He rose to his feet and looked directly at Nelay. “Guards.” He pointed to the trees and tapped his axe. She assumed he was trying to say the guards would kill them without hesitation if they tried to escape.
Wanting to allay his suspicions, she gave him a small smile. “You speak Idaran.”
“Understand.” He nodded. “Speak.” He gave a small laugh as he shook his head. He studied her as Kalla washed her hair, then pointed to Nelay’s tattoos, a questioning look on his face.
She considered not telling him as she started on Kalla’s hair. But perhaps he would relax if she acted friendly. She pointed to the patterns nearly obscured by her growing hair. “Our tattoos show our rank.”
Harrow touched his ornamental belt in understanding. “Trained?” He pantomimed sword fighting. “Soldier.”
“No, I’m not a soldier,” Nelay said.
He copied some of the words awkwardly and nodded, then said in Clannish, “How do I make you understand that if you try to escape, the chief will let Dobber kill you?” His voice caught. “And I won’t be able to stop it.”
“Why would you help us?” Nelay asked without thinking, but he didn’t seem to notice she’d responded to his Clannish statement.
He looked down at the ground in shame. “Father, mother.”
She thought she understood. She ducked down and rinsed the soap from her top half, then worked on her bottom half. She’d heard of this custom in other cultures—a parent’s shame transferring to a child. “It seems to me, all of these men—” she gestured back toward the camp “—are from shamed families.”
Harrow scoffed. “Father.” He swallowed several times. “Traitor.” He pointed to himself. “Bastard.”
“Priestesses aren’t allowed to marry,” Nelay said, lowering her voice. “We may take lovers, but if we have a child, we must give it up. It’s the same with the women soldiers. Sometimes the father raises them. Sometimes they are given away—and always such children are viewed as blessings.”
He stared at her in open disbelief. “But . . .” He switched to Clannish. “They are a dishonor.”
“It’s wrong marking a baby as something less because of the actions of his father.” Nelay studied this man who was an outcast for something his father had done. “Your father was in league with Zatal?”
At the hatred that flashed in Harrow’s eyes, she knew she’d guessed right. They appraised each other. He was so pale he was almost translucent, unreal. But for the first time she saw past that. Perhaps . . . perhaps these Clansmen were not so very different from Idarans.
Such thoughts made her head hurt.
She sloshed out of the river. “We are cold.”
He gestured for them to walk ahead of him. Back at camp, Nelay and Kalla crouched shivering by the fire as their clothes dried. Harrow didn’t ask them more questions—didn’t acknowledge them at all, in fact. It was as if he wanted to hide his kindness toward them from the others, which made sense if his father had been in league with Idara.
Finally, when she was dry enough to sleep, Nelay curled up in thick furs beside Kalla. She awoke sometime later, shivering, feeling like something had brushed against her face. She sat up to find an owl staring at her with its enormous eyes. It looked over her shoulder, toward the camp, before spreading its wings and flapping away. A fairy? Nelay glanced around. She was used to starting her day now, in the gray hours before dawn. The Clansmen didn’t even stir yet—the fools didn’t know how to survive in the desert.
Her head still throbbed as she rolled over to find Kalla’s warmth, but the girl was gone. Nelay’s hands shot out, feeling the wool blankets. They were cold. She hadn’t just gone to relieve herself. “Kalla!” she cried as she pushed herself to her feet. The sudden movement left her dizzy. Stumbling, she turned in a circle. “Kalla!”
Harrow was at her side in an instant. “Did she run?”
Nelay searched the sleeping men as they staggered to their feet. “Dobber is gone!” She suddenly noticed the owl, watching her from a tree. As soon as she saw it, it spread its wings and glided away. She shot after it. Harrow’s hand reached after her, but she slipped free and entered the dark trees. She heard him cursing and calling out the others as he came after her.
The manacles prevented Nelay from pushing the branches out of the way. All she could do was hold her raised hands before her head as she pushed through the brush, which whipped and scratched her mercilessly. Though she was aware of the injuries, there was no pain.
She emerged from the trees and realized she could no longer see the owl. She whirled, searching. “Come back! Show me where she is!” The owl didn’t appear. “Kalla!”
The other men had spread out, hunting for her. Nelay closed her eyes and took a few meditative breathes, restoring her balance as the priestesses had taught her. Then she methodically lined up all the players, trying to figure out what a man like Dobber would do with a girl. He would take Kalla somewhere secluded. Somewhere that would muffle the sounds.
“The river.” She shot toward where they had bathed earlier. As soon as she’d cleared the embankment, she saw them. Kalla was thrashing and crying. Dobber shoved something toward her chest. The girl screamed.
Nelay barreled into him, knocking him away from Kalla. Straddling him, she balled up both her fists and brought them down on him, making sure the chains and cuffs hit first. He sagged beneath her and she stretched the chain tight, shoving it against his throat.
Someone grabbed her, throwing her off him. Unable to use her hands to catch herself, she slammed hard into the ground. She staggered back to her feet. Most of the Clansmen had gathered, some of them watching her with their axes drawn. But others were staring at something behind her.
Kalla, Nelay thought. In her rage she’d forgotten her. Her gaze followed theirs and found the girl lying on her back, her body oddly still. Nelay crawled to her and gasped at the blood soaking Kalla’s chest. The girl twitched and raised a bloodied hand toward the sky. “My family . . . at last.”
Tears filled Nelay’s eyes. “What did he do?”
Kalla choked, blood running from her mouth. “Couldn’t . . . understand.” She wheezed.
Nelay reached out and took Kalla’s hand. She heard the scraping of a boot and turned to find Harrow facing Dobber. “You murdered a child,” Harrow said.
Dobber looked at the other men as if seeking their help. “She was escaping. I caught her, but she fought me. I had to defend myself.”
Harrow grunted in disbelief. “A little girl, her hands in chains, was too much for you? And you couldn’t bother to call for the sentinels? For any of us?”
“I—” Dobber began, but then seemed to change his mind. “She’s just a whore Raider. She has no right to live while my daughters are all dead.”
Harrow’s fist slammed into Dobber’s temple. And then Dobber was under him and the Clansmen had to pull Harrow off.
Nelay turned away, focusing her attention on the dying girl in her arms. The priestesses spoke of the elice flower. A single petal from the bloom was strong enough to save a life. Every year, Idarans went in search of it. But none ever found it—except for Nelay’s mother.
She looked up to see the owl from before watching them. “Please,” she whispered. “Just one of the petals from the elice flower. Please.”
The owl simply spread its wings and flew away.
Kalla’s was not an easy death. Nelay stroked the girl’s head as she coughed and gagged and choked on her own blood before finally drowning, bloody foam coating her lips.
When she was finally still, Nelay cried for her. Cried for the life she should have led, the children she should have borne, the death she should have had as an old woman, surrounded by her children and their children. Not like this. Not as a girl murdered for having the audacity to survive. Nelay cried for failing to protect her. Cried with rage at the fairy’s indifference.
She finally finished weeping after the sun had slipped above the horizon and washed its light over h
er. Harrow stood beside her. Still holding Kalla’s body, Nelay noticed for the first time the grave the men had dug in the soft sand of the riverbank. She knew when the river was swollen with water from the rainy season, Kalla’s bones would be washed away. “She should be burned, given back to the Goddess of Fire. I will administer her last rites.”
Crouching down, Harrow reached out to lay a hand on Nelay’s shoulder, but she shrugged him off. And suddenly, the last player of the game slipped into place. She knew what she had to do. “A man who stands by while an evil is committed is just as guilty as the villain.”
Guilt burned in Nelay’s chest as Harrow closed his eyes in silent agony. He was a good man. He had done everything he could to protect her, and she knew burying Kalla wasn’t his decision. Nelay was using him. But it was the only way she could turn the game to her favor.
She rose to her feet, her chains clinking. Harrow picked up Kalla’s body and deposited her gently into the grave. The other Clansmen pushed dirt onto her body. Nelay did her best, tossing the leaves that were meant to be burned with the dead and singing the last rites. But Kalla would never rise with the wind and become part of the world, part of those she loved. That knowledge was as painful as her cruel death had been.
When they were done, Nelay looked down at the earthen mound. “Such a filthy death, rotting in the ground. Our ashes are meant to join the sky. To dance with the wind.”
“I’m sorry,” Harrow said again. She didn’t answer him as they led her to a horse and left that horrible place.
Only once did Nelay’s eyes stray from straight ahead of her, and that was to see Dobber, barely sitting in his saddle. His face was swollen nearly beyond recognition, and across his throat were bruises in the shape of chain links. A bolt of grim satisfaction shot through her. Even five horses in front of him, she could hear him wheezing through his damaged throat. She could still feel his body beneath her.
She swore he would die for what he’d done.
That night, Nelay forced herself to eat the Clansmen’s horrible food. She would need her strength to kill Dobber and escape.
Harrow sat down beside her, her pack in his hands. He set it aside and wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at something in his grasp. Finally, he held it out for her. Curled in his palm was her necklace, the glass idol hanging off the side. She snatched it from him and put it over her head, her thumb settling into its customary place between the wings. “You had it? All this time?”
Instead of answering, he made a great show of going through the compartments. Her Idaran acolyte clothing, the packed food. Even her baldric, empty of all weapons. The coins were long gone. “Well, there are no weapons here, so I suppose you can have it back.”
He held it out for her. With a dull hope, she took the pack. She tucked them in her robes and opened the compartments of her baldric. Inside one of them, she could see the keys to her cuffs. Her head jerked up, her gaze locking on his.
He sat beside her. “I know you can understand me,” he whispered in Clannish. She gaped at him. How long had he known? It had to have been at the river. She must have given herself away.
He handed her the necklace and called out to one of the men. “Are Shev and Tor on duty tonight?” He pointed off in the trees.
The man nodded. “You’re not up until tomorrow.”
“Remember that,” Harrow whispered to her. He was silent for a beat. “The elice flower. It changes you. Makes you more, and maybe less.”
She ducked her head to hide the shock playing out on her face. How could he know this . . . unless he too had been changed by the flower? She was desperate to know what he’d lost in the bargain, but she dared not reveal her secret.
He sighed. “Just be careful. The fairies, they’re not like us. They’re dangerous.”
She looked back at the knife in the baldric. “Why are you helping me?” she said in his native tongue.
“Because what happened to Kalla was wrong.” Harrow stretched and stood, brushing his hands on his trousers. He looked pointedly at her and walked away. She stared after him. He was like her. The only other person she’d ever met, and she couldn’t even talk to him about it.
Nelay’s plan had worked—she’d manipulated one of the players into helping her. Even as relief washed through her, her guilt rose. If the Clansmen found out, Harrow would pay a terrible price. But the only way to spare him was to remain a captive. Not an option.
Carefully, she reached into her pack to her. She tucked the keys in her robes and opened the compartments of her baldric. Inside one of them, she could see the gleam of one of her throwing knives.
Shocked, she glanced up to find Harrow watching her. He looked pointedly at Dobber and then lay down, pulling his furs over his ears. Knowing she wasn’t schooling her features, Nelay buried her head in her arms. She’d sworn to kill Dobber, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t killed before. But always in battle, defending herself. This would be different. This would be murder.
And while a part of her trusted Harrow, he was still a Clansman. Was he using her to kill Dobber in order to avoid the consequences himself? But then the image of Kalla coughing blood flooded Nelay’s mind. She could still feel the girl fighting to draw every breath.
And suddenly Nelay remembered the satisfied look on Dobber’s face as he’d forced the knife into her chest. This wasn’t the first Idaran he’d murdered. And it wouldn’t be the last if Nelay didn’t stop him. She eased the compartment’s flap closed as casually as she could and lay down to feign sleep.
Shivering without Kalla to keep her warm, Nelay waited until halfway between watches, when all the men’s breathing was deep and heavy. Then she silently withdrew the key and unlocked the manacles, which came free of her raw wrists.
She drew the knife from her pack and held the blade flat against her arm to conceal it. Keeping her hands together as if they were still bound, she moved toward the trees as if to relieve her bladder. She paused beside the sleeping Dobber. In one quick motion, she pressed her hand to his mouth and thrust her knife in his heart, making sure not to miss as he had with Kalla. Then she twisted the blade to make his death faster.
His eyes widened and locked on hers before they rolled back. Nelay looked around to make sure no one had heard anything. There was only silence. She turned Dobber over onto his stomach, so the blood would seep into the ground instead of pooling for all to see, and pulled the blanket over his head. Then she moved silently into the trees.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Harrow waiting for her in the shadows. Was he here to kill her? He’d obviously seen her slay Dobber. But he didn’t sound the alarm, only motioned for her to follow him. She did so hesitantly. When they were out of earshot of the camp, he handed her two shamshirs and quickly stepped back, as if afraid she might use them on him. They were her father’s shamshirs, and she took them gratefully, relieved to have them in her grip.
“Two sentries.” He pointed. “Stay directly between them and you should be able to pass through without being seen. Make as much distance as you can. I’ll try to see they don’t come after you.”
“What if they suspect you?”
Harrow wouldn’t look at her. “My father should have protected my mother, should have loved her. Instead he used her in the worst way. Of all the men in her clan, no one protected her, no one stood up for her. Except another worthless Tiam.” His gaze locked on Nelay’s. “I won’t be a man who stands by and does nothing.”
“You are not the monster I thought you’d be,” she replied.
“Nor are you. Goodbye, Nelay. I hope we don’t meet again.” He took a step toward the camp, but paused. “And beware the fairies—their interference always upsets the Balance.”
“What did they take from you?” she asked softly.
“Think of the upheaval one fairy can cause by meddling with the Balance. Now imagine if all of them did.”
She shuddered. “The whole world could be destroyed.”
Harrow
gave her a gentle push in the opposite direction. “Some laws are not meant to be broken.” He turned and within moments was gone.
Easing from one shadow to the next, Nelay headed to the place he had shown her. Once she knew she was clear of the sentinels, she broke into a run.
She might be in her homeland, but she was well behind enemy lines.
Nelay felt weak from her injuries, from running all night and slipping through occupied territory for half the day. So when she caught sight of an orchard a little off course, she headed for it. It would provide food and shelter from the ovat, which would begin to howl any moment. She slipped inside the cool shadows, the smell of rotting fruit making her a little nauseated. She stopped frequently to listen and watch.
At a flash of movement in her peripheral vision, her gaze darted around the orchard in careful sweeps. But there were only lazy wasps buzzing drunkenly around the pears. Nelay reached up, picked a pear, and crouched at the base of the tree. She bit deep. Hot, sticky pear juice dribbled down her chin and soaked the front of her robes, which clung to her chest. She tossed the core away and rose to quickly pick several more pears, then cradled them in the folds of her robes.
Dobber’s dying face flashed in her mind. Closing her eyes, she shoved the memory deep inside the pit where she banished everything she wanted to forget. No sooner had she done so than she saw Harrow’s face. She hoped he wasn’t suffering for helping her. She hoped the Clansmen didn’t blame him. And then those memories too were shoved deep in the pit.
As her fingers wrapped around another pear, a sharp sting radiated from one of her fingers. Shaking off the wasp, she sucked in her breath with a hiss.
“Thief! Get out of my orchards!” a gruff voice cried in the rolling language of the Clanlands.
Nelay’s anger flared hot. These were not this man’s orchards. He’d stolen them from her people. A stone’s throw away, he dropped from a tree, his short apron bulging with his plunder. He was pale and ugly as larvae under a rock.