side of the wagon as it passed through the opening, then slipped into the shadows, away from the commotion of the rider and the Kizrei guards.

⬧

On previous visits, Zoya had seen that the nearest of the towers that supported the long bridge was built close to the tunnel opening, at the far side of the small unloading plaza. Below the plaza, the rocky cliff was as lush with greenery as the rest of the valley, with trees clinging to the steep slope and flowering vines hanging from their branches. It was in this greenery where she intended to hide.

With all eyes on the rider, and the wagon drivers guiding the yaks to one side of the plaza so they could unload their cargo, Zoya slipped to the low wall surrounding the plaza, then levered herself over.

Clinging by her fingers to the top of the wall, the toes of her boots perched precariously on the slimmest of decorative outcroppings, Zoya looked down.

The drop to the ledge below was much farther than it had at first appeared.

If she slipped, she would hit the ledge with such force that, if she managed not to roll off and plunge to her death, she would almost certainly break her legs.

But there was no going back.

Taking a deep breath, she twisted, leaping toward the nearest trees. She scrambled down, finding handholds in the branches that bent dangerously under her weight. Moving quickly, using vines like thin ropes, and feeling much like the long-tailed monkeys she had so often observed while traveling through Terai, she managed to reach the ledge without toppling the tree.

Below her was a narrow path she had not seen from the bridge. It appeared to be a disused workman’s path, narrow wooden planks – many of them broken – clinging to the cliff wall and snaking off into the distance.

Above her loomed the bridge, a massive structure that must have taken many stoneworkers to build in such a remote location. As Zoya raised the hood of her cloak and crouched in the shadows between the trees and the rough rock of the cliff, she marveled at the workmanship. Queen Yolara would be utterly captivated by it.

Two towers stood on either side of the chasm, a shorter one at the base of the bridge at each end, which appeared to have been drawn forward from the mountain. The taller tower on each side grew directly up from the face of the rocky cliff. Zoya had seen stoneworkers raise stone from the ground, and imagined these towers had been built using similar techniques.

The bridge itself rose at a gentle slope between the lower and upper towers, then crossed the chasm in a graceful arch, which was nearly flat as it reached the center. Whether due to the age of the structure or by design, the outer surface was not the smooth, polished stone she had seen in Rachusa, but bore sinuous patterns, as though the vines that clung to the cliffs had dug themselves into the stone.

As she had used the living vines to reach the ledge, the stone vine would enable her to cross the bridge.

Zoya settled into the shadows under the trees, pulling her carry sack off her back and retrieving her waterskin, from which she took a long, sustaining drink.

She would not begin the bridge crossing until dusk, when the combination of dim lighting and her cloak would make her less visible to anyone looking at the bridge from either side of the chasm. From the angle of the light bathing the villa and its towers in shining gold, she had little more than an hour to wait.

So, she ate some of the cheese, flatbread, and dried meat she had brought with her. Though they would probably have been squashed and messy, she wished she had added figs or grapes or some other fruit to her supplies. Their sweetness would have energized her.

Zoya could not hear the conversations taking place in the plaza above, but from the tone of the voices – many of them raised – she could guess what was taking place there. The wagon was being unloaded onto carts that would later be rolled across the bridge. It was too late in the day for the wagon drivers to begin the trip back down the mountain, so when they finished unloading their cargo, they would pass back through the tunnel and spend the night in the lodging on the opposite side of the mountain.

In that regard, everything was completely as Zoya had expected.

The rider who had come up the mountain with them, however, was causing something of a problem for the Kizrei.

Zoya smiled. Anything that kept the Kizrei busy was to her advantage. She idly wondered if the man was someone Armin had sent as a distraction. It would have been a risky move on his part, but she could not entirely discount the possibility.

Whoever he was, he was clearly not someone the Kizrei were willing to engage with in their usual formidable fashion. Raised voices were respectful, if firm, and the stubbornness of their uninvited visitor immovable. After a time, the voices grew silent. The yak-drawn wagon creaked its way back into the tunnel, the large doors closing behind it. As the sunlight striking the bridge began to fade, Zoya saw one of the gray-cloaked guards running across the bridge toward the villa.

So, they still had not dealt with the rider. That was good. Let them stay focused on him while she crossed the bridge.

Standing, she reached into her pouch, withdrawing the climbing gloves she had commissioned from Malthe, the metalworker. She pulled them on, tightening the strap that held them close to her wrists, then flexed her fingers, extending the metal claws hidden beneath the leather to their full, six-inch length.

Zoya and her siblings had climbed the rocky hills near Aywhai since they were old enough to find hand and footholds on the stone. And, since the queen had moved their people into Tzigane, Zoya had often climbed the granite mountains and cliffs as part of her training regimen. She usually climbed bare-handed, or with simple gloves, but she had also used gloves with short metal claws that made it easier to maintain a grip on more vertical slopes. So, when she had described what she wanted to Malthe, he had gotten very excited about the opportunity to create something more challenging than many of his regular commissions.

Zoya had been somewhat disappointed when she saw the long claws he had created. While they would be wonderful for close-quarters fighting, she could not see how they would be at all useful for climbing a cliff – or crossing the bridge in the mountains.

“Go ahead. Try them,” Malthe said, gesturing toward one of the bricked walls of his forge.

Not wanting to offend the metalworker, she had put on the gloves and stepped to the wall as he had asked, then reached out, and pressed her hand to the brick.

The claws sank into the brick like a hot knife melting through a block of firm cheese.

Stunned, she pulled her hand away. The metal slid out with a slight tug, leaving no trace of the cut on the surface of the brick.

She turned to Malthe. “How?”

“I asked a stoneworker to assist,” he said, pride radiating from his dark face. “The claws are infused with my own magic for strength and flexibility, and hers for the ability to sink into and grip the stone as you climb.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her with a satisfied smile. “We could not allow an adventurer such as yourself to use anything less than our finest work.”

“An adventurer?” Zoya said, raising a brow in confusion.

Malthe gestured at her. “You carry coin from many lands, wear the skin of the crocodile and the cloak of a wind dancer, and ask for gloves to scale the Janqurai. What else could you be, but an adventurer?”

Shaking her head in amusement, Zoya turned back to the wall, where she spent the next hour climbing with the new gloves. While her ability to scale the wall was still highly dependent on her own skill and strength, the gloves allowed her to cross the domed roof – albeit slowly – before climbing down the opposite wall.

“You are pleased, yes?” Malthe asked.

“Very pleased,” she said, retracting the claws.

The metalworker then showed her the different finger movements she could employ to adjust the length of the claws from sharp points barely visible beyond her fingertips, through a range of lengths she might find useful in various climbing environments.

Zoya was very pleased, indeed.

Malthe then pulled a second pouch from the pocket of his leather apron. “We also thought you might find these useful,” he said.

The pouch held what at first appeared to be a pair of leather slippers, though the soles also bore the same flexible ridges as the gloves. Malthe instructed her to slip them on over her boots, then showed her the kicking and tapping motions that would reveal short claws from the toe or spikes from the soles.

“Good for climbing – or for walking over icy ground,” Malthe said. “I wanted to do more, perhaps add a blade – you never know what dangers you may face in the wild – but three days was little time.”

Zoya laughed, flexing a finger to display a claw. “This will be blade enough, I am sure,” she said.

Now, as she contemplated the bridge and the madness of how she intended to cross it, she was once again grateful for Malthe’s enthusiasm and craftsmanship. The additional claws on her feet would be helpful, indeed. And, if she actually ended up guiding the twins out through the mountains, they might prove invaluable.

She wondered – and not for the first time – if the twins would have boots or suitable clothing for making such a journey. While they could alter the weather to make their travel easier, that was only one of many challenges they would need to overcome.

But, first, she needed to make contact with them, and find out if they would even be willing to go with her. She had said nothing in her message to Yolara of her concerns in that regard, but they had weighed heavy on her mind for some time.

Zoya moved to the base of the short tower, sank in her claws, and quickly climbed up to the lower segment of the arch. But, as she moved out onto the arch itself, she heard voices approaching the wall above. She froze, clinging to the bridge like a bat in a cave.

“...I cannot let you pass,” a woman was saying. “My orders forbid it.”

“And my orders – which come from the king himself – demand it,” replied a man, his voice calm yet stern. “If you will not comply, at least let me see your face and know your name, that I may report to him who defies his commands.”

“Again, I cannot,” the woman replied. It sounded as if she had moved away – perhaps out of reach? She continued. “I know who you are, Prince Kiran, and give my word that you will not be harmed. But do not attempt to cross the bridge.”

“And if I do?”

“You would not be pleased with the result,” the woman said. Through the entire conversation, the tone of her voice had never faltered. “It is too late for you to begin your journey back down the mountain. The Kizrei here will provide you with food and lodging for the night; in the morning, they will escort you as far as the waystation. From there, I trust you can find your way to Rachusa on your own.”

“I found my way here,” Kiran said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Go in peace,” the woman said. “And do not return. Report to the king if you must, but I ask that you speak of this place to no one else.”

There the conversation ended – or perhaps moved out of hearing range. Zoya waited for a few minutes, her body pressed against the bridge, supported by the claws on her hands and feet.

What was a prince of Kushar doing here? And why was he denied access? She had so many questions, and no way for any of them to be answered.

Instead, she focused on the climb.

Her eyes had not fooled her when she’d thought she saw vines growing on the bridge. Sculpted vines – some raised on the surface of the stone, others inset into it, crawled across the stone, both helping and frustrating her movement. She moved slowly, reaching out with her left hand and sinking her claws into the stone, following with her left foot, before releasing her grip with her right hand and foot.

One arm-length at a time, she moved across the face of the bridge.

The last rays of the sun were fading by the time she had reached the midway point. The muscles in her arms burned from the strain of supporting her body’s weight, screaming that her pack and weapons were unnecessary weight.

Wondering uselessly if it might not have been easier to have climbed down the cliff into the chasm, crossed the river, then scaled the opposite cliff, Zoya took a deep, calming breath, ignored her body’s demand to drop either her pack or her sword, and continued.

Left hand, left foot, right hand, right foot.

When her fingers slipped, the claws held. When her foot missed a vine, the claws dug in.

Left hand, left foot, right hand, right foot.

Repeat.

It was fully dark, the thin sliver of a moon above offering insignificant light, by the time she reached the far end of the bridge. Rather than descend to the foot of the tower, she worked her way around to the side slowly, painstakingly, by touch. At last, she found what looked like ground level – a place where she could see a few torches lighting a courtyard a short distance away.

Retracting the claws, she dropped the last few feet to the ground, her cloak settling lightly over her as she crumpled into a heap on the sweet-smelling grass.

“Get up, get up, get up,” she whispered to herself, repeating the words until she managed to drag herself to her feet. It had been too long since she’d last climbed, and never so far. It was nothing short of a miracle – and entirely thanks to Malthe’s magically-infused claws – that she had made it across. She could barely feel her arms or hands and her shoulders were on fire.

Her legs, which had done less of the work of supporting her body, were weak, but functional, and she shambled forward, clutching at the trunks of trees to keep from falling over.

When she finally reached a thick copse of trees, she lowered herself gingerly to the ground and pulled her cloak over her, not even bothering to remove her pack – though she did lay with the hilt of her sword under her hand. Hoping she was neither near the edge of the cliff nor in the middle of a garden where she would be easily discovered when morning came, she gave in to exhaustion.

Chapter 24

The sun was just rising, casting long shadows along the valley, when Leisha wandered out of the gardens nearest the villa and along the path at the side of the river. There was a cluster of plum trees getting close to ripening in the summer garden, and the cultivator had told her they would benefit from a bit of warmer air.

A few years before, one of the cultivators had come up with the idea of planting fruit and vegetables that needed similar growing conditions in their own small sections of the garden. This had not only made it easier for Leisha and Katya to create pockets of specific weather for the cultivators to work in, it also gave them fresh harvests all year long.

Because they moved from one climate to the next as they passed through the gardens, cultivators who lived in Ayametu for any length of time had hair that reflected the colors of every season, rather than the one represented by more traditional seasons.

As Leisha approached the plum trees, a movement caught her eye.

“Hello?” she called out.

There was no answer.

Leisha paused on the path. While the large, white leopards that hunted in the nearby mountains seldom came near the villa, they had been seen there a few times in the past. She flexed her fingers, a small storm coalescing in the air near her shoulder. Katya might be the mistress of lightning bolts, but she excelled at summoning bursts of wind strong enough to knock even a white leopard off its feet.

“Is someone there?” she called out again. “Farza, is that you? Please come out – I will not tell the matron you are here, if that is why you are hiding.”

A woman stepped out of the trees. It was not Farza, or any of the other servants Leisha knew. She was of medium height, and slim, dressed as for traveling in a long, silvery-green cloak over a dark vest and trousers, which were tucked into high boots. The ends of her sleeves were held close to her forearms by bracers in the same dark color as her vest, and a short, curved sword hung at her hip. A long, black braid looped across a pack on her back, then snaked down over one shoulder, and the expression on her bronzed face was wary.

Leisha suspected the look on her own face was equally cautious. She had never seen this woman before, and had not heard of there being any newcomers to Ayametu.

“Who are you?” Leisha asked.

“My name is Zoya.” The woman’s gaze flicked down to the obvious bulge beneath Leisha’s gown. “My sister is also expecting – a girl. Her third. And you...?”

The woman left the sentence unfinished, for Leisha to complete by saying something about her unborn child – a question she could not answer.

She and Katya had long ago agreed that the less they knew about the children they carried, the easier it was when Janek took the newborn infants away. They forbade the healers from sharing any details with them over the course of their pregnancies, only allowing them to tell them whether they had given birth to a boy or girl after the infants were gone.

So, while Leisha knew how many sons and daughters she had given birth to, she had never held one of them. She did not know if her children looked like her, or favored their Kushari fathers. She could not say whether not knowing made it easier to part from them, but it certainly had not made it any more difficult.

When she said nothing, the stranger tried again.

“My sister’s child will come in a little over a month. Yours?”

Leisha slowly raised a hand to her belly. “In three months’ time.” She tilted her head, studying the woman. She had not moved or made any threatening gesture, but Leisha had the sense that she was possibly more dangerous than the white leopard she had first thought wandered the garden.

“How did you come to be here? Our gates are not open to visitors,” she asked. She took a single step backward as she spoke, and was not surprised when the strange woman – Zoya – took a single step forward.

“You control the storms?” Zoya asked, making a slight gesture at the melon-sized stormcloud hovering above Leisha’s shoulder.

“I do.”

“Then you must be one of the princesses of Gerlach,” Zoya said, her tone matter-of-fact. “And sister to my queen, Yolara of Tzigane. She sent me here to find you.”

⬧

“You told me who she says she is,” Katya hissed, her annoyance with Leisha causing her to slip out of their wind-whispered conversation. “You didn’t say why you brought her here.”

She glanced over at the cloaked woman Leisha said had come from their sister. The woman was standing on Leisha’s balcony, sipping a glass of apricot nectar while staring out across the valley.

Leisha shrugged. “It seemed the best place for the three of us to talk in private.”

Katya choked back a laugh. “Privacy? You think you have privacy here? Someone will have seen the two of you come in and reported it to the matron. She will tell Sayha, who will send a falcon to Janek. The bird is probably already on its way.”

“Do not exaggerate,” Leisha said. “Come. Meet our guest.”

Katya made sure the door was locked and added a bit of gray thundercloud to the localized storm Leisha had already set there to frustrate anyone who might try peering in or listening through the keyhole.

“I do not like visitors,” she said, reluctantly crossing the room. “Every one we have had has caused a problem.”

“You mean Sayha?” Leisha asked with a light laugh. “Of course you do, as she is the only visitor we have ever had. And she has not caused a problem. Much.”

“This one will.”

The woman turned as they approached and stepped into the room. For a moment, the three of them just stood there. The stranger seemed to be studying the twins as curiously as they studied her.

“I am Zoya,” she said, breaking the silence. “I come—”

“From our sister, Yolara, in Tzigane,” Katya said. “Or so you told my sister. How do we know this is true?”

Zoya’s expression never faltered. “On the occasion of her marriage, you and your sister were invited to Nizam,” she said, looking directly at Katya. “As the two of you had only recently arrived in Kushar – where you saw your sister for the first time since you were young children in your father’s court – and would have had to cross the desert during the storm season, you chose not to attend. You wrote the letters declining the invitation yourselves.”

“Anyone with access to the fosterage records could have guessed that,” Katya said, not convinced.

“True, but why go to so much trouble?” Zoya asked. She reached up and withdrew a small pendant from inside her shirt, and lifted its cord from around her neck. “Do you remember this? You gave it to your adoptive mother as a birthday gift the year before you left for your fosterage.

She held out the pendant.

Katya stared at it for a long moment, transfixed, then reached out and gently lifted it from Zoya’s hand, her hand seeming to move on its own. A simple flower, the petals not quite perfect, the edges of the leaves a bit wobbly, a slightly squished bee perched near the center. Katya remembered making it out of clay and pressing the bits together, then taking it to her father and asking him to use his stoneworker’s gift to fuse the clay into stone. “I would not let him fix anything,” she murmured. “It had to be just as I made it.”

“Your mother loved it,” Zoya said gently. “It was a remembrance she shared with your sister after the two of you were lost.”

Katya was shaking. How dare this stranger come here and tear open the bits of her heart she had allowed to turn to stone.

She would not allow herself to be swayed by something as simple as a bit of hardened clay. But neither could she toss the pendant aside.

I told you this visitor was going to be trouble, she whispered to Leisha, letting the wind flutter the parchments on the table as it carried her words to her sister.

Leisha frowned, shaking her head slightly. She turned to Zoya, “Please, sit,” she said, gesturing for Zoya to sit in one of the comfortable chairs at the end of the room, away from the work table that was still covered with the large, child’s map of Kushar and several scattered parchments.

You sit, too, and behave! she added in a wind whisper to Katya.

If I must, Katya whispered back.

I want to hear what she says.

Katya didn’t reply. She knew Leisha had longed for news from their home. And, she had to admit, she was curious. If Zoya hadn’t come from Yolara, how else would she have gotten the pendant? But part of her wondered if this strange visitor was someone Sayha had somehow brought to the villa. To fool them? To test them? She did not know why, only that she had overheard rumors of Sayha going to the bridge to meet an unexpected visitor – and now this woman turned up in the garden?

She did not know what to believe.

“So tell us, what message does our sister send after all these years?” Katya asked, taking her seat. She held up the pendant, dangling it from her fingers. “If we were so well remembered, what excuse does our father give for never coming to retrieve us?”

“Until very recently, we all believed you were dead,” Zoya said simply. “Taken by the desert while on your way to your fosterage in Lechinska.”

At Leisha’s gasp of surprise, Zoya turned to her. “It is true. I was with your sister when she received the news, and traveled with her to your father’s court for the memorial.”

“Who did they bury?” Leisha whispered.

“The desert is not kind,” Zoya said. She sat straight, her hands flat on her lap. “Only a few traces of your small caravan were ever found. No bodies were recovered.”

She paused only a moment before adding, “Or so we were told.” Gesturing to each of them, she continued. “As you are here, and not buried beneath the desert sands, that story was clearly a lie. One meant to dissuade any further search for you.”

“Yet we were here, perfectly safe, the whole time,” Leisha breathed. She looked up at Zoya, her eyes wide. “Does our father know?”

“I can only assume so,” Zoya said. “I have notified my queen that I found you. She will not keep the news from your father long – though she may wait until I report back on...” she hesitated.

“On? What?” Katya asked. She patted her distended belly. “On our condition?”

“Oh, no,” Zoya said. “That is unexpected, of course, and something of a complication. But that was not what I was referring to... exactly.” She leaned back, clearly searching for the right words for what she wanted to say.

“Then what?” Katya pressed.

“On when you will be returning to the north,” she said, her tone blunt. “We will have to take your condition into consideration, of course. And... what of your families – your other children, your husbands? Do they know who you truly are? Will they be willing to accompany you into our lands?”

“We have no husbands,” Leisha said, her voice low.

“Ah, I see.”

“I doubt that,” Katya said. “We are here—”

Katya, no! Leisha half-rose from her chair, her wind-whispered shout so forceful it was accompanied by a puff of air.

Katya folded her lips together. They will find out, eventually.

While I wish to hear anything she might have to say of our home and family, I do not know how much I wish to tell her about us.

“Your grandmother used to do that,” Zoya said, causing the sisters to look at her in surprise. Zoya moved her hand in a lazy circle. “She would – how do you say? – talk on the wind, in a voice so low only the person she spoke to could hear her. I never knew a time when she did not use her gift, though even such a minor magic as whispering on the wind seemed to cost her toward the end of her life.”

“You must think us rude,” Leisha said.

“Rude? To use gifts that are as natural to you as breathing? Not at all,” Zoya said with an easy smile.

“We are so accustomed to speaking to each other this way.”

“Of course. Queen Nayira and your mother probably did as well, though I did not know your mother, so cannot say that with any certainty.”

“I wish we could have known them,” Leisha said.

“If you return with me, I am sure your sister will share your grandmother’s records with you – Queen Nayira wrote extensively about her gifts. It would be a way of knowing her, at least a little.”

“I would like to read those records,” Leisha said.

Even Katya was tempted, though she said nothing. With no one to teach them, discovering how to use and control their gifts had been a challenge – one not without many mishaps.

Her thoughts returned to the present when Zoya turned back toward them, her expression growing more serious. “As much as you have accomplished here, I suspect you were not kept here only to create this lovely garden. Have you been asked to alter the weather elsewhere – to aid Kushar, or hamper her enemies?”

Katya exchanged a glance with her sister.

“You speak like a warrior,” Katya said.

“Because I am one,” Zoya said. “And this is the task I was given.” She rose, gesturing toward the map spread out across the large table. “So, I will ask again: have you been required to aid Kushar in her battles with those who would stand against her?”

When neither of them answered her, Zoya nodded.

“I see,” she said.

“You see nothing,” Katya snapped.

“If you will not answer my questions, I am forced to draw my own conclusions,” Zoya said. She walked over to the map, studied it briefly, then turned back toward the twins, leaning against the table.

“Or perhaps you were asked to do something greater.” She gestured again at the twins’ rounded bellies. “Your gift is rare – exclusive to your bloodline. Are the children you carry the price of your imprisonment? Were you kept here to bring your gift to the Kushari bloodlines?”

She knows!

Katya jumped up, a storm coalescing in her hands, sparks flashing as she glared at Zoya. It was not that the Tzigani warrior had guessed Janek’s plan to introduce weather witches to Kushar that infuriated her so. It was the implication that their children were intended for the battlefield. That their gift was not, as Janek had always told them, to help the Kushari people, but to bring them victory in battle.

Leisha’s voice whispered to her on the wind, but whatever she was saying was lost in Katya’s fury. “How dare you suggest... I will not hear more...”

Before Leisha could stop her, Katya rushed across the room, fumbled with the latch, then flung open the door. “Get out!”

In the hall, one of the ubiquitous serving girls lingering near the top of the stairs, dropped the towels she was carrying, spun around, and rushed toward the room.

“What is the matter?” she shouted, her tone more like Zoya’s forceful one than that of a servant.

Katya pointed at Zoya. “There is an intruder.”

Without altering her stride, the servant – Katya remembered her name was Farza – reached into a fold of her dress and produced a long knife. At the same time, she raised her other hand, put two fingers to her lips, and sent out a loud, piercing whistle.

Katya heard items being dropped in other rooms, and footsteps pounding their way toward them before the echo of the whistle faded.

She looked into the room. Zoya had returned to the balcony and was standing there, one hand on the rail. Leisha had followed her, and was pleading with her to wait.

Zoya looked over her shoulder, met Katya’s eyes, and shook her head. When Farza barreled into the room past Katya, arm poised to throw her knife, Zoya easily lifted herself over the rail and dropped out of sight.

⬧

Leisha barely jumped out of the way in time as Farza, eyes wild and teeth bared, dove over the balcony railing after Zoya.

Moving forward and clutching the rail, Leisha leaned forward, watching them.

They had landed on the roof of the level below her chambers. Zoya had already reached the edge and was jumping to the next level, her grayish-green cape fluttering behind her. Farza had rolled through her landing and was on her feet, running, two other servants coming out of windows and off balconies farther down the building, all racing after Zoya.

“I do not think they are actually servants,” Katya said, coming up to stand beside Leisha.

“They are all carrying knives,” Leisha said, eyes wide as she watched the servants jump down to the next level. Zoya was still well ahead of them, but others were joining in the chase. “Did you know they carried knives?”

“I saw Gayane coming back from a hunt once,” Katya said. “She had a knife, as well as a bow and quiver of arrows. But no, I did not know they carried them in secret.”

“How much of what Zoya said do you think was true?” Leisha asked. Zoya had disappeared into the gardens, a dozen servants in pursuit. Leisha turned to Katya. “I do not like to think of it, but it makes sense.”

Katya was silent for some time, staring out toward the gardens. Finally, she said. “Janek is a political creature – we know this. If there is a use he can put our gifts to – or those of our children – that justifies his imprisoning us here, he will do it.”

Leisha nodded. Leaving the balcony, she went into her sleeping chamber, rummaged through her wardrobe until she found what she was looking for. Katya was still on the balcony when she returned.

“Have they caught her?”

Katya shook her head, one hand extended, her fingers moving slightly. “I hear the snap of a broken twig, footfalls light on stone. They search, but have not found her.”

“Do you know which way she went?”

Katya concentrated for several moments. “Someone is near the gardener’s workshop, breathing steadily, and has not moved in some time. It may be her.” She looked over at her sister. “Where are you going?”

Leisha fastened a pale green cloak around her neck. “I am going to find her.”

“And then?”

“I do not know.”

“Do not get yourself killed, sister. I do not know how skilled our servants are in the use of their knives.”

Leisha nodded, then rushed out of the room.

Rather than take the main stairway, she went to the opposite end of the hall and down the servant’s stairs to the ground level.

She slipped outside. With her back pressed to the door, she listened. Sounds of quiet pursuit were clustered around the garden. If she concentrated, she could hear the steady, quiet breathing Katya had identified as Zoya.

The servants were combing the gardens all around her. It was only a matter of time before they discovered her.

Leisha raised her fingers to her lips and murmured a few words, sending them on the wind.

Do not make a sound. They are all around you. I will do what I can to lead them away.

Even at six months pregnant, Leisha was still able to move quickly and quietly. She crossed the small courtyard to the shadow of a neighboring building, then moved around to the opposite side. From here, she had an unobstructed view of the gardens, slightly downhill from her.

Once again, she raised a hand to her mouth. This time she held her hand flat, her fingers pointing across the garden toward the winter plantings, on the opposite end from the gardener’s workshop. Blowing gently across her palm, she sent a breeze cutting through the tall grasses, giving the impression of a person moving in that area.

Immediately four of the servants turned in pursuit.

Leisha moved to the end of the building, working her way toward the stables. If she could distract enough of the servants, Zoya might be able to take a horse and escape across the bridge.

But just as she reached the stable, she heard a crash, followed by shouting.

Zoya had been found – and if what Leisha was hearing was any indication, was once again on the move, at least a half-dozen servants close behind.

A burst of thunder reverberated across the valley, drowning out the shouts of the servants who had been blown back across the garden.

If you have something in mind, sister, now is the time, Katya’s voice whispered on the wind with a hint of mild amusement.

Leisha listened, found Zoya’s breath, less calm and steady than before, but still controlled. She was near one of the long, low buildings that bordered the garden, not far from where the silver ribbon of the river plunged into the chasm.

Go toward the river, Leisha told her, even as she headed in that direction herself. Zoya was closer, and ran the risk of being seen, but Leisha knew the way, and cut through the stable, then across a short walk and around a storage building.

A knife buried itself in the wall as she rounded the corner – one of the servants had mistaken her pale green cloak for Zoya’s. Leisha moved faster. She had hoped to confuse the servants with her choice of cloak, but had not expected them to try to kill her.

I had hoped to talk further, but there is no time, she wind whispered to Zoya as she ran toward the river. I cannot go with you now – I will not leave without my sister – but please, please come back for us.

She paused in the shadow of the building where she had last heard Zoya, listening for pursuit, but she heard nothing over the pounding of her own heart. She did not know why or how, but did not question it. Leaving the sheltering shadow, she ran.

You must promise me you will not tell anyone about our children – especially not my father. It will be harder, but better if we tell him in person, when we finally return home.

Coming around the end of the building, she found herself face to face with Zoya. The warrior lowered her sword when she saw her.

“I will come back for you,” she murmured.

Leisha held up a hand, listening. Footsteps approached, barely making a sound as they moved across the grass.

“There is no time. You must go. Are you ready?”

“Yes, but how—?”

Leisha summoned the wind, more than she had ever dared before.

Zoya was lifted off her feet and thrown, limbs flailing and cloak billowing out behind her, across the chasm toward the ledge and the dark line of a path extending from the base of the bridge and running along the cliff face.

Leisha wanted to calm her, but could not spare the magic to whisper a message. Instead, she pushed harder.

The wind carried Zoya all the way to the ledge. She teetered there for a moment, then disappeared into the shadows of the vines and greenery that grew amid the rocks.

“That was well done,” Katya said, coming up behind her.

“I was not entirely certain it would work,” Leisha said, leaning heavily against her sister, her energy spent.

As they turned back, arm in arm, to return to the villa, Sayha came around the cluster of trees near the end of the building. She stood there for a moment, her head tilted, studying them.

“The silence between us has gone on too long,” she said at last. “It is time – in truth, it is past time – that we talk, openly and honestly.”

Chapter 25

Zoya had time for only one thought as she flew through the air across the chasm, but could not seem to choose between the sheer amazement of what was occurring and the sudden realization that she was hurtling toward a vine-covered cliff wall.

She had just managed to push her feet out in front of her and spread her arms out wide, and then she was there, her toes hitting the wooden walkway just hard enough for the short claws on her boots to extend and try to grab into the wood.

But she had lost her momentum, and as Leisha’s gust of wind faded, she felt herself beginning to wobble, the combined weight of her light pack and practically weightless cloak pulling her backward. She swung her arms forward, hoping to catch hold of the vines dangling in front of her, but they were just out of reach.

She was going to fall.

And then a hand grabbed her arm, a firm grip pulling her fully onto the walkway and into the shadow of a slight recess of stone hidden by the vines.

“Steady,” a man’s voice said. “That was clo—”

Zoya punched him.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone she knew or trusted – and no one she didn’t trust could know she was here.

He staggered back, hitting the rough rock, his grip on her arm loosening just enough for her to shake free. She could not head toward the tower – there would be Kizrei there, and too many people looking for her to risk climbing the bridge in full daylight.

Instead, she turned and ran down the rickety wooden walkway. She hoped it was more stable than it looked, but extended her claws just in case the wood gave out and she needed to grab onto the stone unexpectedly.

She was ten paces down when she felt the vibration of the stranger’s footsteps behind her.

She should have dropped him into the chasm.

The walkway wasn’t completely falling apart, but neither was it wide enough or sturdy enough for any sort of fight. At least she had one advantage: even in boots and carrying weapons, she was lighter than the tall man now pursuing her. With any luck, he would step on a weak board, and she wouldn’t need to worry about him anymore.

But, for now, she ran.

⬧

Kiran had spent most of the night sleeping in the small room at the end of the bridge the Kizrei had said he could use. One of a handful of buildings built into the side of the mountain and opening onto the plaza, it was little more than a storeroom – clearly the Kizrei did not anticipate hosting overnight guests very often. But it had a cot with a heavy blanket, a table with a small brazier and pitcher of water, and a chamber pot in the corner. The room also held several crates, which he did not examine, but stacked in the way of the open door so it could not be closed.

He had no intention of being locked in.

As the daylight waned, one of the Kizrei came in with a smoking brazier and a bowl of food. “Nothing fancy, my lord,” he said, setting the bowl on the small table next to Kiran’s half-open pack. “But it will be better than traveler’s rations.”

Kiran glanced from the bowl of steaming rice and curried lamb to the packet of dried meat, fruit, and flatbread he’d been pulling out of his pack, and grinned. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“It gets a bit chilly here at night,” the man said, pulling a small pair of tongs from a sheath on his belt and taking a hot coal from his own brazier to light the one on Kiran’s table. “The room will stay warmer if you close the door.”

“I will be fine,” Kiran said. “Thank you.”

The one thing the room lacked, Kiran realized while he ate, was a lamp. It was dark by the time he finished eating, and the light from the torches out on the plaza cast only dim light into his small room. The Kizrei had taken his horse and stabled it with their own, which left him with nothing to do but roam the plaza beneath the watchful gazes of the attending guards, or sleep. With a shrug, he chose to sleep.

Maybe if they thought he was no threat, the Kizrei would relax their stance around him.

He’d lived with enough Kizrei around to know that was highly unlikely, but for the moment he had no other plan. His search for the Gerlachi twins had brought him to Rachusa, to consult with Janek, but his uncle was not to be found either as himself or in the guise of the ‘fat merchant’ the young scribe-in-training had mentioned.

However, Rachusa was not without gossip, and a little coin and a lot of wine loosened tongues.

“There are several fat merchants in Rachusa,” a large man in elaborate merchant robes said, raising his mug to Kiran. “Though I am clearly not one of them.” Beads in his beard clicked as he laughed, many of the others in the tavern joining in the laughter. But he grew quiet when the jovial gossip turned to the harem in the mountains.

Another day, Kiran might have dismissed stories of wagonloads of supplies destined for a nobleman’s secret harem. When he looked to the bead-bearded merchant to confirm the tale, he was no longer in the tavern.

It had to be nothing more than an idle tale. Then again, considering what he was searching for, it seemed worth checking out.

When he later discovered he would need to circumvent a pair of Kizrei guarding the only road to the compound, Kiran’s interest only increased. What nobleman could command the Kizrei? Paid guards, yes, but Kizrei? To guard a harem? It didn’t make sense.

He’d had to lead his horse quietly around a circuitous path, finally joining the road far enough away from the city to avoid being seen. Fortunately, he’d been able to join up with one of the supply wagons going the rest of the way – but here, in sight of the small palace across the chasm was as far as he’d been able to get.

They were hiding something over there, and he wanted to know what.

Kiran woke slightly before dawn, chilled to the bone. The brazier was still burning, but with the door blocked open, it did little to keep the room warm.

When he looked around the edge of the door and across the plaza to the end of the bridge, he saw only a single Kizrei guard – and the man was not facing his way. Instead, he was standing with his back to the pillar supporting the bridge, which put Kiran and his side of the plaza to the guard’s left.

Kiran stepped out of his room. The rest of the plaza was empty – at least for now. But he could not count on it remaining that way throughout the day.

When he had been arguing with the guards the previous afternoon, he’d seen a couple of them go into one of the other buildings near the one where he’d slept, and a flight of stairs just inside the door. He made his way there, moving very slowly so not to catch the guard’s eye, slipped inside, and closed the door quietly behind him.

He would not find a way across the bridge by going up, that much he knew. But, if he let them force him back through the tunnel to the other side of the mountain, his questions unanswered, it would be nearly impossible to get even this far again.

He went downstairs, found a door that creaked when he opened it, followed a hallway to its end and a door that opened to what appeared to be a seldom-used path on a narrow ledge along the face of the cliff.

He’d never suffered from vertigo, but walking the narrow path in the pre-dawn light, knowing the chasm was only a step in the wrong direction, was unnerving. He moved forward cautiously, and when he found a sheltered recess, mostly hidden by the vines that covered much of the cliff face, he was extremely grateful. The alcove wasn’t big enough to call a cave, but just deep enough for him to sit down, wedge himself into a corner, pull his blanket around his shoulders, and rest.

Kiran dozed longer than he intended, and woke the sound of a commotion – which oddly seemed to be coming from the other side of the chasm.

Pulling himself carefully to his feet, he peered through the vines, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Were they looking for him? When he’d not been in his room, had they thought he’d somehow managed to make it across the bridge during the night?

His attention was caught by the sight of a pair of women – one, cloaked and armed – perhaps a Kizrei? – standing near the edge of the river. The second, more casually dressed in a flowing gown, her long, dark hair unbound, making her way to the first, along the back of a building. He was too far away to see their faces or hear their conversation, but watched as they met and spoke briefly.

Then, without warning, the cloaked woman was flying toward him.

He jumped back, pressing himself to the cliff, trying to stay out of sight. But, when she landed and started to wobble and possibly fall, he darted forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the alcove.

“Steady,” he said. “That was clo—”

She punched him.

He staggered back, hitting the rough rock, his grip on her arm loosening just enough for her to shake free. She took off, running down the rickety wooden walkway.

Rubbing his jaw, Kiran looked across the chasm. The second woman had been joined by two more, and the three of them were walking away, as though the cloaked woman hadn’t just flown away.

He glanced back toward the bridge. There was no sign of pursuit from that direction – but no answers there, either.

He looked down the walkway. Hoping it was more stable than it looked, Kiran followed the woman.

⬧

As she ran, Zoya settled into an easy pace. Kusan had drilled the lesson into all of the Queen’s Guard – it was more important to arrive ready for battle than to spend their strength racing at top speed. And though she’d seldom had the opportunity to run any distance since leaving Tzigane, once she hit her stride, the rhythm was comfortable and one she could easily maintain.

Added to that, while the wooden planks of the walkway were long overdue for being repaired or replaced, the stone framework they rested on seemed quite stable. After she realized that and adjusted her stride to match the distance between the stone supports, her fears about any misstep sending her plunging to her death were greatly reduced.

That left her free to think as she ran.

Zoya had much to think about. The twins were alive and well, pregnant – she’d think on that separately – and at least one of them wanted to come home. She’d heard the pleading in Leisha’s wind-whispered voice.

Katya, on the other hand, was more of an open question. She was suspicious, almost openly hostile, and Zoya did not fault her for her skepticism. Yet, there was an underlying vulnerability to her, as well. She might be more willing to return to Gerlach than she let on.

As to the question of why they had been kept there by the Kushari, the children they carried seemed answer enough for that.

Yolara had grumbled often enough about nobles marrying for no other reason than to introduce a magical gift into their family bloodline – it was clear the Kushari had sought something similar here. How many of their noble houses now fostered children with the weather witch gift flowing through their blood? And would the experiment even work? Yolara herself was proof that not all of the girls born of the Nizami bloodline exhibited the rare gift.

And what had become of their sons?

Assuming she was right about the Kushari’s goal, and the twins had been at least of marriageable age before giving birth to the first of their children, they might have each borne several over the past seven years. They would surely have had at least a few sons as well as daughters – boys with only a slim chance of ultimately fathering weather witch daughters of their own.

It was too much to try to sort out.

She had been running for nearly an hour when the walkway began to descend in a series of long steps, forcing Zoya to adjust her stride and focus again on her running. At least the path was consistently either level or downhill.

She could still hear the man behind her – a little farther back than he’d started, but seeming to easily keep pace with her. She wondered if his lungs burned as hers did.

Who was he? What had he been doing on that ledge? If he’d been hiding, as it seemed, why had he saved her from falling into the chasm and why was he following her now?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to any of those questions. At the moment, she just wanted to stay far enough ahead of him that she could get away – should an opportunity arise.

The walkway had to go somewhere, after all.

At this point, she just hoped it would be someplace with water. She would kill, if that’s what it took, to get her hands on a full waterskin.

Did the man following her have water?

No. She wasn’t desperate enough – yet – to risk any sort of fight on the narrow walkway. Fighting back the headache beginning to build, she kept running.

After some time, the steps ended and the path again leveled out. This allowed her to occasionally steal a glance across the chasm. Each time she looked, the trees had changed, from the tall, stately trees immediately surrounding the villa, to orchards of fruit trees in neat rows, to what now looked enough like the evergreen forests of Tzigane as to be somewhat disorienting.

Zoya half-wished she had stayed on that side of the chasm, though she would likely have been captured by the guards protecting the twins long before.

At least here she only had one stranger to deal with.

The sun had passed midday when she spotted the bridge up ahead.

It was dark and rough-looking and, as she drew near, she saw that it was entirely constructed of enormous vines. It bore thin tracings of green, as though the fingerling vines that climbed the cliff had begun to work their way across, but the thick, heavy wood of the main structure appeared to be entirely dead.

Zoya paused, grabbing hold where the woody stem curved to form a railing, and giving it a hard shake. A few brittle twigs and dried leaves fluttered away, but otherwise the bridge seemed stable enough.

Footsteps pounding on the wooden walkway behind her grew louder as the man chasing her drew closer. There was no time to think, no time to carefully test each step.

Zoya leapt forward, dried wood snapping and cracking underfoot, and the whole structure groaning, as she raced across the bridge.

⬧

Kiran had not run this far since returning home from his fosterage the previous summer, though he’d run a good bit, then. While the tutors worked directly with those who had magical gifts, the other students were often left to their own devices, which had suited Kiran just fine. But, after getting into more than his share of trouble, the Tusyan fosterage mistress had found better uses for his time. He couldn’t blame her, really, and the extra lessons in swordplay and horsemanship were things he enjoyed.

He’d enjoyed the daily run around the nearby lake somewhat less, but as his strength and stamina improved, he’d come to look forward to that hour, regardless of the weather.

But he’d been running down this wooden walkway for over three hours now, with no end in sight. Several times, the boards had groaned or even cracked under his weight, and twice his foot had actually gone through the boards, nearly causing him to stumble.

He was beginning to wonder why he’d decided to follow the cloaked woman at all. She was leading him farther and farther from the compound with each step.

Still, when he returned to Khulan – if he made it home alive – he would be able to report back to his father that he had found the Gerlachi princesses. None but weather witches could have created this lush, green valley so high amid the jagged peaks of the Janqurai, where the snows never melted.

Guarded by Kizrei, aided by cultivators, supplied by merchants from one of Kushar’s largest trading centers, only one question remained: who had brought the princesses here, and to what purpose?

Kiran didn’t think he was going to like the answer.

When he saw the dark shape of a bridge spanning the chasm ahead, his legs nearly collapsed under him in relief. He pushed forward, hesitating only a moment as he saw bits of broken wood falling away beneath the woman’s feet.

Kiran was not a large man, but he was tall and broad-shouldered like his father and uncle – easily half again the weight of the woman moving lightly across the bridge ahead of him.

She was nearly halfway across, though was no longer running, the bridge swaying gently beneath her, when he stepped out onto the first of the rough vines.

It held.

Kiran began to run, swinging his arms to catch and release the side rails as the bridge swayed and cracked beneath him. Hand, foot, hand, foot, each step more precarious than the last.

As he neared the halfway point, he understood why the woman had slowed. Large sections of dead vine had fallen away, leaving gaps through which he could see clearly to the river far below. Kiran slowed as well, placing each foot with care as he worked his way across the treacherous area.

The bridge was swaying dangerously now, and it was all Kiran could do to gain each hand- or foothold. Looking ahead, he saw that the woman had reached the opposite side of the chasm. When she stepped off the bridge, she turned back, looking directly at him.

Their eyes met, locked, held.

And then the moment passed. As Kiran reached for the next handhold, a flash of sunlight on metal caught his eye. He looked up.

The woman had drawn a sword and swung it down on one of the railing vines.

Kiran froze as the vine shuddered in his grip.

She struck it again.

Kiran moved faster. Hand, foot, hand, foot, his grip on the right-hand vine less certain with each swing of her sword.

And then the vine railing snapped beneath her blade.

The bridge rocked, tilting to one side, throwing Kiran against it. Hanging by only his left hand, he swung his empty right hand up and grabbed the remaining vine. Hand over hand, he began to pull himself across the remaining distance, toward safety.

And toward the caped woman who was, even now, disappearing among the trees.

Chapter 26

Zoya ran through the trees, the long, slender pine needles brushing against her face and sliding over her cloak or crunching beneath her boots. Slender white trunks of broadleaf trees, just showing early spring growth, flashed past.

She grabbed hold of one of them, leaning her head against it, breathing heavily.

She needed water.

Now that she was no longer focused on keeping her balance on the narrow walkway, she was more aware than ever of the throbbing in her head.

She had to keep moving.

Downhill. There would be water downhill.

She just needed to keep moving. Find water before the man who had been chasing her all day finally caught up to her. He’d surely finished the crossing by now, and would be searching for her.

She pushed away from the tree and started running again, watching the trees, the ground, listening for running water.

Listening for footsteps.

She hadn’t actually thought she could cut through the bridge, not after her first swing, anyway. It might have been long dead, but the woody vine was more than her sword was designed to cut. So, she’d settled for slowing his progress and putting as much distance between them as she could.

Zoya stumbled, reaching out and grasping a handful of pine needles that slid through her fingers, doing nothing to slow her fall.

She sat there, on her knees for a long moment, head down, gasping for breath. It was a bad idea to run through a forest. She knew that, and after pulling herself back to her feet slowed to a pace that was still fast, but not the headlong speed at which she’d first dove into the trees. The ground here was rough, with rocks and roots just waiting for her to grow careless again.

The pounding in her head eased somewhat after she slowed, replaced by the leaden weights that were her legs. After spending so much of the past six months in the saddle, the long run was taking its toll. Zoya found herself pausing often, supporting herself against the nearest tree, not daring to sit for fear she wouldn’t be able to rise again.

The whispers and creaking of branches in the gentle afternoon breeze seemed to be speaking to her. She strained to hear, to understand, uncertain if the footsteps she heard were hers or those of her pursuer.

Her thoughts were muddled. She vaguely recalled Dulan having said something about using yaks to pull the wagon up to the compound instead of horses because – something about the large, slow creatures being better suited to the thin air. She hadn’t known what he was talking about at the time, but now, with her head swimming and her breath short, she supposed she was not enough like a yak.

The idea made her laugh, and while she was laughing, the short claws on the toe of her boot caught on a root and sent her tumbling. When she finally stopped rolling, she just lay there, not broken, but with neither the desire nor the ability to stand.

She did not even open her eyes when strong hands caught her by the shoulders, though her hand did begin to slide toward the hilt of her sword.

“None of that, now,” a man’s voice said. “Just let me help you.”

The last thing she remembered, she was being lifted from the ground. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and everything went dark.

⬧

Zoya heard the murmur of voices nearby, though whether the people were speaking softly or were just too distant to hear clearly, she could not tell. As her eyes fluttered open, she immediately tensed, hoping to assess her situation before anyone realized she was awake.

She was laying on a bed in a dimly-lit room, the soft glow of a lantern revealing walls of granite blocks. The air was cool, but not cold, and carried the faint scent of charcoal as though from a brazier.

Keeping her breathing steady, she relaxed just enough to realize that the bed was actually a camp cot, raised off the floor, but lacking the cushions of a bed.

Slowly, she sat up, scanning the room.

The lantern sat on a small table near the head of the cot. A pitcher of water and earthenware mug sat next to it.

Her cloak and sword belt hung from pegs on the wall near the closed door. Her pack and boots sat on the floor, just below her sword.

The room itself was not large, but the lantern was not bright enough to fully illuminate the opposite corner. Zoya stared into the shadows, trying to make out the presence she thought she saw there.

“The healer said you would wake soon,” a man said. It was the same voice she had heard before. The man she’d spent hours running from... when? Earlier that day? Several days ago? She had no sense of time, and the room lacked any window that might help her guess the time of day.

“How—?”

“There is water. Drink. It will help to clear your thoughts.” The man rose and stepped forward, bringing his chair to the end of her cot.

“Before the healer returns, there are things you should know,” he said, sitting. “My name is Kiran—”

“Prince Kiran,” Zoya said, recognizing the name of the rider who had been denied admittance to the villa. The prince was young, at least ten years her junior, maybe more, but he carried himself well. In many ways, he reminded her of Yolara when she first came to Nizam, with the confidence of training, but little in the way of practical experience.

“Yes,” Kiran said. “As I do not know your name, I had to give you one: Chani.”

“Why?”

“It was the first name that came to mind.”

“No, why did you have to create a name for me? Where are we?”

He was staring at her, studying her.

“You are clearly a foreigner,” he said. “I did not want you imprisoned as an intruder until I had the opportunity to speak to you myself.”

“So, I am your prisoner.”

“No. Though better that than to be a prisoner of the Kizrei,” he said grimly. “Even my influence extends only so far.”

They both looked toward the door as the sound of approaching footsteps caught their attention.

Kiran rose, moved to the side of Zoya’s cot, and poured her some water.

“Drink,” he said, holding out the mug.

As thirsty as she was, Zoya had no reason to trust him. When she just stared at him, Kiran raised the mug, took a large swallow, then refilled it and held it out to her again.

“It is just water. It will help with the headache.”

She took the mug, intending only to sip at it, and quickly drained it.

“How did I come here?” she asked.

“We were in the forest. You fell,” Kiran said. “When I could not revive you, I picked you up. I was carrying you, searching for water, when one of the Kizrei hunters found us.”

“And it is fortunate for you that Norala found you and brought you here,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway.

Zoya and Kiran both looked over as a short, trim woman wearing a Kizrei uniform entered the room, carrying a tray laden with steaming bowls and a plate of aromatic flatbread.

“Visitors of the villa rarely wander this far,” she said, nudging Kiran aside and setting the tray on the end of the cot. “Our fare is simple, but sustaining.”

“Chani, this is Bria, the healer,” Kiran said. His tone was casual, but Zoya did not miss his pointed stare or the slight emphasis he put on the name he had given her.

She nodded slightly in response. She could play along. For now.

“It is you I have to thank,” she said.

Bria shushed her. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “You are newly come to Ayametu?” At Zoya’s nod, Bria continued. “You are not the first to experience ill effects on coming to the mountains – the air here is thin, and dry, when compared to other parts of Kushar. But you are in good health, and did not injure yourself in your fall. Do not overexert yourself and you will adapt quickly enough.”

Zoya grimaced, while Kiran choked back a laugh at the healer’s words. Bria looked from one to the other, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

“I see,” she said with a wink. “Well, you will soon be well enough for any activities you choose.”

It was Zoya’s turn to choke on her laughter as Kiran visibly reddened at the healer’s obvious misinterpretation of their relationship.

“But for now,” Bria continued, “eat, drink as much water as you can, and let your body adapt.” She turned to Kiran. “You may wish to stay here overnight, my lord. A white leopard has been hunting in the valley, and it is a long walk back to the villa. Shall I send a message to Lady Sayha so she does not send anyone to search for you?”

He concealed it well, but Zoya saw the flicker of annoyance in Kiran’s reaction.

“I will write to her myself,” he said. “Where will I find your whisperer?”

“I can take you to her,” Bria said. She gestured at the food cooling on the tray. “But you should eat first.”

“No,” Kiran said. “We have already been away from the villa for too long. I would not have Lady Sayha worry for our safety.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Bria said, dipping her head, then moving to the door.

Kiran bent over Zoya, bringing his mouth near her ear. “Be here when I return,” he said, the easy conversation of earlier replaced by a tone of command.

As the door closed behind him, Zoya reached for the pitcher, filled her mug, then sipped at the cool water, considering her situation.

She would wait. Not that she had any intention of answering Kiran’s questions. Quite the contrary. She had questions of her own for the young prince.

It was probably a good thing that he had not fallen into the chasm after all.

⬧

Kiran followed Bria across the courtyard at the center of the Kizrei compound. Sparring warriors, both male and female, paused in their exercises, watching with silent, curious stares as they passed.

Kiran ignored them. He had been too focused on Chani – he didn’t even know the woman’s real name – when they first arrived to pay proper attention to their surroundings. Now, he took in every detail.

The compound – which he’d been told was called Milas – was laid out like a fort, with one wall built into the rocky mountain. Towers rose at three corners. A large whisperer’s aviary climbed the mountain wall at the fourth corner. It was here Bria led him, past the communal hall that ran most of the length of the back wall and above the warriors’ barracks, all built of the same gray granite with minimal embellishment.

Bria excused herself when they reached the stairs to the aviary, and Kiran proceeded up alone, pausing when he reached the balcony to look out over the valley.

It was narrow here, the mountains to the north and south towering above them like great, gray walls that had been shoved too close together. Eastward, toward the villa, lay the forest, in its mixed shades of green. To the west, a sparkling lake reflected the golden hues of the late afternoon sun.

“It is rather spectacular, is it not, my lord?”

Kiran turned. The whisperer was tall and slender, dressed in the same uniform as all the Kizrei, with the addition of heavy leather gauntlets covering her forearms. Her long, dark hair was bound in a thick braid across the top of her head and down her back, revealing the marks of her gift on her scalp. However, they did not depict any individual bird, as was often common. Instead, dozens of feathers, of every size and width, were outlined on her scalp, in such a way that Kiran almost believed he would feel their whisper-light softness if he were to reach out and touch them. A medium-sized, brown owl perched on a thick pad on her left shoulder, while a pair of small yellow birds clung to twigs bound into her braid.

“I have never seen the like,” he said, uncertain as he spoke whether he meant the scenery or the whisperer, for his comment applied equally to both.

“You are here to send a message?” the whisperer said after they had stood there in awkward silence for several seconds.

“Yes. Two, if I may.”

“Of course. To both Lord Janek and Lady Sayha. Do you have your messages? Or do you need pen and parchment?”

“I do not have the messages, no,” Kiran said, following her into her workspace. Feathers of all sizes and colors covered the floor and table. “but I actually wanted to send messages to Lady Sayha and my father, not to Lord Janek.”

Taking a deep breath, the whisperer blew into the room. Feathers stirred like a flurry of snowflakes, and when they settled a clean worktable was revealed.

“I do not often have guests,” she said by way of explanation. She reached for pen and ink and parchment. “I am afraid I cannot send a message to the king on your behalf. We have very specific orders not to disturb him for any reason.”

“To my brother, then,” Kiran suggested. “I would have my family know I am safe and well.”

But the whisperer again refused. “I can send your message to Lady Sayha. That is not a problem. And to Lord Janek if you wish it. But to no other. Do not ask me to violate my orders or my oath, my lord, for I will not.”

Her voice was calm, but Kiran saw her tension reflected in the intense gaze of the owl. He nodded. “My apologies. I was unaware of the restrictions of this outpost. It is known to none, then?”

“It is known to few,” she corrected. “I will wait outside.”

Kiran picked up the quill and stared at the strip of parchment. He had no intention of telling Sayha where he was, not after her refusal to allow him to enter Ayametu the previous day. Interestingly, both Sayha and now the whisperer had been adamant about following the orders they had been given.

But who had given them?

He dipped the quill in the ink and quickly wrote a few words to his cousin:

You should have let me in.

After signing the note, waiting a moment for the ink to dry, and rolling it tightly, he sealed it with a spot of wax from a candle burning in one of the whisperer’s lanterns.

He briefly considered sending a note to Janek to relay to his father – as Grand Vizier, his uncle routinely reviewed messages intended for the king, dealing with the more routine or frivolous requests himself – but then Kiran decided against it. The fewer people who knew of his mission or his whereabouts, the better.

Leaving the blank strip of parchment on the table, he went out to the balcony and handed his message to the whisperer.

“For Lady Sayha,” he said.

As she pulled a message tube from her pocket and slid the rolled parchment into it, the owl fluttered from her shoulder to a perch on the balcony railing. The whisperer then turned her back to the courtyard and looked up at the many nests built into the cracks and crevices of the rocky wall above.

Kiran watched as she scanned, her lips moving slightly though she made no sound he could hear.

A moment later, a black and brown falcon emerged from one of the crevices and winged his way down to them, landing a few feet from the owl, who watched him with a quiet, knowing gaze.

The whisperer stroked the falcon’s head, fed it a bit of dried meat from a pouch at her waist, then deftly tied the message tube to its leg.

With one hand cradling the back of the bird’s head, she reached her other hand out to Kiran.

“See her in your mind,” the whisperer told him.

Kiran pictured Sayha as he had last seen her, several years ago, laughing and carefree at a royal banquet. Then he brought to mind the hooded woman from the bridge, certain beyond doubt that the two were the same person.

His vision shifted, and he was seeing through the falcon’s eyes, soaring over the forest and orchards to the golden towers of Ayametu. He felt the wind beneath his wings, blinked rapidly as his gaze darted from person to person, finally alighting on a dark-haired woman barely visible through a window.

“Find her, and only her,” the whisperer commanded, her voice strong in the mind Kiran shared with the bird, though she had said nothing his own ears could hear.

The falcon responded with a harsh kak-kak-kak and the whisperer took her hands away. With a mighty swish of its wings, the bird leapt into the air and flew away.

“Joji has been to Ayametu many times,” she said. “I was able to find his last memory and use it to reinforce your own in his mind. Your message will soon be in Lady Sayha’s hands.”

Kiran thanked the whisperer, took a last look from the tower, and hurried back to Chani’s room.

“I was not sure you would still be here,” he said when he opened the door. She was much as he had left her, seated cross-legged on the cot, a bowl in her hands.

She looked up, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “I did not have any better place to be,” she said. She lowered the spoon, gesturing to the other bowl. “I did not wait for you. It is quite good. Spicy.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Chani. I am a friend of Prince Kiran. Know him?” she said with a smirk, then resumed eating.

With a sigh, Kiran sat and picked up the second bowl.

“Lady Sayha, who the healer mentioned, is my cousin,” he said between bites.

“And she refused you admittance to Ayametu,” she said. “How will she react to learning you are here?”

Kiran stared at her.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“A traveler, like you, who was also denied admittance.”

“Yet somehow you gained entry,” he said. “And then flew across the chasm – what magic was that? I have never seen—”

“It was not my doing, nor anything I can explain,” she said. “How did you explain our presence here to your cousin?”

“I did not – and I said nothing about you. But it will not be difficult for her to guess that the message came from here.”

“Then we should not be here when her reply arrives.” She tore off a piece of flatbread and used it to soak up some of the sauce from her bowl. “What do you know of this place?”

Kiran concentrated on his food. He was supposed to be getting information from her, yet she was asking all of the questions and answering none of his. He looked at her. “I could ask the same of you,” he said. “But please, if we are going to have an honest conversation, I need to know your real name.”

“Who was Chani?”

“A girl I knew from my fosterage.” He couldn’t look at her. Didn’t want to see the laughter in her eyes.

“My name is Zoya.”

⬧

Zoya looked at Kiran. The young prince was out of his depth here. He had just enough command of his rank to use it to his advantage, but unless she was misreading the cues, he had little more understanding of what was going on in Ayametu than she did.

If that much.

“How long do we have?” she asked.

“Before Sayha replies? Maybe two hours.”

“Then we have two hours to find a way out of here – and in this you have me at a disadvantage. Where are we?”

She saw his hesitation and had to work to keep from snapping at him.

“Regardless of our differences, we share a common goal,” she said. “If we want to leave here tonight, we are going to have to work together.

With an expression of combined frustration and resignation, he described the fort and what he had observed of its layout. While he spoke, she finished off her meal, then rose, crossed the room, and pulled on her boots. Then she reached for her sword belt.

“Are you well enough?” he asked.

Zoya shrugged, fastening the belt around her waist. “Well enough,” she said. “Though it would be wise to take a waterskin or two with us. I seem to have lost mine.”

She swung her pack onto her back, then settled her cloak over her shoulders and fastened it. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“What are we doing?” Kiran asked.

“Escaping, before they decide to imprison us,” she replied, one hand on the door latch. “Surely you do not wish to stay?”

“No, but—”

“But, what?” This time she did snap.

Kiran set aside his empty bowl and stood, meeting her eyes. She watched as frustration turned to resolve.

“If we are going to do this, we will need horses. The stables are near the main gate.”

They slipped out of the room and moved quietly down the empty hallway, then down the stairs to the ground level.

“I thought you said there were dozens of warriors here,” Zoya said, peering out into the empty courtyard.

Kiran, right behind her, leaned forward to look past her. “Maybe they are in the communal hall, taking their evening meal?”

“It would be a bit of good luck for us if they are,” Zoya said, sliding a hand to the hilt of her sword. “Be mindful. It seems wrong that no one is standing watch.”

“You intend to fight your way out?” Kiran asked.

“If I have to, yes.”

“Should I remind you—”

“No.”

Kiran was silent.

Zoya closed her eyes, holding back a sigh, then turned and looked up at him. Tall, strong... and so naïve.

“We have one chance to get out of here, Kiran. If you want to stay, fine. But I cannot.”

“I understand.” Kiran straightened his shoulders. “I am ready.”

A shadow moved at the far end of the hall.

“Good,” Zoya said. “Someone is coming. We need to go.” She turned back to the door, took one last look around the courtyard – so many shadows, so many places where someone could hide – then slipped outside.

They slipped from the shadow of one deep-set door shadow to the next, moving quickly and quietly along the far wall of the fort, Zoya’s cloak shifting from the light grayish-green of earlier in the day to a deeper brownish gray, like the shadows where they hid. Kiran pointed to the opposite corner, where a row of stall windows opened into the courtyard.

Not a single horse was visible.

“I suppose the horses are taking their evening meal as well?” she whispered.

A deep gray shadow flitted across the opposite side of the courtyard, another moved along the balcony, neither distinct enough to identify the individuals casting them.

Kizrei.

Zoya and Kiran still had to cross nearly the full width of the fort, including the wide wooden gate which would offer them no opportunity to hide.

She was just about to dart to the next hiding place when a muffled ‘uff’ caused her to look back.

One of the Kizrei had quietly opened the door at Kiran’s back and looped a rope around his throat. He was now pulling Kiran backward, choking him.

Zoya grabbed Kiran’s forearm, vaulting herself upward. As her left foot landed on his shoulder, she planted her right foot in the Kizrei’s face. The man jerked backward – but because he did not let go of the rope, Kiran fell over onto him. Zoya jumped free of the tangle in the doorway, giving the warrior a second solid kick as she landed.

His arm went limp, and the rope fell slack.

“Come on,” she whispered, grabbing Kiran’s hand and half-dragging the still choking prince to his feet. “Hush. Do you want them all on us?”

They sprinted to the next alcove, Kiran tugging the rope from his neck as they ran.

As they reached it, a gray-cloaked warrior stepped out, holding her sword across her chest.

Zoya slid into stance, drawing her sword. “Go,” she called back to Kiran.

As the Kizrei moved forward, swinging her sword, Zoya raised her own to block it. Swing, block, swing, parry, they moved in a whirl of capes and blades, each driving forward then being pushed back in turn. Then the Kizrei twisted her wrist as she swept at Zoya’s blade striking it at just the right angle to send Zoya crashing into the wall next to her. She bounced back, raising her leg in a high kick to the warrior’s side as she spun away from the wall.

The warrior staggered back but recovered instantly, driving Zoya backward with a flurry of blade strikes.

Zoya’s head was beginning to throb again, but she pushed it aside. Her training with the wind dancers, learning to use blade and feet in the same battle, now came to the fore. She swung, spun, and kicked, throwing a punch when the opportunity presented itself.

The warrior was no amateur. She ducked and dodged, swung and struck in turn, her blade ringing as it struck Zoya’s.

Then Zoya’s boot connected with the warrior’s knee, popping it to the side. The warrior did not fall, but the injury slowed her responses and Zoya was able to push forward, her blade a blur. A solid hit with the flat of her blade to the side of the warrior’s head sent her careening face-first into the nearby wall and she slid to the ground, though Zoya thought it was probably twisting the bad knee that actually brought her down.

She did not wait to give the warrior the chance to get back up.

Kiran had raced across the open courtyard to the stable. Zoya followed, the whisper of soft boots against the stone of the courtyard behind her.

But when she ducked into the stable and pulled the door closed behind her, she did not see Kiran leading horses from their stalls.

Three Kizrei surrounded him, all waving their blades in challenge. He appeared to be uninjured as yet, and had managed to position himself with a stable wall to his back, but it would be of little help if they rushed him.

Before Zoya could join in the fight, a long, low whistle sounded through the stable. The row of stall doors swung open, into the passage, a cloaked Kizrei stepping silently from each.

“We would rather not kill you,” a man’s voice said. Another of the warriors walked toward them through the center of the passage, his boots crunching lightly on the straw on the stone floor. “It would be preferable – for all of us, I am sure – if you were to simply lay down your swords”

“Why would we want to do that?” Zoya asked.

“As I know nothing more about you than your name, Lady Chani, I am willing to risk the ire of whatever house you belong to,” he said, with a slight shrug. He glanced toward Kiran, who was still holding his sword out, ready to engage with the warriors who had challenged him. “I would feel no guilt in killing you – as it would only be right to do so, as consequence for your having killed the prince.”

Zoya understood. The Kizrei would kill both of them to keep the secret of the weather witches’ presence in the valley, then devise a convenient fiction to explain Kiran’s death at her hand.

“How did you know we would try to leave?” she asked.

The warrior laughed. “We have been searching the valley for the two of you for most of the day, ever since we received word of intruders who attempted to enter the villa and had evaded capture there.”

Zoya exchanged a glance with Kiran. The prince’s expression was one of mixed emotions – anger, betrayal, resolve, resignation.

But not fear. Zoya could respect that.

She had no idea how skilled Kiran was with the sword, but it would be insufficient against three Kizrei, if the warrior she had just fought was any indication of their skill. And while she’d held her own well enough against one, Zoya wasn’t arrogant enough to think she could take on a dozen.

She lowered her sword. She had known she might not return from this mission, and accepted the possibility. But she would not be needlessly responsible for the young prince’s death.

“A wise choice,” the warrior said. He turned to Kiran. “My lord? May I take your sword?”

Kiran flipped his sword around and held it out, hilt first, to him. When the warrior reached for it, though, Kiran did not immediately let it go. “What is your name?”

“I am Davit, captain of this outpost.”

“And what will you do with us, Captain Davit?”

Davit pulled slightly on Kiran’s sword, then sighed when the prince still refused to release it. “You and Lady Chani will remain here, as our guests, awaiting the arrival of the Kiz. He will determine what is to be done with you.”

Chapter 27

Batuhan looked up at the youth in messenger garb who stood in the door of his study, a single rolled parchment in his hand.

“From Lord Janek? Prince Kiran?” he asked.

The youth shook his head.

Batuhan sighed. “Another message from King Reinhard, then?”

“It bears his seal, my lord.”

Batuhan gestured him forward. He looked to be about fifteen – the same age as his son, Sadavir, who currently languished in whatever squalid dungeon Reinhard had thrown him.

That is how we use our children, is it not? As pawns in our games. What game are we playing, then, Batuhan? If you will not take your turn, I will have no choice but to take another.

Batuhan crumpled Reinhard’s message. Then, with a sigh, he smoothed it out and placed it in the folder with the other messages he had received from Reinhard over the past three weeks.

The old king had waited three days for a reply to his first message, then sent a second message, nearly a duplicate of the original. Three days later, Batuhan received a third copy of the same note. At that point, clearly satisfied that at least one of his messages must have been received, Reinhard began sending a falcon every second day, each bearing both a veiled threat and a reminder that he was waiting for a reply.

For the last four days, the falcons had arrived daily.

Batuhan had begun organizing the messages in the folder when he noticed that they seemed to be ongoing parts of a larger conversation, as though Reinhard had written a full page, torn it into strips, and was sending them to him one at a time. But, though he had hoped to find a hidden meaning as he pieced the fragments together, none had yet emerged.

He looked up at the messenger and shook his head. “No reply.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the youth said.

When he had gone, Batuhan rose from his desk and crossed to the balcony. Today, even the sparkling, blue-green waters of the Ajolite Sea did not bring him peace.

He had been ready to summon the full strength of the Kushari army, march on Gerlach, and retrieve their stolen children the moment he’d received the first message, but though he’d ordered his generals to begin preparing an invasion force and the necessary supplies to support it, he had chosen to understand why Reinhard was instigating this battle first before leaping into a confrontation.

He wondered, now, if that had been a mistake.

Kiran had disappeared. Batuhan had only received a single message – sent from Rachusa some three weeks past – telling him he had gone in search of the Gerlachi princesses and promising to report back as soon as he learned anything.

Janek’s network of spies had discovered nothing – not of the princesses or of the now-missing Kiran.

And, when he wasn’t receiving daily missives from Reinhard, the parents of the missing youth had – as expected – been clamoring for swift, harsh action to retrieve their children and punish all Gerlach for the insult to Kushar.

He was inclined to agree.

He would not take soldiers from Rashid – Qaiwi was still too unsettled – but had sent five battalions to the Valley of Sighs this morning, with orders to wait while advance scouts moved forward to discover what the Gerlachi troops were doing.

He would wait one more week for Janek and Kiran to learn anything.

Thoughts of Rashid reminded him that he had another matter he had ignored for far too long. No time like the present.

With a pair of Kizrei guards at his back, he made his way down, through the labyrinth of the lower palace to the prisoner cells. Cut deep into the stone at the foundations of Khulan, there were cells designed to hold prisoners with a variety of magical gifts. Wooden cells to block stoneworkers from tunneling their way out. Stone cells to thwart a cultivator’s gift. Cells with iron bars that defied plant, stone, or whisperer’s magic.

It was one of these cells that Batuhan how approached. Leaving his guards several paces behind, he approached the bars and looked in on the occupant.

“Good day, Bacdi.”

“Is it?” Bacdi said. The deposed lordling sat on a bench cut into the stone wall opposite the barred entry. The bench served as both bed and seat, there being no other furniture in the cell. “As I cannot see the sky, I have no way of knowing whether it is day or night.” He looked up at Batuhan, not bothering to push the hair from his face. “But you have come to see me at last, so whatever time of day it is, I suppose that makes it good.”

Batuhan looked at him. Once strutting like a peacock in his father’s court, fawned on by sycophants and full of self-important arrogance, now he might be mistaken for a street beggar. His fine clothes were torn and soiled, his beard ragged, his hair greasy and matted.

And he had brought it all on himself.

“Why, Bacdi?” Batuhan asked. “The treaty we had with your father was most generous. Qaiwi had full autonomy—”

“And was still a slave state of Kushar—” Bacdi spat.

Batuhan shook his head. “That is not true. I worked out the details with your father—”

“My father hated you,” Bacdi said with a harsh laugh. “Do not pretend to be surprised. You took his kingdom, raped his daughter—”

“I never raped her,” Batuhan snapped. “Dygu gave her to me in marriage, just as I gave Sayha to you – to bind our families and countries together through shared bloodlines.”

Bacdi scowled. “Do not speak to me of Sayha—”

It was Batuhan’s turn to laugh, but there was no joy in it.

“I wonder, did you even notice when she unmanned you?” he asked. As Bacdi’s head jerked up, he continued. “Oh, yes, I know. What must you have done for her to have decided it was better to end your line?”

Enough!” Bacdi jumped to his feet, lunging toward the bars. “You think you are all-powerful, but you will see. Qaiwi will have her revenge on Kushar....”

When his guards started forward, Batuhan raised a hand to stop them. The interview was over. He might have use for the arrogant princeling later. Dygu had not been a friend, but he had respected the elder monarch, and only come to look in on his son to see for himself what Bacdi truly was.

He had done his duty by Dygu. Bacdi could rant, rave, and rot down here for all he cared.

⬧

Sayha stood on her balcony, looking out over the valley. Clouds blanketed the sky and leaves caught raindrops, holding them for only a moment before they slid to the tips of the leaves and fell to the next on the way to the ground.

The rains had come to Ayametu, and Janek would soon follow.

Or so he’d indicated in the last message Sayha had received, three weeks before – shortly after Prince Kiran and his companion, Lady Chani had been caught in the lower part of the valley, near the Kizrei fort of Milas.

“Allow me to question them,” she had asked, only to receive his cryptic reply:

They are well in hand. I will deal with them myself, after the rains have come. Attend to the princesses.

It was maddening. But, though she no longer accepted Janek’s orders without question, she decided to comply... at least for the moment.

So she redoubled her attention to the twins.

“Who was the woman Farza saw in your chambers?” she asked Leisha. “How did she come to be there?”

“I do not know,” Leisha said, her manner one of complete innocence. “But, as we are speaking openly and honestly, since when did the house servants begin going about armed?”

“You have always been guarded,” Sayha said.

“At the bridge and the gates,” Katya said. “But, here, in the villa, as well?”

Sayha nodded.

Katya fumed, pacing up and down the sitting room, sparks flickering between her fingertips.

“What did the woman say to you?” Sayha asked.

“Nothing of consequence,” Katya said, her eyes glinting with amusement. “She admired the gardens.”

No, Sayha had learned nothing about Lady Chani from the twins. And she only knew the woman’s name because Captain Davit had included it when he reported that his Kizrei had apprehended both her and Kiran and were holding them at Milas until the Kiz arrived.

Sayha had so many questions. Who was Lady Chani? How had the pair learned about the princesses? How had they gotten into Ayametu? What had been their purpose? Janek would have the same questions – and when he was able to leave the conflict in Qaiwi long enough to visit Milas, he would get answers.

Qaiwi. What a mess that had turned out to be.

Sayha let her thoughts wander back to the disaster of her final months in the province, the treaty marriage Dygu had brokered with Batuhan. The old governor had been canny, binding Qaiwi and Kushar as no other province had done before, first by giving his own daughter as treaty bride to the king, then convincing Batuhan to allow Bacdi to marry Sayha.

At least they had not demanded the heartstring bond.

She shuddered at the recollection of her husband. Bacdi had not viewed their marriage as one of alliance. Quite the contrary.

“Kushar defers to Qaiwi in this, as she soon will in all things,” Bacdi had said on their wedding night. He had been well into his cups by then, and passed out soon after, but not before making it abundantly clear just how much he loathed everything Kushari, including her.

A fine needle of hot silver had boiled away any chance of his getting her with his seed.

If she had simply killed Bacdi then, or at any point in the weeks before she finally fled Qaiwi, would the rebellion have died with him? Or would it have simply found a new voice, and sprung up from another source, its roots creeping silent and hidden beneath their notice until finding a weakness and rising to seek the sun?

Had Bacdi spoken the truth, and that had been Dygu’s plan all along? Or had the old monarch been sincere when he told Batuhan that he wanted to put the troubles in Qaiwi to rest through the marriage bed? There was no way to know, though the three years Sayha had spent as a member of Dygu’s council suggested he truly wanted peace.

Either way, the plan had failed spectacularly.

And now there was only one way to quell the rebellion.

Sayha wondered if breaking the Qaiweans would turn Rashid into the king he would one day be, or if it would break him as well.

Movement in the garden below brought her thoughts back to the twins.

The rains had come abruptly three days before, arriving as a storm in the night, lightning slicing open the belly of thick, heavy clouds and sending sheets of icy sleet spilling out. By morning, the valley was coated in ice, while the slopes – as far up as they could see – were blanketed in snow.

The twins had gone out to meet the storm at first light.

To Sayha’s amazement, within a quarter of an hour they had opened gaps in the clouds, allowing the warming rays of the sun to reach the ground.

Katya then took charge of the storm itself. Sayha watched, fascinated, as she raised her hands, her finger fluttering, unmaking the clouds as deftly as a seamstress might pick stitching out of an ill-fitting gown. Overhead, the darkness began to fade.

Though clouds still blanketed the sky for the most part, the only way Sayha could describe it was that Katya was somehow rearranging them. She pushed the heaviest clouds toward the rocky slopes, while only a thin layer of pale gray clouds remained above Ayametu.

As on each of the three previous mornings, an iridescent film of magic rippled across the sky. It seemed stronger today than it had in the two days previous, the colors brighter and visible longer before it faded from view.

Sayha held out her hand, letting the now warm, gentle rain fall on her palm.

While Katya managed the storm, Leisha and a pair of cultivators traversed the gardens. From her perspective on the balcony above, the few rays of golden sunlight reaching through the clouds seemed drawn to Leisha, then radiated from her, melting away the ice from the valley floor. The cultivators then applied their gifts, repairing the damage the storm had caused.

“Will you have to do this every day of the rains?” Sayha had asked on the first day, after the twins had returned to the villa and joined her at breakfast.

“Only for a few days,” Leisha said, helping herself to three of the stuffed flatbread pockets Matron had provided, knowing the toll the magic took on the twins.

Leisha continued her explanation as she broke open the crispy crust of one of the pockets, revealing the filling of dried fruit and chopped nuts. “It will take time for us to layer the magic thickly enough to withstand the season.”

Sayha frowned confused. “I do not understand,” she said. “Is the magic not part of what you reinforce daily?”

“That is different magic,” Katya said, blowing gently on her mug of hot, spiced milk tea. “There is magic... of the moment, you might say, like calling a breeze. And then there is magic that grows in strength the more often it is employed.”

She took a sip of her drink before continuing. “I can break a storm easily, scatter its energy and water across the valley or send it all into the river—”

“But now that the rains have begun, the storms will come more frequently,” Leisha said. “If we had to manage the season as a series of individual storms, we would do nothing else for the next two months.” She laughed, resting a hand lightly on her belly, a subtle reminder that their babies would be born near the midpoint of the rains.

Even though the three of them had come to a semblance of an understanding after the incident with Lady Chani, the twins still seemed uncomfortable discussing their pregnancies with Sayha. Their assurances that Janek had taken no improper liberties with them – apparently, they had persuaded him to come to their beds for reasons they would not share with her – had tempered her earlier fury to the point that she no longer felt murderous toward him. Still, even when pressed on the topic, the twins would say little about either the children they currently carried or the others they had borne.

But, while Sayha could not entirely ignore their growing bellies, at least the three of them now spoke more comfortably together about other topics. Like their magic.

“So, you build the magic like...” she searched for an analogy, “...like layers of lacquer?”

“Yes,” Katya said, licking her fingers as she finished one of the fruit-stuffed flatbreads. “You will see. When the magic is strong enough, the storm will scatter across it much the same way oil spreads across the water.”

“When we achieve it, we will only need to reinforce the magic every few days,” Leisha said.

“So, you do not wish to stop the storms, or send them elsewhere?” Sayha asked.

“We need water here,” Leisha said. “Just not as much as the rains would give us. Nor do we wish to spend the summer buried in ice and snow. Those downstream of our river also need the water that the storms bring. It is part of a larger cycle.”

They were quiet for a time, all focused on their breakfasts.

“They say,” Sayha said, “your grandmother had to actively hold back the desert sandstorms, often for several days at a time.”

“The interval between storms would have been too inconsistent—” Katya began.

“And likely too long—” Leisha added.

“Yes,” Katya agreed. “It takes a consistent, concentrated effort—”

“Or multiple magic users working in harmony—” Leisha said.

“—to build a sustainable magical resonance, as we do here.” Katya explained.

“It is so much easier for us because we work together,” Leisha concluded.

Sayha hid her smile behind her mug of tea. The subtle reminders – first of the approaching birth of their children, now of their desire not to be separated – was so typical of Leisha. Not that she wasn’t direct when she thought that was the best approach, just that she was far better at subtlety than Katya, who tended toward bluntness.

Sayha gestured toward the window. The light rain from earlier was already fading, droplets clinging to leaves and glittering in the occasional rays of sunshine.

“This will definitely be the most pleasant season of rain I have spent in many years,” Sayha said. “I have experienced far too many wading through muddy roads. I suspect that is why Janek intends to visit us soon. He is no stranger to muddy roads, himself.”

Both Katya and Leisha looked up, their eyes fixing on her.

“When will he be here?” asked Katya.

“He has seldom been away for so long,” said Leisha. “It will be good to see him.”

“Yes, it will,” Sayha said. “I do not know the exact day he intends to arrive, only that it will be soon.

They chatted briefly for a few minutes more before the twins excused themselves.

As she watched them leave the dining room arm in arm, Sayha ran her thumb over the silver tips of her nails. She suspected Janek’s visit was going to be an interesting one, indeed.

⬧

Janek pushed back the hood of his dark gray cloak as the stone walls of the Kizrei fort of Milas came into view, grateful to have left the rain that had plagued their journey behind him. He and the warriors who accompanied him had followed the secret, twisting road from the swamps of Terai and into the mountains for nearly a week to get here, plagued by storms that seemed to know what awaited them in the lower Ayametu valley.

As they wound their way, unsheltered amid terraced fields, the storms had battered them. When the road took them into the forested hills, the storm thrashed them with the flailing branches of trees and pelted them with hail.

And then, as though they had passed through an unseen curtain, the ferocity of the storm abruptly gave way. For their first hour in the valley, only a light shower remained of the torrents behind them. Now, as they looked across the lake, the rain dissipated even further, allowing them to see the fort through the mist.

In spite of the difficulties he had known they would face on the journey, Janek had deliberately delayed his visit to Milas until the rains came. Now that he was here, he intended to learn what Kiran knew about the princesses, how he had found them, and, if necessary, prevent him from reporting to his father for as long as he thought he safely could.

But, from what he’d read in Batuhan’s last message, Janek knew he was running out of time – and with little over a month before the twins were due to give birth to his children. The coming days would be a test of his political skills.

Could he convince Batuhan that his plan was sound and not find himself imprisoned, or worse? And what would come of the twins and their newborn children? Would they be sent back to Gerlach? He could only imagine how Reinhard would react to what they would tell him of their time in Ayametu.

Everything he had worked so hard for was at risk, the ground shifting beneath him as surely as the rain-soaked earth that had slid off the mountain and buried his wife and son.

Though his horse walked sedately along the lakeshore, Janek’s breath caught at the memory, the old terror and pain of loss threatening to wash over him. He forced himself to focus on the mountains in the distance, their rough granite faces softened in the mist.

It would not do to have any of his warriors sense his personal agitation.

Taking a deep breath, he worked to calm his thoughts, even as the twins had calmed the storms.

Though the rains had come here as they had across all of Kushar, the twins had manipulated them in much the same way they did all of the valley’s weather. Instead of the deluge pouring down elsewhere, only a light mist touched the sky.

Indeed, it was so pleasant that when he and the four warriors accompanying him rode through the gates at Milas, they found many of the resident warriors in the courtyard, engaged in various training exercises. Those nearest the gate paused briefly when they saw him, raising their fists to their chests in salute.

Captain Davit strode briskly over, meeting them near the stables. “My lord Kiz,” he said, taking hold of the horse’s bridle as Janek dismounted. “Welcome to Milas. Your chambers have been prepared, and bunks allocated for your companions. Do you require refreshment?”

“See to the men and horses,” Janek said. “I would speak to the prince without delay. He is well?”

“Yes, my lord,” Davit said, taking a moment to give orders to a pair of his men before continuing. “When he is not studying, Prince Kiran has chosen to train with my warriors,” he said, leading Janek toward the common room at the back of the fort. “Though trained to a much lower standard than we demand, he has acquitted himself well.”

Janek listened to Davit’s report as they walked, part of his attention on the warriors training in the courtyard. There were some sixty warriors here, all fit and strong, and he was pleased to see that they fought with good form, as befit the Kizrei...

“Who is that warrior?” he asked Davit, indicating a woman in a dark, greenish-brown vest, facing off against a pair of taller men. Each of the three bore a short, curved sword in one hand and a three-pronged sai in the other. “And why is she not in uniform like the others?”

“That is Lady Chani, the prince’s companion,” Davit told him. “She asked if she could train with the warriors rather than sit idle in a room awaiting your arrival. As you see, she has some skill.”

They paused, watching the trio.

The woman was not Kizrei – her fighting style was different, her moves sharper, less structured than the flowing technique his warriors practiced.

“She fights like the desert-born,” Janek murmured, observing the way Lady Chani incorporated unexpected kicks at seemingly random intervals into her swordplay. She spun, catching one of her opponents off guard then raised her sai to catch his sword and deflect the blade. “She has wind-dancer training as well.”

“She came to us wearing a wind-dancer cloak,” Davit said. “But she would not tell us her house. I assumed you would know.”

“Even I have not met every member of every noble house in Kushar,” Janek said wryly. Still, he was intrigued. Lady Chani seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not place her, nor think what minor noble’s house she might be from or where Kiran might have met her. And where had she been trained?

He indicated for Davit to wait, and crossed the courtyard toward Lady Chani, weaving between groups of sparring warriors who parted to let him pass.

Had he perhaps met her at some court function? No, surely, he would have remembered her. Very few of the ladies at court carried themselves like warriors and, though she was not Kizrei, Lady Chani was definitely a warrior.

As he neared the trio, one of the warriors saw him approaching and stepped back from the challenge, bowing toward Janek. Lady Chani, her momentum carrying her forward, took advantage of his distraction, moved into the gap, then landed a solid kick to his chin as he bowed.

The warrior staggered back, but did not fall. Lady Chani was still moving, turning toward the second warrior. It was only as her foot hit the ground and she spun away from the first that she saw Janek.

She stopped instantly, the scarf that had kept her hair bound back flying free and her long braid swinging around past her face. She ignored it, letting it fall where it would, not dropping her eyes from Janek’s gaze.

He knew those eyes... eyes that met his in challenge, and did not look away.

Janek knew where he’d seen this woman before.

As the Grand Vizier, most people he encountered deferred to him as a matter of protocol. As the Kiz, those who didn’t defer were either overtly respectful or obviously afraid.

So, he remembered those few who did not act subservient in some form. Sayha and Rashid, for whom the familial relationship overrode most aspects of formality. Bacdi, who had remained arrogant even as they locked him a cell deep below the king’s palace in Khulan.

Or the woman he’d seen – albeit briefly – in a merchant’s stall in the Qaiwean refugee camp, and who stood before him now.

He had no idea how Lady Chani had found Kiran and wormed her way into his good graces, or what mischief had brought her here, but he had spent most of the last several weeks chasing down Qaiwean sympathizers and rebels, and he was not going to have one infiltrate either the Kizrei or Ayametu.

He drew his sword and pointed it at Lady Chani. “Defend yourself, Qaiwean spy!”

Without waiting for a response, he lunged forward.

Chapter 28

Kiran glanced over the balcony at the warriors practicing their various fighting techniques in the courtyard as he followed the messenger who had come for him. He was anxious to meet the Kiz – the infamous, mysterious leader of the Kizrei – and finally leave Milas.

His frustration at being detained was only part of his desire to leave the fort. His father needed his report on the Gerlachi princesses. Kiran might not have seen them for himself, but Zoya had – he could not think of her as Chani, not now that he knew her actual name – and everything he had seen in this valley bore evidence to their presence.

Though for all he knew, they might have been moved by now. The past three weeks had certainly given their captors time enough to move the princesses.

The fact that he and Zoya still lived suggested they were not viewed as a threat. Kiran wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

After his father’s warning about the dangers of his mission, Kiran was certain Batuhan must be concerned at his long silence. Not for the first time did Kiran wish he’d sent a more detailed message before leaving Rachusa to head into the mountains. His father would have no idea where to begin looking for him.

Movement in the courtyard below caught his attention, and he paused, moving to the balcony railing for a better view.

A tall man in a deep gray cloak was striding through the groups of Kizrei, heading directly to where Zoya was sparring with two of the warriors.

At first, Kiran thought the man’s resemblance to his uncle Janek was striking; then he caught sight of his face. It was Janek.

What was he doing here? Had he come with the Kiz?

Kiran was beginning to move forward when Janek stopped, spoke a few words he could not hear, then abruptly drew his sword and lunged at Zoya.

From where he stood on the third-floor balcony, there was nothing Kiran could do to avert disaster.

He ran anyway.

Pushing past the messenger, he raced for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, his eyes on the fight below. By the time he reached the first landing, the Kizrei in the courtyard had moved back, forming a ring around the combatants, watching quietly.

Kiran did not slow down. When he reached the second level, he paused, looking over the heads of the assembled warriors.

Janek was still fighting, pushing Zoya back toward the Kizrei encircling them.

He wasn’t going to reach them in time.

Kiran plunged down the second flight of stairs. When he reached the second landing, he vaulted over the railing, hitting the ground in a forward roll that had him up and on his feet in a heartbeat. He pushed through the Kizrei, forcing his way to the front.

Zoya was holding her own. Janek, being taller, had the reach on her, but she was light of foot, dodging several of his blows, parrying others, and catching some with her sai and deflecting his sword.

“Uncle Janek, stop!” Kiran shouted.

Janek paid no heed.

Kiran started forward, but strong hands grabbed him, holding him back. “This is their fight,” a deep voice said.

“This is my fight, too,” Kiran muttered, shaking free. But he did not move forward, knowing the warriors would only grab him again.

“Janek, stop! Chani, no!” he called out as Zoya went on the offensive, sweeping toward Janek’s legs with one of her own.

But Janek had anticipated the move and leapt over her outstretched leg, his body turning midair. The motion took his sword arm away from Zoya, who was rising to strike at his unprotected side. As Janek twisted he had also flung out one of his own feet toward Zoya. He landed solidly on his right foot, the toe of his left boot catching her square on the chin.

Zoya’s head jerked and she fell, dazed, onto her back, her sword clattering to the stone.

As Janek’s left foot landed and he raised his sword to deliver the killing blow, Kiran dove forward.

“No!”

Janek glanced in his direction, not lowering his sword.

“And why should I not?” he growled.

“Do you want to start a war?” Kiran asked.

Zoya rolled away, scrambling to her feet and scooping up her fallen sword. She stood there, brandishing her weapons, but she did not engage.

Both Janek and Zoya looked at Kiran.

“How would my killing a Qaiwean spy start a war?” Janek asked. “I am working to end one.”

“I am no Qaiwean,” Zoya said, straightening. Looking Janek in the eye, she spoke clearly enough for all in the courtyard to hear her. “I am Zoya of the desert-born. I was sent here by Queen Yolara of Tzigane to retrieve her sisters, the Princesses Leisha and Katya, daughters of Reinhard, King of Gerlach, who have been held in Kushar against their will these many years.”

“If you kill her, Uncle,” Kiran said, “you will throw Kushar into conflict with both Tzigane and Gerlach. Is that truly what you wish to do?” He put himself between Zoya and Janek, facing his uncle.

Janek hesitated, frowning, then spun on his heel and headed toward the communal hall. “Come,” he said, not waiting to see if he was obeyed.

Kiran took a step forward, then turned back to Zoya. “I must speak with my uncle,” he said.

Zoya did not move, her weapons in hand, but hanging loosely at her sides. Kiran moved closer to her, speaking softly enough for only her to hear. “Go,” he murmured, “as we discussed.”

“What about you?” she asked, her voice equally low.

“I will be fine. I will do what I can to delay pursuit, but you will not have much of a head start – no more than a quarter-hour at best.”

Zoya nodded. “I did not thank you before for saving my life, and now you have done so again. I am twice in your debt.”

Kiran shrugged lightly, but his expression was grim. “We have a similar goal, you and I. Do your duty and I shall do mine.”

With a nod, Zoya turned away, the Kizrei parting to let her pass. As Kiran headed in the opposite direction, following Janek toward the communal hall, Captain Davit fell into step alongside him.

“Is she truly who she claims?” Davit asked.

“I have had no reason to doubt her word,” Kiran said.

Davit was quiet for a few paces, thoughtful. “You have both been scheming a way to escape since you arrived,” he said after a moment. “Do you believe she will make the attempt?”

“I would not discount the possibility. She is more resourceful than you think,” Kiran said, keeping his tone deliberately light, not quite nonchalant. “But, give her a quarter hour before you seek her out. Finding her will be a good exercise for your warriors.”

Kiran did not look over to see how Davit received his suggestion, but continued walking as though everything was perfectly normal.

“Lady Chani – the warrior, Zoya—” he corrected himself, “—has not been summoned, nor confined to her chambers. I will wait to seek her until the Kiz orders it,” Davit said finally.

“I look forward to meeting him,” Kiran said.

Davit said nothing, just chuckled dryly as he escorted Kiran to his meeting with the Kiz.

⬧

Zoya sheathed her weapons and walked quickly to her room, ignoring the glances of the Kizrei warriors she passed. No one tried to slow or stop her, so she still had some time.

But Kiran was right – she needed to leave Milas. Now.

As she entered her room, Zoya scooped her pack from its spot on the floor near the door, pulled out her climbing gloves, and tucked them into her pocket. Then she swung the pack onto her back, fastening the straps that held it around her waist. The pack was neither large nor heavy, and lay on the center of her back in such a way that she barely felt its weight. In addition to the gloves, it held a waterskin, a day’s worth of rations in the form of dried fruit and meat, flint and steel, and a sharpening stone for her blades.

With the pack settled, she swept her cloak from its peg, threw it on, and fastened the clasp. Not for the first time, she wondered at the magic that sustained it – currently it sported mottled gray tones, not unlike the fort’s granite walls. Like the pack, it lay so lightly on her shoulders it was easy to forget she was wearing it.

Her door had barely closed behind her before she was opening it again and leaving the room, pulling on her gloves as she walked down the hall toward the stairs.

But instead of going down, she headed up.

Though she and Kiran had been housed on the second floor of the fort, during their prolonged stay they had thoroughly explored nearly all of the structure. There were no exterior windows for her to slip out of, and the only exit was through the large gate on the southern wall. While most of the escape options she and Kiran had devised involved stealing a horse and escaping to the south, Zoya had another plan.

The fort had no actual northern wall, having been built up against the rough stone face of the mountain. Rooms on the north side of the fort had all been built with the exposed granite as their fourth wall. But, on the third floor, which housed the aviary and the fort’s small library, Zoya had discovered a narrow alcove where one of the rooms jutted out a little bit farther than its neighbors, casting a small shadow into the slight recess. If no one happened to be looking, she thought she could slip into that corner and from there climb up onto the roof and over to the outside wall of the fort.

And this moment, when nearly all of the threescore Kizrei who occupied the fort were busily engaged in the courtyard, was the best opportunity she was going to have.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she moved quickly over to the nearest wall, her mottled-gray cloak making her that much more difficult to spot against the granite. Pulling her hood up, she moved forward, edging her way toward the shadowed corner.

Zoya’s biggest challenge here would be the whisperer. She rarely left the aviary, at least so far as Zoya had observed. So, she just had to hope the woman and her owl would remain inside her feather-strewn office long enough for Zoya to make the climb.

Silently she pulled herself upward, pausing only once when she heard movement nearby. A warrior walked past, only a few feet away, not even glancing toward the niche where she clung to the wall a foot above him, motionless, her cloak further obscuring her from view.

When the warrior disappeared into the whisperer’s office, the door closing behind him, Zoya scrambled the rest of the way up the wall and eased herself onto the roof. Shortening her claws to inch long tips, she began to crawl across the slate tiles at an angle toward the rocky face of the mountain.

Her plan had been to hide until twilight in the crevice where the roof met the mountain, and then to climb along the rock as far as she had strength before descending to the ground. She had no doubt of the Kizrei’s ability to track her through the forest, but doubted many would think to look for her on the nearly vertical side of the mountain itself.

As a plan, it had seemed sound.

But Zoya had not factored the birds into her scheme.

Droppings, litter, and even the occasional nest covered the roof. Gagging on the stink raised by her passage, Zoya moved forward, her hands sinking into the slick guano. When she finally reached the crevice, she looked back. While the magic of her claws prevented them from leaving any mark on the stone, her path across the litter strewn rooftop was clear.

As she crouched there in the filth, her back against the rock, a bird landed on her shoulder and began to preen. Zoya remained still, shifting her eyes to glimpse the bird without turning her head.

It was small, no larger than her hand, with a short, pointed beak. Its coloring was not unlike that of her cloak, a dark, mottled gray. A second bird landed on the roof near her foot. And the flutter of wings told Zoya there were others nearby.

She sighed.

At least they weren’t falcons. She couldn’t feel the small bird’s claws on her shoulder through the protection of her cloak, but she didn’t want to put the magical fabric to the test against the beak and claws of a bird of prey.

But that was not her biggest concern.

How closely connected were the birds to the whisperer? Were they revealing her presence even now? Or was the woman’s kinship bond solely with the owl that accompanied her everywhere?

She could not stay to find out.

With a shrug of her shoulder, the bird flapped away. Slowly, her movements barely noticeable so not to startle the small flock, Zoya began to inch her way toward the fort’s outer wall.

It took nearly an hour to cross the span of only fifty feet. Individual birds occasionally fluttered away from her to land a short distance away, but by keeping her motions slow and steady, she made it across the roof without sending them skyward in a panic, which would surely have alerted the whisperer.

Several times she’d heard footsteps rushing past below her, and at one point shouted orders were accompanied by the clatter of hooves on stone as riders assembled in the courtyard. But no one had come onto the roof looking for her. So, at least that much of her plan had held.

By the time Zoya finally lowered her body to the slate tiles and allowed herself to rest, the morning’s misty rain had resumed, droplets trickling from the edge of her hood and onto her face. Her shoulders and thighs burned from the strain of the long, slow-motion crawl.

Zoya rested for a couple of hours before slipping off the rooftop and moving out across the face of the mountain. It was both easier and more difficult than climbing across the bridge had been – she had more hand and footholds here, but the wet rock was slippery and the rainy twilight meant she was moving blind, hanging by the long claws in her gloves while searching for a spot to dig in with the shorter toe-claws.

She passed above one of the Kizrei, the scent of meat cooking over his small fire reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in several hours. She glared down at him, sitting on a fallen log, his hooded cloak making him almost invisible. Only the flickering light of his fire, shielded from the rain by a piece of fabric stretched between the branches of nearby trees let her know where to look.

Zoya was momentarily tempted to throw a rock into the trees beyond him to distract him, but thought better of it, more than half-certain it was a trap, with a second Kizrei watching from the shadows. Instead, she climbed silently past, hoping her stomach’s growling did not betray her.

She had dried meat and fruit in her pack. She would eat when she found a safe place to stop for the night.

It took Zoya nearly a week to reach the villa.

She moved cautiously during the low light of daybreak and twilight, hiding when the sun was at its peak. The rain was both blessing and curse, providing water to refill her waterskin and shielding her from being easily spotted, though offering her pursuers the same protection.

Several times she froze in place at a faint sound or shadow. More often than not, it turned out to be one of the large, nimble mountain goats that grazed in the valley or clung impossibly to the steep rock walls, its horns arcing over its back. A few times, though, her caution was warranted, and she spotted a gray cloak fluttering through the distant trees.

She slept on rocky ledges or nestled uncomfortably in the branches of the prickly evergreen trees, avoiding the many small caves she saw on the mountain. The Kizrei had lived in this valley for a long time, and would undoubtedly know of the best places to hide – places Zoya actively avoided.

By the time she finally reached the orchards at the western edge of the villa, she was tired, cross, and very hungry. Her meager rations had run out three days before, and she hadn’t dared risk hunting or cooking anything. The plants looked similar to those found in the mountain forests of Tzigane; even so, she was uncertain which were safe to eat and which would send her into spasms or worse.

From the safety of the forest, she looked longingly at the neat rows of olive trees, loaded with plump, dark purple olives. Even knowing how bitter the raw fruit would be, she was tempted to rush forward and pick a handful.

But even though she could not see them, she also knew that there would be watchers, waiting for her to do just that – maybe not here, where the only fruit on offer were the bitter raw olives, but there would be other, more tempting fruit between here and the villa. If she were hunting a hungry fugitive, that’s where she would wait.

Stifling a hungry sob, Zoya moved deeper into the forest, away from the orchard. Night was only a few hours away. She would find a way to approach the villa after dark.

⬧

Janek stayed in Milas for nearly a week, receiving regular reports from the Kizrei, searching for the missing desert born warrior, Zoya. It had been foolishness to let her escape, and he left Captain Davit and his warriors with no doubt of his displeasure.

In truth, he had been as fooled by her as any of them. In the first hours, they had all believed her to be hiding somewhere in the fort. By the time they were finally forced to admit that she had actually escaped, Zoya had a significant head start and the rain had washed away any sign of her passage.

He had immediately sent messages to Sayha to be watchful, and to the Kizrei guarding the upper bridge to let no one into or out of the valley without his personal approval. Even wagons of supplies were no longer allowed to enter the tunnel, but were to be unloaded on the other side of the mountain and transported through by the Kizrei themselves.

Though he was certain she was still in the valley, after spending so many days in fruitless pursuit, Janek could no longer wait for Zoya to be found.

Kiran was another matter.

The prince had not known how to react when he’d realized that Janek had not come to Milas to advocate for him with the Kiz, but was, in fact, the Kiz himself, the very person who had ordered that he and Zoya be detained.

“But you serve my father!” Kiran had said. He’d been pacing back and forth in the communal hall, running one hand through his close-cropped hair before stopping to stare accusingly at Janek.

“I serve Kushar,” Janek corrected. “In most cases, the interests of both king and country are in alignment. When they are not, the needs of the country must come first.”

“Next you will tell me that keeping the Gerlachi twins captive and hidden for all these years was somehow in service to Kushar.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I am under no obligation to explain myself to you,” Janek had told him. When Kiran started to speak, Janek had held up a hand to stop him. “There is much you do not know – and likely more you have incorrectly assumed.”

“Enlighten me,” Kiran had demanded, his arms folded across his chest.

“Not here, not now,” Janek had said. He would trust the Kizrei with his life – had, on multiple occasions – but there were things he would not speak of in their presence. To Kiran he had said, “When I leave here, you will accompany me—”

“Why would I want to?”

“Do not be petulant,” he had chided him. “You want answers. They will be provided – in due time. First, we must find your companion, the desert-born warrior.”

“Her name is Zoya.”

“Yes. How did you meet her?”

But Kiran would not say. Nor would he divulge what she had told him, or how they knew to come to Ayametu in search of the princesses.

All he would say was that his father had sent him after the twins.

If he had been any other man, Janek might have just killed him to eliminate the problem. He had already received multiple messages from Batuhan asking if there had been any sign of the missing prince – and lied repeatedly in response. Keeping Kiran in Milas had been risky. But it had brought the twins another month closer to the birth of their children – his children – which made it worth the risk.

But he would no longer be able to maintain the charade with Batuhan. Soon, he would have to tell the king everything and hope he would see the purpose behind Janek’s grand plan. There was no guarantee. He would have to tread carefully if he did not want to join Bacdi in the cells below the palace.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He’d been using the fort’s small library as his personal office during his stay, and found the third-floor room offered both the peace and privacy he required for much of his business. It was also just at the opposite end of the hall from the whisperer’s office, which made it convenient for him to send and receive messages whenever it was necessary. With her own office so close, she often delivered his messages herself.

“Come,” he said.

The door opened, and the whisperer entered, bearing a handful of sealed messages. Her bonded brown owl sailed into the room after her, perching on the high back of an empty chair, where it casually began to preen.

The whisperer had assisted in the search for Zoya by sending out several of her birds, with guidance to circle overhead if they found her in the valley below. It had been a good idea, and might have worked, had it not been for the rain.

But, with so many warriors combing the forest, and all of them hooded against the mist and rain, the birds had been forced to swoop down low to see their faces in their efforts to locate Zoya. This quickly proved troublesome for the warriors and distressed the birds they were continually waving away.

“Messages for you, my lord Kiz,” the whisperer said.

Janek looked up. She was holding out the rolled parchments. Had he not heard her the first time? He had too much on his mind.

He took the scrolls and glanced at the glyphs pressed into the wax seals. Batuhan. Sayha’s daily report. Altan, his steward in Rachusa, undoubtedly with a question about the next order of supplies for the villa. Teo, with Rashid in Qaiwi, reporting on the current state of the rebellion. All important. All demanding his time when he had other things on his mind.

“Thank you,” he said to the whisperer. He ripped open Sayha’s message, scanned it. Unsurprisingly, there had been no sign of Zoya at the villa since the previous day’s report.

“Send a reply to Lady Sayha,” he said. “Tell her Prince Kiran and I will arrive in Ayametu in time for the evening meal and will be staying for two or three days.”

“As you command, my lord,” the whisperer said, bowing slightly. Gesturing to the brown owl, which fluttered from the chair to her shoulder, she left the room.

Janek sent another warrior with instructions – first to Kiran, to make himself ready to travel, and then to the stablemaster, to prepare the horses they would need for the short trip to the villa.

Then he sat down to read and respond to the rest of the messages. Wherever he was, it seemed the business of running a kingdom never slept.

Chapter 29

Leisha walked slowly through the garden, the gentle morning rain softening the light. It was her favorite time of the year, the leaves turned up to receive the water, the paving stones beneath her feet washed clean of dust, their colors vibrant.

“I had hoped to find you here,” said a familiar voice. “But, should you be out in the rain?”

“Zoya?” Leisha whispered, letting a gentle breeze carry her words. She looked toward the small grove of plum trees just ahead. The fruit had ripened and been harvested two weeks before, ahead of the rains, but as she peered into the misty shadows, a hooded figure moved out from behind one of the trees.

Leisha gasped. Zoya looked haggard, dark shadows under her eyes. Her green-gray cloak was stained, and her boots were caked in mud or worse.

“What happened to you?” Leisha asked, moving closer.

Zoya held up a hand. “Are you alone? Does anyone watch you?”

Leisha closed her eyes and raised her hands. Sending out tendrils of wind so fine even a feather might not have been disturbed by its touch, she felt for any disruption to the currents caused by the breath of someone nearby.

At first, the breaths she found were just as she expected – cultivators in the herb garden, someone taking advantage of the light rain to clean an adjacent courtyard. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But just as she was about to assure Zoya that they were alone, first one, then a second slow, rhythmic pulse drifted back to her.

“Someone watches,” she said, whispering to Zoya on the wind. “One up ahead, where this part of the orchard comes close to the river, another among the apricots.” She pushed a hint of magic into the shimmering sky, hoping the watcher would see the iridescent ripple of color above and assume she had paused in her walk to enhance the magic keeping the storms at bay.

“I must hide,” Zoya said. She moved back into the shadow of the trees, the combination of mist and her cloak once again making her difficult to see.

“There is no one in the stables,” Leisha told her. “Only a few horses. You know the way?”

“Yes.”

“Go there, and hide in the loft. It is warm and dry. I will bring you food and drink when I can.”

“Should you be out in the rain?” Zoya whispered again.

As Leisha lowered her arms, she reached up and touched her hair. “I am perfectly dry,” she said with a smile. “The mist does not touch me unless I will it.” She swept her hand through her hair as though straightening it. “Now I must go, or the ones who watch me will begin to think something is amiss. I will come to you soon.”

It was all Leisha could do to finish her walk as though all was normal, and not rush back to the villa. When she finally did return, she entered through the kitchen, greeting the cook with a warm smile.

“It always smells so good here,” she said.

Dreala, a tall, thin woman with short brown hair and eyes of pale bluish-green, looked up at her from the pot she was stirring and smiled. “How are you today, my lady?”

Leisha snatched up a slice of peach from a bowl and popped it into her mouth. “I am well. Hungry all the time, though.”

Dreala laughed, then dusted her hands and turned to a large, covered bowl. Pulling the towel off it, she revealed a mound of hand pastries. “Take a few of these,” she said. “The pockets are filled with meat and vegetables – should do to satisfy a grumbly stomach.”

Leisha thanked her, wrapping several of the pastries in a large square of cloth. On her way out of the kitchen, she also grabbed a couple of uncut peaches, which she added to her bundle. She did not know when Zoya had last eaten, but some food should help to restore her.

It was almost an hour before Leisha was able to slip away from the villa and make her way to the stable. She had not been there in weeks, not since getting too far along in her pregnancy to ride.

As she neared the stable, she once again extended tendrils of wind, checking to make sure no one was watching. When she was certain Zoya was safe, she went inside

The stable was warm, smelling of horses and fresh grass.

“I am here,” she whispered, sending her words to Zoya on the lightest of winds.

From the shadowy recesses of the loft, Zoya whispered back. “Are you alone?”

“I am.”

There was a small rustling of hay, then Zoya came down the ladder.

Leisha held out the packet of hand pastries and a peach, which Zoya silently accepted.

“Do you have a waterskin?” she asked.

Zoya did, tied loosely to her belt. “The rain has been light,” she said apologetically. “It is nearly empty.”

Leisha held out her hand. “No matter,” she said.

Zoya handed it to her with a puzzled look.

Leisha opened the water skin and hung it from a bridle hook on one of the stalls. Then, cupping her hand, she created a small cloud. She pushed the cloud above the open waterskin and rain began to fall into the mouth of the leather pouch.

“It will take some time to fill,” she said.

“You should not exert yourself on my behalf,” Zoya said, staring with wide eyes at the small cloud.

“Do not worry. The cloud draws on the moisture in the air – of which there is plenty at the moment. I simply directed some of that water here. It would have been harder if the air was dry.”

They stood there, watching the small cloud in silence, Zoya eating one of the hand pastries. For as hungry as the warrior had to be, she took small, controlled bites, as though measuring out how long the packet of pastries would last.

“You have come back too soon,” Leisha said. “We cannot leave Ayametu for at least a month, not until after our children are born.” She laid a hand on her stomach. “A journey would be very difficult at this time.”

Zoya nodded, swallowing the last of the pastry and licking her fingers. “I understand,” she said, folding the cloth over the rest of the packet. “But, if I leave the mountain, I do not know if I will be able to return.”

Leisha considered this. There were only three horses in the stable – hers, Katya’s and Sayha’s – and a half-dozen empty stalls.

“The horses are tended each day,” she said slowly. “You will not be able to hide here long – though you should be safe enough for the night. I will find you another place.”

She moved over to sit on a wooden bench, then paused, remembering she had brought something else for Zoya. She untied the wide blue sash wrapped around her waist and unwound it. Shaking it out, she handed a pair of simple blue trousers to Zoya. “We are of comparable height,” she said. “These should fit.”

Then she reached up under her skirt, grasped a hidden layer of fabric, and tugged it free. Holding up a linen shirt, she said, “I could think of no other place to hide it. I hope you do not mind. I thought you might want some fresh clothes.”

“You are too kind,” Zoya said. Her tone was not quite formal, but the gratitude shone in her eyes.

“You are the one doing the service for myself and my sister,” Leisha said. “Anything we can do to assist—”

“Have you told your sister I am here?”

“I have not,” Leisha admitted. “I do not know how she would react.”

“That is probably for the best at the moment, though you will have to speak to her before long.”

Leisha nodded.

“Will she come with you when you leave?”

Leisha wanted to say, ‘Of course she will. She is my sister,’ but she hesitated. Katya had never been as eager to return to Gerlach as she was.

“I do not know.”

Zoya nodded. “We will deal with the situation when it arises.”

⬧

Katya walked quietly down the broad flight of stairs from the villa’s sleeping chambers to the main level, only the sound of her pale green silks swishing softly against the stone announcing her presence. After a much-needed afternoon nap, she’d overheard a pair of the knife-wielding maids – she could no longer think of them otherwise – whispering about visitors having arrived for the evening meal. Dressing quickly, she’d piled her hair loosely on top of her head, chosen earrings and a necklace of copper discs that complemented the wide, embroidered patterns on the dress, shook the built-up sparks from her fingers, and hurried downstairs.

They almost never had visitors, and certainly none who joined them openly. The only person to come and go was Lord Janek, and the men he had brought with them had always remained cloistered, away from any but necessary interaction with herself and Leisha – and it would be months before Janek brought another pair of men to father more children of the weather witch bloodline.

Katya was understandably curious.

Midway down the stairs, she paused, reaching out with tendrils of wind. Searching for conversations that might tell her something about their visitors, she drew sound to her on the slightest movement of air.

With two dozen women serving as the household staff, there were several conversations to sift through.

Matron and her staff, bustling about to get the dining room prepared for their guests, insisting that all be perfect for the kiz and the prince.

Had she heard that correctly? She had no idea what a ‘kiz’ was, but a prince... But the matron’s attention had turned to the state of the soup, and Katya moved on.

A pair of younger maids giggled about the handsome young man in the sitting room with Leisha... Katya listened to that conversation for a moment, wondering if the ‘young man’ in question was the prince Matron had mentioned, but the maids’ talk was all sighs and admiration, nothing useful or informative.

Leisha and the young man were barely speaking, their conversation little more than monosyllables. Leisha was generally more polite than that. She was probably as unhappy at the arrival of visitors as Katya was curious.

She was about to continue down the stairs when she heard Sayha’s voice. Her words were not loud, but were increasing in volume as though she and whoever she was speaking with were coming closer. Katya froze, listening, her hand on the wide, stone railing.

“I do not know what she told them – only that they are keeping something from me. I believe they are making plans to leave. Perhaps she is involved?”

“I would not be surprised,” replied a voice Katya recognized as Janek’s. But she didn’t have time to be surprised at his arrival, as he was still speaking. “The desert-born warrior evaded the Kizrei. It is possible she left the valley, though I cannot fully believe she would have.”

“We have kept close watch on the princesses,” Sayha said. “There has been no sign of the warrior’s return.”

They had gotten close enough now that Katya no longer needed her magic to hear them, even speaking softly as they were. With a light cough to announce her presence, she continued down the stairs.

“Why, Janek!” she said, stopping on the bottom step, her eyes level with his. “I did not know you would be joining us tonight.”

Janek glanced at Sayha with a puzzled frown. “I sent word that we would be arriving,” he said.

“I notified Matron,” Sayha said with a dismissive shrug. Looking at Katya, she added, “I have not seen either you or your sister since the morning meal. I trust you are well?”

“I am,” Katya said. “I have been very tired,” she explained to Janek, falling in alongside him as the three of them made their way toward the sitting room. “An afternoon nap helped considerably.”

“And your sister?” Janek asked.

“The same as always,” Katya said. “But here, you will see for yourself.”

The double doors to the sitting room stood open, inviting them into the richly furnished room. Cushioned chairs and benches in shades of cream and blue were gathered into conversational groupings around the large room. A mural adorned one wall, depicting the greenery of the jungle in layers of paint and rock shaped to form leaves and vines clinging to the wall. Near the end of the room, a waterfall appeared to tumble over large stones into a blue-green pool. A fine mist rose off the water, which was comprised of an actual fountain flowing over the painting.

Leisha and the young man Katya assumed must be the prince the maids had giggled about were seated on a pair of facing couches near the large patio doors overlooking the valley, engaged in what looked like an awkward silence. As the others entered the room, they looked over and stood, both wearing similar expressions of gratitude for their arrival, though Katya suspected their reasons were very different.

Leisha was dressed in a loose-fitting gown of peach silks, embroidered with sunset hues along the collar, wrists, and hem, her hair bound back with a wide ribbon in similar shades. Normally such colors would have leant a golden glow to her sister’s lightly bronzed skin. But tonight, Leisha seemed pale, her eyes constantly shifting toward the patio.

Are you all right? Katya asked her sister, only half-listening to Janek’s introduction of Prince Kiran.

I am fine.

You do not sound fine. You sound like you think having these children gained us nothing but a slight delay in being handed off as treaty brides.

Leisha looked up at her then, quickly controlling the flash of anger in her eyes.

I will be no man’s treaty bride.

“Very pleased to meet you, Prince Kiran,” Katya said, realizing that he’d said something to her. Rather than attempt to fake a reply, she said simply, “Shall we all sit?”

The five of them sat, Katya and Leisha together on one sofa, Sayha and Kiran on the one opposite them. Janek pulled a high-backed chair over and sat down, facing the patio.

“The mural is new,” he said, gesturing at the wall behind him. “I particularly like the fountain. Your work?” The question was directed generally at both of the sisters.

Katya answered. “It was a group effort,” she said. “Leisha and I did much of it, but we enlisted the aid of several of the household staff.”

“Your maids helped you paint the mural?” Kiran asked, shifting in his seat to better study the wall.

“Winter days are long,” Leisha said. “It was a way for all of us to pass the time.”

She sounded like she could not wait for this audience to end.

What is the matter? Katya asked her again.

Nothing.

If it is not the prince, then what troubles you? You know I will find out sooner or later. You might as well tell me.

Not now!

“Lord Janek does not often bring visitors here,” Katya said to Kiran. “How did you convince him to bring you?”

“I was a guest of the Kizrei in Milas,” Kiran answered. “Janek found me there and invited me to join him. We rode up this afternoon. The valley is very pleasant.”

“You rode up from Milas?” Leisha asked, stiffening slightly. “Then your horses would be in our stables?”

“That is correct. We arrived only a quarter-hour ago, just before you found me in this room. I would assume the servant who took our horses has seen to their needs.”

Leisha rose. “Excuse me,” she said. “I will return presently.”

Do not follow, Leisha whispered to Katya. Please, stay, keep them engaged. I will tell you all, soon enough.

Without waiting for a reply, she rushed out of the room.

“She will be fine,” Katya said. She patted her belly, hoping the others would assume that Leisha’s odd behavior was due to her pregnancy, and not ask awkward questions she could not answer. Her ploy seemed to have worked, because Kiran returned to his earlier topic as though Leisha’s departure was perfectly normal.

“I was surprised to have found such greenery so high in the mountains. The evergreens are not that unusual, and some of the underbrush, but there are plants here that I have only before seen in the lowlands.”

“The cultivators have done wonderful work here,” Katya said carefully. She glanced at Janek, who shook his head ever so slightly, confirming her suspicion that the prince was unaware of the weather magic here in the valley.

“My father will be interested to meet with them,” Kiran said. He turned to Sayha. “Do you not think so, Cousin? Such talented cultivators are worthy of the king’s attention.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sayha said.

There was an awkward silence.

When one of the maids came to the door and announced that the evening meal was ready to be served, Katya was not the only one who sighed in relief. Both Sayha and Kiran seemed ready to leap to their feet and rush into the dining room.

But Janek, relaxed in his chair, quickly put an end to that.

“Tell Matron we will be along presently,” he told the maid. “We shall wait for Leisha to return.”

Katya sagged in her seat. She usually enjoyed Janek’s visits – but this one was proving to be more awkward than most. Though she was sure her sister was as curious as she was about why Prince Kiran was here, she decided to go ahead and ask rather than wait.

“It is not like you to bring visitors,” she said, returning to her original question, but directing it now to Janek. Gesturing toward Kiran, she continued. “How did he ever convince you to bring him here?”

“It was simply a matter of his being in the wrong place at the right time,” Janek said. “Rather than leave the prince in Milas, I thought it best to bring him with me.”

Katya knew Janek well enough to know there was a great deal he was not saying. Very well. She would not press the issue... yet.

“I have not been to Milas in years,” Katya said. “Is it still a boring pile of gray stone?”

“It is a functional fort,” Janek said.

“The warriors who live there are not given to artistic pursuits,” Kiran said. “They spend their days training and studying—”

“And not idly painting murals on the walls?” Katya said, arching an eyebrow. She laughed as the color rose in Kiran’s cheeks. “No insult was taken, my lord,” she said. “Our lives here are much different than those of the warriors in Milas.”

“Indeed,” Kiran said.

Ask Matron to set another place at the table, Leisha wind-whispered to her, catching her so off-guard that Katya nearly answered aloud.

Why?

I, too, have invited a guest.

Who?

Swear you will say nothing to Janek or Sayha.

Who is it?

Swear!

I swear... Katya gasped, realization dawning on her. Janek and Sayha’s conversation near the stairs... Leisha’s odd behavior...

You have found Zoya, she said. It was a statement, not a question.

There was a long pause, then Leisha replied.

I have.

This should be interesting.

Katya excused herself, and left the sitting room, offering no explanation. The maid who had announced dinner was in the hallway, near the door to the dining room, presumably watching for Leisha’s arrival so she could signal to Matron that they were ready for the meal to be served.

“Tell Matron we will need another place at the table,” Katya told her.

“For who?” the maid asked.

“None of your concern,” Katya said. “See that it is done – quickly.”

The maid frowned, but did not argue. With a shrug, she went to do as she had been asked.

Katya was about to re-enter the sitting room when Leisha and Zoya entered the villa, a pair of the knife-wielding maids, their blades in their hands, close on their heels.

Escorts? Katya asked Leisha.

Apparently, they’ve been looking for Zoya for days. I would not let them take her, so they insisted on following us.

Katya stepped back to let her sister enter the room, but caught Zoya’s arm. “I do not know what game you are playing,” she murmured to her, her voice low so only Zoya would hear. “But, be cautious. My sister has told you who is here?”

“Yes.”

Katya released her, then stepped in front of the two maids. “Wait here,” she said. “Do not come in for any reason.”

“You do not command us in this,” one of the maids said.

Katya ignored her, turning her back on the pair and going into the sitting room. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a strong breeze curling around the doors, closing them in the maids’ faces, and holding them closed.

Janek and Sayha both turned at the sound, catching sight of Leisha and Zoya.

Sayha leapt to her feet, flinging out her arm, her fingers pointing directly at Zoya.

As a shower of silver needles flew across the room, Leisha swept her own arm out, diverting them with a gust of wind. The silvery cloud flew past Zoya, the needles embedding themselves harmlessly in the mural, not far from the door.

Except for one, which slid through a gap in the wind and flew directly at Katya.

⬧

When Leisha heard her sister cry out in pain, she looked back. Katya stood there, a few steps from the door, a stunned look on her face. She had one hand pressed to her side, blood dripping through her fingers and staining her green silks.

Leisha spun back to face Sayha with an almost feral roar. Pouring her rage into her magic, she shot a bolt of lightning at her.

In the same moment, Kiran leapt up, pushing his cousin out of the way. The two of them tumbled together over the sofa, tipping it backwards, the lightning charring the carpet where Sayha had stood less than a heartbeat before.

Leisha blasted a thunderstorm at Sayha, leaving it to coalesce and grow on its own while she turned to help her sister.

Zoya was already at Katya’s side, inspecting the wound and staunching the blood with the only cloth available to her – the end of her wind-dancer cloak.

“Here, let me see,” Leisha said.

“I do not think it is too bad,” Zoya said, moving aside but staying nearby.

“There is so much blood...”

“It appears to be no more than a surface cut – you have healers here? They should be able to cure it with little trouble. Shall I send for someone?”

Leisha was only marginally listening to Zoya, her attention on the small cloud she had gathered in the palm of her hand and was now using to wash the blood away from the gash in Katya’s side. As she worked, she reached out on the wind, sending her voice to the healer.

Come quickly to the main sitting room, Katya has been injured.

“I have summoned Lonila,” she murmured to her sister. “All will be well.”

“I am fine,” Katya said, squeezing her arm reassuringly. “More surprised than injured, I think.”

“And the child she carries?” Leisha asked Zoya.

“I am no healer,” Zoya said. “But I have seen worse injuries. I believe the child to be unharmed.”

She reached forward, drawing the torn fabric away from Katya’s side.

“See how the dart slid along her rib?” she said, pointing at the open gash. It was still oozing blood, but not as much as before. “The cut is not deep, and the bone protected the child.”

Leisha relaxed.

Katya squeezed her hand. “I am fine, truly.” She reached for the ribbon holding Leisha’s long hair away from her face. “Can I use this? It should be long enough to serve as a bandage.”

“Excuse me, Leisha,” Janek said from across the room.

“I am busy,” she replied curtly, not looking over.

“Perhaps you could let Zoya care for your sister,” he said. “You are needed here.” His tone was calm, yet firm.

Leisha allowed Zoya to take over the bandaging, and turned to Janek. “What...?” Her question died on her lips, quickly replaced by a dry chuckle.

The small storm she had sent after Sayha had grown, chasing both her and Kiran out of the sitting room and into the courtyard. The churning mass of swirling gray now blotted out the sky, with small flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder that accompanied driving wind and icy sleet.

Sayha and Kiran huddled inside a small pavilion, along the far side of the courtyard, but the flowering vines growing on the structure’s wrought-iron latticework provided little protection from the onslaught.

“She should not have attacked Zoya,” Leisha said, coming over to stand by Janek in the open doorway. With the force of the storm centered over the pavilion, they were perfectly dry here, the wind barely stirring the fabric of Leisha’s gown.

“She was trying to protect you,” Janek said. “And Kiran was trying to protect her. I think both have been punished enough. Do you not agree?”

With a sigh, Leisha relented, dismissing the storm with a wave of her hand.

“Understand this,” she said as they crossed the courtyard toward her. “The warrior, Zoya, is under my protection. She is not to be harmed in any way, harassed by those you have set to watch us, imprisoned, or driven away. She is a guest in this house, and free to do as she likes.”

When they reached the sitting room doors, Leisha dried Kiran’s hair and clothes with a puff of warm wind; Sayha she left soaking wet and chilled. She ignored Sayha’s glare, turning to Janek.

“That applies to you, as well,” she said. “You cannot simply do as you wish and expect that no one will question you.”

Janek met her eyes. “So I am coming to learn,” he said. He gestured to the sofas. “Shall we?”

Zoya had helped Katya to her seat, then dragged over a chair for herself, her attention split between Katya and Sayha.

“If you will excuse me, I must change,” Sayha said, bypassing the sofa and heading toward the door.

“No,” Leisha said. “I do not excuse you. Stay.”

Sayha turned back. “Really?” she said, toying with the silver bracelets on her wrist – fewer now, Leisha realized, glancing past Sayha to the silver needles embedded in the wall, only then recognizing their source.

“Yes, really,” she said. She pointed at the sofa. Kiran had righted it, and now perched on the armrest as though ready to jump up again.

Sayha looked to Janek. “My lord?”

But Janek merely shook his head, returning to his own seat. “It is her house,” he said. “Their house,” he corrected.

Her expression tight, Sayha pushed a wet strand of hair from her face, then walked stiffly to the sofa. She sat at the very edge of the cushion, her back straight, hands folded so tightly on her lap that her knuckles went pale. She glared at both Janek and Zoya in turn before settling her stare on Leisha.

Janek looked over at Zoya. “I must congratulate you, he said. “Evading a squad of Kizrei – a squad who knows this valley extremely well, I might add – for what? A week? It is most impressive.”

“It was not my intention to impress you,” Zoya said.

“Nevertheless,” Janek said, spreading his hands.

“How long have you been here?” Kiran asked.

“Not long,” Zoya said. “I see you had an easier week than I did.”

Leisha was curious – clearly Zoya had already met both Janek and the prince. Even Sayha had recognized her on sight, probably having caught a glimpse of her during her previous visit and flight.

“As everyone appears to be acquainted, I will not bother with introductions,” she said. “Zoya will be staying here, in Ayametu for the foreseeable future. After my child is born and I am strong enough to travel, I will return with her to the north.”

In the silence that followed her announcement, Leisha turned to Katya. “I cannot make the decision for you, my sister, but it is my deepest hope that you will accompany us.”

“What makes you think I will let either of you leave?” Janek asked. His voice was calm, as though she had not just challenged him. But Leisha knew she was testing the boundaries of his patience.

She looked at Janek. He had been mentor and friend to them for nearly half her life – but he was also their captor, the man who had forced them to bear children and then taken them all away. And while she thought she understood his goals, and did not entirely fault him for his effort on behalf of his people, she wanted her freedom.

So she pressed on, even knowing that as much as she felt in control of the situation right now, she could not deny that Janek held their lives in his hands.

“Our father knows we are here. Our sister as well. How long do you think they will wait before coming to retrieve us? Zoya is only the first—”

“She is not wrong, Uncle,” Kiran said. “King Reinhard has already reached out to my father—”

“Say no more!” Janek snapped, glaring at the prince. Schooling his features, he turned to Zoya. “I will agree to let you remain here – you have earned the right – as long as you make no attempt to leave or contact anyone outside of this valley.”

“I can agree to those terms... for now,” Zoya said.

“That will suffice,” Janek said. “Sayha, you will instruct your staff to treat Zoya as a guest, with all due respect. I will send a message to Captain Davit as well, to relay to his warriors, calling off the search.”

“Thank you,” Zoya said.

Janek inclined his head.

“As for you,” he said, and Leisha found herself struggling not to squirm like a frightened child under his stare, “I am hopeful that you will see fit to change your mind in the weeks to come—”

“Why would I do that?” Leisha asked, defiant. “What could you possibly offer that might tempt me to stay, now that I finally have the chance to leave within my grasp?”

Janek was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Leisha’s. “When you and your sister were young and still learning your magic,” he said, “I remember how difficult it was for you both, trying to master a gift no one around you understood.”

Leisha’s breath caught at the memory. They had made so many mistakes. And Janek had been patient with them, encouraged them, and, though lacking magic, had helped them in any way he could.

“When your daughters come into their power,” he said, “—and it is highly likely that some of them will – I would not have them face the same struggle, alone, with no one who understands their gifts to guide them.”

The room had fallen utterly silent. Leisha almost stopped breathing, waiting for him to continue.

“If you choose to stay,” Janek said, speaking slowly and clearly. “As your daughters come into their power, I will see that they are returned to you. I can think of no one better to train the first generation of Kushari weather witches.”

⬧

The evening meal was perhaps the longest and most tense of any Katya had experienced in her life.

The healer, Lonila, had mended Katya’s wound, assuring her that the child she carried was unharmed. She repeated multiple times that there would be no lasting harm from the cut.

Katya appreciated Lonila’s reassurance, even though the healer was wrong in ways she couldn’t begin to imagine. While there might not be any lasting physical effects, Sayha’s attack had damaged far more than Katya’s dress and a frivolous wall mural.

And then there was Leisha, sitting across from her and chatting with Prince Kiran as though she’d known him for years and not just for a couple of hours.

What game are you playing? she asked, whispering on the wind.

I do not know what you mean, Leisha replied, slipping her response in around an artificial laugh at something Kiran had said.

All this. Challenging Janek. Bringing Zoya here. How long have you been hiding her? What more has she said to you?

I found Zoya this morning, Leisha said. As for Janek, we’ve been ‘not challenging’ him all our lives. I decided I was finished following his orders... She looked across the table at Katya and smiled. ...about an hour ago. Do you not approve?

No! Katya said, flicking sparks to the floor in her agitation. You are going to ruin everything! We have a good life here—

A good life? We are nothing more than caged birds. I choose to fly.

Katya raised her wineglass to her lips. And what of our daughters? she asked. Would you leave them behind?

Leisha said nothing, but her hand trembled as she raised her fork to her mouth. Through the rest of the meal, she avoided meeting Katya’s eyes, and her laughter at Kiran’s jokes was forced and brittle.

Chapter 30

Zoya sat on the low wall separating the courtyard from one of Ayametu’s many flower gardens. She did not know what the blue-and-purple striped flowers below her dangling feet were called, only that bees were particularly attracted by their sweet scent.

Though she had arisen at dawn, as was her habit, she had lingered in her room that morning, taking advantage of the decadence of having servants willing to fill a tub with hot water for her to bathe and wash her hair. And when she’d reached for her dirty clothes, seeing no reason to waste the bath water, the maid had all but snatched them from her hands before fleeing the room with them, a horrified look on her face.

So now she sat on the low wall, sharpening her sword, dressed in clothes the maid had provided – a pair of fine linen trousers the color of mare’s milk, and a soft tunic of deep teal silk – her still-damp hair unbound and hanging down her back. The morning’s rain had let up, at least for now, and the sun shining through gaps in the clouds was warm on her shoulders.

“I did not recognize you at first,” Kiran said, coming up behind her. “May I join you?”

“As you wish.” She did not look up at him, drawing the dark, oval sharpening stone down across the edge of her blade in long, slow strokes. “How long will you be staying?” she asked.

“I am not sure,” Kiran said, settling himself on the wall. “Two or three days, I think. Janek sent a falcon to notify my father that we would be returning to Khulan, soon. But it seems wrong, leaving you here—”

“This was always my destination.”

“But you did not expect to stay,” Kiran said.

Zoya did not reply.

They sat in silence for some time before Kiran spoke again. “May I ask you something? When Janek saw you in Milas, he confronted you immediately. Why did he do that? How did he know you?”

Zoya inspected the edge of the blade, then turned it over and began on the other side. “When I first came into Kushar, I took a position as a guard for a group of refugees leaving Qaiwi,” she said. It was close enough to the truth, and she had no intention of elaborating further about her travels through the desert with Armin.

“Janek saw me in the refugee camp,” she continued. “One among hundreds of refugees. We spoke briefly. I did not know who he was at the time – he wore the gray cloak of the Kizrei. It was only later that I learned he was the Grand Vizier.”

“He is more than that,” Kiran said. “All that time we were waiting for the Kiz to arrive... we were waiting for Janek.”

Zoya stopped her sharpening, and looked over at Kiran. “Your uncle, the Grand Vizier, is also the leader of the Kizrei?”

“So it would seem,” Kiran said.

“That explains much,” Zoya said returning her attention to her blade.

“In what way?”

“It may be different in Kushar, but most of the nobles I have met possess only rudimentary fighting skills, which they learned mostly for show, but have never put to the test in battle. I had originally thought Lord Janek wore the gray cloak as camouflage while traveling through lands in conflict. While fighting him, I realized that he was more skilled than I would have expected for a vizier.”

“He has always been a man of many talents.”

“I can imagine,” she said. “When he saw me in Milas, he somehow remembered me from Qaiwi—”

“Which is why he thought you were a spy,” Kiran finished.

“He was not wrong,” she said with a chuckle. “He just guessed the wrong country.”

Kiran laughed as well.

“When you return to your home, you will tell the king what you have learned here?” Zoya asked, not looking at Kiran. She could well imagine the young prince’s conflicting loyalties between his uncle and his father.

“I will,” Kiran replied without hesitation. “King Reinhard has already written to my father. If we are to avoid a conflict with Gerlach, my father must know how to reply.” He was silent for a moment before adding. “I will, of course, tell him that you have come to return the princesses to their home.”

Zoya stopped sharpening and looked at him. “Say nothing to your father about the twins’ condition – the children they carry,” she said, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. “Leisha was adamant that she and her sister be the ones to inform their father of that aspect of their confinement.”

Kiran nodded. “I can see why they would not want it widely known,” he said. “I will respect their privacy on the matter.”

“Thank you.”

“There is one more thing,” Kiran said, dropping his voice as though wanting to make sure no one overheard their conversation. “When I leave Ayametu... is there anyone you would have me send a message to?”

“No one your uncle would allow.”

“Janek cannot watch me all the time.”

Zoya looked at him again. “You should be more careful who you trust,” she said.

“You have never given me cause not to trust you,” he said. With a smile, he added, “Except when you tried to cut the vine bridge out from under me.”

Zoya shrugged, inspecting her work. “My blade was not sharp... then,” she said, returning his smile. Dropping her own voice, she added, “If you are truly willing, yes, I would like to send a message to my parents in Aywhai, and my sister in Sitara...”

⬧

Janek looked up from the scroll he was reading when Sayha entered the library.

“Matron said you were looking for me,” she said.

“Yes.” He gestured to the large table near the center of the room, where places had been set for two. “Please, join me. We have not had a chance to speak privately – and there are things we must discuss.”

Sayha closed the door behind her and crossed to the table, her reluctant expression a faint shadow of the hesitation Janek felt radiating through the heartstring bond. She paused, her hand on the back of her chair. “Janek, I—”

“Do you still wish to kill me?”

“No... How did you...?” she stammered. Recovering, she said, “No, I do not.”

“Then there is no reason we cannot sit and enjoy the midday meal like civilized adults. Please.” He gestured again for her to sit before taking his own seat opposite her.

“So, what sent you into a murderous rage at me?” he asked, serving himself a portion of rice before passing the dish across the table to her.

Sayha accepted the dish in silence, scooping some of the rice into her bowl, then topping it with the spicy sauce of curried lamb and fresh root vegetables.

When the awkward moment persisted after they had each served themselves, Janek broke the silence.

“It is difficult to carry on a conversation when the other person does not speak,” he said.

Sayha’s head jerked up, her eyes meeting his.

“You fathered the children the twins carry,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And their other children?”

“None of the others are mine.”

Sayha visibly relaxed. “Then, other than the many issues I have about this project – most of which you are already aware – I have no reason to kill you... at the moment.”

That last bit, which she appeared to have added as an attempt at humor, Janek ignored. Scooping up some of the rice and sauce with a torn piece of flatbread, he said, “You could have simply asked the twins.”

“I did,” she said. “But I needed to hear it from your own lips.”

And feel the truth of it through the heartstring bond, he was sure.

She had no idea – and he did not intend to tell her – how close she had come to killing him through that very bond. Nor did she know how effectively the emotions conveyed could be masked or altered by one who had learned to master their own reactions. Those were lessons she would learn with time, as he had.

For now, it was enough that she trusted him, as the Kiz, if not in any other way.

He took a sip of the thick drink made from the pulp of mangoes blended with yoghurt. It was almost too sweet for his liking, but very effective at easing the fire of the curry.

“When were you going to tell me about your marriage to Bacdi?” he asked, his tone conversational, though his eyes were fixed on her.

Sayha choked on her food, and it took several swallows of the mango drink before she was able to speak.

“Who told you?” she asked at length.

“Your husband, Lord Bacdi himself,” Janek said. “He had much to say about you – none of it complimentary, I might add.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” Sayha said, pushing her half-eaten meal away. “I am glad to be free of him.”

“Oh, you are still married,” Janek said.

“No,” Sayha said, a sharp intake of breath accompanying her words.

“So it is, unless you have the order dissolving the union – which would need to have been signed by the king, himself. It is interesting, that both he and Dygu signed the marriage contract.”

When Sayha met his gaze, he did not need the heartstrings to confirm the grief mixed with anger he saw there.

“Tell me.”

Sayha pushed back her chair and rose, as though attempting to escape. She took a few steps toward the windows, and began to speak, her back to Janek.

“After Batuhan married Sarnai, three years ago, Dygu was eager for his own son to marry Batuhan’s daughter. He saw it as a way to strengthen the bonds between Kushar and Qaiwi.”

“Yes, I remember,” Janek said. “I advised against it. Jiani was too young – even now she is not yet fourteen – and the treaty with Dygu too new to agree to a betrothal.”

“Dygu was not dissuaded,” Sayha said turning back to face Janek. “And a year ago, when Batuhan was in Qaiwi during his annual tour of the provinces, Dygu again raised the issue. Batuhan told him that Jiani had only been in fosterage for a year and repeated his reluctance to agree to her betrothal at that time.”

She shook her head. “If I had not been present at that banquet, the conversation might have ended there. But Dygu’s vizier, Lord Nugai, pointed out that I was both of the royal household and old enough to be a suitable bride for Bacdi.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I do not think Dygu had considered me as an option before that moment, though Bacdi had certainly accosted me enough times before. And, where he had been indifferent to the discussions of his possible child bride before, once I was suggested, he grew eager for it.” She shuddered.

“And Batuhan agreed to it?” Janek asked. It seemed so unlike something the king would have done.

“Not at first, no,” Sayha said. “But, after three days of pressure from Dygu, Bacdi, and Nugai, he sent for me. I thought I knew what he was going to say, but I was only partially correct.”

Janek was nodding, leaning back in his chair. “He had somehow learned you were Kizrei and wanted you more deeply connected to the Qaiwean court,” he said, appreciating the strategic move.

“I do not believe he knew – or yet knows – that I am Kizrei, but otherwise, yes. He respected Dygu, but did not know Bacdi well enough to judge his loyalty to Kushar. Placing me in the household was as much for me to watch Bacdi as to satisfy Dygu.”

“So, you were married. Why did you not tell me?”

“Batuhan forbade me to speak of it. He promised me that, if I wished it, he would dissolve the contract after three years – he said that would be time enough for Bacdi to show his true allegiance, and no purpose would be served by my staying longer unless I chose to remain in the marriage. He wanted me free to return to Khulan and make a new marriage of my own choosing.” She smiled. “In truth, I think he was afraid of what my mother would say if she learned I had been quietly handed off as a treaty bride with no fanfare.”

“Melina can be fearsome,” Janek agreed.

They fell silent for a long moment, each lost in thought.

“It did not take three years for Bacdi to show his allegiance,” Sayha murmured. “He made his hatred of Kushar known on our wedding night.”

“And a month later, Dygu died, leaving Bacdi in his place,” Janek said.

“Yes,” Sayha said. She had begun to pace. “I have no proof, but I have always believed Bacdi to be responsible for his father’s death.” She shook her head. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. Dygu might still be alive and Qaiwi a peaceful province.”

“The fault is not yours,” Janek said. “I have spent most of the last four months in Qaiwi, and the discontent there runs deep. Bacdi merely gave the people a focus for their frustrations. The seeds of this rebellion have deep roots. Rashid will be hard-pressed to control it, much less to eradicate it, even with the armies at his disposal.”

“Will you return to Qaiwi, then?”

“I hope to, with more of the Kizrei. But, first, I must go to Khulan. I have been away for too long.” He sighed, not looking forward to the conversation he would need to have with Batuhan.

“It seems all our secrets are coming out into the open,” he said. “I can only hope that Kushar survives the revelations.”

⬧

In the small hours of the night, Sarnai, third wife of King Batuhan of Kushar, wandered quietly through the sleeping palace, a dark blue cloak over her shoulders, her steps guided by the light of a shielded lantern. Heavily pregnant with her second child, she had not slept well in weeks, and the guards who watched the palace during the night had grown accustomed to her nightly wanderings.

On this particular night, she wandered in a circuitous path, through kitchens and storerooms, descending ever deeper into the lower levels. She hated being pregnant and the way the child she carried forced her to waddle, stealing her breath as she took the stairs one slow, cautious step at a time. If she had her way, she would never carry a child again.

From time to time, she found her way blocked by a locked door. Touching a copper-tipped finger to the lock, Sarnai drew threads of copper from the woven mesh of the half-glove covering the back of her hand. Guiding the threads with a thought, she fashioned them into a key, turned the lock, then pulled the threads back into her glove. Her metalworking ability had never been strong – something Dygu, her father, had often lamented – and most dismissed her ability to shape and manipulate the copper wires as little more than an entertainment.

Learning to create functional keys was a secret she had kept to herself, and was a skill she was particularly proud of.

Finally, she reached a heavy, wooden door. A pair of torches burned to either side, and a tall, rough-looking guard stood in front of it. His name was Nohr, and Sarnai hated having to do business with him, but it could not be helped.

“I was not sure you would come, m’lady” Nohr said.

Sarnai pulled back her cloak to reveal the pouch hanging at her side. “I have the coin I promised. Take me to him.”

Nohr held out his hand.

Sarnai loosened the pouch and fished out a single coin, which she tossed to him. He snatched it out of the air.

“You promised more than this,” he said.

“The rest after.”

When he hesitated, Sarnai added. “Or none at all. It is your choice.”

For a moment she thought he was trying to decide if the coin she carried was worth killing her for. He could do it easily, and undoubtedly knew many places where he could dispose of her body. She stood her ground, a defiant gaze her only weapon.

The seconds ticked by.

If he thought he was going to outlast her, he had vastly underestimated her. She might only be seventeen, the top of her head no taller than the bottom of his chin, and ungainly in her eighth month of pregnancy, but she was the daughter of a king and the wife of another. Sarnai would not back down.

After nearly two minutes of silence, Nohr gave in. Silently pocketing the coin and fishing a large keyring from his pocket, he took one of the torches from the wall, then turned and unlocked the door.

They passed through the door and he closed it behind her, turning the key in the lock. Holding the torch to light their way, he led her deeper into the passage.

It was several minutes – and two more slow, awkward flights of stairs – before Nohr stepped to one side and gestured for her to go forward.

“Straight ahead, at the end, m’lady. He’s the only one down here.”

“Wait for me here,” Sarnai said, then raised her lantern and walked into the darkness. It was chill here and, though not damp, she had a sense of moisture in the air. She pulled her cloak tighter around her.

“Come to do away with me at last?” a voice said. Though rough from lack of use, Sarnai recognized his mocking tone. “Tell me, will you do it here, or above, in full view of the people?”

“I am not your executioner, brother,” Sarnai said.

An intake of breath was followed by a slight scramble. “Come closer,” he said.

Sarnai closed the remaining distance to the cell, stopping a few steps away and lowering her lantern enough to allow her to look on Bacdi. She had never been close to her older brother – what use had he for a sister nearly half his age? – but, even ragged and filthy as he was, it was good to see him.

“My sister!” Bacdi said, clutching at the bars of his cell and peering at her in the dim light. “I cannot believe it is you! Have you come as an emissary of your husband? Or are you here to release me?”

“Neither,” Sarnai said.

Scowling, Bacdi pushed away from the bars. “Then what good are you?”

Sarnai took a step closer. “I bribed a guard to bring me to you. I will see that you have clean clothing, better food. Light.”

“What use have I for any of that?” Bacdi sneered, turning back to her. “If you would help me, get me out of here.” He came forward again, staring at her. “I see you found a way to be useful here,” he said, gesturing at her belly. “So, you are his creature now?”

“I am the daughter of Dygu, and always shall be,” Sarnai said. “And you would do well to remember that you are his son and heir to the throne of Qaiwi. We will leave this place – but not yet.”

“When?” he asked. “Not that it matters. There is no such thing as time here.”

She rested her hand on her belly. “It will be another month before I can travel. But, be assured that I will do all I can for you until then.”

Bacdi snorted, but said nothing, pushing away from the bars again.

“I am making arrangements, but it takes time, and I must be cautious. No one can know, or I will be imprisoned as well.”

“That would be a tragedy,” Bacdi said. The mocking tone was back, which Sarnai took as a good sign.

“It would,” she agreed. “Batuhan sets great store by his offspring. If I am careful, I am safe and free to act as I wish... for now. Trust in me, my brother.”

“This is the place where trust and hope come to die,” Bacdi said. “Qaiwi is lost to me. All that is left for me is to wait for death. Come back before death takes me, and we will see where trust lies.”

⬧

Batuhan did not look up from the message he was reading when Janek entered his study. It had been nearly a half-hour since a panting, rain-soaked runner had notified him that Janek’s barge had arrived at last – nearly three full days after Batuhan had expected him.

Janek had taken his time returning to Khulan, in spite of repeated entreaties to make haste, so now he could wait.

Batuhan finished reading the message, then smoothed it out and identified its place among the other messages from Reinhard, matching the rough, torn edges of the parchment with those of a similar message from the week before.

“He sends me a new message twice daily, did you know that?” he asked, not looking up.

“I did not,” Janek replied.

“No, you did not,” Batuhan said, applying a sticky paste to the back of the message before affixing it permanently to the page with the others. “Because for some reason I cannot fathom, you have chosen to absent yourself from Khulan of late.”

“The trouble in Qaiwi—”

“Perhaps,” Batuhan continued, cutting him off, “You might care to explain why you held my son prisoner for the past month.”

Batuhan rose, scooping up a tightly-rolled message scroll which he threw at Janek. It came unrolled as it sailed toward him, and he had to step forward to catch it before it fluttered to the floor.

When Janek said nothing, Batuhan shook his head. “No? Then tell me this – did you know the Gerlachi princesses were being held captive in Kushar?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you did not tell me?” Batuhan said, his voice controlled, with only a hint of his cold fury. He knew his brother well enough to know he was far more likely to get answers from Janek if he held his temper, but it was going to be difficult, today.

“I did not,” Janek said. Releasing the clasp on his gray cloak, he swung it off his shoulders with one hand, dropping it onto a nearby chair. In his other hand, he still held the message scroll. “If I had told you, you could not have honestly claimed to know nothing.”

“By keeping me in the dark, you have brought us to the brink of war.”

“The Gerlachi have no stomach for war. Look at all their treaties—”

“Even now, their troops march on Lancara.”

Janek waved the threat away as he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. “Lancara is nothing to be concerned about. At most, the Gerlachi will steal the coast from us. We will let them keep it for a few years, then we will reclaim what is ours.”

“You cannot believe it will be that simple,” Batuhan said. “And if you had been here – as was your duty – you would know that our battalions made camp in western Lancara three days ago. If the Gerlachi attempt to take the coast, we will fight them off. They may be fighting even as we speak.”

“Then we will hold Lancara,” Janek said nonchalantly. “And the Gerlachi will learn a valuable lesson.” He turned, holding up the glass and swirling the dark liquid. “As long as the Lancarans can fish and grow their grapes and olives, they care not whose sigil graces their coin—”

“You stole Reinhard’s daughters.” Batuhan said, cutting him off.

“His adopted daughters.”

“His daughters,” Batuhan corrected. “This is not about blood.”

“There you are wrong,” Janek said. “It is entirely about blood. The twins are weather witches.” He gestured expansively toward the window with his glass, “The only weather witches in the seven kingdoms. And what kingdom has greater need for them and their bloodline than Kushar?”

“Theirs is a bloodline that rightfully belongs in Tzigane,” Batuhan said. “It is the bloodline of Nizam—”

“Nizam fell ten years ago—”

“Nevertheless, they are of the desert-born,” Batuhan said. “The Gerlachi may be tame dogs lacking teeth, but the desert-born are jackals. Do you think the Tzigani queen will overlook this insult?” He pointed at the map spread out on the large table along the far wall. “We have two battalions still in Qaiwi, and now your reckless actions have put us in conflict with both Gerlach and Tzigane. We are exposed in both the west and the north.”

Janek shrugged. “Then send the weather witches home.”

Batuhan said nothing. While he knew the right thing to do would be to return Reinhard’s daughters, now that he was faced with it – and the knowledge of their gifts – the choice did not seem as clear as it had been even an hour before.

“I thought not,” Janek said. “You see their value, even as I did.”

“I do. But how much good can two weather witches really do? Surely not enough to justify going to war to keep them.”

“Not enough, I agree,” Janek said. “But six or ten...”

As Janek let the thought trail out, a realization dawned on Batuhan – one he could not easily accept. “What are you saying?” he breathed, leaning heavily against his desk.”

“We will not tame the monsoons or make the deserts blossom in a single season,” Janek said, looking out the window as he spoke. “It is the work of generations, and will require many weather witches.” He turned to Batuhan. “That is why I kept the twins in Kushar. Why I kept them secret from you – to protect you – and I would have continued to do so until the time to reveal them was right—”

In two quick strides, Batuhan closed the distance between them, his clenched fist connecting with Janek’s jaw almost before he realized he was throwing the punch.

“You are my brother!” he said, his voice trembling with rage. “You have been my closest ally, my most trusted friend and advisor.” He moved away from Janek, pulling the calm back around himself like a cloak. “I see now that I let our relationship blind me to the danger of trusting you with too much power. You have broken faith with me, Janek. I cannot allow you to remain at my side.”

“You would dismiss me to appease Reinhard?” Janek asked, incredulous.

Batuhan spun to face his brother. “If it will save Kushari lives, yes,” he said. “And if I thought it would help, I would give you to the desert-born queen. I am sure she would take great delight in letting the sand flay the skin from your bones.”

He began to pace, keeping on the opposite side of the room from Janek so he would not give in to the temptation to hit him again. While he had the hotter temper, Janek had always been stronger and faster, and if they got into a real fight, he knew his brother could easily win.

“But handing you over would not be in the best interest of Kushar, he said after a moment. “I know you are loyal to me, to Kushar, and while the generals can deal with the Gerlachi, I still have need of you to lead the Kizrei in Qaiwi—”

“You cannot have it both ways,” Janek said simply.

Batuhan’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“If you dismiss me as your vizier, strip me of my name and my title and cast me out, I can no longer lead the Kizrei. The shame will follow me and taint them – the Kizrei will lose face in the eyes of all Kushar.”

Batuhan stared at him, then began to laugh. “So, you hold me captive even as you hold the Gerlachi twins. Is it my crown you seek?”

“No, it has never been thus, my brother,” Janek said. “And I will go, if you wish it.”

There was a long silence as the brothers looked at each other from across the study.

Janek spoke first. “There is a way... if you will allow it... that I may honor my oaths to Kushar... and to you.”

“What do you propose?”

“Tell the council I can no longer divide my efforts effectively, and release me quietly from the role as your vizier, that I might serve openly as the leader of the Kizrei. We will deal with the conflict in the west, and serve in the north as you command.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You know my heart.”

“I thought I did.”

Janek bowed his head for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes filled with sorrow, he said, “When I am no longer needed, I will hand my cloak to another.”

“Who else could lead the Kizrei as you have?” Batuhan asked. “There is no one else I would trust with that much power.”

“I can think of one...,” Janek said. “They are not ready yet, but will be when the time comes.”

Batuhan held up a hand to stop him. “Say no more. I agree to your proposal. Before you return to Qaiwi, there is one thing I must ask of you.”

“I would do anything for you, my brother,” Janek said.

Batuhan felt suddenly tired, and it took him a moment to find his voice. “Who do you have in Gerlach?” he asked. “I need someone to recover the Kushari youth—” he wanted to say ‘bring my son and daughter home,’ but, though he was king, the luxury of thinking like a father was not his, “—someone who will not get them killed in the process...”

Chapter 31

The last shreds of the morning mist trailed behind Leisha as she walked the familiar path along the river’s edge. Overhead, the darkening clouds reflected her mood, as they had for most of the month since that moment of insanity when she’d challenged Janek.

What madness had possessed her to openly declare her intention to leave Ayametu?

She’d been short-tempered and irritable ever since, not to mention incredibly conflicted. She wanted to go home to Gerlach more than she could put into words. But Janek’s promise to return at least some of their daughters...

He’d known exactly how to keep her here, and offered her heart’s dearest wish – to know at least some of her children.

Having to choose between staying and leaving was tearing her in two.

The low murmur of voices caught her attention, and she looked over to see a pair of cultivators casting furtive glances in her direction. Scowling, Leisha hurled a gust of wind at them, sending the pair tumbling, and spilling the baskets of carrots and turnips they had been gathering.

Leisha paused, pressing a hand to her chest as she stood there, catching her breath. She was nearing her time. For the past few days, even the slightest exertion – whether physical or magical – had taken all her strength.

She slid her hand to her abdomen, her attention shifting to the unborn child moving within her.

She did not know whether she carried Janek’s son or a daughter; as usual, both she and Katya had refused Lonila’s offer to share any details about the children they bore, having learned long ago that the less they knew, the easier it was to accept the loss when they were taken away. She had to think of herself as a vessel, nothing more. But the chance to know her child was the sweetest temptation...

She did not need to make any decision today – indeed, it was better if she did not. She would wait until after this child was born, when her mind was clear and her emotions again flowing as smoothly as the peaceful river at her side.

Decision made, Leisha gathered the mist to her. Wrapping it around herself like a cloak, she began the long, slow walk back to the villa.

Overhead, the dark gray clouds above faded and began to drift apart.

⬧

Zoya stood in the largest of the villa’s sitting rooms – the one she had taken to calling ‘the mural room’ because of the large painting covering one wall. She was not looking at the mural now, though, but had her back to it, staring out the windows and across the courtyard at the ferocious storm that lashed the valley.

Though she knew it to be early afternoon, angry black clouds darkened the sky, frequent – and disturbingly pulsating – bursts of lightning dancing across the darkness, each pulse accompanied by a rumble of thunder.

“The pulses will increase as they draw nearer to giving birth,” Janek said, coming into the room.

Zoya turned. “Lord Janek,” she said, with a polite incline of her head. She would not bow to him, despite his rank, But there was no reason not to be civil.

“I regret that we have not had an opportunity to speak privately since I returned,” he said.

Zoya shrugged, glancing over her shoulder toward the storm. “It has been a busy three days,” she said, referring to the preparations the entire household – including herself – had made for the storms that would accompany the birth of the twins’ children.

“The storm will be worse if they both give birth near the same time,” Lonila, the villa’s chief healer, had told her that morning. “But better that than to have it drag out over several days, if one of the births is delayed.”

Zoya had been skeptical. But, seeing the ferocity of the storm that surrounded them, she was convinced.

“I had hoped to speak with you now,” Janek said. “If you are not occupied.”

Zoya bit off the quick retort that sprang to her tongue, instead gesturing to a pair of chairs near the fireplace.

Janek started over, then paused, detouring to the nearby sideboard. “Wine?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes.”

“I could begin with a quarter-hour of niceties,” he said, pouring a glass for each of them before joining her by the fire. “But I suspect you, like me, prefer to get straight to the point.”

“I do,” she said, accepting the offered glass.

Janek sat opposite her. “What are your plans?” he asked. “Is it your intention to take the twins from Ayametu?”

“That is the task I was given by my queen,” Zoya said.

“And if either – or both – of them chooses to stay?”

Zoya said nothing for a long moment. She had been asking herself that question for months, and was no closer to an answer than she had been when it first presented itself to her during her long journey across the desert.

“Why do you ask?” she finally countered.

“I would know that they are safe, protected,” Janek said without hesitation. “I cannot always be here. You were in Qaiwi. The situation there has worsened, and I must soon return. Sayha, too, has other duties that call her away.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a message scroll.

“Prince Kiran returns – likely not alone – to escort the twins to Khulan.”

“What will your king do with them?” Zoya asked, hoping her spike in concern was not evident in her voice.

Janek stared into his glass for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the crackle of the fire and the rumble of the worsening storm.

“There was a time when I could have answered that question with no doubt that I knew Batuhan’s mind,” he said finally. “But, in this, I cannot say.”

He looked up at Zoya, and she was surprised to see pain – or perhaps it was sorrow – in his eyes. “I would have them safe,” he said again.

Zoya waited for him to say more. When he did not, she asked, “What would you have me do?”

Janek looked at her, meeting her gaze and not looking away.

“Do not let Kiran take the twins to Khulan. Kushar needs them, their bloodline, what they can teach their daughters.”

Zoya stared at him in wonder. One of the most powerful men in Kushar, asking for her help. “You realize you are asking me to defy my queen.”

“No,” he said. “I am asking you to keep the twins safe – and telling you they will be safest if they stay in Ayametu.”

A flash of lightning accompanied a crack of thunder, punctuating his words and shaking the villa.

“In my land, where little rain falls, it is considered auspicious to be born during a storm,” Zoya said as the rumble faded.

She took a drink of her wine. She looked over at Janek, who was staring into the fire.

“If both you and Sayha leave and the twins choose to stay, how am I to prevent Kiran from taking them away? I have no access to anyone outside the villa, and the Kizrei here do not answer to me—”

“I will give you authority over the detachments both here and at Milas, in cooperation with Davit. While he will remain captain, anything you need that will help you to protect the twins will be yours,” Janek said. “Within reason,” he added with a slight smile.

“Captain Davit is a good man,” Zoya said.

Janek nodded, sitting back in his chair. “He was equally impressed by you. Were you Kushari, he would have made you Kizrei,” he added with a hint of amusement.

Zoya had no response to that. Throughout their conversation, she had been torn between her duty to Queen Yolara, her responsibility to the twins, and a growing understanding of just how much Janek had come to genuinely care for them. Not that it excused what he had done in any way, but his desire to see the twins kept safe seemed sincere – and on that single point, they were in agreement.

“What are you not telling me?” she asked.

“A great deal,” he said with a slight shrug. He finished his wine, then looked at her. “But what I have told you is all true.”

“When do you leave?”

“Within hours of the storm breaking,” Janek said. “The same for Sayha.”

He leaned forward to put down his glass, then looked at her, his expression intense. “If you cannot do this, tell me now. I will summon Davit immediately.”

Zoya answered without hesitation. “I will keep the twins safe - not for you or for Kushar, but because that is in keeping with the task my queen set for me.”

“I can accept that.”

“And should either of them choose to return to the north, I will see her safely to her father’s house,” Zoya said. “This, I swear.”

“And should either choose to remain in Ayametu,” Janek said. “I will keep to my promise, and see that any of their daughters who possesses the gift of weather magic is returned to them here. This, I swear.”

Thunder once again shook the walls as they stood, sealing their agreement with clasped hands. As the lingering rumble faded, the lusty cries of a newly-born infant echoed through the villa.

They looked up as footsteps pounded down the stairs and a breathless servant burst into the room, a wide smile on her face.

“Leisha has given birth to a son.”

⬧

Janek slipped into the nursery, and picked up his little daughter. She mewled softly, then settled again as he rocked her gently. Katya, also sleeping, was in the next room, the curtains pulled around her bed visible from where he stood, the dimly-lit lanterns in both rooms casting soft shadows in the dark hours of the night.

He had no idea if either of the twins would choose to bear another child, or if these would be their last. He hoped the children who were even now scattered across Kushar would one day bring his country the prosperity he believed their bloodline promised.

The door opened and Sayha entered the room, her gray cloak blending into the shadows.

Janek handed her the message the whisperer had brought him a half-hour before. “Sarnai has given birth to a daughter,” he said.

He looked down at the innocent little one who slept so peacefully in his arms, and wondered if what he was about to say was truly intended for Sayha or for himself. Though the healer could have told them months before whether they carried a son or a daughter, the twins had always asked not to be told until after their children were born. Janek had honored their wishes, supposing it made it easier for them to let the infants go – but now, looking at his tiny daughter, he was not so sure.

“It is a hard thing I ask of you,” Janek said. “But, for the good of all Kushar, it must be done.” The infant began to stir and he gently rocked her until she settled back into sleep. He looked up at Sayha. “We must have a weather witch of royal lineage.”

“I understand.”

“Lonila will know which of the healers can also serve as a wet nurse,” he said. “She will assist you during the journey.”

“And Sarnai’s true daughter?”

“There are always noble houses willing to raise the offspring of the royal concubines as their own, with no questions asked,” Janek said. “The house that was to have received this child,” he continued, giving her the family name and city, “is in the south, far from either Khulan or Qaiwi. Let the wet nurse take Sarnai’s daughter there, and task her with the child’s care through its first year of life. The family awaits the child’s arrival, and will not know the difference.”

Sayha nodded. “It will be done.”

Securing the blanket around his tiny daughter, Janek held her out to Sayha.

“You are not to return to Ayametu. I would not have Batuhan associate your name with the twins in any way.”

“Surely Kiran will have told him I am here.”

“Possibly, but I think not,” Janek said. “He holds the Kizrei blameless, believing me to be wholly responsible – and he is not wrong.” He shrugged. “He is young. But now he returns – he may be here already – and if he sees you with the child, you will lose his good will. Zoya will detain him while you make your escape.”

“She knows we are taking the infants?” Sayha asked, accepting the baby and holding it awkwardly.

“I told her we were leaving,” Janek said. “I did not tell her we were taking the children. I might not have been able to enlist her cooperation so easily if I had.”

“And when she realizes you manipulated her...?”

“We will be gone before then.”

“And what of the twins?

“They will not be surprised to wake and find the infants gone. Zoya will see to their safety.”

“Do you trust her?” Sayha asked, clearly skeptical.

“In this one thing, yes,” he replied. “Her commitment to them is as strong as yours or mine. Probably more so. Hopefully, she is as smart as she seems – smart enough to realize the truth of what I told her. And she will have assistance from the Kizrei, both here and at Milas.”

He had sent a falcon to Davit an hour before, as soon as the storm had lessened enough to let the bird fly.

I leave for Qaiwi within the hour. Sayha leaves Ayametu as well. You are now Captain of the Kizrei in both Milas and Ayametu – but when it comes to the Gerlachi twins, the desert-born warrior, Zoya, who you knew as Lady Chani, is in command, and you are to defer to her in all things.

He had known the moment the captain had read the unusual order, sensing the suspicion and doubt through the heartstring bond between them.

In response to Davit’s uncertain emotions, he had sent a strong reassurance through the heartstrings, reinforcing it with a sense of duty until he felt the confirming response. While another might have stolen Janek’s signet and sent a message bearing the seal of the Kiz, there was no counterfeit of the heartstring bond. Davit would comply.

“Before you go...” he said to Sayha. “When last I was in Khulan, there was someone locked in the dungeon I thought you might want to have a word with... Bacdi is yours to deal with as you see fit.”

Sayha made no outward reaction, but Janek felt her shock reverberate through the heartstring.

“When you have finished, go to Batuhan. Tell him I sent you; that you are my second. And when he no longer has need of me, you are the one I have chosen to lead the Kizrei in my place.”

“I cannot—”

“You can, and you will.” He reached out and clasped her free arm, wrist to wrist. “This is what you have been trained for, Sayha – not to wear expensive gowns and sit in the gilded cage of another’s throne as a treaty bride to one such as Bacdi, but to be a queen in your own right. You have the skills and the knowledge. More than that, the blood of Kushar flows through your veins. You possess the devotion to your king and your country to serve both in ways I never could.”

Releasing her, he removed a ring from his little finger, bearing a smaller version of the signet he wore, and pressed it into her palm. “When the time comes, you will be the next Kiz.”

Sayha stared at the ring for a moment before closing her fist around it.

“May the winds grant that I am worthy of your trust.”

“I have no doubt of it,” he said. “I ask only this: When my death is ordered – which it may well be at some future day – let it come to me by your own hand. Do not burden another with this task.”

“I swear it.”

Holding the tiny infant close to her breast, Sayha pulled her deep gray cloak tightly around it. With a brief nod to Janek, she disappeared into the night.

⬧

Sarnai moved through the darkened corridors, feeling light on her feet despite the five layers of clothing she wore. It was all she could do to keep her steps slow and measured, and not dance or run through the halls of the palace.

She’d given birth three days before – a daughter, they told her – and was already feeling more like her normal self.

She had layered her clothes rather than carry an obvious bundle, filling her pockets and multiple pouches with as much of her jewelry as she could easily carry. Nohr, the guard she had been paying to secretly bring fresh food to Bacdi, had promised to gather sufficient supplies for their escape.

Now all she needed to do was act normal, and not draw the attention of the palace’s night guards.

She encountered no resistance – the guards were accustomed to her walking the corridors at night. Nevertheless, if she had measured the time, Sarnai was certain it had taken her three times as long as it had before to descend to the prisoners’ cells beneath the palace.

When she finally reached the large, wooden door, Nohr was waiting for her. He unfolded his massive arms and pointed to a large bundle in the shadows.

“Those are the supplies?” she asked.

“Yes, m’lady. And a barge waits for you at the docks.”

Sarnai nodded, her attention on the bulky bundle, its size and weight taking the shine off her earlier euphoria.

“I cannot carry this,” she said. “And I do not know if my brother will have the strength, after so long down here.”

“Not my concern,” Nohr said. “I obtained the supplies you requested. You did not ask for a pack mule.”

Sarnai fingered the coin purse on her belt, considering.

“If my brother cannot carry it, you will need to accompany us.”

“How much will you pay?”

“I have always been generous with you,” Sarnai said, shifting her manner back to that of a noblewoman. “And a loyal guard in my employ would be deserving of continued generosity.”

If she had judged him correctly, Nohr had focused on the words “employ” and “generosity” and would not waste time now haggling over details which could be sorted out later, far from the possibility of discovery.

But as the seconds ticked by while she waited for him to make up his mind, she began to wonder if she had misjudged his avarice.

“Agreed,” he said finally. Without waiting for her to reply – or possibly fearing she might change her mind – Nohr turned and unlocked the door.

A short time later, they reached Bacdi’s cell.

Though still too thin, and his hair and beard greatly in need of a barber, Sarnai thought her brother looked far better than he had on her previous visit.

“I had begun to think you had forgotten me, sister,” Bacdi called out as soon as they came into view, his scathing tone evidence that he was truly much improved.

“I came as soon as I could,” Sarnai said, biting back her irritation. She needed him, at least for a while. “Hush now, you will give us away.”

Nohr trudged up to the cell. Handing his torch to Sarnai, he began to sift through the many keys on his large keyring. His muttering turned to cursing as he tried one key after another with no success.

“Do you not have the key?” Bacdi said, reaching through the bars to cuff Nohr on the side of the head. “Fool!”

Sarnai came closer. “How is this possible?” she asked. “You have brought him food, clothing, and more for weeks now.”

“Handed it all through the bars, m’lady” Nohr said, rubbing his head as he glared at Bacdi. “Never had need to unlock his cell.”

“Step aside,” Sarnai said, giving the torch back to him. “But, do not go far. I need to speak with my brother.”

Nohr shrugged, then moved a few steps away, leaning against the rough tunnel wall.

As she stepped up to the cell, Sarnai casually rested her hand on the bar nearest the locking mechanism. The words she spoke to Bacdi were irrelevant platitudes, utterly unimportant as she sent a thin copper wire into the lock.

She wound the wire into the gears, finding the heavy pins one by one and bending the wire into the shape of a key. It was not strong, but with enough layers it should suffice. When she was satisfied, she gently turned the lock, coughing to cover the sound of the click.

“The lock seems loose,” she whispered to Bacdi. “I think Nohr might have had the right key after all. Push on the cell door...”

She had intended to withdraw her key and move out of the way before he opened the cell, but she had barely spoken the words before Bacdi forced the cell open with a mighty shove, sending her toppling backward. If Nohr hadn’t leapt forward to catch her, she might have cracked her skull on the stone floor. The thin copper wire connecting the key to her finger snapped, and the key flew out of the lock, disappearing into the darkness.

“Well done, sir,” Nohr said, looking up at Bacdi as he helped Sarnai right herself. “I know not which of the keys it was that turned the lock, but glad I am—”

“Yes, right,” Bacdi said. “How do we get out of here?”

“Your belongings?” Sarnai asked.

Bacdi was already striding down the passage in the direction she and Nohr had come. “There is nothing in there I ever want to see again,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “If I had the power, I would burn it all.”

Sarnai and Nohr exchanged a glance, then ran to catch up with him.

“You must be quiet, m’lord,” Nohr said. “There are other guards – we do not want to encounter them.”

“You are armed,” Bacdi said. “Did you bring a sword for me?”

Sarnai took a deep breath, reminding herself again that she needed Bacdi alive if she was to succeed in her plan to retake Qaiwi for her own. “It will be better if we do not have to fight our way out,” she murmured.

Bacdi glanced at her in surprise, as though he had forgotten she was there. “Where is your child?” he asked.

“With her wet nurse.”

“And your son?”

“Asleep in his nursery, I suppose.” She shrugged as she increased her pace to keep up with him.

“When do they meet us?”

Sarnai stopped. “What?”

Bacdi turned to face her. “When do your children – and their caregivers, I assume – join us?”

“We are not escaping with an entourage,” Sarnai said. “It will be difficult enough with the two of us.” She glanced past him at Nohr. “Three of us,” she amended.

“‘Batuhan sets great store by his children,’ you said. Taking them with us—”

She cut him off. “They are his, why would I want them?”

Bacdi sighed. “A lost opportunity,” he said, shaking his head. Turning away from Sarnai, he addressed Nohr, who was waiting for them. “Lead us out of here.”

They continued on in relative silence, punctuated by the scuff of the soft soles of their shoes on stone and Bacdi’s occasional muttering.

“How is it that there are no other prisoners here?” he finally asked Nohr, as they passed a row of empty cells, their barred doors standing open.

“No one else in this section, by the king’s command, m’lord,” Nohr said. “The others were moved when you were brought here.”

“Hmmmph,” was Bacdi’s only response.

“For whatever reason,” Sarnai said, “it is for the best. I could not have assisted you were there others here to witness it.”

Bacdi said nothing, and even his muttering stopped.

When they reached the heavy, wooden door, Nohr held up a hand, cautioning them as he opened the door and looked around.

“You’re early again, Mylo,” Nohr said, waving Sarnai and Bacdi into the shadows. “It will not be dawn for two more hours, yet.”

“What have you got here?” a young-sounding voice asked. “Wine, cheese, bread... Planning a party?”

“That’s none of your business,” Nohr told him. “Now put that back—” There was a scuffling sound as though the two had begun pushing and shoving at each other.

Before Sarnai could stop him, Bacdi moved out of the shadows and through the door. She heard the sound of a sword being drawn followed by a gasp of surprise, and then the soft thud of a body hitting the ground.

Followed by silence.

“Take care of him, Nohr,” Bacdi said.

Sarnai crept to the door and peered around.

The second guard – a young man no older than herself – lay in a crumpled heap, blood pooling around him. Bacdi was wiping a sword.

“What have you done!” Sarnai hissed, wanting to scream but not daring to raise her voice.

“What was needed,” Bacdi said. He turned to Nohr, who was moving the large bundle of supplies out of the alcove and out of the way of the spreading blood. “I will need his sword belt.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Nohr said, giving Sarnai a dark look.

While Bacdi strapped the dead Mylo’s sword around his waist, Nohr shoved the body into the deepest corner of the alcove, then hefted the bundle of supplies. Cautioning them to strictest silence, he led them through a series of narrow tunnels, all winding upward.

“We cannot go through the palace, m’lady,” he explained to Sarnai. “Must take the back way to the water, then around the outside of the palace to the docks.”

It was a long, laborious walk, and Sarnai wished many times that she owned heavy boots like those Nohr wore. By the time they reached the docks, the bottoms of her feet were bruised, and she had scraped her toes against the stones so many times that her shoes were little more than scraps of torn fabric tied to her feet.

But the barge was there, and they boarded without comment, sinking gratefully onto the bench along one side of the small, battered boat even as the sky began to show the first signs of the morning light. As the oarsmen began to move the boat out into the open water, Sarnai and Bacdi wrapped themselves in heavy blankets the barge master gave them, covering their heads against prying eyes.

They pulled away from the docks, watching silently as a fast barge, driven by at least four or five wellsprings and guided by skilled hands, swept past them and into the spot they had just vacated.

“Why do we have no wellsprings?” Bacdi grumbled, watching the other barge as the crew tied it to the posts.

“Because my coin is limited,” Sarnai hissed. “And we do not want anyone to take note of us.”

A pair of gray-cloaked warriors got off the fast barge, walking down the short ramp and heading quickly toward the palace. Bacdi gestured toward the disappearing Kizrei. “Royal messengers need no coin,” he muttered.

Shifting on her seat to put the palace behind her, Sarnai said, “Have patience, brother. When we reclaim our homeland, we will have all the coin that has been taken from us, and more.”

⬧

It was not yet dawn when Janek was finally able to sneak into the room where Leisha’s son – his son! – lay sleeping. Though he’d wanted to leave Ayametu before the first members of the household stirred, the babe had awakened during the night. Janek had been forced to wait in the shadows until Bela, the wet nurse Lonila had assigned to care for the child, finished tending to him.

She was Kizrei, and if he had called out her name as she crossed the hall to her own chamber, she would have been ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Still, he decided to allow her a few minutes’ rest.

The door closed silently behind him, and he stood with his back to it for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the soft glow of the lantern-light bathing the nursery and reflecting off the pale blankets covering the small, raised cradle.

He moved to its side, his breath catching as he gazed down at the sleeping infant. He had never thought to have another child, and now he had two – though in truth, his daughter by Katya would never know him as anything more than an uncle, and that only if Batuhan ever allowed him to return to Khulan.

But this little boy! Janek’s heart ached with a combination of grief and joy. While he would never replace Tovmas, his firstborn, who had died so long ago, this little one, not even a half a day old, had already brought a spark of hope back into his heart.

“So, it is time, then?”

Janek spun at the sound of the voice, whisper-quiet in the stillness.

Leisha stood in the archway between her sleeping chamber and the nursery, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulder like a dark river against her pale robe.

“I did not mean to wake you,” Janek said, moving away from the cradle.

Leisha’s lips turned up in a tired smile. “You did not. I have been waiting for you, as I always do when you come to take the newborns.”

“I did not know...” Janek began, then stopped, not knowing how to properly respond. “I thought taking them in the night would make the parting easier for you both – before you had a chance to bond, to see them in the light.”

“It probably would,” Leisha agreed, leaning against the doorframe. “Still, I prefer it this way. You will take him to your home, then? Raise him as your son, as you promised?”

“Yes,” Janek said. “My steward is already preparing a place for him and his wet nurse—”

“Bela will go with you?”

“Yes. And she will stay with him through his first year, possibly longer,” Janek said. He resisted the impulse to step toward her, to take her hand, reassure her that her child would be safe and well cared for, even when his duties meant he was not able to be present. But, deep down he knew that anything he might say would only be assuaging his own guilt at taking the child away.

“I was wrong,” he said. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to meet her steady gaze as he spoke. “Taking you and your sister as I did, keeping you here against your will. While I did it all with the good of Kushar as my goal, I should have found another way – one that did not bring the two of you so much grief and pain.”

“Was it worth it?” she asked.

He looked over at the sleeping infant, struggling as the emotions from earlier threatened to wash over him again. “I have hope,” he said finally. “And I have not had hope for a very long time.”

“Then that will have to be enough,” she said.

Leisha came forward then, and picked up a blanket from where it lay on a table next to the cradle. Lifting the baby, she wrapped the blanket around him, then stood there, looking into his face for a long, silent moment.

“I have never before held one of my babies,” she murmured. “And now that I do, it is only to say farewell.” She turned to Janek, the lantern light reflecting off the tracing of tears sliding down her cheeks. “Have you chosen a name for him?”

“I will call him Kevoran, after my father.”

“A noble name for such a little one,” she said. “One he will bear proudly and with honor.”

“Katya’s daughter will be called Eleni,” he said, not knowing why he felt compelled to tell her. He had never told them any of their other children’s names, believing it made it easier for them to be parted from them. Somehow this – her being here when he took the child away – made it different this time.

“I will not tell Katya unless she asks,” Leisha said. “And perhaps, one day, Eleni will return to us here.”

“You have decided to stay, then?”

Leisha looked down at Kevoran, rocking him gently as she spoke. “Katya has never wanted to leave,” she said. She looked up at Janek. “I think, after so long here, she is afraid of the world beyond the mountains.”

She sighed, and again smiled sadly.

“And while I would gladly return to my father’s house, if I did so, I would never see my sister again. Since leaving our mother’s womb, we have never been parted for more than a short time. I cannot leave her here, alone, knowing I will never return.”

She looked down at the baby again. “You will keep your promise, to send our daughters to us?”

“I swear it.”

“Then I will be here to teach them how to use their gift.”

Epilogue

Though she had hoped their fast barge would have arrived during the night, rather than just before dawn, Sayha was grateful they had made the trip downriver so quickly. They had ridden hard down the mountain from Ayametu, pressing their horses to all possible speed, then barely paused for breath before setting out on the barge from Rachusa. With five wellsprings pushing the boat along the monsoon-high river, they had reached Khulan faster than she had thought possible. When their barge pulled up to the dock at dawn, taking the spot recently vacated by a slower barge propelled only by oarsmen, a mere three days since the birth of Katya’s child.

Sayha had snuck into and out of the palace so many times growing up in Khulan, that getting into the private residence without alerting the Kizrei who watched over the royal family was not a problem. Finding the nursery where Sarnai’s infant daughter slept was more of a challenge. Fortunately, Petra, the Kizrei healer and wet nurse who accompanied her, was so attuned to the needs of a nursing baby that she was able to locate the royal newborn while also keeping Katya’s tiny daughter in a quiet, restful sleep.

Unlike in the villa at Ayametu, the nursery did not open into the mother’s sleeping chamber. Instead, the infant’s wet nurse slept in a curtained alcove of the room, ready to attend to the child’s slightest need. She stirred slightly in her sleep as Sayha and Petra entered, but the healer simply laid a hand on her extended wrist and the woman settled back into slumber.

“Nice trick,” Sayha whispered.

“One of the more useful abilities my gift provides,” Petra said with a smile.

She used her gift once more while they switched the infants – exchanging their clothes and wrapping each in the other’s swaddling blankets.

“When will they awaken?” Sayha asked as they left the room, Katya’s daughter – who would now be known as the Princess Eleni – sleeping soundly amid the lavishly embroidered blankets of her royal cradle.

“The nurse will awaken, refreshed, in about an hour,” Petra said. “And the young princess a few minutes later. No harm will come to either.”

They left the palace the same way they had come in, crawling through a secret passage one of Sayha’s brothers – a budding young stoneworker – had created in the exterior wall of the children’s playroom years before, and emerging into the sunshine of the quiet gardens that bordered the palace along that wall. Sayha wondered how many other children had slipped in and out of the palace in the years since, likely under the watchful and knowing eye of their caregivers.

When they left the garden, they parted company. Petra was to take a sea-going boat along the coast toward the south, carrying Sarnai’s true daughter to the family that awaited her, while Sayha had other duties to attend to.

“Report to me when you arrive,” Sayha instructed Petra. “And to Lord Janek, of course. There is a Kizrei command center in the city – if you encounter any problems, go directly to the captain there. Tell no one of the child’s true parentage. From this moment on, she is the nameless daughter of one of the king’s concubines, given in trust to a noble house to raise as one of their own.”

After Petra had gone, Sayha returned to the palace by a more public path. Without pausing to remove her gray cloak or stop for refreshment, she summoned one of the Kizrei to accompany her, and together they made their way down to the prisoners’ cells.

“I must speak with the prisoner, Bacdi, from Qaiwi,” she told the stocky warrior at her side. “We believe he may know more than he has previously told us about the insurrectionists plaguing Prince Rashid.”

It was as good a lie as any, and the warrior accepted it without question, guiding her through the maze of tunnels and passageways below the palace.

But, as they drew near the end of a wide hall blocked by a wooden door, they both went immediately on alert, drawing their swords.

The door stood partially open, a torch guttering on the floor where it appeared to have been for some time. As they got closer, their own torches revealed a dark stain on the floor not far from the door – a pool of drying blood, still sticky to the touch, which led to the body of a guard who had been shoved back into a narrow alcove.

“He cannot have been dead long,” the warrior said, kneeling to examine the body. “There is still some warmth in him and the limbs are not yet stiff.”

“We will come back for him,” Sayha said. She gestured toward the door. “Look sharp.”

The passage was lined with empty cells, but a faint light ahead drew them on. At the end of the passage a second torch, still in its mounting on the wall, lit another empty cell, its door open wide. Unlike those they had passed, this one bore evidence of a recent occupant – soiled clothing, remnants of food, a dirty blanket.

“Who was housed here?” Sayha asked, certain she knew the answer even as she asked the question.

“Bacdi of Qaiwi,” the warrior said, shaking his head. “I cannot understand how he might have escaped.”

Sayha stepped to the opened cell door lowering her torch as she studied the lock. She slid a thin line of silver from her fingernail into the opening and probed the mechanism for signs of tampering. “It was opened with a key,” she said after a moment. “I must notify the king immediately. This does not bode well for a timely end to the difficulties in Qaiwi.”

As she turned to go, the light of her torch glinted off a bit of metal in the shadows near the wall. She went over and knelt to examine it, and saw a small key, made entirely of copper wire.

A memory echoed in her mind.

At least you have some skill with your metalworking, Dygu had said. My daughter can do little more than make jewelry and trinkets out of copper wire.

Sarnai.

Daughter of Dygu, wife of Batuhan; Sarnai had helped Bacdi escape.

Sayha could only hope she had fled with her brother – and not taken Katya’s daughter, the newborn Princess Eleni, with them.

To be continued in King of Field and Forest

If you enjoyed this book, please tell a friend or post a review!

Acknowledgements

Building a fantasy world can be done in a variety of ways. My favorite is the “patchwork quilt” method: reading and studying about climates and cultures and events from the historical past.

But I don’t stop there. The next phase is to cherry-pick the bits that work for the story purposes, then twist and stretch them even further before stitching them together to create a new map with a new history.

For this world, I also looked at how the people in the historical past dealt with day-to-day life during the period we know as the ‘iron age’ – and then stirred magic into the mix. One of the driving questions I asked in this book was ‘to what lengths will those in power go to control those possessing the rarest magical abilities?’

While the choices made in Daughters of the Wind – both magical and mundane – might at first seem to affect only a few individuals, they set in motion a chain of events that alter the balance of power across nations.

It’s fun creating a world and then watching to see what the characters do in it. I hope you enjoy the result as much as I have.

best,

– Leigh

About the Author

When not writing speculative fiction for a living (her day job is writing computer software manuals), Leigh Saunders enjoys writing stories about people – or things that are also people – and how magic, futuristic events, or advances in technology impact their lives. Her stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, and her books are widely available in both ebook and print editions.

To learn more about Leigh and sign up for her occasional newsletter, visit her online at www.leighsaunders.com

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors

The people, events, and magic that set everything in motion

Queen of Sand and Stone

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors: Volume 1

An untested queen must prove her worth

FOR CENTURIES, THE weather witches have ruled Nizam, protecting the oasis city from the devastating sandstorms that threaten its existence.

But the aging queen is dying, and Yolara, the heir to the throne, does not possess the gift of weather magic found only in her family line. Hers is the power over stone, the ability to command the shifting sands – but not the winds that drive them across the desert.

Will those who question Yolara’s right to rule be proven correct? Or can Yolara find a way to defend the city that does not rely on weather magic? Time is short, for the storm season is upon them, and the next storm could reach the city any day...

www.books2read.com/QueenOfSandAndStone

King of Field and Forest

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors: Volume 3

It was time to claim his birthright.

THE BASTARD SON OF the Gerlachi king, Usef chose a quiet life as a woodworker in the small Tzigani trading city of Hatu over courtly politics – until war broke out between the powerful kingdoms of Gerlach and Kushar, catching Hatu in the crossfire.

As the battle threatens, Usef uses the magic of his cultivator’s gift to grow weapons for the city, and raises his own ax in its defense.

But bigger forces are at play, and the Tzigani queen calls upon Usef to lead the people to safety while there is still time.

Can Usef claim his birthright and establish a new kingdom in the mountains, far from the attention of the warring kings? Or will former allies become deadly enemies, destroying all hope of peace?

Spring, 2023

Also by Leigh Saunders

Memoirs of a Synth: Gold Record

TOUR GUIDE, EMISSARY, diplomat, thief—and a long-lived, genetically engineered Synth—Brianna Rei travels the Hundred Worlds, hiding in plain sight. She knows her survival depends on staying one step ahead of the bounty hunters who have nearly exterminated her kind.

All that changes when she teams up with fellow-thief, Jerrold McKell, and he discovers her true identity. Now Brianna must choose between trust and survival, and what it means to be truly human.

www.books2read.com/SynthGoldRecord

Partners in Crime

Brianna Rei’s adventures continue...

HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT: that’s master thief Misha Kif’s strategy for survival. Keeping her true identity as a genetically altered Synth secret with a bounty on her head from everyone in the Hundred Worlds except her partner in life and partner in crime, Jerrold McKell. After all, what’s life but risk, right?

Smuggler-thief Jerrold McKell knew how to work alone. And then Misha Kif entered his life and turned it upside down. But when their work styles and attitudes conflict, can they live together on a small space cruiser?

More to the point, can they work together to offload a priceless painting, con a cartel boss, and rescue a man everyone believed long-dead?

www.books2read.com/MishaKif01

Possible Futures

A collection of science fiction short stories

www.books2read.com/LeighS-PossibleFutures

Strange Flavors

A collection of oddly food-centric

science fiction & fantasy short stories

www.books2read.com/LeighS-StrangeFlavors

Cat Ladies of the Apocalypse

Contains the short story “Burning Bright”

by Leigh Saunders

www.books2read.com/CatLadies

Copyrights

Daughters of the Wind

Copyright © 2022 by Leigh Saunders

Published by Camden Park Press

www.camdenparkpress.com

Cover and layout copyright © 2022 by Camden Park Press

Cover design and layout by Lyn Worthen

Vintage Borders © Magenta10 | Dreamstime

Boho Women © Elina Zolotareva | Dreamstime

Blue Dress © Fantasy Backgrounds Store

Fantasy Courtyard © NeoStock

Cloud, Leaves, Magic Trails © NeoStock

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.