JEVAITHI WOKE in the comfortable nest of furs and the familiar feeling of soft leather against her naked skin. She wondered why she had awoken, because it was still pitch dark. The breeze made the sides of the tent billow inwards.
There was a small noise close by, without a doubt inside the tent. She reached out to the other side of the bed where Isandor had climbed in some time long after she had gone to bed. The spot was empty, but the furs still warm.
“Isandor?” she whispered, straining to see.
The noise stopped.
“Go back to sleep,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“Please, go back to sleep.”
She sat up, drawing the furs over her naked skin. The tent cloth flapped with a gust of wind that made her shiver. Something jingled that sounded like the clasp of a cloak being done up.
“Isandor, please. Let me know what’s going on.” She rose from the bed and padded across the earthen floor where she sensed Isandor standing. She touched his chest, and her fingertips met the warm fur of his cloak. “You’re going outside?” She went to kiss him, but he brushed her off, just like he had earlier that night, after finally coming to bed. It opened up a big hole of uncertainty in her. This was the third day that he hadn’t made love to her. Did he not love her anymore? The thought closed on her like a vice. Everything had changed since she’d gone back to being Queen. They should never have come here, but stayed on Milleus’ farm.
“Where are you going?”
“There is something I need to do,” he said.
“I’m coming.”
“No. It could be dangerous.”
“I’m still coming.” She grabbed her clothes and started to pull them on, humid and dirty as they were. “Do you think nothing we’ve done so far was dangerous? We were going to stay together. You promised. And any trouble you make I will have to deal with anyway.”
“All right.” He snorted. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”
She finished dressing and followed him out of the tent, where two shadows fell in step with them.
Isandor said, “These are Kenna and Zito. We can trust them.”
At least whatever he was doing wasn’t so secretive as to require the absence of guards. That comforted her, a little.
After the Chevakians had withdrawn, people had rearranged the tents in a more familiar pattern of circles. The open space of the circle that included their tent was deserted. The fire in the open-sided cooking tent had died to a feeble glow. Jevaithi could still smell the scent of the animal that had been roasted for dinner, and could still taste its tangy meat which stuck between the teeth.
They walked into the night. The cold and humid air bit into parts of her skin not covered by the cloak. The only sound was the whistling of the wind through the guy ropes and the occasional flap of canvas.
Isandor led the group into a narrow alley sheltered from the wind. At the end, they came to the large tent where Chevakian trucks had brought supplies that afternoon. Isandor pushed aside the flap and disappeared inside. The guards and Jevaithi followed, into darkness. One of the guards lit a torch, a small pool of orange light. Jevaithi was surprised how young the boy Zito was—no older than fourteen. The other guard, Kenna, was a young woman, probably in her twenties. She bowed when meeting Jevaithi’s eyes.
“I’m honoured to serve, Your Majesty.”
Isandor bade them to be silent. The boy held the torch aloft, and its long flapping flames lit stacks of boxes around the tent’s perimeter. Isandor walked around and studied them all, before selecting one and using his dagger to pry it open. Jevaithi didn’t dare say anything, but wondered what he was doing. The Chevakians had brought these things, why should they contain anything other than food and clothing?
Isandor said, “Come on. If you want to be of any use, give me a hand.”
She took the dagger Zito offered her and carefully inserted it in the crack in the wood between the lid and side of the crate. She had no idea how to do this type of thing, and felt awkward, afraid that she was going to make a noise and bring someone down. The Brothers most likely, since they had overseen the unloading of the trucks.
They worked quickly, and when Isandor lifted the lid off the crate, the torchlight hit . . . the metal barrels of Chevakian guns.
She looked into Isandor’s face, sweaty with the effort. “Did you know this was in here?”
He met her eyes, his expression grim. “I wasn’t sure, but I had a suspicion. You know how the Chevakians brought in supplies earlier today? Well, I saw Simo talking with one of them and he seemed to know this person. I thought it was odd, because why would he know Chevakians? Also, this happened when the other Chevakian truck drivers were arguing with Milleus and his group. While that was going on, these few Chevakians were unloading these boxes from the truck. I suspected there was something odd going on.”
Jevaithi had seen that, too. With nothing else to do in the camp, and a plethora of guards keeping her from going to see Milleus, how could she have missed the supply trucks coming in? However, she had not thought there was anything unusual going on.
“But why—”
Then there was a noise. Isandor froze. Kenna yelped.
A huge man stood behind her and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Be quiet.” His voice was rough, his clothing black and beard big and bushy.
Three other men pushed in through the tent flap and moved into the light. Two of them were equally huge. The third man was Simo.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he started, in his usual sarcastic voice, but then he noticed the open crate with the guns and glared at Isandor.
For a moment, no one said anything. Jevaithi held her breath, expecting Simo or one of his hulking henchmen to lash out at Isandor. She shuffled closer to him. If they wanted to harm him, they would have to harm her first, and she had a feeling that they might want to harm her, but couldn’t afford to do so. She felt Isandor’s warmth behind her and felt for his hand. Their hearts beat in unison.
“So, we have two children snooping around in places where they are not allowed.”
Isandor said, “You trade weapons with the Chevakians behind the Queen’s back.”
Jevaithi tightened her grip on his hand in the hope he wouldn’t try to do something stupid. The other man still held Kenna, and Zito stood, wide-eyed and white-faced, clutching the torch. Fortunately, it hadn’t occurred to him to use the dagger at his side, because if he had, it would only have led to disaster.
Simo laughed. “You’re surprised that the world doesn’t revolve around you?”
If Jevaithi had been uncertain about Simo’s loyalty to her, she was certain now. To him, her turning up had been a nuisance. The common people’s adoration of her was a hitch in his plans.
She said, “Actually, a lot of the world of the refugees does revolve around us.”
Simo took a few steps towards her. Side-lit by the torchlight, she could see the pores on his face. His mouth quivered. Jevaithi braced herself to be hit in face, but he breathed out forcefully, and retreated. He gave a mock bow. “Your Highness, how long would your popularity last if, through your actions, the people went hungry?”
She glared back at him. “Is that a threat?”
“If you choose to see it that way.” He flicked his eyebrows in a see if I care way. “We have Chevakian supporters who bring us supplies we need, rather than starvation rations.”
“Is that so?” Isandor said. “I guess we can also eat guns. I think we might complain to the Chevakians that they delivered some wrong crates.”
Simo snorted and spread his hands, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Why am I even arguing with a couple of children?”
“Because you need us.”
Simo whirled at him. “I don’t need you.”
To Isandor’s credit, he didn’t flinch or back away. “You do need us, because most people in the camp are curious about you, happy that you’re not Knights, but don’t support you outright either. They do, however, support the Queen.”
That was the truth, and Jevaithi read it in Simo’s face. If the Brotherhood had wanted power, they’d failed at making clear what they stood for.
“Who are these Chevakian supporters of yours?” Isandor continued.
“Private Chevakian citizens.”
“Chevakians, helping us? Why would they do that?”
“There are plenty of reasons. Maybe to help an overthrow of a regime they don’t like. Maybe some of us, whose families were killed, fled to Chevakia.” Simo’s voice had a distinct sneering tone.
“The old king’s family, you mean.” Isandor’s voice was cold.
Simo glared.
“Say it aloud, if you dare. It’s an ill-kept secret that the family of the old king fled to Tiverius. These are families of people who thought it was fine to murder anyone who didn’t agree with them, and reigned with terror through heart-less servitors—people who terrorised the City of Glass. These are the families who want to see that regime reinstated!” Isandor was yelling now, and more people rushed into the tent.
“Isandor!” Jevaithi grabbed his arm, but he paid her no attention. His muscles were tight as a spring.
“No,” he said, brushing her off. “This needs to be said. Because you know what? We are the old king’s family, too. And we never agreed with what he did, and neither do all the people out there.”
Simo’s eyes narrowed. His voice was low and threatening. “What are you? A spy for the Knights?”
“I’m a Knight, not a spy for them. I’m a Knight committed to the honour of the Knighthood, not to the murder of innocent children, the raping of new recruits and the imprisonment of the Queen. Jevaithi and I are a full-blood Thilleians purer than any of you. We are also sick to death of this clan business, which hasn’t done the City of Glass any good for the last fifty years or more.”
“You are a traitor.”
“Not me. You will be a traitor if you accept help from people who haven’t lived in the City of Glass for fifty years, a traitor to your own country. The people of the City of Glass don’t care about the perpetual arguments between Pirosians and Thillei. They want peace. They want this stupid vendetta to be forgotten. Buried. Never to be resurrected.”
“How dare you say that to someone whose family was murdered by Pirosians?”
Isandor grabbed Simo’s black cloak and drew him so close that their faces almost touched. “Pirosians almost killed me, but the woman I call my mother is Pirosian. A Thilleian sought to turn me and Jevaithi into servitors, but Jevaithi is pure Thilleian and I love her. Let people be judged by their actions, rather than their blood. I’ve had enough of this stupid clan stuff. Enough!” He let go of Simo’s cloak, and Simo stumbled back to keep his balance. His eyes were wide. Clearly he had not expected such strength in a child. “I’m going to let the Chevakians know that these weapons are here, so they can take action against the people from Tiverius who brought them. Having heard about the Chevakian laws, I am sure that inciting rebellion is an offense punishable by death.”
Simo eyed Isandor as if sizing up his chances in a fight, but decided against it. “You, boy, what do you think you are?”
“I am Isandor. I am Thilleian. I am an Eagle Knight. I am a butcher’s assistant from the Outer City. You can choose which of those reasons you want to use to justify killing me, but I am what I am, and I want the clan fighting to stop.”
Simo looked like he was about to explode.
Isandor turned to the man who was still holding Kenna. “Let her go. This achieves nothing.”
To Jevaithi’s surprise, the man did as Isandor said.
He continued, “We’re in a foreign country, and none of us know where the main body of the Knighthood is, whether they’re still alive, and if so, whether they’ll come to join us, and if they’ll come peacefully. One thing I know, if they come to fight, none of us stand a chance.”
“What did you think the weapons were for?” Simo said.
Isandor nodded. “Point made. But when they turn up, we’re better off to talk to them. A lot of Knights adore Jevaithi.”
Simo said nothing. Jevaithi didn’t think he liked making bargains with children. On the other hand, he didn’t disagree either.
“Come,” Isandor said to the two young guards.
The left the tent, to find that a huge crowd had gathered outside in the dawn light.
A voice came from somewhere at the back. “Mercy, I leave you for a day, and you already create trouble.”
“Milleus!” Jevaithi let go of Isandor’s hand and threw herself in Milleus’ arms. He smelled of goats and smoke and engine oil.
“Now, now.” He patted her hair. “Come, you two, let’s get some milk.”
* * *
Some time later, the three of them sat next to Milleus’ truck clutching cups of warm milk. Milleus told them of how the soldiers had refused to let the Chevakians out, and Isandor told him of the weapons.
Milleus’ eyebrows rose. “You were sure these were Chevakians? Why would Chevakians send weapons?”
Isandor looked over the rim of his cup. “I can think of only one reason: to fight the Knights.”
“But there are no Knights here,” Jevaithi said.
“They are somewhere. Maybe the Chevakians know where they are.”
“Still, why would Chevakians care?”
“I think,” Isandor said and let a silence pass as he sipped. “I think that the survivors of the royal family who fled to Tiverius have somehow managed to get a lot of supporters. I think that the Chevakians preferred dealing with the old royal family. They might have been bad to their own people, but they were more open to the Chevakians. Back then, there were ambassadors, and Chevakians came to the City of Glass wearing strange suits. After the king fled, the Knights had this idea of solving the fertility problems in the City of Glass by bringing in Chevakian girls. We were told they came voluntarily, but the Chevakians know otherwise. The Knights haven’t attempted to trade with or even talk to Chevakia. I think it’s understandable that Chevakia would support anyone who tries to get rid of the Knights.”
“Mercy,” Milleus said. His eyes were wide and in the wan dawn light, he looked pale. “Mercy,” he said again. “I think you could be right. And I think I know exactly who you’re talking about.”
“Tandor,” Isandor said.
“His mother,” Milleus said.
“Are you kidding?” Jevaithi said. “She’s not even a real princess. She married into the royal family.”
“Those are often the worst,” Milleus said.
Isandor met Jevaithi’s eyes. “They forget one thing: we are old king’s great-grandchildren.”
“We?”
She met his eyes, and was shocked to see them overflowing with tears. His heart beat in her chest like crazy. Then he said, “King Caldor’s son the crown prince was married to Tandor’s mother. She was pregnant with Tandor when she fled to Chevakia. Through Tandor’s machinations, the baby daughter of the queen installed by the Knights was swapped for Maraithe, who had a lot of Thilleian blood. Tandor posed as merchant and fathered her twins. You were one of those. I’m your twin brother.”