I slipped two daggers into the laces of my high sandals while my maid, Latia, tied my breastplate in position. I’d never been considered tall, but Latia had to stand on her tiptoes to accomplish the task.
“Good luck, my lady,” she whispered. She’d always been quiet, but whenever I put on my battle gear, she shrank into herself even more, as if putting it on turned me into a monster who might run her through if she forgot to double knot a fastener or polish the family crest emblazoned on my armor.
I ran my fingers down the crest. A roaring tiger’s head with a scorpion on either side, their tails raised so they connected at the top of the emblem.
My father had added the tiger and kept the scorpions that had been placed generations ago because of Tamlin. Once, Tamlin had been nothing more than a caravan leader. But after his caravan was attacked, he escaped, and during his legendary journey across the desert, he had run across Scorpion Hill to bring news of the approaching Smorian army to the Achran people. No one had ever crossed the desert on foot before. And no one had since.
Tamlin’s warning allowed the city to fortify against the impending siege, ensuring not a single Achran died, while the Smorian army perished outside the city gates from a mix of thirst, snake and sun spider bites, and assassin wasp stings. They hadn’t understood the desert like Achrans did.
As a result of his heroic actions, the people clamored for Tamlin to be their king as much for saving the city as for not being stung while crossing Scorpion Hill. People said that the scorpions didn’t sting him because they recognized him as the master of the desert. The legend that all Achran royalty is immune to the scorpion venom that kills everyone else originated from that incident.
And once I finally cemented my place as the next Achran ruler, I would venture out into the desert to hunt for the Desert Boys myself. I wouldn’t be scared of the scorpions that hid in the sands. The desert would’ve chosen me, and I would show it my gratitude by ridding it of the gang of thieves that continued to bleed it dry and poison it with its presence.
I admired myself in the mirror once Latia finished. Behind me in the reflection, two dresses lay folded on a shelf. One was a thin, gauzy gown. The other was a traditional wedding dress. It was bright blue, like crystal clear water, and covered in dangling, multicolored ribbons. It was said that each ribbon represented good luck to the guest who tore it from the dress. It had been brought down on the chance I didn’t win the fight.
I had no intention of wearing it. I’d already decided that when my seventeenth birthday came next month, I would burn it. Or maybe I’d hike as far into the desert as I could and fling it away to face the same future as all my failed suitors.
Next to the dress lay one thin gold bracelet. That I wouldn’t discard. A swirling pattern that resembled dunes was embossed on its surface. It had been my mother’s engagement bracelet.
Another Achran tradition. One bracelet worn on the left arm meant a girl was engaged. If I lost, I’d have to put it on along with the dress. And after the wedding, a second bracelet would be added to the right wrist as well.
I’d kept my mother’s as it was one of the few things of hers I had, preserved for me only because mothers were supposed to pass down their engagement bracelets. But that didn’t mean I actually wanted to wear it. I’d always thought of them more as shackles than symbols of love.
Somewhere through the ages, it had also become tradition for husbands to give their wives a bracelet for each year they were married. Some of the ladies could barely lift their arms due to the weight of their bangles.
That would never be me. I’d rather be incapacitated in the arena than by jewelry.
There was only one piece of jewelry I did want. My mother’s crown.
I thought they had burned it along with her body almost ten years ago. My father had let me think that when, weeks after her death, I’d asked him for it, for another piece of my mother, because I’d wanted to wear it someday. But he’d surprised me before my first fight in the arena months ago, arriving at the gladiator prep area with the crown in his hands.
I’d gasped when I saw it. Its jagged metal peaks rose gallantly upward, sharp enough to prick a finger and strong enough to withstand almost anything. It encapsulated everything the desert was—sharp and unyielding but regal and strong—and everything I wanted to be.
I reached for it, but he pulled it back.
My distorted reflection showed a face not unlike my mother’s, though clad in thick gladiator gear. A true mix of my mother and father, who would continue to lead the Achran people back to prosperity. I’d stood a little straighter.
“I brought this to show you what awaits you at the end of this journey,” my father said. “Let it inspire your fight today.”
I had nodded.
My father hadn’t brought the crown out since, but it was because I’d won the first fight so quickly; my father knew I didn’t need to be spurred on. I would uphold his legacy—my family’s legacy—by winning the throne.
The memory faded as the door to the gladiator preparation room swung open, screeching as the joints ground against the sand caught in them. Rodric didn’t wait to be invited in. To him, I was his pupil, not the princess. Latia lowered her gaze and backed away so quickly she nearly knocked a pitcher of water off the table.
Rodric smirked.
“Ready for battle?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, grabbing my helmet and shield and following Rodric out the door. The heat in my blood had risen with the sun, as though my body could sense the fight to come. My veins thrummed with life, coursing just beneath the surface, ready to respond when I raised my blade.
We emerged into the cool tunnel under the arena that stretched all the way to the gated entrance leading to the city streets. Past the contingent of guards who had escorted me from the palace, I could just make out the mass of scrawny arms clutching at nothing through the bars.
The guards used their spears and swords to keep back anyone who tried too hard to get into the stadium, although I couldn’t fathom what they expected to find inside. The tunnel’s only offshoots were the prep area I’d just vacated, which held little of material value, and the tunnel used to lead the tigers from the palace dungeons to the arena.
I ignored the crowd and pulled on my helmet, moving farther down the tunnel. The closer I got to the closed doors, the more claw marks lined the walls. My fingers had sunk past my first knuckle when I’d run my fingers down those grooves before my first fight. The wounds my sword left behind always seemed thin and shallow in comparison after that.
I stepped past the cage-like bars that kept the tigers in place when they were needed for arena judgments. The tunnel smelled like the cages, the heavy odor of sweat mixed with unwashed fur.
The door I stood behind now was the door that had concealed the goods won by the Desert Boy. I let the thought spread anger through me.
“Remember,” Rodric said, banging my helmet to bring my attention to him, “he’s got a weak right side, but he’s big. Don’t let him use his bulk against you.”
I nodded as Rodric receded back into the darkness of the tunnel. Then, I was alone facing the wooden doors. In a few spots, you could almost see through the gouges the tigers had left.
I took a deep breath.
My mother had taught me an old sand dancer tradition; they used to sprinkle sand over their feet before every performance, asking the desert to guide their steps. I slid my sword from its scabbard and bent down and grabbed a handful of sand, releasing it over my weapon and offering up my own prayer to the desert. It was my way of keeping my mother with me, of asking her to help determine my path. And my husband.
Only two more fights until I earned her crown.
Outside, I could hear the crowd roar.
I moved my head from side to side, loosening the muscles in my neck. Then I jumped a few times, tucking my legs high up under me, making sure everything was in place and that my movements weren’t restricted. I shook the tension from my arms and wiped my sweaty palm on my tunic before gripping my sword tighter. Then, I waited.
The doors creaked open, and the sunlight blinded me. I held my sword above my head as I entered. My heart rate drowned out the crowd, and I took measured breaths as I moved forward into the arena.
My eyes immediately went to the man entering through the other door to my right. It was Lord Hamic’s son, Hardesh. He was tall. A good head taller than me, but he didn’t have the amount of muscle Rodric had. His dark sideburns were visible under his helmet. He was about twenty-five years older than me. His first wife had died some years ago, after giving birth to two daughters.
Some said he’d killed his wife when she didn’t produce a son. It was a practice whispered about in alleyways and at the wells, but never openly. Whispers that became more frequent after my father instituted a law allowing two children per family back when the drought began so we wouldn’t deplete our water resources.
Some men still clung to the old belief that a man’s strength was determined not only by his sword arm but by how many sons he had, because once only royal sons were allowed to fight in the arena against select male challengers when they turned sixteen in order to secure their right to rule. Thus, if a man had daughters, he was thought weak, that the desert wished to end his line by not giving him anyone to fight in the arena.
That changed with Tamlin. He had only daughters, but the people loved him and agreed that the desert had chosen him to rule. It was only fair to give his line a chance to continue. So when a son wasn’t born, the oldest daughter was given a chance to claim the throne—as Tamlin’s daughter Rainnina had done. She only had to beat one challenging opponent per month during her sixteenth year in order to claim the throne. But Tamlin had also insisted that if any opponent beat a royal daughter, the suitor would win the right to rule and would marry her.
But even if I married Hardesh, we wouldn’t be allowed to have children together because of the rationing law. That’s why I’d thought Hardesh was such an odd choice on my father’s part. He knew the importance of heirs better than anyone. But I took it as a sign he knew I’d beat this challenger as I had the others.
Hardesh and I reached the center of the arena at the same time. Our shadows melted around our feet as though being swallowed by quicksand.
“Born of noble birth,” my father shouted from his seat in the stands, “both are equals by blood in the arena. Only their skill will separate them.”
The crowd erupted.
I studied Hardesh. Weathered hands fidgeted with his sword hilt, and his eyes kept flicking between my sword and my face. He had a chink in his armor close to the collar on his right side, which meant that Rodric had been right. That side was weaker.
“Should he win,” my father called, “he will wed Princess Kateri at the feast this afternoon, but should he lose, he will be banished to the desert. Do you agree to these terms Hardesh, son of Hamic?”
Hardesh didn’t take his eyes off me. He lifted his sword into the air, signaling his agreement.
I kept the smile off my face. When he’d lifted his arm, he’d revealed several more scratches down the right side of his breastplate.
This would be easier than I thought—not like when I faced my third opponent during the middle of a sandstorm. I’d assumed we’d wait a day for the storm to end, but my father said we had to deal with whatever the desert sent us if we wanted to be masters of it.
But I’d won that fight easily, and this one wouldn’t be half so difficult. I dug my feet into the sand, sword at the ready, and waited.
“Begin!”
The roar of the arena fell away. Blood rushed through my body.
We circled, studying the other’s movements—the only sound the swish of the sand as it scattered beneath our feet.
Sweat dripped down my back.
Hardesh brought his shield up to cover most of his face. The other hand gripped and ungripped the hilt of his sword. Perspiration stained his brow.
He feinted forward but pulled back.
I watched Hardesh’s eyes the way my father had taught me as a child. Hardesh looked down before rushing forward and swiping his blade toward my legs. Anticipating the move, I surged forward. I leapt over his sword and swung mine around, glancing off his shield and sliding across the armor on his back.
He cried out, staggered, but didn’t fall. “You’ve been practicing since your last fight, I see. You’re better than I expected,” he said.
“You’re not,” I retorted. I brought my sword around and sliced through the leather cuff on his wrist. It snapped in half and fluttered to the ground.
He kicked the leather away. “You’re not the delicate flower everyone describes,” he said. “You’re more like a cactus, prickly all over.”
“That’s right”—I let one of his blows slide off my shield—“because no one can touch me.” I could have knocked him out with the edge of my shield right then. He’d left an opening in his defense when he’d gone for my legs, but I didn’t take it.
The whole point of the fight was to show the world what I could do, that I was a force to be reckoned with, that I was my father’s daughter, stronger than any man—strong enough to rule the desert.
I dropped into the sand and slid my sword across the cords of his sandals. They flopped away from his hairy legs, leaving his feet bare.
Hardesh hopped around in an attempt not to burn his feet.
The crowd roared with laughter.
I relaxed my stance and waited for him to regain his. What I didn’t count on was how angry I’d made him.
Hardesh bolted forward. I parried his attack, but he kept pressing onward. His sword clanged against my shield with enough force to send me stumbling backward. I dug my feet into the cooler layers of sand to keep my balance.
The crowd booed.
I didn’t have time to bring my sword up to block his next blow. I flipped my shield higher to stop his sword from biting into my thigh, but his weapon skimmed down the shield and cut into my calf. One sandal strap split in half. Blood spilled down my leg.
I gritted my teeth, refusing to cry out. Droplets of blood buried themselves in the sand at my feet. I was supposed to be untouchable. I wasn’t supposed to take any hits. Any signs of weakness in me were signs of weakness in the monarchy.
And there were no weaknesses in the monarchy.
My father’s eyes bore into my back.
Hardesh lunged for me again. I blocked his sword with mine and rammed the edge of my shield into his face. He tumbled backward, landing hard on his back. Thick blood squirted out his nose and pooled in the dirt around him. He rolled around, groaning and covering his nose with his hands, but he didn’t get up.
I aimed my sword at his throat, proving to the crowd and my father I could’ve ended his life if I’d really wanted to. Then, I yanked it away.
My chest heaved from the exertion and from my own stupidity. I resisted the urge to hurl my shield into the sand by curling my fingers so tightly around my sword hilt that my nails bit into my palm.
I sought out my father in the stands. His squat, round eyes—so unlike the almond ones I’d inherited from my mother—stared down at me. Something sinister flickered in his glare. Something I recognized all too well. I shouldn’t have let my opponent get close enough to hit me.
Back when my father had been my trainer, he’d collected dozens of fire-legged flies and locked me in an empty room inside the palace one night. He’d released the flies into the room, saying I’d only be let out when I made it through a night without any new burns. I had to be so fast, so aware of my surroundings that I was untouchable.
It had taken me three nights to succeed. But I could still remember the look on my father’s face on the mornings he found new burns on my skin. His eyes would narrow, and his lips would thin. He’d straighten, pulling away from me. “Not good enough.”
He’d dutifully rubbed a salve into the burns after I was released, understanding that injuries had to happen in order to learn. He’d tolerated my mistakes during training. But mistakes couldn’t happen now, not when I was on display, not when my strength was a reflection of his.
I’d never gotten injured in an arena fight before. But now I’d disgraced him. I’d done the one thing I was never supposed to do. I’d made him look weak.
Beneath my breastplate, sweat slid down my skin. And in the middle of the desert, I went cold.
I searched for something I could do to show him I was good enough. I’d won, after all. But there was nothing. The damage was done.
I swallowed as my father rose from his chair. He looked oddly indifferent. Or maybe he was trying to control his anger like he’d always told me to do.
The crowd quieted.
“Hardesh has failed,” my father said. “He is hereby banished to the desert. His survival will depend on his skills.”
Guards came forward and picked up Hardesh under his shoulders and dragged him away, but not before the screeching of two young girls cut through the noise of the crowd. The girls attempted to scale the railing before being pulled back. I knew they were his daughters. I couldn’t bring myself to look.
“My daughter is victorious and one step closer to proving she is strong enough to lead you. She will face one more challenger on her birthday next month,” my father called, his voice hollow. He stared down at me, but I couldn’t read his expression.
As my father exited the arena, I sheathed my sword and bowed as far as I could without causing pain to shoot up my leg. I was already rehearsing what I could say to my father to try and make this right.
I slowly made my way to the door I’d entered by. I waved to the crowd as I went, walking as if I had never been wounded.
Inside the shade of the tunnel, I slumped against the wall. The stone was cool against my body. I closed my eyes and let the heat seep out of my skin.
“That was not the fight I was expecting,” Rodric said, emerging from the darkness.
My eyes shot open at the sound of his approach. Instinctively, my body tensed as he neared, expecting an attack that may or may not come depending on his mood. Oddly, he seemed happy.
His eyes went to where blood ran down my leg. “You were faster than him.”
“He was older and more experienced,” I said.
“Is that an insult to my teaching?” he asked. “Or a testimony to how you should be training harder?”
I clenched my hands at my sides to keep them from going to my sword. I pushed past him down the tunnel, untying my breastplate as I went. He quickly caught up to me.
“Don’t think I’ll go any easier on you in training tomorrow because of it.” He nodded toward my injury.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” I said through gritted teeth.
I quickened my pace until I reached the small prep area.
“Hurry to the feast,” Rodric called. “I’m sure you can’t wait to find out who your last suitor will be.”
I shoved through the door and slammed it behind me.
Latia jumped when I barged in and bolted the door. She quickly rolled up the small parchment she’d been scribbling on and shoved it into a pocket of her dress. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” she said. “That might have been your fastest match yet.” Her hands smoothed over the fabric of her pocket.
I rolled my eyes. I’d caught her at this before. And when I’d demanded the small scrap of paper from her, I’d found a map of the rooms around mine. She’d sheepishly admitted she couldn’t write and had found this to be the best way to leave notes for the soldier she had her eye on, informing him where they should meet. She always lowered her face when she spoke about it, but I could still catch the blush creeping up her cheeks and the tiny smile she tried to hide. I suppose they were the typical signs of being in love. Not that I’d know.
She’d once asked if I thought her weak for falling in love. I’d scoffed and waved her off. Her options were different from mine. If the arena didn’t decide my husband, I didn’t know how I would. How could I ever believe anyone was ready to rule Achra with me? My people would depend on me—just as my mother had always hoped—and I wasn’t sure I could trust someone else to fight on their behalf.
No, with Latia I was more worried she hadn’t told me which soldier it was, which made me think it was one I constantly complained about being unskilled or incapable of following directions.
She could do worse. At least soldiers had stable positions. And extra water rations.
When it was clear I wasn’t going to question her, she relaxed. Her eyes went to my leg. “You’re bleeding.”
I let her rush over and undo the rest of the sandal straps and slide them off my legs. I collapsed into a chair and let her inspect the gash.
“It’s not deep,” Latia said, her fingers prodding my leg. “Why don’t you take a bath while I look for something to put on it?”
I nodded and started removing my gear while she added a few more buckets of heated water to the bath before disappearing through the door. I slid into the water and winced as my cut touched the surface, but it was balanced by the instant relaxation of my muscles.
Latia returned with a jar of salve and dressed the wound when I emerged, wrapping it in layers of soft muslin. Then she spent several minutes rubbing thick lotion into my skin, kneading her hands across my arms and legs until the scent of coconut clouded around me. She never wiped the excess off her hands, instead discretely smearing it across her own face.
Once she finished, she wove colored ribbons—a different hue for each opponent I’d beaten—into my hair and helped me step into the white gown. It was my father’s favorite color because it got dirty so easily, which is why most people in the kingdom didn’t wear it. But after being dressed in my thick armor, it felt like I wasn’t wearing anything at all.
At least it was better than wearing the wedding dress, and now I only had one more suitor to go. But first, I had to face my father and his disappointment.
I tried not to think about that as I exited the arena.
Six guards fell in around me as we walked toward the gate that led back to the palace. No air moved in the tunnel. The fabric of my dress clung to me as I began to sweat waiting for the gate to be thrown open. I wished I had my sword strapped to my waist or a dagger laced to my leg. Going through the crowd was always worse than facing the arena. Sweaty hands clawed at me, begging for money and water. Dirt smeared across my body. Fingernails dug into my skin. Calloused hands tore out strands of hair and ribbons without discrimination. Others shouted insults and threats, as if it was my fault they didn’t have anything to drink.
And I wasn’t allowed to fight them.
They didn’t blame the real culprits—the drought, the increasing sandstorms, and the Desert Boys. No one knew how many boys existed or where they hid between raids, but they were the ones dooming my people to a life spent with sand clogging their throats and not enough water to quench their thirst. I’d heard it whispered in the palace that they could drain a well in a single visit.
That’s why the south well had been closed off for the past month and water rations dropped to two buckets a day. Yet, they still blamed me. Or, more accurately, they took out their frustration on me. But once I beat my final suitor, I wouldn’t have to spend my days training under Rodric’s watchful eyes. No, I would spend them scouring the desert for the Desert Boys’ hideout. I would find them and finally set my people free from the terror and thirst they caused.
Then they’d stop treating me like they always did when I left the arena.
One of the guards pressed in closer. “Some fight today,” he said.
I turned toward him. A pointed nose and graying hairs stuck out from under his helmet. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed Sievers was on duty. He’d been one of my training partners when I was still learning how to fight. He was more careful with his blade than most and had pressed me to try harder without threatening to injure me if I misstepped or swung too early.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I was able to watch a few minutes,” Sievers replied. “My children always want to know how our princess fairs in the trials.” He had two young daughters, whom I’d caught a glimpse of once when they came to collect their father. They’d clung to his legs and pulled at his cloak to make him hurry faster.
If I pulled at my father like that, he’d say I was acting like a dog.
“Not as well as I should have this time,” I said.
He casually leaned his spear against his shoulder and considered me. “Use some thicksteen oil on the leg,” he advised.
I offered him a small smile. “Sorry you were placed on guard duty,” I said with a nod to the crowd.
“They’re rowdier than normal today,” he said, shifting the metal armor plates on his shoulders. “It makes me nervous. I haven’t seen them this agitated since the start of the great drought, when your father had to knock the water rations down to half a bucket a day.”
I nodded but didn’t get a chance to say anything more because the gates were thrown open, and we descended into the madness of the crowd.