by Amanda Joy
Would I swoon if, instead of scowling at the floor, Prince Aketo smiled at me?
We walked in silence until I felt him stiffen at my side.
I followed his gaze. In this part of the Palace, the white sandstone walls were inlaid with detailed mosaics of colored glass, stones, and crystals. Only khimaer artists created mosaics like these.
He was staring at an elaborate scene depicting the Throne Room in great detail. The silver-white pillars were made from crushed crystal and there was a small carving of the Ivory Throne in the center. The woman seated on the throne had a snake’s tail curled at the foot of the dais, and massive antlers rose from beyond the red spires of her crown. Just like Khimaerani in Baccha’s story. She was beautiful, and utterly foreign; khimaer with such obvious animal attributes weren’t allowed outside of the Enclosures.
Aketo’s nostrils flared as he took it in. It must have galled him. Khimaer art decorating the Palace walls, while his people weren’t allowed to walk through it.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes they hang tapestries over them, but the mosaics are fashionable right now,” I said as we turned a corner. His full lips pressed into a flat line. “The most talented artisans in Ternain have been trying to imitate the style for months to no avail. I’ve heard some try to visit the Southern Enclosure to study with the khimaer, but . . .”
“The soldiers allow few visitors.” He offered a wan smile and tugged at his hair. It was tied back, black curls falling well past his shoulders.
The curls shifted and I saw the narrow strip of gold scales down his neck. They were the exact same color as his eyes. I gasped before I could stop myself. He was lami khimaer, part of the tribe whose forms resembled snakes, just like the Queen in the mosaic.
Aketo’s expression froze, his eyes flinty, but he kept silent as we continued down the hall.
“I didn’t— I wasn’t—” I scrambled for words, for an explanation. “Your tribe is lami, correct?”
It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, the words came out through clenched teeth. “Yes, Your Highness.”
My face was aflame. “I’ve heard lami khimaer can read and change the emotions of others.”
“If you’re wondering whether I’m busy nosing through yours, I learned to tune out most everyone when I was a child.” His eyes met mine. “People’s minds and hearts should be their own.”
“How good of you,” I said. Though my voice was sharp, I meant it.
He glanced at me through heavy lashes. “I wonder if you could answer a question for me.”
“Of course.”
“I assume you learned about our tribes and our magicks through Mirabel or Captain Anali, but what of the rest of the Queendom? How much do they know? It’s just . . . curious to me that the signs of our rule are still kept throughout the Palace. Is the history of the Usurpation taught?”
“Here it is called the Great War, and yes, it is taught, though my tutors skimmed over the unsavory details. Mirabel taught me about the khimaer long before they ever did, but no, most Myreans don’t know the complete truth about the Great War or the rebellion that followed.”
They didn’t know humans had relished shedding blood on khimaer holy days. They didn’t know that Raina had forced the khimaer to relinquish the throne by slaughtering a nursery full of children, some infants.
They didn’t know that to me all that cruelty wasn’t shocking. The same depravity had created the Rival Heir system and allowed both to persist.
“Would it change anything if everyone understood?” His eyes were so gold and piercing, so earnest. “Would most Myreans see the Enclosures as unlawful if they knew the truth?”
I wanted to say yes, because it had changed me.
But then I thought of how many Khimaeran folktales were told by our bards and story-weavers. And how during certain festivals, common citizens costumed themselves as khimaer with paper horns and jeweled claws. Khimaer weren’t real people to most human Myreans. They were mysterious, fearsome figures in the tale of our rise to power.
“Unless the crown took action, it would change little. They would pity you more, but what good is pity? After all, everyone pities me. None of them would see their children in my place or Isadore’s, but they’ve never demanded a change. And they never will.
“No one relinquishes power easily. If we are to return the khimaer to their rights and station, it isn’t knowledge that will do it. It will take force. Or months of political maneuvering. You’d need the entire Council in your pocket.”
“The Council?” he echoed.
“The Queen’s Council. All thirteen members must agree in order to change the law requiring that khimaer live in the Enclosures. It’s feasible now. There are many more khimaer living in Ternain than when I was a child. But it would require much.”
“You seem to have given it some thought.” Sunlight spilling through the windows made the gold studs in his ears flash.
“Yes.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
It was exactly what I planned, when I allowed myself to dream about becoming Queen. To first abolish the laws that said every khimaer child had to be raised in a cage, and then to get rid of the Rival Heir system. “I would have to be crowned first, which, as I’m sure you’ve learned by now, is unlikely.”
“How does it work? With you and . . . the other Princess?”
“At my nameday ball, the Sorceryn will lay a spell upon me and my sister called the Entwining. It binds our lives together so that only we can kill each other. It’s done to keep others from interfering.” If I made it to my nameday, I would at least be safe from whoever was trying to kill me now . . . unless my instincts were wrong and Isadore really was the one behind the assassin. “Then one of us will challenge the other.”
“That night?”
“Tradition calls for a grace period of a single day.” Isadore, two years older than me, had had years to grow stronger. The older Rival Heir always had such an advantage. “After that it could be days, weeks, years even.”
“I’m sorry.” He lifted a hand to my arm.
I stared down at it until he removed it. “You, of all people, do not have to apologize.”
We lapsed into an uneasy silence. Hadn’t he been listening? Pity was useless.
I only made it three more steps before realizing I’d pitied him first.
* * *
Falun shoved a wisp of carmine hair out his eyes and raised his sword. “Ready?”
I nodded and he struck, swinging a practice broadsword in a wide arc. I ducked it and pivoted easily in the sand, deflecting his next swing.
“So how goes keeping an eye on the Hunter?”
Falun blushed, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because of the exertion or the mention of Baccha. “Other than your lessons he hasn’t left his suite.” He crouched and delivered a sharp strike to my calf.
I danced away, my feet sliding in the sand. I let my practice sword fall to the ground, though neither of us had won the bout. “And no one from Court has visited him?”
“I’ll tell you if anything changes, Eva, but whatever reason he’s come back to the capital after all these years, I don’t think we’ll find out by watching him.”
Mirabel’s research into Baccha also had setbacks. She’d tried to find out just when he’d returned to the city. One of her ghosts checked the records of who had come in and out of the city gates going back several months, but so far that had yielded nothing. I had half a mind to visit the Temple again just to ask Sarou, but I probably wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her. She’d known Baccha much longer than me and was probably loyal to him.
A shout sounded from somewhere in the pits. I froze, twisting toward the sound. Someone was cheering.
“My Gods.” Falun dropped his sword.
Fifty feet away there was a whirling blur as Anali
and Prince Aketo fought. Their blades caught the light from the sun filtering through the netted ceiling above the Pits. They looked like flames flaring in a cloud of smoke. My eyes couldn’t pull them apart. They moved beyond a pace I could follow, fighting with blades, and with sudden blistering speed limbs were thrown about.
Prince Aketo leaped into the air—I knew it was him, because the curls swinging behind him were dark where Anali’s would’ve been white. With a cry, he came down with his knee in her chest. Their movement had practically kicked up a sandstorm. It took a moment for the sand to settle and when it did, the most perplexing scene lay before me.
Anali was on her back in the sand while he crouched above her with his curved short swords, one in each hand. After a moment he stuck both swords in the ground and held out a hand.
A few of the guards let out whoops of laughter and rushed toward them, stumbling with their boots through ridges of golden sand.
Falun glanced at me. “Looks like the new guard came at the right time.”
I muttered a curse. Mirabel had been right. He was a brilliant fighter. Even without a weapon, he could probably put everyone in the guard on their backs.
We walked toward them, and I hoped I was doing a decent job of hiding my annoyance at his apparent perfection.
“I’ve forgotten how to dance, it seems,” Anali said, dusting sand from her pants.
“Your feet are more nimble than most, Captain. Truly.”
“So dancing is the key to besting the Shadow?” one of the guards, Malto, asked, clapping Aketo on the back. Malto was bloodkin, short and barrel-chested, with bronze skin, and arms as thickly muscled as a blacksmith’s.
Aketo ducked his head, but a satisfied smile curled his lips. He looked up, eyes meeting mine, and the expression wasn’t unlike that first pleased smirk.
Though heat simmered beneath my skin, I lifted my chin and ignored the flush of warmth in my cheeks.
He tugged at his hair—I marked this nervous habit and added it to a list of flaws I would compile until I reached at least one thousand—and glanced at Anali. “It is called kathbaria.”
“Kathbaria, ‘blood dancing,’ or ‘death dancing,’ depending on who’s translating,” Anali added. “It’s how we train. You learn the dance first, no weapons. If you can’t move on your own, how can you move with steel? But kathbaria has no forms; it is only continuous movement, just dance.”
“Impossible,” a gravelly voice called from beyond our group. “The Shadow, bested by a new recruit? I don’t believe my eyes. We can’t have left the Princess in such inept hands.”
The Shadow was Anali’s moniker within the army because she was as hard to catch as a shadow, and because her magick granted her the ability to control shadows and darkness. It was a gift everyone in Anali’s tribe, the nozin, possessed.
A grin broke out across my face. I started running before he even finished talking, questions spilling from my lips. “Dagon, what are you doing here? Where’s Papa? Is he back in the Palace?”
“Oh, hello, Eva girl.” Dagon rubbed a hand through his short, neat hair. I’d known Dagon all my life. He was in my father’s personal guard, and was one of his closest friends. Dagon had taught me to ride and to shoot from horseback when I was ten. Much to his chagrin, I was never a good archer. My arms were too short and my aim was better with a throwing knife.
Anali appeared beside me and clasped Dagon’s hand. “Welcome back. Has the Lord Commander returned to Ternain? I’d thank you and the King for taking this one from my inept hands.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure I didn’t say inept. You must have misheard me. But no, the King is still in the North.” He carried something behind his back, but his other hand came around to pat my cheek. “I’m sorry, Eva. I came alone.”
As the shock wore off, I remembered the binding. I wrapped my arms around the sick feeling in my stomach, wishing I could sink into the sand below. Part of me was glad only Dagon had come. I wasn’t ready to confront my father.
Anali filled the silence. “When will he return south? The Princess’s nameday is in less than two months.”
“I’m not certain when he’ll be able to get away. The raids along the border persist and there has been an increase in unrest in the Enclosures. The King travels to and from Asrodei often, as it’s much easier to direct military presence and operations from the base, and he’s been meeting with the Archdukes in the Sister Citadels as much as possible.”
The Citadels were located at the Myre-Dracol border, one on each side of the river. They were Myre’s second most important military center, with the vast majority of the army stationed between there and Asrodei. In the North, my uncles, Archdukes Kel and Roshanon, were like kings.
“The King sends his regrets, and I’ve brought gifts.” Dagon pulled a cloth-wrapped sword from behind his back. “There are other things, but I thought you would find this most useful.”
I pulled off the cloth and stared.
“It’s old,” Dagon said while I turned over the sword in my hand. Its guard was dull steel, nicked from use, and the hilt was carved bone that had yellowed with time. “You’ll have to wrap the hilt, as the leather rotted off long ago. Anyway, it’s best you see it this way. Do you recognize her?”
It was the carving that struck me silent. My thumb roamed over the feathers and the narrow, feminine face. With her curling horns, feathered wings, and one leg that of a leopard and the other a serpent’s body, I knew her immediately.
“Daei sher’khimaer.” Aketo’s words rolled from his tongue like his mouth had been fashioned specifically with them in mind. “Daei Khimaerani.”
“Khimaerani, the Mother,” I echoed. The shape-shifting Godling from Baccha’s story, from whom the khimaer race had been born. “Dagon, where did Papa find this?”
“Some merchant in the mountains who didn’t realize what a treasure he’d found.”
Khimaer didn’t hold to the presence of Gods, not like the fey, who had hundreds. Nor were they like bloodkin, who essentially worshipped one God, who represented all things. Instead their ancestors were held sacred, none more than Khimaerani.
During the Great War and the rebellion, all statues of Khimaerani were destroyed. I’d seen drawings, but this was . . .
My hand curled around it protectively.
I pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was similar to my other long sword, double-edged and curved, but in this the strips of silver and gold were etched with peaked and arched symbols. The design was intricate, and though they looked similar to fey runes, I didn’t recognize any of the symbols.
“It’s beautiful.” It was easily the most marvelous thing I’d ever touched.
“May I see the sword?” Anali asked.
I laid it across her hands and Aketo stepped forward to run his finger down the center. “We call these symbols iktar. They’re an alphabet used specifically for noble surnames.” He glanced at Anali, his eyebrows knitted together. “Nbaltir. A royal name and a . . . dead one.”
Anali held out the sword. “Well, it’s a great find by His Majesty.”
I hesitated as I took in the soft awe on their faces. If the name was royal, this should have been Aketo’s, but he looked down at it with the sort of distaste reserved for a dead body. Was that because it was in my hand?
Wrinkles framed Anali’s smoky eyes as she smiled. “If King Lei wanted you to have this, there is a reason. I trust you’ll carry it proudly.”
Anali returned the sword to me. I ran my thumb absently over the bone hilt. A pulse went through my hand, making my heart stutter in my chest. It was so soft I thought that I must have imagined it.
“Are you going to stand there staring at it till we all fall over dead, Evalina?” Dagon grinned at me, whistling. “Or shall we see if your Captain has been keeping you sharp?”
I looked down at the sword again. I didn’t wa
nt to use my father’s gift, not until I could talk with him about the binding. But my father’s guards had been challenging me like this since I learned how to fight. There wouldn’t be any harm in using it for this one match.
I lifted the blade over my head and leveled it at Dagon’s throat. “Shall we?”
The bone was smooth in my hands and unyielding, and yet the edges of Khimaerani’s feathers fit comfortably into the grooves of my hand.
I stepped back at the sound of his sword escaping its scabbard. I beckoned him forward, deep into the dunes until the rest were far enough away that any errant blades wouldn’t do much damage. Dagon didn’t even bother removing his boots.
“Are you still as quick as I remember?” he asked.
“I am!” I called. “And you’re still lumbering.”
Dagon had always been surprisingly nimble for his size. Now he charged toward me, kicking up sand, with a wide grin to match mine.
“You may be quick, but you’re still mad with youth.” His sturdy fey-made broadsword swung toward me quick as a viper, a hair away from my stomach.
Dagon’s wrist twisted as he tried another open slice across my midsection—my sword arm vibrated with the clash of our weapons as I parried the strike. I dropped to a crouch as Dagon’s sword cleaved the air where my head had been.
Dagon charged forward, but I slashed at his arms, forcing him to retreat as I came closer and closer.
I grinned at Dagon and for a suspended moment he smiled back. “Eva girl, you are quicker than I re—”
I struck out at him. Our swords crossed with a resounding strike that vibrated down my arm. Time slowed and the air . . . changed. It became viscous, thicker than water and warm as blood.
I smelled wildflowers and myrrh—magick.
Dagon’s face went completely blank. Not only devoid of emotion, but also devoid of self, of anything. He blinked slowly and his eyes focused on my face.
