“Go get cleaned up; we’ll wait for you.”
Sal trotted back into her bedchamber.
She turned, expecting to see amusement on Dharman’s face, but his mouth was tight, eyes, grim. “Bane reported a body at the end of the hall.”
She strode down the hall, her boots ringing in the silence. Her stomach tightened. Had an assassin come after her and killed one of the Palace servants? She turned the corner and stopped short. “Benton.”
The man who’d refused to swear a blood oath to her. Why him? Whoever killed him had deliberately left him just out of sight from the Blood always guarding her door. Indeed, the body had been artfully arranged: seated, boots crossed, hands folded in his lap. The only thing marring the scene was his head sagging awkwardly.
Mykal squatted beside the body and pointed to his neck. “There’s the wound that killed him.”
The small puncture was deceivingly small and innocent, but it laid on top of the major vein in the neck. With very little blood on the man’s clothing and only a few drops on the floor, he must have been killed elsewhere and deliberately brought here.
“Dragons will occasionally bring kills to the female they’re attempting to woo,” Mykal said, his voice flat. “This man refused your will, and now he’s dead. He’s a gift. One of the tals attempts to win the White Dragon’s favor.”
His bond felt tight and withdrawn, singing with alarm that only grew with intensity. Lightly, she stroked his cheek, and he flinched, his gaze jerking toward hers. “What is it? I know you had no part in this.”
“It’s a very deliberate message.” He licked his lips, fighting to keep his gaze on hers. “Someone knows who I used to be.”
She bent down, keeping her hand steady on his face and her gaze locked on his. He couldn’t miss the quickening of her heart, the silent alarm racing through her body. “Why do you say that?”
He averted his face in shame, but let her have the memory. High in the mountains of Pella, Stephan and Theo had sat down at a round table together. She saw the servant girl come into the room, disturbingly similar in looks and coloring to her, and Stephan had struck with the silver needle, the same one he’d threatened her with in Our Lady’s Chapel on the Bay.
She couldn’t help the shudder that tore through her. Dharman placed his palm on her back, the heat of his body against her, and some of the instantaneous fear eased. Stephan and Theo had held cups to the servant’s throat, caught her blood, tossed her aside like garbage, and then toasted each other while they drained their cups.
“Tellan, brightheart. Forgive me.” Mykal pressed his forehead to her boots, his hands trembling on her calves. “I haven’t done such a thing in years and I never will again. On my last drop of water, I swear it.”
She stroked his hair, both to soothe him as well as herself. “I know you won’t, because I’ll kill you myself before I’ll allow you to harm another person again. Who else knows about that needle and how you used it?”
“Anyone of Shadow could know, for it only takes a whisper from Yama in a dream.”
“Do you know where the needle is now?”
Mykal sat back on his haunches, his face lined and haunted with old horror. “I don’t know. When I try to remember…it’s like a sandstorm.”
“Let me see. Perhaps I’ll notice something you missed.”
Staring into her eyes, he opened his mind and allowed her to sift his memories through her fingers like sand. She saw him lure Alastair into his secret room in a small hut on the edge of his estate. The silver ring exchanged hands, blood was shed, and Stephan smiled with those ghostly eyes from behind Alastair’s, while the first man crumpled to the ground. Alastair bent down and rummaged through Stephan’s coat. The black ring crawled into place on his finger like a malevolent spider, but then the memory dissolved.
“Surely he…I…took it with me to Keldar. I’d used that needle for a very long time.”
His memories of Keldar were mostly of sand and miserable thirst. His skull pounded with the unbearable heat, his tongue swollen and black, his face on fire from the sun, yet onward he trudged. Mumbling, giggling, he staggered all the way to the shore of a boiling lake of foulness that burned her nose even filtered through Mykal’s memories. She saw the dragon eat him, the twisted ring burning on his hand but no hint of the needle.
“My guess is that Mykal the Keldari had no need of the needle,” she said, frowning. Her head ached from the strain and her skin felt scalded, as though she’d lingered too long on those poisoned sands. “If it had been left on the sands, anyone could have it. Who in your party is Shadowed?”
He smiled grimly. “All Keldari bear Yama’s blood, some more than others. It could be any of them who believe killing one of your enemies may gain them your notice.”
“Will they still trust you?”
His jaws worked and he shrugged. “I don’t know. They feared me before because of the dragon. No one has ever been able to shift back and forth at will before. I dare not attempt such a feat now without the ring’s foul power.”
Without turning, she touched Dharman’s bond, concentrating intently to keep her words secret only for him. :Do you trust him enough to let him spy for us?:
:I trust you.: He replied immediately. :Your heart doesn’t lie.:
She smiled at Mykal and the tension straining his shoulders melted away. “I need you to go to your kin and see if you can learn who did this. Maybe one of them will brag about his kill.”
He bowed low again and kissed her boot. “I go without delay to do your will.”
Rising, he checked his weapons, unsheathing both the curved and short blades to test their sharpness.
“First, tell me how this challenge will work.”
The scimitar sliced his thumb open. Pleased, he started to sheathe it, until she laid her hand on his forearm. The White Dragon shimmered in the holy waters of the Silver Lake, spinning a memory so ancient and right that she couldn’t help but continue the tradition. Once, Rhaekhar had done something very similar in preparation for a kae’rahke against his best friend.
She wrapped her palm about the tip of his blade and pulled it down her skin. “May my blood bring you luck.”
Flashing silver with hunger, his eyes flared with surprise. He stepped closer and offered his thumb, so she raised her palm to his mouth. The sandalwood of his willing sacrifice burned away the lingering taint of his old memories.
“Two tals will Dance the Blades for your entertainment.” His voice was husky, his eyes molten silver, but he didn’t linger on the wound. He must feel the rising danger as fiercely as she. “I humbly suggest you ask for me and Odan tal’Tellan to Dance first. I suspect him the least, for he’s been tal only a short time. If you don’t specify otherwise, we’ll fight to the death. To appease the Keldari, the winner of that Dance should be given the chance to ask for one of your Blood.”
She didn’t like that thought at all, although of course she felt all nine perk with anticipation. Like any warrior, they loved to drill and would relish the chance to prove themselves not only against a foreign opponent but one who had shifted their hierarchy.
“Afterward, I suggest we sit down at a table together. Make sure you force them to treat you as host, themselves as guests. Stand in the doorway and refuse them entrance until they offer water.”
“Haven’t I already made them welcome as guests?”
“By your customs, but not by ours. They will think you too ignorant of Keldari custom to enforce hospitality, and so they will take advantage and not hesitate to betray you.”
She arched her brow at “ignorance,” and he inclined his head slightly, his mouth quirking. “The magic I did on the Great Seal prevents them from harming any of my people.”
“Iyeh,” he whispered, his face solemn, “but did you say they should not specifically kill you? You are not strictly a Green Lander, brightheart. You’re more. You were claimed by the horse king, so they could argue you’re Sha’Kae al’Dan. If they believe a li
nk in your chains has slipped, your magic won’t stop them. Not if they truly believe it in their hearts.”
“Very well.” Sighing, she nodded. “Use your bond to tell me what I should or should not say. I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Your instincts will guide you, especially if you listen to the White Dragon. Remember, my people are the most desperate scavengers of the desert. They’ve lived on nothing but hope for centuries, and you represent that hope. You’re tellan, our hope of forgiveness.”
Of course, what he so politely didn’t mention was the little necessity of her sacrifice to a fire-breathing dragon.
At least she was well used to everyone wanting her dead.
CHAPTER
TWENTY THREE
PHILLIP OF MASTON BOWED LOW AND SWEPT HIS HAND TOWARD A MAKESHIFT PLATFORM ERECTED AGAINST THE SHINING WALLS. The rest of her blood-sworn Council had already been seated. He’d even arranged for seats for Drendon and his khuls, as well as the tals and ravs. “I hope this will suffice, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Phillip. This will work nicely.”
She took her seat on a backless camp chair, Dharman behind her as usual with Sal and Jorah on either side. The rest of her Blood fanned out in front of the dais.
Mykal hesitated, unsure whether to stand with her Blood or sit in the chair provided.
:If you want to fight first, don’t bother sitting.:
His bond smiled and warmed, although his face remained impassive. He stood before her, arms crossed with a hand on each weapon. At her small nod, he raised his voice and said, “Your Majesty, Shannari dal’Dainari, High Queen of the Green Lands, we Keldari come before you in answer to your challenge.”
“What challenge is that, Mykal tal’Mamba?”
“Wait! Your Majesty!” One of the other tals rushed toward Mykal, refusing to be left out, and the other tal immediately followed. “Three tals answer your challenge, not just the one you’ve bedded.”
Shannari laughed and settled back against Dharman, letting her hands fall out on the arms in invitation. Sal and Jorah both squatted down and pressed against her legs. “You came wanting me to select one of you as my King. How else am I supposed to know whether the candidate will suffice?”
Mykal bowed low, she was sure to hide the amusement on his face. “I believe I sufficed very well, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed, tal’Mamba.” Her voice went so husky that Sal shivered and dropped his head to her thigh. “So, what entertainment do you wish to offer me?”
“Select two of us to Dance the Blades for your entertainment. The loser may not pursue your hand in marriage.”
“As long as everyone understands the winner has no claim on me.” He nodded, but she knew very well the other tals might not agree so quickly. “Very well, tal’Mamba. Pick your opponent.”
Mykal drew the scimitar, held it before him parallel to his body for several long moments, and then lunged, thrusting the blade into the ground before the man on his right. “I select Odan tal’Tellan to Dance the Blades first.”
“Since this is entertainment, I request that no death occur. Blood only.”
“Blood only,” Mykal agreed, bowing again.
The other tal hesitated, looked to the third tal worriedly as though hoping he’d object, but then turned and bowed as well. “Blood only, Your Majesty.”
After drilling her entire life, she knew there was an inherent rhythm to weaponsplay. Give and take, back and forth, as two opponents tested each other’s defenses. The Keldari truly made the drill as beautiful and graceful as any dance she could hope to see at the grandest ball. With the scimitar in one hand and the short blade in the other, Mykal flowed from stance to stance, his cloak flowing like a dark shadow behind him. He’d tucked it tightly to his body, but it still lent a softening ripple to his moves.
As she watched, the two fighters reminded her more and more of dragons. The wicked curved blade was a claw, perfect for eviscerating the dragon’s prey or slicing open its throat. The shorter blade was a tooth, perfect for puncturing a vein and spraying blood, or slipping beneath armor to sever a joint or spine. Where the Sha'Kae al'Dan fought for blood only, the Keldari fought to kill, which introduced a slight awkwardness when the two warriors were forced to halt a blow that would have decapitated his opponent.
In a low, slithering lunge, Mykal slid beneath the other man's sweeping blade, knocked him off his feet, and pressed the wicked curved edge of his scimitar against the man's throat.
In a bitter voice, the man growled, “bhakti,” and allowed his weapons to fall from his hands.
Gliding to his feet, Mykal crossed his arms over his chest, both blades held aloft, and bowed to her.
Clapping, Shannari stood and smiled. “Thank you, Mykal tal’Mamba, for your excellent display of Keldari fighting techniques. Let's retire to the tents for refreshment before the next match. See to your friend and then join us.”
He bowed, sheathed his weapons, and then helped tal’Tellan to his feet. The other Keldari joined him, and they took the wounded man to their tents.
Good, she thought. Now he can do a little reconnaissance.
* * *
“BLOOD ONLY,” NIJAR MUTTERED. “I’VE never heard of such a Dance.”
Mykal let the wounded tal fall back in his tent with a groan. “Did anyone bring a rashida or shaddad?”
Nijar blew out a loud breath. “Of course not. Live or die, it doesn’t matter. He’s out of the Dance.”
We all are, Mykal thought ruefully. Let her survive this new Dance we attempt in order to escape my Shadow.
“What will she do next?”
He didn’t answer immediately, pretending to contemplate what a foreign queen might do. “Mayhap she'll allow you and I to Dance the Blades next, and then the winner may challenge her Blood.”
Nijar motioned him outside and away from their competitor’s tent where they wouldn’t be overheard. “My thought is to strike now. While you and I Dance the Blades for her entertainment, our ravs can seize her and ride for Keldar at top speed. Why wait to kill her guards?”
“I don’t believe her guards will be so easy to kill.” Mykal had yet to test her Reds’ blades, but he didn’t doubt their dedication and ferocity. He'd kill like a rabid dragon to keep her safe, too. “Let alone fool them into letting us near enough to steal her.”
The tal winked salaciously. “You were near enough in her bed, iyeh?”
“Hardly.” He stiffened his shoulders and deliberately averted his gaze to the ground. “Her guards stood toe to toe about us at all times.”
“That must have been…unpleasant.” Mykal didn’t know this tal well enough to know if the man was appalled or amused. “So you had no chance to speak to her privately? Not even…”
“I was never alone with her. No one is ever alone with her. The big Red stays at her back at all times.” He sighed heavily and tugged at his taamid with irritation. “Even the red-headed one remained close enough that I had to endure his hair in my face while we rested after the bath.”
The tal’s eyebrows climbed. “You bathed with her?”
“Iyeh, but not like any bath you have ever imagined. Such a wealth of water lies in this land that she sits in it to bathe.”
“May the wadis run once more,” Nijar breathed. “She truly is the White Dragon.”
Mykal slapped him on the back. “Tell me, do you know who left the gift for her in the hallway outside her door?”
“What gift?” The other tal frowned. “I’ve offered nothing. These munakuri know nothing of hospitality.” He looked about furtively. “If Tellan gifted her with something, then we must too.”
“Someone killed the man who refused his blood oath to Her Majesty,” Mykal whispered softly, glancing about for listeners. “She wishes to reward whoever accomplished this deed for her when her hands were bound by her own laws.”
“Sands swallow me.” Nijar blew out his breath disgustedly. “I wish I had thought to act so quickly. I’ve hea
rd nothing of this.”
“If you hear of who did this deed, let me know. Her Majesty won’t speak of it, but she’s very eager to reward him. Perhaps we could…dispose of this competition, iyeh?”
The tal went off to question his men, and Mykal headed to his own tribe’s. Mentally, he ran through his options. Although the munakur could have been killed outside the Shining Walls, someone had to have been able to deliver him deeply into her Palace, which again pointed to the only six Keldari allowed inside. Whoever had accomplished the murder must either be dead—because of her curse against harming her people—or not Keldari.
Could one of the Sha’Kae al’Dan have killed the man? As the Duke of Cups, he’d never trusted one of the horse barbarians enough to share his predilection for blood, let alone his preferred method for killing. How could they have known to puncture the man’s throat in such a way?
Asad fell into step with him. His long Keldari braid hung over his shoulder and the man had his palm wrapped around it, reminding Mykal that he'd forgotten to bind his hair yet again. Would a good Keldari forget such a basic task? “All is well in the tents.”
“Very good.” Six Keldari inside the Shining Walls. It could have been one of the ravs, but all three had been present at the Dance. “Did you have any issues with the barbarians?”
“Leesha’s tits.” Asad laughed and gave a sharp tug on the braid in his hand. “They stayed well away from us. They know dragons would eat their pretty little horses if given half a chance.”
Mykal ducked into his tent, his mind racing, and stopped so suddenly the other man behind him ran into him. “What did you say?”
Too late, he started to whirl, hand on his weapon. Asad jammed a fist into his back and pain splintered through him. Gasping, he looked down. Talons protruded from his stomach. He slipped off the black blades and fell on his face.
:Mykal.: Her bond blazed in his mind, a glorious moon of love that he didn’t deserve. :Where are you? What’s happened?:
Asad kicked him in the head, tossing him over on his back. His rav squatted, his face twisted with a sneer that was so unlike the man Mykal the Keldari had ever seen on his friend’s face that he wouldn't have recognized him without the Duke of Pella's memories.
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