I will tell you everything, as soon as I am free to do so.
A soldier. Not a thief. Not Robert Letoures.
She sank to her knees on the scaffolding ledge, a pained noise escaping under her breath. Not the dream at all. Not even a beautiful illusion…but an assassin.
The weight of it was too much to bear, another grave misstep in a bottomless world where lies never stopped, masks never washed away. In the harem, in the court, even in the soft heartbeat of a lover…the lies never stopped. This was the world she was born into, the world she had accepted, perpetuated with her own plan for survival.
And this is where it ended, with no meaning at all, other than what she still might give it. Not with self-serving lies, or painted faces, but with the truth that she had never actually spoken.
“Kill the scholar!” the Grand Vizier yelled from the yard. “Lest he spread more lies, more heresy.”
Lies.
Grasping for the rail, Nadira climbed down to the catwalk and descended the stairways, one after another, to the bottom of the tower. Ducking under pipes and hissing steam valves, she ran to the vault door and turned the dogging wheels, yelling with the effort it took. The bar locks retracted, the heavy door swinging loose on large, well-oiled hinges.
Grabbing onto one of the wheels, she pulled it back.
The metal gap separated to bright rays of light, the sunrise glaring over the crowns of the gods and goddesses carved into the distant cliff rock.
Nadira walked into its warmth, her hair loose down her back, her white robe billowing in the breeze. The silhouettes before her took solid shape, the Grand Vizier mounted on her horse, his expression triumphant, the soldiers behind him, around him, everywhere.
“No,” Isban objected weakly from the ground. “The Sultan…”
“I am the Sultan,” she said, raising her voice above the wind. “Osman died of poison. I did not kill him, but I was not sorry to see him die. He used me. He used all of us, and understood none of us. How can you understand suffering, if you have never suffered? How can you understand pain, or humiliation, when you have never been made to feel it? How can you rule, when you do not what it means to serve? I watched him die. Then I dragged his body through the passages used by the women of the Harem and I put him in an open crypt, to lie like the ancients. Then I donned his great robes and I changed what I could. This, a place ruled by rich tyrants and ruined by their bloodshed, is not the world I wanted.”
“What you wanted,” the Grand Vizier snarled. “A slave who stole power from her master, who deceived a kingdom!”
She stood against his wrath, beyond fear or panic now, her dreams lost to the wind, to the life that had always been beyond her reach.
“Take her head,” the Grand Vizier roared. “And bear witness to the mercy of a true king.”
The soldiers around him broke into shrill cries of celebration, their fists raised, their voices as sharp as stones.
Three men from the Grand Vizier’s guard dismounted their horses, dressed in royal black and red cloaks. One drew a curving scimitar from his saddle and swung it proudly, sunlight flashing along its sharpened edge.
Nadira waited on the tower steps, fighting the slow betrayal of her body, the sudden weakness in her limbs. Images of Jacob flowed from memory, the whisper of his voice against her ear, the touch of his hands on her face. Not a lifetime, but a few moments that burned just as brightly.
She wet her lips, kneeling down on the stone as her executioners climbed the steps. The man with the sword was closest. The second one slowed as he passed the Grand Vizier.
He said something, words drowned out by mob of ringing voices. The fat man stared down at him in horror, then drew back, but it was too late.
“Jacob,” she cried out, seeing past the darkened complexion, the kohl lined eyes. “Jacob!”
He was already moving, leaping up to climb the saddle of the white stallion. A metal wire flashed in the sun, snagging the Grand Vizier around the neck. Jacob launched himself backward, dragging the big man from the horse with a hard snap of bone.
The Vizier’s body crumpled, collapsing to the steps.
Jacob was on his feet, sprinting past the rearing horse, ignoring the screams of outrage. He ducked under the swordsman, kicking the man’s feet out from under him.
“Move!” he yelled at her. “Go!”
She staggered up, hearing the crackle of gunfire, the officers fanning out to launch an attack. Jacob rushed her before she could respond, grabbing onto her arm and pushing her back through the vault door.
Nadira fell to the tower floor, sliding toward the wall. Jacob turned and drove the door shut, wheeling its locks into place. The metal pinged loudly with pistol shot, steel rain echoing up the tower.
He swore under his breath, unclasping his dark cloak and letting it fall. A leather satchel had been slung over his shoulder and he shrugged it off, crouching to the floor as he untied the laces and spread the contents out beneath him. Two metal barrels, two shaped and polished pieces of wood, a collection of parts…
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes never leaving his work, his hands deftly sliding one barrel against the shaped stock, locking pieces of the rifle together with practiced ease. “Are you hurt, Nadira?”
“No.”
“I told you to stay in the tower.”
“You told me you would be back by morning.”
“I was.” He spared her a heated glance. “I was right outside.”
“You killed the Grand Vizier.”
“Yes.”
“So quickly.”
“As quickly as I could, though it was not what I planned.”
She shook her head, searching for the lover he had been, afraid to find out what else he might be. “Did you kill Robert Letoures too?”
“I sent him home,” he replied coolly. “Barely sober, but breathing.”
“You caught him?”
“Did you really think that was impossible?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I had hoped so.”
He gave a half-shake of his head, completing the first rifle and pulling the trigger to hear it click. Satisfied, he slid the bolt back and reached along his belt, sliding bullets out of a pouch.
“Who are you?” she asked, angry now.
“Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Ryland Kessler, once loyal servant of His Majesty, King Edward the Twenty-Second of New Europa.”
“An assassin, sent to kill me.”
“Yes,” he hissed, meeting her gaze. “But you are still alive. Everything I told you is true, Nadira. I am yours.”
I am yours. She felt her heart careen from panic to hope with the words, the truth never more beautifully spoken. What further proof did she need? He’d come back through hellfire, just as he promised.
“What can we do?” she asked. “We are surrounded.”
He put down the first loaded rifle and began constructing the second, sliding the barrel against the stock, screwing the pieces together with light, quick touches. “We hold them away from the entrance until nightfall. Then we escape to the wall.”
“You were waiting for night, to come for me.”
“Yes.” He completed the second rifle and tested the trigger, nodding as it clicked.
“And now it is more difficult.”
“It will not be easy but—”
Silence. The sound of bullets died off abruptly.
Jacob froze, listening through the echoing spill of water, catching the hushed sound of movement outside.
“The explosives,” Nadira whispered.
Jacob nodded. “Climb the catwalks to the top. Go.”
He slung the rifles over his shoulder and followed her as she ran for the steps. She ascended at a sprint, taking several stairs at a time, her boots pinging in echoes along the metal. The dark column of the war machine glinted beyond the rails, the sunrise coloring its angled mirrors, prisms flaring from its crown.
Jacob crested the top staircase and crossed in front of
her, running the length of the walkway and leaping up the wooden scaffold to the open doors of the dome. He slung both the rifles loose and lay one the ledge, placing his ammunition pouch beside it. Leaning out through the gap, he raised the other weapon and took careful aim.
She watched him calculate and track, his shoulders relaxed, one eye closing as he lined up his sight. He pulled the trigger. The rifle clapped. Men yelled from below, scattering out from beneath the tower. Jacob slid the bolt back, slammed it forward to reload, then shot again, having already chosen his targets.
A hail of pistol fire hit the tower, chipping stone and clanging from the copper dome. Jacob swore, forced to duck lower. “Nadira,” he yelled, his eyes fierce, lined with dark kohl. “I need you to reload while I shoot.”
She nodded, hoping she could do that. Climbing the scaffold, she felt the breeze sting her eyes, wafting with powder smoke. She picked up the rifle, her fingers trembling as she struggled with the bolt. It slid back with effort and she reached for the shells he had placed on the ledge, loading them into the magazine well as he had done.
Jacob lay flat on the scaffolding, angling his head and shoulders over the dome’s parapet. He shifted and fired, the shot echoing under the dome. Nadira pushed the clinking metal shells into place, her hands numb, refusing to work. One at a time, one…
The sound of pistol fire crackled. Bullets peppered along the copper.
She heard Jacob fire again, then stop.
Blood misted in the breeze. Nadira blinked, touching her cheek and finding it wet. Looking up, she watched in horror as Jacob dropped the rifle.
“Jacob!” She leapt across the scaffolding, dragging him away from the gap in the doors. “Jacob!”
He was dazed, his teeth clenched in pain, his hand gripping his left shoulder. His entari was soaked through and dripping red at the collar. Finding the hole in the fabric, she tore it open, finding a larger hole in the skin to the left of his neck, the wound welling with blood and bright with a shattered fragment of bone. His left arm hung limply beside her.
“Jacob,” she cried in desperation. “What can I do? What can I—”
The pistol fire stopped. Men began cheering outside. The blood. They know. They know he’s hurt, or dead.
“The door,” he said, trying to push away from her.
Nadira shook her head. I have survived too much. I will not allow us to die now. I will not let them come in here and take us, kill us in the way they want to. Gritting her teeth, she picked up the remaining rifle and climbed higher on the scaffold, shoving the bolt forward, the way she had seen Jacob do.
Moving into the sunlight, she caught her breath, looking out over a vast gathering of soldiers, a great tide of rage boiling beneath her. They filled the ancient buildings and swarmed around overturned statues and pyres of burning scrolls, their fists held high, clamoring for her death.
She took aim, somewhere, anywhere, and pulled the trigger, feeling the rifle throw her shoulder back. It felt good and she did it again, answering their rage with her own, knowing that it was all she had left, knowing that they would blow open the door at any moment.
The crowd beneath her parted, soldiers rushing for cover, screaming in panic. She paused, confused, aware that the rifle shot was not nearly enough to scare them like that, barely even heard above the—
Looking up, she stumbled back, a large outline appearing from the sunlight over the wall, a torpedo-like airship with engines at full throttle, metal and glass blazing. It tilted on one side, banking sharply on a roar of thrust, its rounded nose glinting silver.
Nadira staggered back, watching it sweep over the dome, its engines swiveling, its enormous rudder blocking the light.
Pistol fire rang out, the soldiers firing at it, bullets pelting the dome.
The airship swung around and hovered, despite the danger. A door on its undercarriage unlatched and swung wide. One of its windows shattered, spilling glass onto the catwalk.
Bullets sparked from its metal gondola.
“Gilda,” Jacob yelled at it, his teeth red with blood. “Move!”
Gilda?
A sack dropped from its door, landing with a hard crack on the catwalk. Then the airship’s engines tilted downward, pushing the craft high into the sky above them, out of pistol range.
Nadira stared at the sack in confusion.
“The diamond,” Jacob said, his voice strained. “The machine.”
“The machine will kill us.”
“There is a chance, if you are above the magnets on something that will not fall. The catwalks surely will.”
She glanced at the structure in desperation, seeking some way to be on top of the dark column of batteries and magnets, finding only the metal ring under the lens cradle, a slim seat at best, and only for one.
The outrage in the courtyard grew louder, men screaming for her head, for God’s vengeance, their pistols cracking in the air. Grimacing, she climbed onto the catwalk, crossing over shards of glass to retrieve the sack. It came within reach and she lifted it from the grate, drawing the diamond from its dark folds. The stone glittered darkly in her hand.
“Go,” Jacob said. “Go.”
“Not without you.”
“Without,” he argued, losing his breath before he could say more.
“No, Colonel.” She crossed the distance, angrier now than she had ever been. “I do not accept your surrender. I do not accept this!”
Grabbing onto his entari, she hauled him upright. He coughed, grasping for her shoulder, trying to push her away. “Na…”
“No!” she screamed at him, pulling him so close she could smell the blood on his breath. “I will not wear your bracelet. I will not honor you. I will not speak well of you. Fight with me! Fight!”
He held her gaze, his eyes a brighter blue for their pain, and nodded. Nadira dragged him up as best she could and felt him lean against her, trying to move with her as she guided him to the catwalk.
A deep thud rocked the metal grates, trembling the dome above them.
“The door,” he rasped. “They’re in.”
A blast of hot air billowed up the tower. The sound of metal screeching, men yelling, grew close, echoing from the walls.
The machine’s crown came within reach and she lowered Jacob down beside it, leaning over the rail to place the diamond in the center of the lenses. It locked in place, the sunlight glowing through its crystal facets. The lenses caught fire. The air went white.
She winced through the haze, reaching for Jacob on the grate beside her. Finding his waist, she untied the sash of the royal guard and threaded it under his shoulders, ignoring his harsh rasp as she knotted it tightly at his chest.
The magnets at the base of the machine began to snap, threads of blue light dancing on the beams between the surrounding mirrors, flaring up through the metal grate.
“Through hellfire,” she whispered, knotting the other end of the sash around her waist.
Jacob looked at her, his expression lost in a prism of light. He raised his right hand to her cheek, the fingers cool and weak, and she kissed his palm. Drawing a panicked breath, she turned and leaned over the catwalk, reaching for the safety of the machine's metal collar.
The air turned liquid underneath her, exploding in blinding arcs as she caught the metal ring with both hands and swung out underneath it. Her feet dangled high above the column of magnets, the light beneath her coiling, burning.
Curling upward, she found footholds in the braces, using them to climb onto the ring. The air began to hum, the hair rising on her arms, up her neck as the beams between the mirrors intensified. She could feel its energy surging in her blood, thickening in her ears until it became immense. It pulsed outward in a burst of rolling light strands.
The catwalks collapsed. Jacob dropped free, his weight dragging her partially off the ring as the sash caught him. She yelled through her teeth, feeling her grip on the metal slip, the burden at her waist unbearable.
Not frail. Not wea
k. I can hold you…
The air warped against the thick masonry, then blasted outward, the walls of the tower swept away on a tide of light. The open dome collapsed, its retracted doors dropping past her in a solid rush, crashing to the floor of the vault with a deafening gong.
The top of the column cracked apart, screeching as the cradle and the ring broke loose. Nadira tumbled down onto the raised surface of the fallen dome, covering her head as the machine’s lenses spilled onto the metal, breaking into shards around her. The world became silent, the air hot and foul smelling.
Jacob.
She felt herself shutting down, her body numb and floating free, her consciousness slipping into the bright sky, drawn to the looming outline of an airship against the hopeful sparkle of sunlight.
To Love a Sultan
Old Isban missed nothing, the world around him magnified by thick glasses, his bushy eyebrows peaked with interest in all things great and small. He shuffled across the dressing room to stand behind her, caught in the mirror’s reflection like an adoring father, his features softened by the oil lamps.
“Is that how you do it?” he asked. “I should think the clay would go dry after a single hour.”
“I add oil to it,” she murmured, rubbing the mixture together with powder to set overnight, beyond caring if it matched the previous shades. The Sultan made mercifully few appearances these days, so let him be colored differently every time.
“Not for much longer,” Isban assured her. “The Senate of Ruman is almost complete. Soon, they will choose the Sultan Elect and you will be free. As acting Vizier, I have secured a respectable dowry for you, larger than what was given to the other members of the Harem for their new marriages. You will have an estate of your own by the sea, with a garden. I would be honored if you would allow me to suggest husbands, negotiate for your favorite.”
“I do not want to marry.”
“You are young, Nadira, and you have done great things.”
“That is not a reason to marry.”
“I want to see you happy. I owe you my life.”
“You were lucky to survive, smart enough to run through a gate and take cover while your captors were distracted. I cannot take credit for that.”
The Champion Page 8
