by K. C. Julius
* * *
The following morning, newly sensitive to preserving the good reputation of Yasiha’s intended groom, Maura donned the nobleman’s garb with which she’d deceived the silk merchant. But upon her arrival in the Gralian compound, she was informed that Ser Borne was in a meeting with Comte Balfou.
“Would you care to wait, ser?” the young soldier inquired. “I overheard the commander say he would proceed to the training grounds afterward. If you go there, he’ll be along soon for drills.”
Desperately hoping Borne’s meeting wasn’t about her, Maura accepted the guard’s offer. She followed the sounds of swordplay to the far side of the encampment, then pulled up short.
Borne’s adjunct, D’Avencote, was advancing toward her.
Fearing he would see through her disguise, Maura changed course and veered down a row of low buildings. No one was about at this hour, but her pulse still raced as she made her way past the series of closed doors. It wouldn’t do to be found skulking around near the men’s private quarters.
When she felt enough time had passed for D’Avencote to have moved on, she turned to retrace her steps—only to freeze at the sound of approaching voices. Seized by an illogical panic, she wrenched open the nearest door and slipped through it, pressing her back to the wood as she waited for the speakers to pass.
Instead, as if to purposefully bedevil her, the men halted outside the very door behind which she hid, forcing Maura to endure a graphic recounting of the physical attributes and sexual athleticism of one Leyla Narin. As the courtesan’s admirers warmed to their subject, Maura took in her surroundings. Her breath caught in her throat when her eyes fell on the armoire, where a familiar sash hung among the splendid surcoats and fine linen tunics.
She had somehow blundered into Borne’s room.
Recalling how unhappy he’d been to see her yesterday, she could only imagine the depths of his displeasure if he were to discover her in his private room.
But the men outside had still not moved on, and until they did, neither could she.
An open book and some scattered papers lay atop Borne’s desk. Desperate for some distraction from her nerves—and the increasingly crude exchange outside—she lifted a sheet of the loose pages, then, realizing what was recorded on it, another. They were poems. Beautiful, lyrical poems of love and passion—all written in the same fine, bold hand.
Maura feasted on the melodic words, her precarious circumstances forgotten. Time stood still while she delved into the heart of the poet who had crafted such music, his words strung together like notes in a score—every poem an eloquent symphony in praise of the woman he so deeply loved.
When she came again to herself, the voices outside had fallen silent. Yet still she lingered, remembering how vulnerable Borne had looked on that long-ago day in her Drinnkastel chambers, his tear-stained cheek against her pillow as he mourned the death of his best friend. And yesterday, lying beside her in the straw, how she’d watched the pulse of his heart beating at his throat and how she’d drowned, for a heartbeat, in his ocean eyes.
And now she’d unearthed the treasure buried deep within him, and it had shaped her heart anew. His poetry had kindled a flame that would be beyond bearing if stoked.
With great care, she placed the pages just as she’d found them beside the open book—then paused as one underscored line in the thin volume caught her eye. It was from her favorite chanson, the one she’d taught Yasiha to recite to her sarbon. The princess had said Borne hadn’t cared for it, yet here was proof to the contrary. And every word he’d penned since then sang of his ardent love for her, the woman he would soon make his wife. He must have returned last night to his chamber alight with the same joy that Yasiha had shared with her, to re-read these divine poems he’d written in her praise.
Maura turned blindly toward the door, knowing she must try to forget she’d ever read them. But as she fled back to the barracks’ gates, his poetry came with her, like a delicate, ethereal strain of music, and the spark in her heart flared into a fire burning in earnest.
Then all of heaven is remade,
mine eyes to see anew.
* * *
As Maura and Yasiha followed the deafening noise of the crowd through the tunnel and out into the Censibas to the elite stalls of the imperial family, the princess’s hand trembled in Maura’s own. Yasiha had spoken of nothing but the yaraket for the past week. Today, her Ser Borne would compete, and following the exhibition, they would publicly announce their engagement.
Since Maura’s encounter with Borne in the great arena, they hadn’t exchanged a word. He hadn’t denounced her, for which she was grateful, but on the two occasions on which she’d found herself, while in Yasiha’s company, in the same room with the man, every moment had been torture. His poetry had hollowed out a place in her heart that only he could fill. Once he caught her looking at him, and although the year at Urlion’s court had taught her the art of outward composure, she feared nonetheless that he read in her gaze what could never be put into words.
She would trouble him with her presence for only a little longer. The moon was waning; Ilyria would return for her. And none too soon. Each night, she gazed at the silvery orb, counting the hours until she would be reunited with her dragoness. She had been introduced to her heart’s desire, and there was no way she could now unknow it, but she could hope that once she was away from this land, distance would ease the bittersweet ache in her heart. And ensure that neither Yasiha nor Borne ever learned of this unwelcome attachment.
The crowd fell silent as Zlatan Basileus rose from his cushions on the marble podium, his hand on the lizard hilt of his ceremonial sword. Before him stood three men: Kurash, the hazar of the Seven Thousand; a handsome raven-haired man representing the eniyara; and Borne. While they made their salutes, paying their homage to the emperor and empress, Maura lifted her gaze—despite her intention not to. Like all the competitors, Borne wore only a short kilt and leather sandals. His powerful chest and arms were bared and bronzed by the sun, as were his muscular legs, and with his golden hair lifting from his broad shoulders in the breeze, even if she hadn’t already fallen in love with him, she would have found him beautiful.
He rose from his bow, and his eye met hers for an instant before shifting to his fiancée. But in that brief moment, Maura glimpsed his raw, burning love for Yasiha. It took all her force of will not to run from her torment then and there.
You are dragonfast, she told herself, and your destiny has always lain elsewhere. Do not begrudge these two their happiness. So she remained where she was, her hands clenched in her lap.
As the captains returned to their teams, Borne threw his arm around the eniyara fellow, both of them laughing together.
“That’s one of Zlatan Basileus’s sons with Ser Borne,” Yasiha said, leaning toward her to be heard over the cheering crowd, “gotten on a Drinnglennian concubine. Mir’s the one who introduced my lord to yaraket. A handsome man, is he not?”
Yasiha’s next words were drowned out by the spectators’ roars as the squads, composed of twelve men each, lined up before their lanes in the center of the arena. The Gralian team was positioned on the left, while the Companions ranged themselves on the right. Between them, the eniyara gathered in a circle to make their traditional vow of support to one another, for in the art of yaraket, all members had to complete the course for the competition to be judged a success.
In their madcap run from the angry merchants, Maura and Borne had traversed some of the obstacles these teams would face, but from her prestigious vantage point, Maura could now see the full course in its entirety. There were mammoth spinning wheels, towering walls of woven rope, rotating parallel bars, inclined tunnels, steep slides, teetering stacks of hay, and harrowing leaps over water and sand traps, and most had additional impediments—swinging pendulums to be dodged, buckets of oil to be avoided, and no doubt other challeng
es that were not immediately discernible.
The emperor raised his arms above his head, and the drums began to roll, further inciting the crowd. As the noise rose to a crescendo, Zlatan dropped his hands, palms down, and the runners were off.
The first obstacle was a set of large, revolving wheels that looked deceptively simple to get past, but there was more to overcoming them than grabbing hold of the wooden pegs protruding from the rims and being pulled up and around. Each wheel was constructed such that a delicate balance was required to keep it from abruptly pivoting onto its side and casting the climber off.
Not unexpectedly, two of the eniyara were the first to reach the steady beam above their wheel. By the time the same number from the other teams had achieved this, the eniyara had only four remaining participants at the starting line. All who had passed the wheel moved on to the next obstacle, except for one man who remained on the beam, calling instructions and encouragement to the last of their line.
The hazar was the first of the Companions to reach the beam. Borne was the last of his men in the Gralian line, and when he finally swung onto the revolving wheel, there was still one of the Seven Thousand waiting his turn, putting the herald’s team in second place.
The competitors grappled en masse up the rope webbing of the second obstacle. The springing cords seethed with bodies, and more than a few were elbowed or kneed off, tumbling to the sand below to start their ascent anew. Already, the eniyara were putting a fair distance between themselves and the two other teams. They had moved on from the rope wall to a pool of oversized lily pads, over which the racers had to hop without falling into the water. The last of the eniyara was to the other side of the pool and on to the next obstacle before any of the Gralians or Companions had yet begun to cross it.
Perhaps it was the troubled state of her heart that drew Maura’s gaze away from the action to the crowd gathering at the far end of the arena. Certainly no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the lines of men stretching across the entrance gates. Their snowy-white uniforms marked them as Companions, as did the scimitars hanging at their sides.
Maura wondered why these men hadn’t been awarded seats to watch the event, as their brothers-in-arms were scattered among the audience. She looked down at the royal box, and saw Shareen’s attention was also focused on the soldiers at the entrance. Her pulse quickened as the empress leaned toward her husband and spoke in his ear.
Zlatan Basileus followed her gaze, and although Maura couldn’t see His Imperial Majesty’s expression, his back went rigid.
The empress cast a haunted look over her shoulder, and Maura gave Yasiha a gentle nudge.
“The Basilea needs you,” she said, as quietly as she could while still being heard over the thunderous crowd.
Yasiha’s eyes widened when she saw her aunt’s expression. The princess rose at once and made her way down to the royal dais. By the time she reached it, both Their Majesties were standing, the Basilea leaning heavily on Zlatan Basileus’s arm. The courtiers around them had also surged to their feet, but the emperor bade them sit again.
“The Basilea is feeling unwell,” he called, his rich baritone voice carrying over the tumult. “We shall see her to our palanquin, then return shortly.”
Yasiha walked at her aunt’s side, in close conversation with the empress, then suddenly stopped in her tracks. The royals continued on, leaving Yasiha staring after them long enough for Maura to catch up to her.
“Yasiha? What has happened?”
The princess shook her head, and tears welled in her eyes.
“We’ll go too, shall we?” Maura suggested, and when her friend didn’t respond, she led Yasiha down the aisle steps. Curious looks followed them, until a surge of cheering drew attention back to the race.
A hennaed hand touched Maura’s arm—Khadin Esfer, peering from under her parasol. Beside her, Khadin Mahin’s kohl-lined eyes studied the princess with sharp speculation. Maura’s heart sank, for these two ladies were no strangers to gossip.
“What ails the princess?” asked Khadin Esfer.
Maura gave them both a rueful smile. “Lady Yasiha and the empress shared eel at breakfast this morning, We believe the fish was off.” Then, before any more questions could be raised, she steered her friend through the exit tunnel.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she spied their palanquin still waiting on the other side, but when she attempted to draw Yasiha toward it, the girl came to life and pulled her in the direction of the market.
“Yasiha,” Maura pleaded, “come into the litter.”
“No,” Yasiha whispered. “The slaves who bear my litter may be in… in someone’s pay. And we can’t return to the palace. We must find somewhere private, and then I will explain.”
Maura thought immediately of Kitapi’s bookshop, which was very close by. They would be safe from prying ears there. The challenge was to shepherd Yasiha through the bazaar without drawing attention. Maura removed her veil and helped her friend don it before leading her into the labyrinth of stalls.
Luckily, most of the shops were closed and the market was largely deserted, the proprietors and customers alike attending the yaraket. The tiny bookshop was boarded up as well, but Maura rapped on the door anyway, and after a long moment, Kitapi himself swung it open.
Brushing past the startled man, Maura ushered Yasiha inside. “It’s me, Kitapi,” she said. “The boy who bought that fine edition of Ul-Midine’s poems from you a few weeks back, and those maps of Tell-Uyuk.”
Kitapi was clearly still trying to place her, for she’d been dressed in the garb of a grubby urchin at the time. Maura left him to figure it out and led Yasiha to a pile of tattered cushions in the corner. “We won’t stay long,” she called over her shoulder, “but my friend would be grateful for a cup of chay.” She laid a few coins on the table.
“Of course.” The shopkeeper bustled off into his private quarters, fulfilling his Olquarian obligation as a host. It would buy them a little time alone.
As soon as he’d disappeared, Maura turned to Yasiha. “I will help you however I can, but you must tell me quickly what has happened. Why did your aunt and uncle leave in the middle of the exhibition?”
Yasiha covered her face with her hands and gave a little sob. “Because the hazar has turned against them, and has convinced the Seven Thousand to join him in revolt! Shareen and the Basileus must flee Tell-Uyuk immediately!”
Maura stared at her in disbelief. “Then why in the gods’ names did they not take you with them?”
Yasiha raised her tear-stained face. “I have no wish to leave Olquaria—this is my homeland. My aunt says it’s best if I stay, and that I must go to Kurash and offer myself as his wife. Our family ties will then prohibit the hazar from pursuing them to the east.” More tears spilled down her cheeks. “The Basileus agrees this is the best solution.”
“But… but what about your engagement to Ser Borne?”
The princess shook her head. It was clear she had already surrendered to this new fate. Maura’s blood boiled at the thought of Yasiha sacrificing herself for her aunt and uncle, as if she were merely a pawn to be traded at the Imperials’ bidding. There had to be another way.
Then her hot blood ran cold. Borne. The hazar despised him, and she feared Kurash would like nothing better than to use his new power against his political enemy. As the Gralian king’s herald, Borne might be protected, but that was not a possibility Maura was willing to count on. Not when dealing with a man who had already proven himself willing to lead a revolt against his own emperor.
She made up her mind to get Yasiha to the barracks and in Borne’s custody. Together, they would find a way to leave Tell-Uyuk.
That is, providing they survived the day.
Chapter 32
Morgan
As the alarm bells clanged, Morgan raced with the others from the chapel to the western
ramparts. Out on the Vast Sea, a fleet of ships had sprung up on the horizon. Although they were too distant for the wizard to make out the flagship’s banner, the single sails, low-slung hulls, and high curving figureheads marked them as Helgrin longboats.
In the courtyard below, knights called to their squires over the clatter of hoofbeats on cobbled stone. Whit strode off to calm his vassals, but Halla, Fynn, and Grinner remained behind, all of them gazing out to sea.
“Are them yer murderin’ cousin’s ships?”
Fynn’s color was ashen. “I can’t tell yet, but if they’re flying the fiery eye, then yes, it’s Aksel and his hird.”
Just what we need now, Morgan thought. Helgrins on the sea side, with Nelvors camped on our doorstep to the east.
Halla brushed a strand of hair from her brow. “What’s our plan?”
Morgan held his tongue and looked to Fynn. From here on in, it was the young prince’s right to decide matters of state, including war.
“Have the men stand at arms,” Fynn replied.
With a grin, Halla went to relay the order, and the shouting in the courtyard died down. She returned to the ramparts shortly with Whit, slightly breathless, beside her.
“You won’t believe this,” the young wizard proclaimed, “but the Nelvor’s army has broken camp and is riding north!”
“To return to Drinnkastel without a Cardenstowe in tow?” Morgan frowned. “I doubt Lord Roth will be happy about that.”
Whit shrugged. “It could be that they caught wind of the Helgrin fleet, and decided to leave us to our just deserts.”
“It’s possible,” the wizard agreed, “but it’s unlikely they would leave without a direct order from Drinnkastel. Could it be that Lord Roth himself already knows of this Helgrin presence—and of its intentions?”
