Rebel's Honor

by Gwynn White

  “Where are the people who are supposed to welcome us?” Kestrel’s voice pulled Lynx away from her fears. “Father said a general and a priestess would be waiting.”

  Lynx gestured to the pavilion. “I guess they’re there. Watching us.” She rubbed her arms for comfort, hating being at such a disadvantage in the heart of the enemy camp.

  “But I’m going to be Prince Tao’s wife.” Kestrel clutched her dress. “How can they treat me like this?”

  “It’s Chenaya. Get used to it.”

  Heron hopped from the driver’s seat of their cart. He drew close to Lynx and slipped something around her wrist: a battered gold windup wristwatch with a scratched glass lens. It had been in his family for generations—a rare artifact that had survived the Burning.

  Lynx’s eyes pricked with tears. “I can’t take this, Heron. It’s too precious.”

  He stroked her cheek with a finger. “No. You are. But I’m losing you now, so I want you to have it. Think of me when you check the time.”

  “I will. Always.” She hugged Heron, cursing the eyes she guessed were watching them.

  Heron surprised her by tilting her face up and brushing her lips with his. His mouth was softer than she had ever imagined, warm and tender on hers. She had known for some time that his feelings for her had deepened beyond friendship. Until Mott’s letter had arrived, she would have welcomed his advances. Her stomach clenched with sorrow at all their lost possibilities.

  “Lynx. Stop it,” Kestrel hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

  Face flushing, Lynx pulled away from him.

  A woman sailed across the parade ground toward them, her white robes billowing behind her. “Princess Lynx,” she screeched. “You are betrothed to the Crown Prince of Chenaya!”

  King Thorn had insisted that all Norin learn to speak Chenayan. He called it knowing your enemy. At that moment, Lynx wished she’d never learned the horrible, guttural language.

  The woman gestured around the parade ground. “Do you want every guardsman here to know you’re a hussy?”

  Heron swore and darted forward, no doubt to defend her honor.

  Lynx held up her hand to stop him and then said to the Chenayan, “By all the Winds, what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you don’t kiss other men.” The woman sucked in a sharp breath. “Dragon’s curses. As if our crown prince doesn’t have enough to contend with in this marriage.”

  “Saying goodbye to my friend does not classify me as anything other than caring.”

  The rumble of an approaching steam carriage drowned out Lynx’s words.

  A worried frown flitted across the woman’s face as the metal contraption chugged onto the road leading to a coal stop close-by. She grabbed Lynx’s arm, digging her nails into her flesh.

  “Come with me. And you,” she shouted at Heron, “get going before the other carriage stops.”

  “Why?” Heron demanded, gesturing to the expansive space between the cart and the coal stop where the carriage could park. “I still have to water and feed my horses.”

  “I understand there is a river outside Tanamre. You can tend your horses there. Now go.” The woman dug her nails deeper into Lynx’s arm.

  Lynx tugged away from her and skittered back. Unable to hide her shock and anger, she demanded, “Is this how you Chenayans welcome visitors to your empire?”

  “It’s your empire, too, Princess,” a male voice said, “or haven’t you noticed we conquered Norin a few centuries ago?”

  Lynx spun to see the speaker.

  He was a typical Chenayan: olive skin, dark hair, brown eyes, arrogance. Young. That surprised her. Even though he could only have been a few years older than her, he carried the general’s insignia of five red dragons with swagger.

  Then she saw the blood-red ruby next to his eye, and it all made sense.

  This was General Axel Avanov: strategic mastermind, third in line to the throne, Lukan’s cousin, and a man she despised on principle.

  “How dare you mock the conquest of my country?”

  If Axel Avanov was here, then he was very likely the man who had given the order to attack the Norin camp. The machetes on her back screamed for use, to slash him open the way Hare had been killed.

  That was a risk not even she could take.

  Kestrel threw her shoulders back, standing tall. “And . . . and is this the welcome we’re going to get? We are marrying the heirs to the throne, you know.”

  It struck Lynx that Kestrel had no idea who Axel Avanov was. Why should she? Her sister took no interest in military or political matters. Lynx couldn’t help but wonder if Kestrel still thought Chenaya and Chenayans so marvelous.

  “Mother Saskia,” Axel Avanov said, patently ignoring them both. “We have a steam carriage arriving.” He pointed to Lynx and Kestrel. “Get them out of here.”

  So she was the priestess. Of course, she was. Why hadn’t Lynx connected the white clothes with her rank? Maybe because she’d never seen a Chenayan priestess before.

  The priestess bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, my lord.” She grabbed Lynx’s and Kestrel’s arms and tried to drag them away.

  “Get your hands off them!” Heron yelled, as Lynx dug in her heels, refusing to budge. “These are Norin princesses you’re manhandling.”

  Heron fell under Avanov’s imperious gaze.

  “Raider. Get out. Now.” Avanov strode over to Heron’s cart and slapped the closest horse hard on the rump.

  It bucked, and Heron had to fight to bring it under control.

  Face infused with rage, Heron opened his mouth and then snapped it closed with an audible click.

  Lynx was grateful. King Thorn had made it clear that Heron wasn’t to antagonize the Chenayans. Winds knew, his kiss was provocative enough. The Chenayans could easily kill him and confiscate the Norin horses and cart. His death would be more than Lynx could bear. Norin’s meager coffers couldn’t handle the loss of horses and a cart, either.

  The only way of smoothing over this situation was to submit to the priestess.

  Lynx turned to Heron and said in a soft voice, “Go. May the Winds be with you.” Heart aching at this cruel parting, she turned her back on her dearest friend and allowed herself to be pulled along. Her clenched jaw ached as Heron’s cart took off across the parade ground. Fighting tears, she prayed he would understand she had done it to protect him and not because she wanted to submit to the enemy.

  The priestess interrupted her painful musing. Face contorted with a malicious smile, Mother Saskia pulled out a stumpy dagger from a pocket in her robes. Quick as lightning, she snatched a braid of Lynx’s hair and feathers and slashed through it. “A future Chenayan empress does not wear braids crawling with lice.”

  Even Kestrel gasped as the priestess flung Lynx’s hair onto the flagstones and ground her heel into it.

  The air escaped Lynx’s lungs. Instinctively, she grabbed a machete, ready to protect her surviving braid.

  Someone misread her intent. A hand clamped around her wrist, restraining her with an iron grip.

  “I warned you,” Axel Avanov said.

  Lynx looked over her shoulder at his face. It was about as hard as the ruby next to his eye.

  “Now take control of the situation.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t talking to her, so Lynx shot her head around to see what the priestess was up to.

  “Of course, my lord.” Mother Saskia’s tongue did a quick circuit of her lips, lapping up sweat. “I will immobilize her now. Mark my words, she’ll not be giving anyone any trouble again.”

  Immobilize? What did that mean? Nothing good, to be sure. Lynx pulled out her second machete and jerked it down, driving the tip into the general’s thigh as a warning to leave her alone. She heard fabric rip and relished the satisfaction of metal slicing into flesh. It wasn’t a deep wound—she couldn’t risk that, not with an heir to the throne—but the message to both him and the priestess was clear: she would not be quietly “immobilized.”

/>   “Lynx!” Kestrel shouted. “What are you doing?”

  Axel Avanov jumped back, letting go of her hand. “You cut me!”

  He sounded so surprised that Lynx assumed no one had ever challenged him.

  “My lord!” the priestess gasped, lunging forward like a bodyguard.

  Lynx ignored both the priestess and her sister, all focus on him because he was the one giving the orders.

  “Nicely done, Princess.” He smirked. “So your weapons aren’t just for show?”

  “Try to ‘immobilize’ me, and I’ll show you exactly what I use them for.”

  He glanced at something over her shoulder, then shouted, “Mother, no—”

  Lynx turned to see the priestess’s gloveless hand extended toward her. The moonstone next to her eye pulsed just as the priestess touched her fingers to the bare skin on Lynx’s arm.

  A burst of pain, more exquisite than anything Lynx had ever experienced, shot through her arm and up into her chest. Gasping for air, tongue lolling as if gripped in a massive seizure, her knees collapsed, and she crumpled to the ground. Lynx writhed as Kestrel screamed, the sound muffled and distant. The priestess leaned over her, her face blurring around the edges.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 9

  Lynx groaned. An incessant clattering throbbed through her head, and the world rocked from side to side. Nausea curdled her stomach. She was lying face down on—what? A cushion? Slowly, she unclenched her fingers, feeling the surface beneath her. A padded bench.

  Where was she? The sound and motion suggested a train, but that was impossible. Only moments before, she had collapsed at the stable yard. To find out, she would have to open her eyes. The idea made her head pound even more.

  “Are you awake?” Kestrel’s voice.

  Lynx forced her lips to move. “Barely.”

  “Like I said, you shouldn’t have kissed Heron. Let alone stabbed that general. He’s an heir to the throne, you know. After Tao.”

  Lynx groaned. I’ve woken up to this! “Where are we?”

  “If you would sit up, you’d see.”

  Lynx shifted, easing life back into her frozen muscles. Every inch of her body ached, but she’d be damned if she told Kestrel that. Even her skin felt different—heavy and constricting, it pressed down on her like it didn’t belong on her body. She sank back onto the seat.

  A tide of dizziness swamped her as she opened her eyes. When the million dancing spots cleared, she saw she was lying in a compartment of a railroad car, lined with red and gold silk. One side even had a black dragon embroidered on the fabric. A small window gleamed next to her, making her eyes throb too much to even consider looking out of it.

  “We’re on the train? How did I get here?”

  Kestrel sat opposite her, reading a book. “The priestess commanded some guardsmen to carry you on.” She didn’t look up. “General Avanov and Colonel Zarot are also on board.”

  Lynx had no idea who Colonel Zarot was. It didn’t look like Kestrel would explain, either.

  “Last I knew, I was defending my braid. Then some she-witch grilled me with her fingers.”

  “Like I said, you shouldn’t have knifed him. Or kissed Heron.”

  She hadn’t kissed Heron! He had kissed her! But it was pointless. Right now, as annoying as Kestrel was, she needed her sister too much to fight.

  “Who knew priestesses had those kinds of powers?” Lynx asked to change the subject.

  Her dealings with the Chenayan religion were non-existent. But she had learned something from the miserable experience: the moment the priestess had touched her, her moonstone had pulsed. There had to be a connection. That, at least, was gratifying, making the painful experience worthwhile.

  “Axel Avanov . . . did he tell the priestess not to hurt me? Or did I imagine that?”

  “He said ‘no.’ I don’t think he was pleased.”

  “Hmm . . . that surprises me.” Lynx wished Kestrel would engage in this discussion so she didn’t have to drag it out of her.

  But, head averted, her sister’s fingernails picked at the worn cover of her novel. Ownership of books was forbidden in the empire—a ban Kestrel was happy to flaunt for the pleasure of reading romance novels.

  Once a year, the Norin caravan brushed Lapis, a Free Nation. There, steam-printed books were produced in small numbers—not enough to risk the ire of the Chenayans who might decide to quash such rebellion by their independent neighbor. With a passing knowledge of Lapisian, Kestrel saved her money for books. King Thorn knew it was risky, letting his people breach the poorly guarded border, but he said the pursuit of the written word outweighed possible reprisals.

  The spinning in Lynx’s head had subsided enough for her to risk looking out the window. The track they were following ran parallel to a soft, white beach lapped by azure waters. It had to be the shores of the Izmodo Sea. The sun, not yet tipping the ocean, lay low in the sky.

  “How far are we from the checkpoint at Final Gate?”

  Kestrel shrugged. “I don’t know. I wondered myself. I was hoping to look out the window before—” Her sister’s voice faltered.

  Lynx guessed at what Kestrel wasn’t saying. She wanted a last look at Norin before they crossed the narrow land bridge; it jutted two miles across the sea that divided Norin from the Chenayan heartland.

  That Kestrel cared softened Lynx’s heart. “If you tell me how long we’ve traveled, I’ll tell you when we’re likely to get there.”

  Kestrel cleared her throat. “We were in Tanamre for about an hour. And we’ve been traveling for about four, I guess, given how the sun has shifted.”

  That made five hours.

  She’d been unconscious that long? The she-witch hadn’t been joking when she said she would immobilize her.

  “We should get to our side of the land bridge in less than an hour.” Lynx remembered the wristwatch Heron had given her and forced her frozen arm to move so she could look at it—and gasped.

  Not only was her precious watch gone, but so was her leather tunic. A lacy white cuff dangled delicately over her hand, attached to a tight-fitting, pale pink taffeta sleeve. She leaped to her feet and bashed her head against the wood-lined roof, hardly aware of the impact.

  “No wonder I feel so terrible I can barely move!” she shrieked. “That bitch put me in a dress. With a stupid bustle.”

  “I know.” Kestrel wailed. “I can’t believe what she’s done to you. You look so . . . unnatural, I can’t bear to look at you.” She launched out of her seat and threw herself at Lynx, locking her arms around her waist. “And your other braid—” Kestrel actually sobbed.

  Lynx understood why Kestrel had been so reticent. Her sister may not have wanted feathers and beads in her hair, but she knew how much Lynx cherished them. Her hand darted to her face. The feathers and beads were gone and the braid teased out of her hair.

  “I tried to stop her. I even told her what they mean to a Norin. Honestly, I did,” Kestrel cried.

  Lynx wasn’t listening. Her hands shot to her back, feeling for her weapons. Unsurprisingly, they were missing. With Kestrel clinging to her, she plopped onto the bench and yanked up the dress to expose her boot, where she always kept a blade hidden. But her boots were gone, too. Instead, she wore a pair of matching pink satin slippers.

  They were trying to turn her into a Chenayan! Changing her clothes was the first step. Who knew what would come next?

  A scream of rage tore from her chest, and she kicked her feet, sending the slippers shooting across the compartment. Kestrel tumbled off her lap, landing in a heap of green and black brocade on the floor.

  “Dragon’s curses! What is going on in here?”

  A door Lynx hadn’t noticed slid open, and Mother Saskia’s head poked into the tiny space.

  “Oh. You’re awake.” She glared at Lynx. “But still full of defiance, I see.” She held out a warning hand. “This has got to stop, Princess. Such behavior is hardly becoming from our crown prince�
�s betrothed.”

  Scraping all her dignity together, Lynx faced the priestess. “My clothes and weapons. Where are they?”

  “You dare ask about your weapons after attacking Lord Axel!”

  “I was provoked.”

  “Nonsense, and as for those leather rags,” Mother Saskia’s gloved hands tugged and straightened the pink ruffled corset of Lynx’s dress, “this is what a lady wears. Thankfully, I packed a few trunks of gowns for you.”

  Lynx knocked her hands away. “My weapons? Where are they, you evil witch?”

  “A witch?” Mother Saskia pulled herself straight. “I am the Great High Priestess of All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories. My power comes directly from the Dragon.”

  Lynx opened her mouth to tell Mother Saskia to shove her Dragon, preferably somewhere painful, when the priestess’s lips curled into a scowl.

  “What is this?” She thrust Lynx aside and pounced on Kestrel’s book. She held it up as if it were a rat. “I searched your luggage before we left Tanamre. This was not in it.”

  Kestrel lunged for the book. “It’s mine. You can’t destroy it like you destroyed everything else.”

  “Not anymore. We do not tolerate Free Nation propaganda here in the Heartland.”

  “But I am marrying Tao, and I know he can read.”

  Her words had no effect on the priestess. Mother Saskia pulled a hand from its glove and flicked her finger at the edge of the pages. The smell of burnt ozone after a lightning strike filled the cabin. The parchment blackened, curled, and then ignited. Kestrel gaped as the novel burst into flames. The she-witch dropped it into the aisle outside the compartment’s door.

  Lynx watched it burn until nothing remained but the smoldering leather cover. Even as she clenched her fists, she knew how impotent she was against a woman who could shoot lightning from her fingers.

  It was a truth not lost on Mother Saskia, either. A triumphant glint gleamed in her eye. “Princess Lynx, now you know what happened to your disgusting feathers, tatty wristwatch, hideous rags, and puny weapons.”