“It was just a reflex. He couldn’t think anymore.” But Vasenu’s words chilled Ele. Always the ungrateful son. Then he had proved his father right, in any case. He slid under the water, feeling the pressure against his eyes, his forehead. He stayed there until his lungs felt as if they were going to burst, and even then he didn’t rise. He let out some of the air, felt the bubbles as they passed his cheeks, and waited until his chest started burning. His body floated upward of its own accord. He would have to force himself to die, if that was what he wanted to do. Die and be with his father.
Ele broke the surface and gasped for air. The air tasted sweet—of incense and salt. “He’s dead, huh?”
“Yes.” Vasenu hadn’t moved. He wouldn’t have saved Ele, if Ele had started to drown.
“And you’re King.”
“That’s what the heart readers said. That’s what we agreed to accept.”
“And you think I’m backing down now.”
Vasenu sighed. The sound echoed across the water. “I don’t know what to think. Why did you fight me in front of Father? To get him to change his mind?”
“He had no mind, remember?”
“I don’t know what you were doing.” Pain had etched itself across the lines in Vasenu’s face. Ele wondered if he looked like that. “He wanted this transition to be smooth. He wanted the kingdom to go on as before.”
“It can’t.” Ele spoke softly. “He’s dead. You’ll be a different ruler.”
“You would have been too. Look,” Vasenu moved a little closer. Ele resisted the urge to move away. “You’re supposed to be my closest adviser. It was the best he could do without making us both rule. If we work together, we will run the kingdom together. I’ll be King in name only.”
“Until you disagreed with me, and that wouldn’t be long.” Ele cupped some water in his hand and poured it into the bath. “We never did agree on policy matters. You were always too soft.”
“You never understood that there were people involved.” Vasenu grabbed Ele’s hand. “If we work together, we’ll balance.”
Ele pulled away. “We’d balance only if we were both in charge.”
“But then we would never make a decision.”
Ele shrugged. He put his hands on the side of the bath and eased himself out of it. Water sloshed all over the marble, sliding down toward a depression, where a small dirty puddle had formed. He grabbed a towel and wrapped himself in it. The bath had made him cold.
“Are we going to fight each other?” Vasenu asked.
“Does it matter? Neither of us will ever get what we want.” Ele dried himself off, then set the towel aside. He got dressed quickly and stepped out into the scorching mid-afternoon heat.
The desert shimmered in front of him, more lasting than power, more lasting than anything else he would know. A thousand campaigns had been fought on that soil, a hundred rulers had come and gone. His father had ridden across that sand, with his father and brother, and then with his sons. Ele had always loved those times. He had always imagined riding across the sand with his sons, preparing them to rule in his place.
His father had given him a dream, without any real hope of ever fulfilling it. Vasenu mourned a man’s life, but Vasenu had a future. Ele had no father, a brother he envied to the point of hatred, and nothing to hope for in all the coming years of his life. His father had destroyed his dreams, destroyed his family, and destroyed his future all within a few weeks. And now his father was dead, not even giving Ele a chance to redeem himself.
Ele had to create his own future. He had to carve something out of the nothing his father had left him. He had no friends, no support, and no true idea of what he wanted.
CHAPTER 39
Dasis sat in the shade of the building, her hat brim low over her eyes. The men’s clothes that she wore itched. She hated the constriction around her legs, and the way the heat intensified. So far, however, Stashie hadn’t noticed her—or if she had, she hadn’t realized who was watching.
Dasis sighed and leaned back against the cool mud-brick. From this angle, she had a direct view of Stashie’s table, and she could see most of the bazaar. The soldiers made her nervous, but Stashie hadn’t looked a bit frightened. Their roles had reversed since Radekir died. Stashie had taken charge, and Dasis felt as if she had lost everything.
She understood why Stashie sent her away. Stashie wouldn’t be able to take her revenge with Dasis around. Only Dasis didn’t believe that Stashie could attack Tarne alone. Dasis had a stake too in Tarne’s death. She would be there to help.
The last few weeks had been hell. Stashie had disappeared into herself with Radekir’s death. Dasis knew that Stashie hadn’t loved the woman, but still, the loss affected them both. Stashie never said a word, retreating into the quiet, haunted woman that Dasis had first met. Only this time, Dasis’s touch and her silent support meant nothing. Stashie kept pushing her away until she finally commanded Dasis to leave.
And in anger, Dasis had left. She had gathered her things, leaving the slates and chalks behind, and set out across the desert alone, seeking another town, a place she could live peacefully as she and Stashie always dreamed. She traveled for miles and found quiet towns, but soldiers lurked in tents at the outskirts. Every time Dasis saw one of the soldiers, she remembered Stashie’s look of fear, and Tarne’s hatred. She saw Radekir’s dead face, and knew that if Stashie died the same way, she would never forgive herself. So she turned back.
She knew that Stashie would never let her stay. Dasis didn’t even approach her. She watched from a distance, a silent guard, whom no one knew and no one cared about. Sometimes entire days went by when she never spoke a word. Her loneliness was deep, but not as deep as Stashie’s was. Stashie had spent her days just as she had so long ago, sleeping and gaining strength.
The fact that she had taken on Radekir’s old work didn’t bother Dasis. She felt it appropriate somehow. But Dasis did know that if Stashie didn’t make a move soon, Dasis would go back to her and demand their reunion. If Stashie wasn’t going to take action, then the separation wasn’t necessary.
Dasis felt in her pocket for a gold piece. She would get herself a nice midday meal and then continue her vigil. She started to get up, when she saw the soldier approach Stashie.
Dasis sat back down. The conversation was animated, the soldier shocked. Stashie was calm, almost too calm, and when she appeared emotional, Dasis recognized the pretense. The scam had started. Stashie finally had a plan.
Dasis clutched the money tightly in her palm. The gold piece dug into her skin, like a small sand creature biting to save its life. She hadn’t believed that Stashie would do anything. She had somehow thought that Stashie would give it all up, that they would be reunited soon.
Dasis should have known better. Stashie never forgot and she never forgave. Dasis bit her lower lip. She could go to Stashie and try to talk her out of it, but that wouldn’t work. Stashie would only get angry. No. Dasis had to watch even more carefully than before. And she had to be ready. For anything.
CHAPTER 40
Ele slipped inside the tent. The shade brought no relief from the midday heat. A table, ornate chairs, and beautifully embroidered pillows furnished the tent. The faint scent of day-old incense rose in the air. Uniforms hung against the far wall, half a dozen of them for all occasions, all of them worthless now.
His wasn’t the only luck that had changed with the readings. Tarne had lost everything too.
“I didn’t expect a visit.”
Ele whirled. Tarne stood behind him, holding up the flap to the tent. He looked older somehow, more tired. “You heard?” Ele asked.
“That your father finally died. Yes.” Tarne hadn’t moved. His entire manner was cold.
“Vasenu’s in charge now.”
Tarne let the flap down. “What do you want?”
Tarne’s anger made Ele take a step back. “I wanted to talk to you. I tried to talk with Vasenu, but he won’t listen to me.”
; “Why should he? He’s King now. He doesn’t have to listen to anyone.”
“We’re brothers—”
“You are whining. He doesn’t have to take anyone seriously, especially not someone who whines.”
Ele took another breath. “I came to talk to you, Tarne.”
“Then talk.” Tarne went over to one of the chairs and sat down. He looked up, as if he were waiting for Ele to sit too.
Ele continued to stand. The chill he had received in the bath hadn’t left him. “I was wondering if we could work together, like you were talking about before.”
“That was before. Your father is dead now. My connections are shattering. I have no power.” Tarne adjusted his boots and then crossed his feet on the other pillow. He leaned back on his elbows, the posture almost too casual for his words.
“You said you would always have power.”
“And you let me believe that you didn’t need me.” Tarne brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “What do you want, Ele?”
Ele. No “Your Highness” or title of respect. Just Ele. The name made a flush of anger sweep through him. “I want to be King.”
“You’d have to kill your brother to do that.”
“There has to be another way.”
Tarne shrugged. “Then talk with him.”
Ele shook his head. He had been wrong to come here. Tarne couldn’t help him. Only his father could. And his father was dead.
Tarne stood and took a step toward him, hand outstretched. “You want to be King?”
“That’s what I was trained for.”
“Then I can make you King.”
Ele studied Tarne’s face, unable to read it. This was what he had come here for. This was the kind of support he needed. “How?”
Tarne smiled. “We have a lot of choices. You could kill your brother outright—a duel, a fight for the throne. The people would understand. No one completely believes that women should decide the future of Leanda, no matter how superstitious the people are. Then, of course, you would be the one covered in blood, the one who remembered your brother’s last word, last breath—and last glance.”
No, his father had said and shivered to death. That was what Vasenu had said. His father had yelled no.
“And our other choice?” he asked.
Tarne closed his eyes and leaned back. “A public murder, an assassination by a crazed man, someone we can kill quickly who won’t talk. Or in the middle of the night, my men would go in and slaughter him, stab him to death, cut off his head. We’d claim it was a military coup and we’d then kill the new head of the soldiers as well. You would take command and save the people from an awful rule. There are a lot of options. But the options aren’t the issue.”
Ele finally sat down. Sweat was running down one side of his face, even though he still felt chilled. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a king’s son. You’ve lived an easy life, no matter how many campaigns you’ve gone on. You’ve had people wait on you and say ‘Your Highness’ and tend to your every whim. You’ve never had to make a difficult choice. Even now, you’re coming to me, expecting me to have the solution to your problem.”
“I thought that’s what you offered.”
“I know that’s what you thought. I’m offering ways that we can both obtain power. Something completely different.”
Ele couldn’t swallow. He had made a mistake in coming here. “I don’t want to kill my brother.”
“It’s the only way you can be King.”
Ele shook his head. “There has to be another way.”
“Look.” Tarne took Ele’s hand. Ele pulled away. “If the situation were reversed— which it will be if you take over from him—he would kill you. You are no longer brothers, no longer close. Now you’re enemies—”
Tarne’s words opened the rip forming in Ele’s heart. He couldn’t lose his father and his brother on the same day. Not even for a kingship. He and Vasenu had had the same training. Their rules would be similar. He couldn’t fairly say that he would be a better king than his brother. And he couldn’t kill his brother for his own gain.
Ele stood up. “I made a mistake in talking with you. I thought you would have reasonable ideas. It shows how muddled the events of the past few weeks have made me to allow me to think you would be reasonable.”
Something flashed across Tarne’s face. Panic? It disappeared too quickly for Ele to be certain what the emotion was. “We need each other,” Tarne said.
“No,” Ele said. “You need me.”
He grabbed the flap of the tent and let himself into the sunshine. The soldiers looked at him as if he were a curiosity. He walked past them to the edges of the wall and peered through one of the openings. He loved this land, deep down. It was as much a part of his family as his brother was, as his father was—had been. If he were to fight Vasenu, he would lose his entire family. His brother would become his enemy, as Tarne had predicted. And the land would curse him, because too many people would die.
Ele wiped the sweat off his forehead. His father was dead. He needed to view the body, say chants, and hope the spirits would convey his apologies to his father. Maybe his father’s spirit would forgive him.
Maybe he would forgive himself.
CHAPTER 41
Tarne watched the tent flap fall shut. He had failed. He had pushed too hard with both brothers, and he had failed. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows, feeling the softness against his back. Without a brother’s support, he had nothing.
Nothing except himself.
He remembered the joy of riding into a village, the fear on the peasants’ faces, the way they listened to him. He had had real power then, not this political maneuvering based on intrigue that operated at the palace. In the villages what Tarne said was law. He wanted that again.
In the middle of the night, my men would go in and slaughter him, stab him to death, cut off his head. We’d claim it was a military coup and then we’d kill the new head of the soldiers as well.
Tarne sat up. He hadn’t thought of the implications of those words, not until now. He had a lot of options. He could kill Vasenu and make everyone think that Ele had done it. There were witnesses to Ele’s visit to the tent. It wouldn’t take much to make Ele into a scapegoat. And then Tarne could either kill Ele or control him, use the incident to take power from him, and manipulate Ele however he wanted.
Tarne let out a long sigh. He didn’t need to wait for others. He could act on his own. Should Ele gain power, he would do the same unless Tarne made himself invaluable. Perhaps Ele would have a short rule too. Perhaps Tarne would have to take over to prevent the country from falling into chaos and civil war.
He had never thought of himself as a hero. He had never wanted that kind of adulation. But he could gain adulation from fear—fear of the future. And he would become a savior.
Tarne laughed. For the first time in weeks, he felt strong.
CHAPTER 42
Stashie took the gold piece from the young woman. Sometimes she wished she could waive her fee. She felt as if she were cheating them somehow, even though people had been taught from childhood that most of the magicks in the bazaars were not real.
Stashie watched the woman make her way through the crowds. The day wasn’t as hot as some had been, but Stashie wished she were somewhere else. She hated lying to these people, telling them that the dice saw good fortune in their futures or wealth or the cure to some hideous disease. She was amazed that more of her clients didn’t return in anger, wanting to hurt her somehow. Yet many came week after week for another dose of luck and prophecies for the future.
Shouting echoed from the other edge of the bazaar. Stashie turned. Ytsak was climbing out of his booth. The crowds were thinning—running. Stashie got off her table as a soldier rode by. His white tunic blazed against the black hide of the horse. He had his sword out and was slashing at the people and the booths.
“The King is dead!�
�� he shouted. “Long live the King!”
Other soldiers, also riding black horses, followed him. They rode among the tables, scattering the crowds and knocking over booths. Stashie grabbed her dice and her money pouch and ran.
“Best run, mistress!” one of the soldiers shouted after her. “The bazaar is closed. There should be no merriment on the death day of the King!”
She tripped over a rug, but kept running. People surrounded her. The air smelled of sweat and fear.
Behind her, she heard screams and crashes as booths fell over. Ytsak caught up with her, his hands stained with crushed dates and his forehead streaked with blood.
He grabbed her arm. “Come on,” he said.
He pulled her through the crowd sideways so that they weren’t moving with the group. They ended up at the side of a building, half in the shade. The crowd flowed past them, screaming and running. The bazaar was a mess: booths destroyed, tables knocked over, rugs pulled up. Some of the merchants were on their hands and knees trying to pick up their wares. The soldiers were weaving their horses through the mess, trampling people as they went.
One of the horses careened toward them. Stashie cringed and Ytsak cast about for a place to go. Another hand grabbed Stashie’s. A young man in loose trousers, his face half covered by his hat, pulled her into the crowd. She grabbed Ytsak and they all swung around a corner and into the building itself.
The building smelled of ale. Stashie blinked. Dust motes rose in the thin stream of sunlight coming in the door. They were in a tavern and it was empty—odd, even at midday. The building shook as people ran past. The screams faded and grew, faded and grew, but the clip-clop of horses’ hooves slowly passed.
“Thank you,” Stashie said to both of her benefactors over the din. Her voice warbled. She took Ytsak’s arm. “Your partner?”
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