by Raye Wagner
“Stop,” he growled. His eyes flashed green again, and he trembled. “I don’t care if you trust me or not, but I’m not lying. And I didn’t lie before either. I don’t need to explain myself to you.” He pushed me toward one of the other magî in black leather. “Bîcav, it’s your turn. I need time. I can’t,” he said. He strode to his horse and mounted, snapping instructions to his men about the prisoners. “Let’s go. If we ride hard, we might make it out of here before the Serîk come.”
“Aren’t you the Serîk?” I asked, glancing at the group of magî in leather.
Fetid rot.
Black leather. I swallowed as the realization sank in. These weren’t Serîk from the kümdâr. These were magî-guard from the Zîv.
“Where are we going?” I asked, suddenly filled with new trepidation.
The magî mounted their horses, and I followed Rünê with my gaze. When he said nothing, I turned to Bîcav. “Where are we going?”
“Yândarî,” he muttered. “You don’t know who you are, and apparently neither do we. We need to find out.”
“Taja,” Rünê said, swinging his leather-clad leg over his horse as he mounted the beast. “You’ll ride with Bîcav.”
My gaze darted to the other Serîk in time to not only hear his strangled protest but to see the emotions narrow his eyes and harden his jaw.
Bîcav was taller than the other magî, and less tanned than the other two Serîk, but still not as pale as Rünê. The guard was built, big muscles and broad shoulders, and his entire frame stiffened with the order. He opened his mouth and then slowly closed it. Giving a sidelong glance to Rünê, Bîcav grabbed my arm and said, “I hope you’re right, but I still don’t like it.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea either, just so you know,” I ground out. I looked down at the scrap of fabric in my hand, the piece of Esi’s tunic, and Svîk’s necklace—the evidence of my naiveté. How was it possible the magî I thought was my best friend actually killed my best friend and I didn’t know? My throat clogged with emotion—loss, hurt, betrayal, and guilt—but after everything else that had happened today, I refused to bawl in front of these monsters. I scrubbed the tears from my eyes and cleared my throat, but my feelings continued to swell, making me nauseated. How did he fool me? How could the magî of Pûleêr let him control them? How was it even possible for him to manipulate so thoroughly?
“He was not what you think,” Bîcav said as he crouched down to glare at me. “And you better not throw up on me.”
We mounted the horses and started to ride, but the guard behind me grew more rigid every second until he finally bellowed, “I know. I heard it—every single time.” He exhaled and pulled his horse closer to Rünê, muttering, “You’re practically shouting it at me. Stop apologizing and tell me what happened instead.”
There was silence for several minutes, and I turned in the saddle to see Bîcav wide-eyed, looking from me to Rünê. “She told him—you—that?”
“What?” I sat up, balling my hands. “What are you saying?”
Bîcav looked down on me, his eyes glistening, but his face was filled with pity—for me. “In the clearing, you told Ruin, the panthera, to gut the Serîk who’d attacked you.”
I exhaled, and all of the fight left with my breath. That memory was seared in my mind, and the only one who would know it was Ruin. While almost nothing else made sense, they’d told the truth.
“Will you help me get the rest of my answers? Help me find out who I am?” I swallowed back the hope and fear, both battling through me, and added, “Please?”
Bîcav’s gaze went to his leader, and I shifted to stare at the dark-haired magî.
The air around him seemed to sizzle, and I had to stuff down the yearning to reach out to him. He leaned forward, and Bîcav coughed—or chuckled—making the panthera-magî straighten.
“Fine,” he growled. “We want the same answers anyway.”
I took a deep breath and decided to play nice. Because right now, in this moment, finding answers was enough.
29
Sneak Peek at Illusions
I glanced back toward Pûleêr, and my stomach lurched. Would I ever go back? Would I want to? Everything there was a lie, darkened by death and betrayal. Sadness gripped my chest and twisted, making it difficult to breathe.
“You wouldn’t want to,” Bîcav said, his voice vibrating against my spine as we rode along the Western Rê.
I didn’t bother asking how he knew my thoughts; he must have had telepathy magîk or something like it. Instead, I probed for more information, the only thing I could think of to distract me from the visual replay of Svîk’s body slumping into the mud. “Are we really going to Yândarî?”
Bîcav remained silent, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t know or if he didn’t want me to know. I opened my mouth to ask him another question, but he cut me off.
“Don’t. Not now. I need to listen so we don’t get caught.”
Not getting caught sounded important. And while I wasn’t sure I agreed with their plan—Rot, I didn’t even know what their plan was beyond going to the capital—I was equally unsure about my disagreement. This wretched swamp of emotions twisted my insides and pummeled my mind so much worse than when I came to my senses in the clearing with Ruin because… I had no one to trust. Including me. My judgment was rot.
We rode all day, my mind alternating between numb disbelief, pathetic denial, and desperate analysis of what I could’ve done differently. What I should’ve done differently—maybe. One of the magî called brief halts every few hours, stops to gather coconut water or relieve ourselves of the coconut water we’d drank. After being accompanied by Bîcav behind a bush, I decided just refusing to drink was easier.
The ride seemed unending, and I stared blankly at the muddy earth and foliage of the jungle for hours. But eventually, even through the fog in my head, I noticed the differences between the Rê and the perimeter road of Pûleêr. I clung to the details and became more perplexed. The Western Rê was completely clear, the ground muddy, but not overtly so; the horses didn’t struggle with their steps; and the muck didn’t cling tenaciously to their hooves. There were leaves mixed in with the dirt, but most shocking of all, there were no workers beating back the growth from the undercanopy. The dense jungle just stopped at the edge of the road. Why was it different here?
“It’s because the Serîk patrol the Rê and use their magîk to keep the plants from overrunning Qralî,” Bîcav said. Before I could respond, he raised his voice and yelled over my head, “Zî—”
He coughed, a strangled sound, and I turned to make sure he wasn’t dying. Last thing I wanted was to with the Panthera-magî murderer. Bîcav’s attention jumped to me, and he frowned before raising his gaze back toward the front of the group.
“Rünê, there’s another outpost down the next pathway on your right. We could try there.”
I glanced to the leader of the Serîk, and conflicting emotions assailed me.
Rünê slowed his horse, the large beast as black as the Serîk’s panthera form—probably like his soul. The Panthera-magî was brutal and deadly, but as the panthera, he’d been protective and… My mind drifted back to the times in Esi’s home where I’d dreamed the predator was a male magî.
A thread of desire unfurled within, and my gaze traveled up Rünê’s body, pausing on the taut skin of his torso as he rotated. Small silvery scars flashed in the filtered sunlight like spiderwebs, there and then gone. My lips parted with the memory of how he felt next to me, and I blinked when his voice yanked me back to the present.
“Bawêrî? Is it good?” Rünê asked, his gaze snagging mine. He glanced down and frowned. “Or should we keep going?”
I shifted my attention to the other Serîk to commit a name to his face.
Bawêrî was the other male with golden hair at the nape of his neck. He was dressed like all the others, with muscular arms even bigger than a conda. Compared to the other magî, he was shorter than Bî
cav and Rünê but taller than the Serîk with shorn hair—the smiley one who could make illusions, also known as mind-control.
“I’m picking up mostly minor magî,” Bawêrî answered, his voice deep and scratchy. “But there’s a few with some strength. It’s as good of a place as any.”
He caught me staring and furrowed his brow, as if he were concentrating on something. He probably was: me. I gritted my teeth and refused to look away; I wouldn’t let them intimidate me. Taking a deep breath, I fisted my hands, waiting to hear and refute his condemnation. Only… he blinked and then his shoulders dropped, his expression filled with pity, and he gave me a sad smile.
His small act of compassion nearly undid me, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could hate them all. One look of pity did not make him a friend. He was probably just as despicable as the rest of the Serîk—especially their leader. I blinked, and my attention slid to the Panthera-magî.
Rünê stared up at the canopy, and I followed his gaze to the deepening hues of light filtering through the leaves. The day was almost done. “Do we know the name of this post?”
“Not yet,” Bîcav said. “We’ll be close enough in a few minutes for me to hear their thoughts. Then I’ll let you know.” He took a deep breath, his chest pushing me forward, and then, just loud enough for me to hear, said, “We’re not your enemy.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he cleared his throat and added, “And that amulet in your hand was Svîk’s.”
Something about Bîcav’s raw reaction to Svîk’s death, how visibly shocked and angry he was, especially toward Rünê, had given me a wisp of hope that I could trust them. But hope wasn’t knowledge, not by a long shot, and I desperately needed answers. Turning in the saddle, I glanced over my shoulder at the Serîk and rasped, “How would you know?”
Emotion ravaged my captor’s face, a hollowness beneath his bloodshot eyes and clammy pallor of his skin, and it made me gape. I blinked and turned back around. Whatever other questions I’d had were gone in the face of his unknown pain.
We continued to ride, the sucking sounds of the mud growing as we got closer to the outpost. I’d given up on receiving an answer to my question hours ago, to gaining any knowledge as to whether I could trust these Serik, but when my thighs burned and I could barely stay on the horse, Bîcav cleared his throat and whispered, “He was my brother.”
Holy Kânkarä. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out his anguish while processing this new bit of knowledge. My thoughts flitted from piece to piece of information, loosely grasping for meaning as well as attempting to put them in an order that made sense. How could brothers end up on opposite sides like that?
“I’m sorry,” I breathed.
“Bîcav?” Rünê snapped, interrupting. “The name!”
The Serîk swore under his breath, clearly too distracted from our conversation to search the minds of the upcoming outpost’s citizens.
But I knew the answer, so keeping my eyes closed and holding back the pity welling up inside, I muttered, “This is Terit.”
***
Terit was almost exactly like Pûleêr. A branch off the Western Rê led into the post with a bell tower at the junction of the Little Rê and what I assumed was their perimeter road. Inside the entrance was a communal area with a large building, most likely their kitchen. To the left of the kitchen were privy houses—much nicer than we’d had in Pûleêr—and to the right of the communal kitchen were a large chicken coop and a pen with several dozen goats. More than a hundred tables filled the clearing, far more than in Pûleêr, and the magî of Terit sat enjoying a hearty meal.
Bêrde created his friendly magî-illusion and called a greeting. The citizens of Terit froze, the clatter of dropped dishes a foreboding welcome. Echoing the sense of terror, several female magî burst into tears, followed by screams of young ones. The distress in the clearing became a palpable force, and I glanced at Rünê. He clicked and urged his mount into the center and then descended, the rest of our party following.
“Nice welcome,” I muttered, my own alarm simmering anew. What was I doing here with these men? I’d promised Rünê to go with him so he’d spare Rojek, but did that matter now that Rojek was safe?
“It matters.” Bîcav slid from the saddle and then lifted me off the horse. “If you promise Rünê, or anyone who means something to him, it matters. Svîk would’ve been punished…”
Right. Disembowelment. I liked my guts right where they were. Bîcav stepped away from me, and my morbid thoughts jumped back to Svîk’s death, making my stomach turn. Only, if what Rünê and Bîcav said was true, Svîk had killed Esi, Lis and her friends, as well as the female magî who’d told me there was a conda in the Cemik—all so he could isolate me. I remembered how it appeared as though he was pushing Dostane into the bûyî. Maybe he had. Why would anyone go to such lengths? Thinking of Esi made my chest heavy—Fetid rot. Esi had a cousin in Terit. Could I find her? And then what? I looked past the clearing to the darkening jungle. Could I escape?
Bîcav snorted.
“Please,” the smiling illusion said, waving his hands at the villagers. “Please, calm yourselves. We—”
“Don’t promise them false,” Rünê growled, almost like he’d overheard my conversation with Bîcav. “We’ll have to find at least one or two here to take with us.”
Bêrde frowned, and the image faltered before solidifying again. “We will sup with you tonight,” the fake-magî said. “And please accept our gratitude for your hospitality.”
Hospitality. The occupants at the table nearest to where Rünê stood lashing his horse to the rail, cleared out, most leaving their plates on the table. That was some serious permissiveness—or fear.
“Don’t say anything to them.” Bîcav stared at me and added, “Any of them. You don’t know her cousin’s name, and it wouldn’t do you or her any favors if you did find her. Do you understand?”
My emotions flared, and I snapped, “Don’t tell me what to do.”
I was pretty much done with being controlled; I was pretty much done with today.
He merely shrugged as he stepped around me. “Suit yourself. You’ll only make it worse if you talk to them.”
I grimaced, not even sure what it he was referring to. And worse for who?
As we got closer to the magî, the stench of sweat, mud, and overripe fruit wafted out to greet me. I filed through the kitchen, saying nothing as the server slopped taro and plantains on my plate. When she added cheese, eggs, and a slice of meat to the plate of the magî behind me, I turned to address the fairness policy but snapped my mouth shut with a click of teeth when I met Rünê’s dark gaze.
He said nothing, just watched me with those predatory eyes, his pupils so wide they swallowed all of the blue. He smiled, a tight expression that reminded me I was his captive.
How had I once believed I was safe with him? How could he be Ruin? Why the rot did I promise him anything? My skin crawled, and I narrowed my eyes, my witty retorts abandoning me. I faced forward, and Bîcav pinned me with his blue-eyed gaze, the depths pale but just as hardened.
“What?” I snapped, finding my voice. “What’s your problem?”
Bîcav pursed his lips, his features pinching into a troubled expression. “Nothing,” he said, raising his gaze over my head. “Nothing.”
The previous softening toward my guard evaporated. I grabbed my plate and stepped out of line. Whatever fare I might miss didn’t matter. My appetite was gone, just like my freedom. “I hate you both.”
I marched out into the clearing and to our table, skirting past Nebe—after putting up with her nastiness in Pûleêr, sitting anywhere near her would do nothing to improve my mood—Bawêrî, and Bêrde to the opposite end. I pushed back a plate to make space for my own and dropped the dish to the table. I shoved a bite of plantain into my mouth, hardly tasting the dry, starchy sustenance as I forced myself to chew and swallow.
Someone set a mug of liquid in front of me, and I caught a flash of his bl
ack jerkin. He came around the table and sat on the bench across from me, but I kept my gaze down, not wanting to know which of the men was showing concern.
“It’s not about concern,” Bîcav said. “It’s survival. If you get dehydrated, you’ll slow us down, and you hardly drank anything all day. Every member affects the entire party; the collective strength is only that of the weakest member.”
“I’m the weakest?” I asked, jerking my head up to glare at him. “Then why bother?”
A second mug slammed to the table, milky coconut water sloshing over the rim and pooling on the wood. A moment later, Rünê’s scent wafted across to me, and he said, “Don’t answer that.”
As if they hadn’t already hinted at it. But they were wrong. There was no way I was the kümdâr’s bondmate. So maybe I should have been scared. Nebe seemed plenty scared, sitting quietly by Bawêrî while she picked at her food. The rest of the citizens remained at their tables, an understanding I was unaware of—probably some village edict regarding the Serîk. Probably. Undoubtedly. There were all kinds of things I was missing right now, but I merely glared at the two magî across from me, my boiling anger making it impossible to think. I needed a break.
“Drink your water,” Bîcav said. “Before you take a minute to yourself, finish that entire mug.”
I swung my leg over the bench, ready to leave, when Rünê cleared his throat.
“If he tells you to do something,” the Panthera-magî said, “it’s the same as if it came from me.”
I glanced from him to Bîcav as he pointed at the mug. I rotated back toward them and leaned over until Bîcav met my gaze. I spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Head.”
Rünê growled, and I spun my glare on him.
“Drink every drop,” he said, nudging the cup closer.
I sipped at the tepid fluid and grimaced. I hated coconut water. I hated coconut everything. I wanted milk and cheese—or yogurt. Maybe with nuts and green mango. I dreamed about my favorite foods while I sat playing with my taro and sipping on the vile liquid.
