Unsheathing blades, they moved to flank me. The men were brawny for Shinree, with arms twice the size of mine. Their blades were sharp and well-made. Their ability to use the weapons with enough skill to best me, however, wasn’t a question. Until their liberation, most Shinree spent their entire lives in work camps or as domestic help. And it showed. Their aim, as they came at me from both sides, was careless. Easily, I turned aside one clumsy hack and unbalanced thrust after another. Pivoting (twice as fast as their slow footwork), I ducked, spun, and sliced into the face of the man on my right. Blood sprayed as steel withdrew, tinting the air in time with the crowd’s groan of dismay.
I battered the last guard with a flurry of rapid strikes until his sword arm weakened. It dropped, leaving him exposed, and I ran him through. I flinched, remembering how I did the same to Jarryd. Afraid it would be him again, I quickly threw the man off me.
Backup arrived. The first line, I fended off with ease. The dozens of men behind them posed a more significant challenge. But my goal wasn’t to win. I’d been fighting for no other reason than to enjoy the dance. Dusting it up against the odds, relishing in the feel of a weapon pressed against my skin; each swing, each near miss, served to feed my almost overwhelming sense of nostalgia.
It evaporated with the strike of a club to the side of my head.
The first blow distorted the roar of the crowd. The second dimmed the impact of the third, as a spiked mace slammed into my leg. Slender points sunk in, then ripped out, taking a measure of flesh on the way. A kick to the newly exposed meat, and I was down.
I didn’t protest when they picked me up. I had my fun, and my fill of pain. Red striped my hair and spilled from the messy wounds in my leg. Nerves screamed as they forced me to kneel between the poles. Restraints locked about my wrists. Sliding the attached chains through rings on the poles, the guards pulled tight, stretching my arms out until I groaned. I shot them a glare, and they pulled a little more before locking the chains in place.
Adrenaline replacing the decent amount of blood I was losing, I responded to their gloating sneers with a string of foul curses. One of the guards was close to shutting me up with a punch, but the quiet, raspy voice of the next man over stilled my rant.
“Fool,” he chided. “Settle down. Stop giving them what they want.”
My pulse skipped at the familiar sound. His speech was gravelly and weak, nearly drowned by the thunderous crowd. I strained against the chains, trying to see his face for confirmation. But the hood of his cloak hung down too far. His upper body drooped, like weight rested on his broad shoulders. Still, I knew his build, his mannerisms, his lilt.
“Malaq,” I said, far happier than was appropriate for our situation.
“Looks like someone sailed in the wrong direction,” he replied. “I told Captain Krillos you’d spend more time going in circles than anywhere else.”
“I’m glad to hear you never lost faith in me.”
“In you? No. In the sea’s willingness to put up with you…that’s another matter. If I was her, I would have thrown you to shore with the rest of the driftwood ages ago.”
I laughed. “Gods, but it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Thank you, my friend. Enjoy it while you can.”
“What happened? How did you get here?”
“Those are my questions.” Malaq’s head lifted. Visibly weak, he held the position barely long enough for a glimpse of the scruff on his jawline. “You were supposed to be far away from here—not bleeding for a change.”
“And you were supposed to be High King.”
“I was. For a time.”
“And I was far away. For a time.”
“And now we’ve both found our way to this gruesome place. Why is it, when we’re together, death is always at our doorstep?”
“I wouldn’t say always.”
“I would,” he grunted.
“No offense, Nef’areen, but you say a lot of things.”
“So, am I to assume this was some sort of daring rescue gone to hell? Let me guess. There’s a woman involved. Or a bottle? No, no—I’ve got it. A woman and a bottle. That is the Ian Troy Special.”
“I’m not sure I’d call her a woman. And it’s not that kind of bottle.”
Malaq surrendered to a sluggish chuckle, “Here we go….”
“Okay fine, goddammit. There is a woman. And a bottle. But it’s not like you think.”
“You mean you didn’t just barge in and piss off the locals?”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know you tend to stand out in a crowd, my friend, but could you at least try to be subtle once in a while?”
A wave of somberness killed the comeback on my tongue. The natural banter between us was a welcome pastime, one I’d greatly missed. But I was falling too deep into the fantasy. I was forgetting that Malaq Roarke wasn’t here. My friend wasn’t chained and helpless beside me.
I wasn’t about to watch him die. I have to remember that.
I have to stay calm.
But I knew better now. Isuara wouldn’t allow it.
It was why I couldn’t stop craving the past, why I couldn’t keep my nerves steady. As soon as they quieted, there was a new quickening of my heart rate; an increase in adrenaline; a distinct and abrupt intensifying of my emotions. It was how the islanders ensured I continued swallowing the bait. How they kept me entrenched in the moment, even when I saw through it. It was the true source of my wistful longings, the reason I kept making excuses to play along. Magic. Son of a bitch. Not only was their spell entrenching me in one terrible situation after another, it was inflaming my reactions and coaxing my fears to the surface.
It was the only way to guarantee the outcome was to their liking.
Rage drowned the ache of my wounds, as I released a scathing cry. “You fucking bastards! I’m going to kill every last one of you!”
“Yes, your kind have become an incessant pain in the ass,” Malaq said, misinterpreting my vow. “Their rise to power blindsided us all.”
“Tell me,” I said, struggling to soften my breathing. “Distract me.”
“From our imminent death? As if such a thing was possible…”
“Don’t tell me, Malaq Roarke is at a loss for words?”
After a raspy, subdued chuckle, he relented. “At first, it was nothing but sporadic rumors, vague and without proof. We thought old fears and too much drink were dredging up the past—they let us think that. They moved slowly and allowed time to pass, allowing us to get comfortable. Eventually, rumors became raids. Outlying villages were seized in the blink of an eye. The Kaelish took an offer of alliance to save their own skin.”
“No surprise there.”
“Their combined forces descended on Rella and Langor, and there was nothing we could do. We lost…everything. I’m sorry, Ian. I made you believe I was the answer. You put me on the throne at great cost, and I let you down. I let them all down. I never deserved to be king.”
“Bullshit. You’re the finest ruler Mirra’kelan ever had. And the only one to sit on Langor or Rella’s throne, who I didn’t have the urge to kill.”
“Now, that is some high praise.” Quiet a moment, he came back with a furtive, “Isn’t it about time you cast something to make these good people regret not killing you on sight?”
I eyed the shackles. “Hornblende. Like half of everything in this damn city.”
“I’m aware. Your father was creative in his use of the stone. But I’d say it’s an acceptable risk, seeing as we’re facing the executioner’s blade. How much worse can it get?”
A harsh, masculine order of “Silence!” rang out from the dais above. It’s owner, a man in flowing robes, approached the edge. His stance was strong, imposing. Distinguished features were cut sharp with the customary Shinree cheekbones, but his mixed heritage was evident in the dark hair hanging over his shoulders.
As the rowdy crowd fell silent, he strolled back and forth across the platform, ensuring their
obedience held. His delay stoked the fire of anticipation. Spectators whispered to each other as the tension built, barely able to contain their excitement for what was to come.
Finally, he shouted, “All hail…our glorious Empress of Mirra’kelan!” and the stands erupted once more. Their elation was deafening.
“Empress?” I raised my voice, unsure if Malaq could hear me. “What’s going on? Where’s my father?”
“Reth? He’s dead, Ian. You killed him.”
“I don’t understand. Lirih said—”
In his first show of strength, Malaq’s head shot up. The cloak still hid most of his face, but the hope straining his voice was unmistakable. “Lirih is alive? You saw her?”
“No, she’s… She’s dead.”
Expectation drained out of him. He slumped back with a bitter hiss. “Of course she is. We all are.”
“If my father isn’t in charge, Malaq, who is?”
After a moment of silence, he shook his head. “I’m sorry you have to see this, Ian. I hoped you’d never know what she’s become.”
The despair in his voice pinched my stomach tight. Before I could ask him to explain, movement on the dais stole my attention. It was no more than a shadow, tall and slender, emerging from the back of the platform. My heart thumped, as with each graceful step, the silhouette became more discernible as a woman’s outline. I recognized it immediately.
Her features came into view, and I stopped breathing. I got a split-second look—then brilliant streaks of fire lit the dark, as braziers sprung to life across the dais. Momentarily blinded, I lost my view of her. As it came back, my reaction was pure reflex. “Beautiful.”
It was always my first thought, every single time I saw her.
Sienn Nam’arelle possessed an ethereal, delicate quality capable of stripping the words from my throat. It was an enchantment beyond my control, making it impossible to look away from the Empress of Mirra’kelan.
Yet, her beauty, and its pull, was different now. Ego and power, and an undeniable sense of supremacy, radiated off her body. As did the glow of the outlandish amount of stones she wore. There were hundreds, shimmering and pulsing with magic. The largest decorated the silver circlet resting on the intricate knot of white hair on her head. Fragments adorned strands of chainmail, dropping in loops over her forehead and down both sides. Smaller chips were embedded in her skin, decorating eyebrows and chest, running down shoulders, arms, and thighs.
It was easy to see each and every stone. Sienn was wearing little else.
A crisscross of white material covered her small breasts. The fabric tied behind her neck, gathered at the waist, and hung between her legs for an offering of modesty. It was far less than I’d ever seen her wear. Yet the scant attire didn’t mean the rest of her was bare.
The parts of her body not embedded with stones, were covered in magic-scars.
The sweeping designs twisted up Sienn’s arms and down her legs, over hands and feet, stomach, and chest, around her throat, and one side of her face. It was captivating, the way the tiny stones were placed at strategic points to shed light on the designs. Their magic rippled out in constant waves, breaking over me with a tease of pleasure. The effect was not unlike teetering on the cusp of casting. It tugged, enticing me, rousing nerves and kindling desires. I wanted to be near her, to please her. To worship her. We all did.
Goddammit…
This isn’t her.
I knew Sienn intimately. And I knew what was missing. The passion inside her, the drive, the devotion to our people, the love she gave me—none of that was present now. My sense of who she was, was the only reason I wasn’t shouting out my fealty along with her followers. They didn’t have such strong memories to draw on. They had an empress blazing like a bright star against the night, promising pleasure and power on a level impossible to resist.
It was easy to see why they revered her.
Yet, all I could muster was a chilling guilt-induced fear.
Isuara’s magic had burrowed in and pulled something out of me I didn’t know existed. Now, it was in the open, and I couldn’t shove it back.
Fate entrusted me with a wealth of knowledge, a library of our history, an archive of what it meant to be Shinree. I was meant to wield it. I passed it onto Sienn. I did this to her.
It saw it as a gift. Looking at her now, watching her lithe body move to the edge of the platform, taking in the hard set of her jaw and the dark swirl of magic in her eyes; I saw what I couldn’t then. It was a curse.
I cleared the pain from my voice. “I don’t understand. Sienn had more control over her magic than I ever will. How did this happen? How did she become…this?”
“It wasn’t a matter of control. It was her intention. Hers wasn’t pure.”
“And mine was? That’s bullshit. Sienn—”
“Had vengeance in her heart, Ian. Vengeance and bitterness and anger. It was always there. You know it. You saw it. We all did. No one condemned her for it. Not after what she’d been through. We just didn’t realize it ran so deep.”
I wanted to argue, but I was well aware of Sienn’s inner turmoil. I’d suffered its wrath. The serenity and poise she projected, hid a well of complex, dark emotions. Yet, there was more to her. “There has to be another reason. Something sparked this. Something changed her.”
“Time and responsibility,” he mused. “Sienn was in charge of restoring an entire race as lost and broken as she was. They looked to her to for everything: how to forgive and accept the atrocities they endured. How to make their own choices and live free of the chains. But freedom couldn’t erase the past. There was too much resentment. Their anger and loss piled on top of her own, accumulating until the need to help them, to offset the wrongs they suffered—”
“It consumed her.”
“Yes. The last time we spoke, Sienn was tired. Progress was slow and frustrating. She was afraid Ru Jaar’leth would never become a true, working society with so much rage in her people’s hearts. She felt powerless. I told her she had more power than she realized. I didn’t mean magic. I meant her compassion, her love. I said that. But it’s not what she heard.”
“This isn’t on you, Malaq. You didn’t make her like this.”
“I’m afraid we both did. I made her realize she was far from helpless. And that damn library, you gave her, reminded Sienn what your people are capable of. It fueled the beliefs she never quite abandoned, and resurrected the dream she shared with your father, of a new home for the Shinree—a new empire.”
My blood ran cold. Gods, Malaq is right. I could see it all so clearly now. The way Sienn spoke when we first met. Why she was drawn to Jem’s vision of the future, and how easily he manipulated her. Sienn longed for the same things he did. She shared his passion for independence and his desire for a realm under Shinree control. It was what she always wanted. Even before I took her back in time and showed it to her.
I convinced Sienn to come with me to the past. I thought immersing her in what was, would renew her lost hope for what could be. Instead, she experienced the destruction of the Shinree’s entire way of life. Getting caught in the catastrophic quake that led to our people’s enslavement moved us both. I should have realized how deeply it affected her. I should have seen it. “I should have fucking seen it.”
“You couldn’t,” Malaq said. “You loved her.”
The crowd fell silent as their empress descended the steps on the far side of the dais. Her sandaled feet whispered over the ground, followed by the plod of heavy boots as a guardsman came from the shadows. Lifting the axe in his hand to rest on his shoulder, he walked behind her.
Sienn stopped at the first prisoner. At her direction, the guard ripped the hooded cloak from the man’s back. The Langorian beneath was startlingly-thin, with a matted mess of curly, hair and spills of dried blood on his swarthy skin.
Reaching out, Sienn ran a slow, gentle hand over the man’s face. She regarded him in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment before moving t
o the next prisoner. The guard removed his cloak, as well, and Sienn repeated her performance. It was a peculiar gesture, the way she granted the condemned her lingering attention, almost motherly in nature. In reality, her display of kindness was nothing of the sort.
Knowing it as well, the man trembled beneath her touch; mindful Death was near. I watched him, remembering the deep prejudice and hatred I once bore for all Langorians. Most of my life, I would have witnessed his death with unabashed satisfaction. But as the smell of his fear ripened the air, all I had for him was sorrow and commiseration.
Sienn continued on. Her leisurely pace was the perfect contrast to my racing pulse. Every crunch of sand beneath her feet, was a fresh load of kindling added to the pyre of emotions burning inside me. A swiftly-building physical desire was twisting around my apprehension. My body ached with how badly I wanted to touch her, to strip off her meager clothing, feel her in my hands again—feel the magic on her skin. The marks would glow as her flesh pressed against mine, caressing my nerves as I slipped inside.
I snarled, struggling to reject the heavy influence of all the magic I was under. Between the islanders intensifying my reaction, and whatever Sienn was casting to command adoration, it was near impossible to think straight. If it was someone else…
If it was anyone else…
But resisting Sienn had never been easy.
From my first glimpse, when she revealed herself to me in that conjured bathhouse in Kael, Sienn’s presence unbalanced me in a way no other woman had before.
Knowing the same cruelty and oppression she preached against that day defined her reign scared the hell out of me—because the path from then to now was a straight fucking line. Everything I was seeing here, everything Malaq told me, didn’t feel like an illusion anymore. It felt more like… Fate.
I should have been more careful. I knew how badly Sienn was treated as a slave, what war and my father’s exploitations did to her. I knew what I did to her. I should have seen the possibility of what she might become. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The Wandering Isles Page 11
