After a thorough inspection for fairies masquerading as spiders, Nelay took her usual place against the tent wall and studied the people around her, cataloging their intelligence, skills, proclivities, alliances, and so forth. There were two distinct groups—the caravan of men and women, and Rycus and five other men. Except Scand, those in Rycus’s group were around the same age and looked so much alike they had to be related. But they hadn’t been bickering like brothers. Cousins perhaps.
It didn’t take long for Nelay to draw conclusions about all of them. Cinab was the youngest, the hair on his face still downy and patchy. The others teased him mercilessly, but with his fairly good nature it didn’t seem to bother him. He also had a tendency to burn dinner, as evident by the blackened bread. Delir was quiet and watchful. He was by far the biggest of the men. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, it was usually something profoundly funny or simply profound. Ashar was a bit of a loner whose sharp eyes matched his intelligence. Often Rycus had him scouting out ahead, or left him in charge when he and Scand were busy. Bahar almost never spoke. His haunted look made Nelay think he had lost someone, a tragedy that followed his every waking moment. And Scand, well, if he did have a soft, squishy inside, Nelay hadn’t seen it yet.
The next morning, Rycus plopped down beside her. She stiffened, wondering what he wanted, but he only began to eat, taking small bites and long sips of water. Nelay did the same as the silence stretched out between them.
Finally, Rycus brushed his hands off on his trousers. “Really, high priestess,” he said without looking at her. “If we were going to kill you, it would be simple enough to poison your food. You’ve hardly slept the last two nights. Accept that you’re at our mercy—after all, we outnumber you two dozen to one. Sleep. Eat. Relax. Otherwise you’ll be in no shape to deal with anything when we arrive in Idara.”
If she was only worried about Rycus and his men, and the others in the caravan, it would make things so much easier. She glanced over to see him examining her.
“Or is it something else altogether?”
Nelay looked away, refusing to answer.
“Well then, I assure you, my men are more than capable of defending you.”
When she still didn’t answer, he got up and stalked away. He ignored her after that, but she continued to watch him more than the others. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d doubled the guard.
For eight days, they traveled in the Adrack, farther away from the life Nelay had known and the people she had grown to love. She kept to herself, feeling like the outsider she was. Of course she was relieved when no Immortals came barreling through the desert or sneaked up on them in the early hours of the morning.
On the ninth night, they arrived at a cistern carved into a small outcropping of rock. It would be impossible to find unless a person knew where to look. Rycus said the caravan would rest here for a day. The cistern was reached by a narrow fissure large enough for one camel to enter at a time.
About ten camels could be watered at once, a relief since each could practically drink its weight in water, and Nelay was sick of hauling it up from wells. The whole camp drew water for bathing, and the men and women took turns. It wasn’t as efficient as the bathing fountains of Idara, but with a clean body and clothes, Nelay wasn’t complaining.
When everyone finally finished bathing, she settled down and ate some almonds, dates, raisins, figs, and dried meat. She finished off with a swig from a wineskin, as the Tribesmen believed this good for the health. Then she watched them talk and laugh. Missing Jezzel and her home at the palace, Nelay felt miserable and empty.
“What’s that necklace you wear?”
She started, as no one had really spoken to her in days, and glanced up to see Rycus watching her sympathetically. She hadn’t even realized she was holding the idol in her hand. She tucked it beneath her robes. “It’s the Goddess. My father gave it to me.”
Rycus tipped his head to the side. “All your jewels and all your finery, and you wear a bit of glass on a leather cord.”
Nelay studied him, trying to decide if he was being rude or not. Before she’d made up her mind, he walked away. She gazed at the sunset again, but the sky was now mostly charcoal and navy, so she turned to watch the fire where the others had gathered to share a wineskin.
Cinab suddenly dropped beside her, scratching at his patchy beard. “Tell me about your priestesses.”
She considered ignoring him, but she couldn’t stand another second of silence. “The Tribesmen have priestesses.”
“Yes, but our priestesses marry and have children. No one pays them to fold their prayers. And they don’t shave the sides of their scalps.”
Turning to look at him, Nelay noticed the way he leaned toward her as if truly interested. She sighed, giving up on her vigilance. Rycus was right. If he wanted to cross her, he would have done it days ago. And by now, the Immortals should have caught up with them. “What do you want to know?” she asked Cinab.
“What’s this game of fire you all play?” He crossed his legs in front of him, his eyes practically sparking with curiosity. “I’ve heard of it, but it doesn’t really make sense to me.”
“Well, it’s a game of strategy.”
He waved his hand. “I know, but how does it work? Can we play?”
Nelay shook her head in dismay. “No, it’s too complex.”
“Please?” he said, pouting a little.
She sighed. “No. But we play it every year at the temple at the fire festival. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
“There are five players per team—a scholar, a spy, an artist, a warrior, and a thief. The scholars are given a topic to study, and the artists, a medium. The thief, an object to steal without getting caught. The warrior is to win a tournament. And the spy must stop a crime that has been set in motion. We are always judged by the high priestess.”
Nelay found herself looking in the direction of Thanjavar. “The last time I played was at the fire festival. The game had begun days before.” Her favorite role in the game of fire was warrior. No frenetic studying of the chosen topic, none of the plotting necessary for the role of thief, and not nearly as much vigilance as was required for the spy. The latter of which was, unfortunately, the task she’d been assigned. Suka had chosen someone from the temple to “assassinate” herself. Nelay’s job was to identify the person before he or she could perform the deed.
For weeks, she had been listening and watching, trying to figure out who had been assigned to “kill” the high priestess, all with no luck. So she’d done the obvious thing and spied on the other spies. Since they were all as clueless as she was, it hadn’t helped. While the rest of her teammates engaged in battles of wits, fighting skills, and fire dances, Nelay sat in a tree, examining the crowd in growing frustration.
Suka oversaw the proceedings, cheering as the final winner of the fire dances climbed onto the back of one of the horses, its withers draped with roses, and parading around the courtyard. No one tried to slip past Suka’s guards. No one acted suspiciously or bothered the high priestess’s food and drink. Midnight neared as the last battle, between Pasha and Jezzel, took place. The other winners waited atop their horses prior to the parade through the city streets.
From Nelay’s team, Meho had won the scholar contest. Jezzel was about to finish the warrior contest. That put them in the lead, so it wasn’t vital that Nelay figure out who would “kill” Suka.
Then the impossible happened. Jezzel, the most skilled warrior in the entire temple, lost. She stood outside of the line drawn in the sand, her face tight with barely controlled fury. Pasha screamed in excitement, her teammates hugging her and cheering. With two winners, they were in the lead. If Nelay didn’t figure this out, they would lose. And she hated losing—more so now that her team had won the contest for the three years in a row.
She scanned the crowd, as she’d been doing all night, but saw no acolyte or priestess who seemed to pose any threat to Suka. As Pasha made her way to
the waiting horse, Jezzel, her head down, stormed toward the temple, probably to head to their room so she could rage in private. Thick and pulsing with excitement, the crowd jostled her out of her way.
Nelay wracked her brain, trying to determine what was out of place. Suddenly she knew. She swung down from the tree and shoved people aside as she raced to the temple steps. The crowd fell quiet when she grabbed Jezzel by the arms.
“It’s you! You lost the fight on purpose so you could get close to the high priestess!”
Jezzel’s scowl melted into a grin and she pulled her robes aside to reveal a wooden dagger in her grip. She tossed it in the air and caught it again.
Suka clapped Nelay on the back. “Well done, Acolyte Nelay!”
“That’s not fair,” Pasha cried from atop her horse. “They’re best friends and on the same team. Obviously Jezzel told her.”
Nelay shot Pasha a glare that should have melted the flesh from her bones. “I beat Jezzel. She did not let me win.”
“I chose Jezzel for this task because I knew she was the only person who had a chance at fooling Nelay,” the high priestess declared. “But since you doubt the honor of your classmates, we shall have a rematch. Pasha, you and Jezzel in the circle.”
Pasha hesitated. Even if she believed she’d won fairly, the chances of her beating Jezzel again were miniscule.
Suka motioned with her hand. “Now.”
At that point, Cinab eagerly interrupted Nelay’s storytelling. “She won didn’t she?” Nelay laughed. “In two moves, Jezzel had Pasha pinned. The two of us rode through the streets, to the cheers of the crowd and the smell of roses.”
“Oh, what a woman! If I ever met her . . .” He let his voice trail off, a gleam in his eyes.
Nelay looked him over. Probably fourteen years old, he was all arms and legs. But in a couple years, he’d be handsome. So you never knew.
Cinab leaned back, gazing at the stars. “You miss them, don’t you?”
Nelay scooped up some pieces of gravel and tossed them into the darkness. “They are my family,” she said softly.
“You could at least try to make friends here,” Cinab responded just as quietly.
Nelay said nothing and was glad when he didn’t push it, instead delving into a story about Rycus, Scand, and a shipment of feathers during a sandstorm.
On the tenth day, Cinab woke Nelay when the stars were still bright against the blue-black sky. She blinked blearily. After she’d finally fallen asleep, her dreams had been riddled with fairies with sharp teeth attacking her parents while they worked in the fields.
Once everyone had loaded up the pack camels, the women and some of the men took them and headed deeper into the desert. Nelay was left with Rycus, Scand, and his four cousins—all of them paid for with her gold. “Where are they going?” she asked.
“They were just our cover and strong-arms in case we were attacked,” Rycus answered. “But this far into the desert, we should be safe. We’ll be going the rest of the way with my armsmen.
Nelay didn’t like being the only woman. She could handle Rycus, but the rest of his men . . . even she couldn’t defeat six Tribesmen. But she didn’t think it would come to that. Tribesmen prided themselves on their honor. Besides Rycus and Scand, none of them had even looked at her disrespectfully, and all did as Rycus directed.
“What’s our route?” she asked him.
“We move parallel to Idara, keeping a safe distance into the desert. Our next rest is at another cistern. After that, you’ll have to lead us to your home, since it’s not marked on a map.” He turned to climb on his own camel.
“How many more days?”
His camel lumbered to his feet. “About twelve if the weather holds.”
“And if not?” Nelay asked.
Rycus grinned down at her. “Then you will owe me more gold.”
She shot him a glare, unhappy that circumventing Idara was costing them nearly a week. But there was no other way to sneak so far behind enemy lines.
They traveled until the midday heat made her head feel light and heavy all at once. Every time she took a sip of water, it seemed as if the heat wrung it from her body within seconds. Rycus was right. Living within the cool stone walls of the temple and feeling the cool morning breeze off the Razorback Mountains had not prepared her for this.
Finally he called a halt, and they set up the tent with only the canopy and one wall for shade. Nelay dropped down onto some sheepskins, utterly exhausted and cranky. Rycus set a reed basket inside and went back for another.
“I thought the Adrack Desert was the ovat,” she said in the same mocking tone he had used with her the first day.
He squinted up at the sun before carrying another basket inside. “The Adrack Desert doesn’t have the ovat. Only the cities south of Arcina do. But even Tribesmen rest during the hottest part of the day.”
“Then why didn’t we stop the first day?” she asked with a grimace.
He gave her a lopsided grin as he settled down far too close to her. “Because we were in a hurry. And you . . . well, let’s just say I was trying to take down your” —he paused as if searching for words— “confidence a few notches.”
“She needs to be taken down more than a few,” Scand growled from where he was pulling the saddle off his camel’s back.
Nelay glared at the tent canopy. “I’ve earned it, old man.”
“Doesn’t make you better and doesn’t make you right,” Scand said.
“But I am better and right.” It was true. She was smarter, faster, stronger, and more determined than anyone she had ever met.
As Scand moved past her, he shook his head. “Life has a way of teaching you the lessons you least want to learn.”
She wanted to argue, but what was the point? He was just a jaded old man.
They ate flatbread, mangoes, and a little dried meat before curling under the shade to rest while the camels huddled together.
Nelay finally felt safe enough to truly relax. Just as her eyes grew heavy, Rycus sat down in front of her and said, “I have question for you, high priestess.” He was wiry and tall, intelligence sparking behind his midnight-sand eyes. “Do you know why Tribesmen are stronger than Idarans?”
She tugged her robes in and out to stir a breeze around her sweaty breasts. “I always assumed the strong smell was because they never bathed.”
He chuckled. “Because to everyone but the Tribesmen, the Adrack Desert is a deathtrap.”
“You can keep your desert, smuggler. We don’t want it.”
He took a drink of cold orray. “Zatal’s grandfather tried to take it.”
“Yes, and I believe the Tribesmen fed him to a lion.”
Rycus tipped his cup at her. “Jackals. Lions are much too noble for such carrion.”
“Are you insulting me and my kingdom, smuggler?” She rested her hands on her hilts, ready to show this smuggler his place if need be.
“Sadly, no. Though I would love to dance blades with you, high priestess, I merely wish you to understand that Tribesmen have no alliances, because we don’t need them. We alone can survive the realm of the Goddess of Fire.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Which is why the chieftain’s daughter was so eager to marry Zatal’s father—because the desert is such a lovely place in the summer?”
Rycus chuckled. “When a man is unruly, we give him a stern wife to keep a firm hand on him.”
Nelay huffed in frustration. “So you really believe the Tribesmen had the King of Kings in their grasp and just let him go?”
“Yes,” Rycus answered.
She shook her head. “That’s not how it happened. King Kutik ventured into the desert and found it a worthless wasteland. On the way back, they had a skirmish with some Tribesmen. King Sansit was killed from behind, his body dragged off as a trophy.
“After the cowards slunk off, King Kutik went in search of his father’s body. A sandstorm arose, and when it was over, his army had become hopelessly lost. Marif eme
rged from the desert. Having seen the trickery of the Tribesmen, she was determined to right the wrongs of her people. She showed King Kutik the way home. By then he had fallen in love with her. They married shortly thereafter.”
Rycus laughed out loud. “Is that what your priestesses told you?”
“The story is the same through all the histories,” Nelay said with a scowl.
“And who wrote the histories?”
She threw her hands up in exasperation. “And you know better, do you?”
He leaned toward her, his gaze intense, almost intimate. “I’m a smuggler by trade. The story will cost you.”
“Rycus, with you, any price is too steep.” Just like the blasted fairies.
He leaned a little nearer, close enough to kiss her. “One of us needs to wash the dishes.”
Nelay’s face turned hot.
“So, you are right and you are better. But are you also lazy?” His voice held a challenge. “And besides, you’re not paying us enough to pamper you like your temple servants.”
If he thought to peg her as some weak city dweller, he’d be wrong. She set her jaw and pushed herself to her feet, took the pile of dishes, and set them in the sand to scrub out. She felt his gaze on her back. “Well? Let’s hear your story.” She emphasized the last word. Rycus stayed silent so she looked at him over her shoulder. “I’m not going to drag it out of you. Talk, smuggler.”
He gave her a lazy grin. “King Sansit had conquered every kingdom within thousands of miles, but for the Clanlands and the desert tribes, which fact he felt was an embarrassment. After all, the Adrack shares all of Idara’s eastern border. So the king hired a traitor, as he always does, loaded up his Immortals, cavalry, and infantry, and ventured into the desert. But the king forgot that a man is only as strong as his greatest weakness.”
The only response was Scand’s thunderous snores, but Nelay noticed the others were awake, listening. “And what was his greatest weakness?” she finally asked.
Rycus glanced up at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “He was completely dependent on the traitor, who turned out not to be a traitor to her people at all. The woman led the king seven days into the desert and abandoned him.”