Seas of Crimson Silk (Burning Empire Book 1)

by Emma Hamm

  She was so still in the rushing water, and he had thought she was defying his guard just as she did him. But now he wondered if she only appreciated a moment of reprieve.

  Why hadn’t she put on shoes if she was in pain?

  He rolled onto his side, willing sleep to come. The carpet was soft against his body, cushioning him from the sand that would shape to his weight as the night went on. But he couldn’t banish the image from his mind.

  Cursing every god he could think of, Nadir shoved the soft rugs out of his way, stumbled to his feet, and burst from the tent. He startled a guard standing nearby who struggled to stand at attention.

  “Where is she?” he growled.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “The beast woman, where is she?”

  The guard pointed to a tent far away. Dark blue fabric blended into the night sky and dark, shadowed sand. “They put her in that one, Sultan.”

  So far away from him? Saafiya had a hand in that, and he would see her reprimanded. Then, he would tell the rest of his people not to touch his new wife. She didn’t like to be touched by anyone other than himself and family.

  Why did that make his chest swell with pride?

  He stomped towards her tent, not knowing what he was going to say to her. That she should wear shoes from now on? She’d already taken care of that. That she took little care of herself? Obviously, but he hadn’t seen the extent of her injuries.

  He would assess the situation himself, and then decide whether he should feel guilty. Then it was his own decision, not Raheem’s.

  Satisfied with his plan, he shoved aside the tent flap and strode into her tent.

  Female voices silenced, and Nadir paused when he saw the dark woman crouching next to his wife, holding a golden mask in her hands. Sigrid flinched away the moment the tent flap stirred. He hadn’t seen even the slightest hint of her face. Instead, an owl mask stared back at him with impossibly dark eyes as the other woman crouched over Sigrid in a protective pose.

  He frowned. “I remember you.”

  The owl shifted, her hand sinking into the folds of her dress. Would she try to draw a weapon on him? Was this the Earthen folk’s plan this entire time?

  Sigrid lifted a pale, slender hand outlined by the single torch and touched it to the dark woman’s arm. “What do you want, Sultan?”

  “My personal guard told me an interesting story regarding you, and I wanted to see if it was true.” He pointed at the other woman. “I’ll deal with you later. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “You may treat your own subjects however you wish, but you’ll not speak to mine with such a tone.”

  “Subjects?” he scoffed. “You are nothing more than a pawn for whatever country you’re traded to.”

  Her spine stiffened, and she released her hold on the owl woman’s arm. “Camilla, give us a few moments please.”

  “My lady—”

  “Now, Camilla. I will be fine.”

  He watched as Camilla passed the dragon mask to her mistress. Nadir didn’t appreciate the glare the owl woman gave him as she slipped by him into the night. Strange that he could still make out what her expression was underneath the cold metal. He would have to figure out how she managed to stowaway with his people when she would clearly stand out. Even the men lifting them into Bymere hadn’t seen her. Was it possible she turned into some kind of bird? Or perhaps a lizard that his new wife had tucked underneath her clothes.

  The tent flap sealed them into the plain space. The accommodation disappointed him. His wife should lay in splendor. Instead, the tent was filled with a thin layer of rugs, a single brazier, and only one room. She should have multiple rooms, a guard out front, a bathing area…the list went on and on.

  He tucked his hands behind his back, uncomfortable. She still hadn’t looked at him. The firelight filtered through her hair until a halo made her profile glow with a flaming crown.

  The dragon mask rested against her thighs, staring into his soul with an empty gaze. He noticed the metal corset on a rug nearby and swallowed hard as he realized every layer of her armor was off. He was seeing her as he might in his own country.

  As a woman and nothing else.

  “What do you have to say, Sultan?” she asked. “It’s been a long journey, and we both need rest.”

  Nadir cleared his throat. “Shoes.”

  Silence rang louder than a shout. She tilted her head slightly to the side, but still not enough that he could see her face. “Surely, there is more than that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must have more to say than a single word, Sultan of Bymere.”

  “You traveled without them.” Was he stammering? Nadir shook himself. This woman rattled him, and he refused to allow her any more control over the situation.

  He strode forward, his legs eating up the space until she held up a single, graceful hand once again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You said that family could see your face. Am I not considered family?”

  She hesitated, and when she spoke her voice was quieter than before. “I’ve never shown my face to any man. You must excuse me if I admit my discomfort.”

  “I’ve seen many faces in my life.”

  “As have I. But few have seen mine.”

  Nadir knew he should understand her hesitation, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t a monumental shift in his world. A face was a face. Hers certainly wouldn’t rock the foundation of his earth. Yet, exposing hers seemed to threaten the foundation of hers.

  He stepped closer. “It’s my right, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you’ll forgive me, wife, when I insist.”

  “And if I’m not ready?”

  He lifted a shoulder she couldn’t see. “Will you ever be?”

  Nadir already knew the answer. She would hide from him the rest of her life if she could. That was how the Beastkin had obviously lived their life in Wildewyn, although he still didn’t know how much merit he put in their abilities to change. She could be a master magician for all he knew.

  She squared her shoulders, shook her hair over her shoulder, and nodded. “You’re right. If I had my way, you would never see my face at all. But that is not the way of our lives, and as such, you should see what fate has given you in a wife.”

  “Second wife,” he corrected.

  “Second wife,” she repeated.

  He stepped closer to her, his eyes fixed straight ahead and hands clasped behind his back. He allowed himself a moment to wonder what she would think of that revelation. The Earthen folk were monogamous. Marriages were sacred to them, and they only had one husband or wife for their entire life.

  His people were not the same. They had multiple marriages, divorced, and freely found love wherever it lay. Would she be insulted to be a second wife? Would she be angered or jealous?

  Taking a deep breath, he glanced down at the woman kneeling beside him.

  He couldn’t quite see her entire face, presented only with her profile as she stared straight ahead, so he leaned enough to see the rest of her face. She was…young. So much younger than he thought she would be with her usual stiff posture and clipped tones.

  White blonde curls escaped her braid, falling in tendrils around her long face. She wasn’t a stunning beauty by any means. He’d expect a heart-shaped face with lush lips and winged eyebrows. Instead, she was a sturdy woman whose face reflected that.

  A square jaw revealed a clear stubborn streak. Her upper lip was too thin to match her lower, but that was perhaps the pursed expression as she held herself still for his perusal. A long thin nose met with strong brows above the icy eyes he’d already grown accustomed to.

  The firelight played across her pronounced cheekbones and strong features. She wasn’t a vision, and would never be renowned for it, but she was a safe kind of strength. In looking at her, he could see why many would allow her to rule them. She was beautiful in the way a storm was. Moments of singular ener
gy combined to create something effortlessly powerful.

  Unarmored, kneeling beside him, he could almost pretend that she was a normal wife on their first night together. Her pale blue dress wasn’t fitted like a bridal gown should be. It hung from her frame, pooling around her in a puddle made of linen fabric.

  A muscle in her jaw ticked, and he realized he didn’t know what to say. What did a man who had forced a woman to reveal a secret, even something so superficial as a face, say? She wasn’t a mythical creature, she was normal. Just a woman who he’d made uncomfortable.

  He cleared his throat, rearranged his hands behind his back, and again, nothing came to him. Words eluded every inch of his mind until he was convinced he’d forgotten how to speak.

  Nadir glanced back down at her. She stared up at him, shadows casting half her face in darkness. Their gazes tangled.

  What did a man say to a woman clearly made of mountains? She was a wild thing he had somehow been gifted, but now freed from her cage. She held the fury of storms, the power of lightning, within her gaze.

  She seared him to the bone.

  “My name is Nadir,” he whispered.

  Blowing out a breath, he shook his head, spun on his heel, and left the tent. Not more words passed between them and he was certain she stared after him. He refused to be embarrassed by his actions or even attempt to explain what his reasoning had been.

  Nadir hadn’t even looked at her feet. She could have been walking on stubs for all he had found out, but he hadn’t been able to move under her icy gaze. She’d frozen him, a puppet for her to play with, a statue for her collection.

  Angrily, he brushed aside his own tent flap and resolved to stay there for the night. He would deal with her in the morning, and all the strange emotions that plagued him.

  Sigrid

  The sun dipped low on the horizon, its rays filtering through the cracks in the tent walls. Sigrid stared at the pinpricks of light, still kneeling on the rugs where she had been last night. There was much to think about, and her mind wouldn't let her sleep.

  Camilla rolled onto her hands and knees in the corner. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to get dressed?”

  “The midnight gown, please.”

  “What time is it?” Her sister rubbed sleep from her eyes and rummaged through the trunks some Bymerians had placed inside the tent for the night.

  “Nearly noon.”

  “And they’re all just getting up?” Camilla paused, her eyes wide and her jaw dropped. “Isn’t there work to do?”

  “Not for them.”

  She had waited to hear the camp wake up. Hours upon hours, even after the sun had risen high into the sky. Sigrid tracked it through the stitches in the tent and yet she didn't hear a single sound until the sun nearly reached its peak.

  “Lazy, too,” Camilla grumbled. “It’s almost nighttime already, and they’re all still abed! I’ve seen little good from these Bymerians.”

  Sigrid agreed. The memory of her new husband was burned into the back of her eyes. He’d stared at her, his stoic expression mirroring her own.

  What had he been thinking? There had been a flicker in his gaze. Surprise, she thought, and something else that made her thoroughly uncomfortable.

  Sigrid knew she wasn’t as beautiful as some of her sisters. They were blessed with smooth skin, full lips, bodies made from the dreams of men. She had always been a harder sort, the kind of creature that survived a famine or war.

  She would never hold a claim to delicacy, and the dragon part of her soul wore that knowledge with pride.

  But, would he?

  Camilla pulled out a swath of dark fabric, silver stars stitched into the bodice. “Armor as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be hot.”

  “Discomfort is fleeting.” And she wanted them to see her in armor. They might not understand the meaning behind it. They didn’t seem to understand anything, but she hoped subconsciously they would realize she prepared for battle.

  She stood, knees aching, and held still while Camilla stripped her and placed the new dress on her body. This one was heavier, but the folds of the skirt hid the twin slits up the thighs. Should she need to protect herself, Sigrid knew she could move without tangling herself in heavy fabric.

  “Do you suspect an attack?” Camilla asked, her voice pitched low.

  “After last night, I don’t know what to think.”

  The sultan was a strange man. He barged into her tent like he owned it. And in a way, she understood that he did.

  The Beastkin were always given a semblance of privacy. Even the king would not enter their quarters without permission. All that leniency would change here. She should have guessed it, but had hoped that respect would travel with her.

  Nadir.

  What a strange name for a man who clearly didn’t know who he was. He had stared at the wall a little too long before looking at her. She was the one who was uncomfortable, bared before a man she’d never said more than a few words to. And yet, he was just as nervous. Shouldn’t a sultan be used to making others uneasy? Shouldn’t he disregard their feelings for the greater good?

  He made her question everything she knew about her upbringing and her own people. Sigrid didn’t like it.

  The tent flap fluttered in the wind. “My lady? The sultan is asking for your presence.”

  Camilla tugged the last strap at Sigrid’s back hard.

  She grimaced but called out, “I’ll be ready in a moment. Thank you, Raheem.”

  “Raheem?” Camilla hissed, pitching her voice low so he wouldn’t hear their words. “You know their names now?”

  “A personal guard.”

  “The monolith who followed your every step during the travels.” She nodded. “I saw him. The king didn’t want you to step too far out of line.”

  “Sultan.”

  “They’re all the same. Royal blood runs true no matter what name they call themselves.” Camilla snapped one last piece into place, then ran a hand down the fabric to the ground. “You’re presentable. Lift the corner of the tent for me? I’ll try to spy on the guards.”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  Sigrid knelt and scooped handfuls of sand away from the tent edge while her sister shifted forms. The silver owl stepped close to peer underneath the edge then wiggled free. She’d have stories to tell tonight, and it was a small bit of relief that Sigrid wasn’t alone.

  “My lady.” The tent flap shook again. “The sultan is not a patient man.”

  Sigrid shook out the sand in her skirts and affixed the mask to her face. She’d hate the grains by the end of this journey, she was certain of it. Every speck dug into her skin wherever it had the chance. She wanted a bath.

  Raheem must have heard her footsteps, because he pulled back the flap and allowed her to step into the blast of hot air. The sun pressed down on the land. The far outskirts shimmered in the heat. Sweat pooled between her shoulder blades and dripped down her back.

  Her sister had been right. She should have worn something lighter, but she couldn’t change now.

  Sigrid was a drakon Beastkin. She would suffer the heat with grace.

  Raheem looked her up and down, then smirked. “A strange choice of outfit for a desert, my lady. I can stall the sultan if you’d like to change?”

  “I’ve no need.”

  “Are you sure?” He gestured towards the Bymerians, each wearing less and less clothing. “It would not be surprising. Most people aren’t awake at this time. On days like this, we do our work at night.”

  Her eyes had never been assaulted with so much flesh. Sigrid bit her tongue to keep from gasping. Apparently, all the shirts in the camp had burned to a crisp because not a single person was wearing one. Some had even forgone pants and wore nothing more than a wrapped loincloth that left far too much revealed.

  She didn’t know what to say. They all really were tanned over their entire bodies.

 
Raheem chuckled. “Your wide eyes speak for you, little sultana. You must be more careful with other people.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Certainly, you don’t.” He shook his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

  “No, Raheem. What use does my husband have for me?”

  He held out his hand in the direction she should walk. She appreciated that he didn’t try to touch her. The man was learning faster than most.

  She trudged through the sand toward a garish, red tent. The sultan would insist on having the most vibrantly colored fabric. Wasn’t it dangerous to be a red target in the center of so much white sand? No one could mistake where the sultan was, and very few guards stood at the entrance. It didn’t appear there were even men circling it.

  These people clearly didn’t care for the safety of their ruler. Her lips curled in a sneer.

  The guards shifted to allow her passage, their eyes lingering on her heavy dress and the metal affixed to her face. Perhaps they, too, thought she was incapable of handling the heat. They even glanced at Raheem as if it were his fault.

  She wasn’t a delicate flower. She wouldn’t wilt or faint just because it was a little warm.

  Heat built in the back of her eyes as the dragon part of her soul unfurled and stretched. It flourished in the heat, even adding more of its own to the mix until her body was as hot as the air.

  Somehow, that made bearing the temperature a little easier, though she was likely adding her own heat to the tent interior.

  The sultan’s advisors splayed out across silken rugs. She recognized a few although others had remained silent through the entire ordeal of buying flesh. The sultan himself lay in the far corner. A pale-skinned beauty waved a fan made of feathers longer than her arm and the henna-marked female advisor sprawled at his side.

  This was the first wife then. Intriguing that he would marry someone who also had a say in the success of the country. Didn’t he know it wasn’t good to mix politics with pleasure?

  He lifted a hand and the woman holding the fan paused, reached behind them, and poured water into a small goblet.