AQREEN AND KRUSHITA left Aqron in the company of a trade caravan headed for Reygistan. Aqreen’s heart cried out as the white spires of Aqron fell behind them, and she hugged Krushita tightly.
Am I doing the right thing? she asked herself repeatedly. He will come after us, I know he will. Is there any point to this attempt?
Another voice, her late mother’s voice, said quietly, If you had stayed, he would have killed you sooner or later. Is that what you want—for your daughter to see her mother killed by her own father because of his greed and cruel ambition?
No, she had made her choice. Whatever came next, she would deal with it.
Soon the trundling uks wagon had left the coastal city far behind, and the only thing in sight was desert. It was too late for second thoughts now. There was no going back.
“Why you go Reygistan?” asked Bulan, the train master, when she had applied for passage. “You no trader or merchant.” Their two independent heads swept her with a quick, expert glance. “You no mercenary too. Why for go such long journey?”
She hesitated. Although the train master was speaking Aqrish for her benefit, Bulan was Vanjhani, and she knew the Vanjhani were honorable to a fault. Despite being literally two-faced and four-armed, they had a hard-won reputation for being the most reliable, loyal, and fair of all the many races that roamed the Red Desert. But she didn’t know whom she could trust, and she wasn’t ready to start just yet.
“I have nobody left in Aqron,” she said. “My sister lives in Reygar. My daughter and I will start a new life there with her.”
The train master was silent. Their massive eight-foot-high hulk towered above Aqreen, but despite the formidable muscled body and intimidating double gaze, there was something reassuring rather than threatening about Bulan.
Vanjhani were dual-bodied. Two massive legs sprouted a torso that split, like a tree trunk, into two upper bodies, each with its own arms, neck, head, personality and gender. Vanjhani were famed for their unique physical appearance, their prowess in battle, and their fierce character and integrity. The fact that the master of this wagon train was one had been a significant factor in her choice.
She felt safer in Bulan’s presence. She had grown up around Vanjhani, was familiar with their unusual eating habits and customs, and had learned that like many of the largest and strongest races, they could be surprisingly gentle and kind. Bulan’s reputation as a train master was considerable.
“Something about you,” Bulan said now, considering her thoughtfully. One head, the one with the scars on the side of its scalp, sniffed curiously, then whispered something in the ear of its companion. “Yes, definitely something. You are running from something. Or someone?”
She swallowed nervously. “I am no criminal,” she said cautiously. “I have done nothing wrong. I am simply taking my daughter to see my sister.”
One of Bulan’s heads laughed softly. The other frowned disapprovingly. “Who say anything about criminal? Why guilty so?” The head that had laughed shook from side to side, unconvinced. “Who travel with small child twenty thousand miles across Red Desert for seven years just to visit sister? Something more than you say to us is behind your trip. Bulan smell it on you, the fear.”
She almost broke down in tears. A part of her was still trembling inside, in constant dread of being found out, of being exposed and dragged back to Aqron, to be brought before the burning eyes of her husband. To face his punishment. If he had treated her so brutally at the best of times, imagine what he might do after such a betrayal. No. It didn’t take any imagination to know the answer. He would kill her, plain and simple.
“Please,” she said at last, forcing her voice to sound as normal as possible. “I will pay you more. Don’t ask questions.”
Bulan sighed with one mouth and pursed the lips of the other. “Coin. Is coin only thing in world? Everyone talk coin, coin, always coin. It not solve all problems. It mostly worsen them.”
She was silent then, afraid she had said too much, sounded too desperate. Were they angry with her? She couldn’t take their anger. She had become so sensitive to the very possibility of anger. Jarsun had done that to her. She could only hope she had taken Krushita away from his presence in time, before her daughter could be corroded with the same anticipatory fear.
Something in her face made Bulan pause. Their faces softened as they looked down at her. “Easy,” said one head, the nicer-looking one. “No get panic. You want passage on train? I give you passage. Ten thousand wagons—one more not make any difference. I only ask because . . .” The face hesitated, glancing at their companion, who nodded subtly. “Because you look like you need friend.”
She stared up at them, looking from one to the other. Bulan’s four arms were by their sides now, quite still, but their massively muscled shoulders and trunk-like legs left no doubt about their formidable strength and fighting ability. But what use were muscles and bulk when pitted against black sorcery? She had seen Jarsun dispose of entire regiments of armored cavalry without drawing a sword. She had no right to put the Vanjhani’s life at risk. Besides, she could not tell anyone, not for any reason. That was the solemn promise she had made herself before leaving in the dead of night.
She decided to settle for the truth within the wrapping of a lie.
“My husband,” she said hesitantly, choosing her words carefully, “was . . . not a good man. I was afraid what he might do to me, and to our daughter someday. I left him. I don’t intend to go back. Ever.”
Even admitting that much put a knife of pain through her heart. Saying it aloud made it real. Yes, she was leaving Aqron, the city of her birth, of her ancestors, the city built by her family, the greatest, proudest, most beautiful city-state in the world. It hurt to admit it, but it was the truth. She could never go back home.
Bulan looked away, all four eyes scanning the evening sky. The sounds and commotion of the train settling down for the night provided a discordant backdrop of normalcy. The train master seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“I thought something like it,” they said at last, still not meeting her eyes. “It is sadly common story.” All four of their fists clenched, and both jaws hardened. “Such men do not deserve to have families.” They sighed and loosened their fists. “Yet that is world. Such men are.”
They stood in silence another moment. Then added gruffly, “You did good to leave. You have lovely daughter. You deserve all good. You will be safe here in train. Bulan will see to it no one bothers you. Go with Goddess.”
They turned abruptly away, and Aqreen realized with a start that the interview was over. Bulan was already striding toward the campfire that was being stoked by their assistants. She was filled with a sudden burst of elation. She had done it! She had gained passage on the Wagon Train. Now, she and Krushita could travel safely all the way to Reygar.
But by the time she woke the next morning, the elation at being accepted under the Vanjhani’s protection had faded. It was replaced by a more familiar sense of dread.
There were other dangers to consider.
It was one thing to be fleeing Jarsun; taking his daughter and heir was not something he would forgive. The die was cast, and she must simply endure what lay ahead. He would come after them sooner or later, she had no doubt of that. All she could hope was that he would not find them, cloaked in the anonymity of a large desert caravan as they were now.
While the White Desert was policed by Aqron desert marshals, once they crossed over into the Red Desert, there was no authority, no cities or towns, nothing to protect one from the elements, the bandit raids, and the fearsome creatures hardy enough to survive in that deadly wasteland. At least with a large caravan, there was safety in numbers.
Aqreen had considered going with one of the small merchant groups. The White Desert was safe, and their destinations were picturesque coastal cities which were safe and prosperous places. But it was only a matter of time before Jarsun’s megalomanic obsession consumed them too. They were much too close to Aqron for comfort. In the end, she decided to stay the course, feeling a twinge of doubt as she watched the splinter groups trundle away.
Over ten thousand wagons remained on the Red Trail. Larger caravans would leave at peak trading season, but she could not wait that long. Ten thousand wagons was a small caravan in the vastness of the Red Desert, but not too small to make the crossing. If they were lucky, perhaps seven or eight thousand would actually survive. The odds were better than staying in Aqron and risking the fate that had befallen her father and uncles. She could no longer bear to watch Jarsun destroy her family’s legacy and turn Aqron into a despotic tyranny.
Reygistan was her only hope.
Jarsun’s poisonous reach had not yet extended that far, and Queen Drina of Reygar, the capital city of the Queendom, had made it clear that an alliance with him was not worth contemplating. For that matter, Aqreen could choose to take her daughter to any city in Reygistan. Each of the separate nations in the Queendom was fiercely loyal to Drina and capable of withstanding any assault from Aqron, were Jarsun to be so brazen as to try to take it by force.
So Reygistan it was, and she stayed with the main caravan.
She believed—no, she hoped—that she and Krushita would be safe there.
This was when she still dared to hope. Before the terror began.
At night by the communal campfires, Aqreen listened to the merchants talk freely over their cups. None believed that all-out war was a serious possibility. She knew better. She understood most of what was said, though at times the myriad foreign accents and dialects made it seem like they were speaking in broken syntax. She had been tutored in the old high languages, supped with great kings and ambassadors from around Arthaloka, but had rarely been exposed to the commonspeak of working folk. These were mostly merchants and traders, accustomed to speaking freely among their own, and they took her for a veiled widow fallen on hard times, not quite one of them but close enough to be treated as one.
“Jarsun is not fool! No war for him with Burnt Empire. Nor can he!” A bristle-bearded wine merchant from Aquina finished his roasted meat and stabbed the skewer into the sand. “Insufficient are Aqron’s forces. Hastinaga standing army alone outnumbers Aqron’s by twenty to one.”
“With Reygistan, maybe he has chance.” An androgynous silk trader from Asatin sipped their brew. “Queendom fights fierce.”
“Ha! Reygistan never! Queen Drina spits to Jarsun.” This from an itinerant baccan-chewing sand-builder with a Reygari accent. She put two fingers to her lips and spat a bright purple stream into the fire. The yellow flames turned green and sparkled. “Thus!”
“He could always invade Reygistan and take over by force,” said a heavyset jewelry trader with a mournful jowly face. “He will not simply ignore the insult given him by Hastinaga. What Dowager Empress Jilana and Prince Regent Vrath did was against Krushan law. Pure hypocrisy! Princess Krushita passed the Test of Fire and has seniority over Princes Adri and Shvate. She deserves to sit upon the Burning Throne, with Queen Aqreen governing the Burnt Empire as regent until the girl comes of age.”
At the sound of her and her daughter’s names, Aqreen shifted uneasily. She had taken care to dress down, alter her speech, veiled herself with a hibij; no one in the caravan knew her true identity, and they were all foreigners unlikely to recognize Queen Aqreen even if they saw her face. But her daughter was small enough to respond to her given name instinctively. Aqreen glanced toward the back of the wagon where Krushita was sleeping.
“He never dare invade Reygistan,” said the Reygari sand-builder. “Queen Drina and the Queendom easy defeat him, leave remains to eaten alive in Red Desert!”
“Jarsun not so easy to kill,” said the Asatin silk merchant, stroking the velvety head of their shvan. The animal was one of tens of thousands in the caravan. Every wagon had at least one, many had entire packs. Easily domesticated, shvan were loyal watchers, guards, and protectors. When they sensed a threat, their attractive soft fur hardened into a brindled coat of needle-sharp spines.
On her travels with her late father, Aqreen had seen an infinite variety of shvan breeds in different lands, each suited to their local climate and environment. These were desert-bred shvan, capable of surviving on little water and even less food for long periods, capable of resisting the devastating firestorms that swept the Red Desert. At night, they patrolled the boundaries of the wagon train in large packs. Their roars and howls in the night were unnerving and kept Krushita awake at first, but once she got used to them, she found them comforting; so did Aqreen, who had been forced to leave her beloved shvan, Ackee, back in the palace—he was an aging, ailing, coastal shvan, ill-equipped to survive the long desert journey or the Reygistani climate. Now she felt comforted knowing they were out there, watching the caravan’s perimeter. If Jarsun did track her down and catch up with the caravan, they would be the first to announce his presence. Even Ackee had never taken to the demonlord’s presence; there was something about his aura or odor that infuriated all animals.
Right now, the shvan dozed peacefully by the warmth of the campfire. The White Desert could be freezing cold at night, often receiving a light dusting of snow before the sun rose and burned it away. Desert shvan loved the warmth, and as they grew older, preferred to stay close to the hearth rather than venture out into the cold. The shvan’s indulgent owner continued to stroke the animal affectionately as they went on. “We hear stories on our travel. Jarsun immortal, some say. Cannot be killed. Others say he dies and is reborn each night.”
“Uks-shit!” The Reygari spat another bright purple jet of baccan juice into the fire.
“No, no, is some true. I heard stories also.” The silk trader glanced around nervously, as if worried that Jarsun might appear at any moment. “Strange talk. Say he is born of urrkh father who rape mortal woman.”
“Uks-shit!” repeated the Reygari, looking disgusted. “He just man! Cock between legs same like you. How else have child by Queen Aqreen? See to Princess Krushita—she is perfect mortal child. How urrkh can produce such child?”
“They say he chooses to take mortal form for such purpose,” the jewelry trader replied. “He only shows his true form when he attacks. He can change back and forth at will.”
The small group was silent for a moment, as if contemplating the idea of Jarsun shifting from mortal to another form and what that form might be. From several hundred campfires burning along the length of the caravan, the sounds of laughter, conversation, music, and singing carried on the still desert air. The plaintive seductive notes of a sehni flute trilled, counterpointed by the rousing backbeat of a tabal drum; loud whistles and lusty cheers encouraged the professional skin dancers to strip off the last of their skimpy adornments. It had been a profitable season, and the traders and merchants were in a celebratory mood. These were people unapologetic about physical appetites and indulgences. She did not mind it, though her conservative Aqronian upbringing did cause her to blush at some of the more orgiastic goings-on by the campfires.
Running shadows flickered beyond the wash of the firelight, startling her back to herself; Aqreen knew they were only the caravan’s shvan packs, setting out on their nightly circuits, but the scurrying shapes still put her on guard. She was the only one trying desperately not to think of Jarsun, and failing.
Yes, he has a cock between his legs like any man, she thought, despite herself. And yes, it looks like any man’s, but there are times when he is in a rage and starts to change involuntarily . . . At such times, that cock, along with the rest of him, splits into—
“You from Aqron. What you think?” asked the Reygari. “You must hear stories from palace. Maids, wet nurse, guards, cooks, servants, all talk. Every city knows gossip of palace, yes?”
Aqreen realized with a start that the person was addressing her. She put a hand up to her face, relieved at the anonymity of the veil.
“All kinds of rumors,” she said, trying to adopt an indifferent tone. “You never know what to believe and not to believe.”
The silk trader also addressed her. “But some must be true. How you say in Aqron? ‘There never snows without cold skies’? Some truth there has in rumors also.”
Aqreen shrugged. “I wouldn’t really know. The only thing I do know for sure is that it was Jarsun who killed King Aqron, not the Krushan.”
The Reygari made a disparaging sound. “Everyone know that!”
“Not the people of Aqron,” said the jewelry trader. “They believe Jarsun’s story that Aqron was murdered on orders of Prince Regent Vrath and Dowager Empress Jilana while they were on the road home from Hastinaga to Aqron after attending the Test of Fire. He says the Krushan elders were loath to allow any rival suitor to live who might someday challenge their own chosen heirs, Prince Shvate and Prince Adri. So they sent assassins disguised as bandits to waylay the convoy in the Ravines of Beedakh.”
A shvan’s long dark snout twitched as the animal picked up an odor. They were known for their sense of smell more than their sight or good sense. Its rheumy eyes flickered, and it sniffed audibly.
The Reygari made scoffing sounds. “Beedakh is not even on Great Trail, it too far off! Beside, if Krushan send assassin to kill, why they only kill King Aqron? Why leave Princess Krushita and Queen Aqreen alive?”
The shvan’s nose twitched again, more vigorously this time, and the pale grey eyes stared into the night.
The wine merchant shrugged. He had risen to pull another skewer off the fire. The roasted meat dripped juices into the flames, which crackled and sparked. “Because Jarsun protect them. Aqron killed while helping fight off attackers. Do not challenge me. I only repeat rumor I hear!” He resumed his seat, too absorbed in biting into a lobe of spicy roast to notice that the shvan had disappeared from its place.
An argument broke out about the rumor. Though it had just started here in the camp, it had been raging ever since Jarsun, Aqreen, and Krushita had returned home to Aqron and word of the terrible disappointment at Hastinaga had spread through the kingdom. There were takers for both versions of the story, and each felt strongly about their version. Over time, these had hardened into firm fact according to their believers, though in truth, neither version was wholly accurate.
Aqreen heard none of it.
She was transfixed by something she saw in the desert.
Ignoring the campfire, the conversation, the safety of the caravan, Aqreen rose and began walking unsteadily into the darkness beyond the flickering shadows. It took the others several moments before they noticed. They began calling out to her, using her assumed name, Fauzi’al, but they might as well have been speaking in foreign tongues. She was deaf and blind to everything but what her eyes saw out there—or what she thought they saw.
“Father?”
The white-robed figure did not respond.
King Aqron continued staring up at the pitch-dark moonless sky. His aquiline profile, the long white beard, the regal brow, the crown poised on his forehead, all evoked a powerful sense of grief in Aqreen’s heart. He appeared exactly the way he had looked the day of the Test of Fire.
What a day of hope and expectation that had been! A world of infinite possibility had loomed before her. It had never been her dream to rule the Burnt Empire, even as a child. After all, Aqron was not a part of the Burnt Empire: the vast hostile geography separating them made it physically impossible. Besides, her father had raised her to regard all people as equals, had taught her that the monarchy served the people, not the other way around; he had never allowed her to take her privilege for granted. But her marriage to Jarsun and the birth of her daughter had seeded the idea. The very thought that her daughter would sit upon the fabled Burning Throne and be empress of the Burnt Empire was a powerful inspiration. Krushita was Krushan after all; Jarsun was the brother of Emperor Sha’ant, the late husband of Dowager Empress Jilana, which made Krushita the eldest direct heir to the Burning Throne.
On the route from Aqron to Hastinaga—the impossible twenty-five-thousand-mile journey reduced to a few thousand miles by Jarsun’s magical portals—she had begun to dream of Krushita seated atop that fabled seat of power hewn from the dark, deadly stonefire. Krushita would end the perennial warring and violence that was a product of the Krushan family’s iron-handed methods of governance. She would be a kind, generous, well-loved monarch who would unite the warring nations and tribes and bring about an era of lasting peace. It was a beautiful vision that came to her night after night, impossibly real in its details and texture. She had begun to feel that this was no dream; it was a form of prophecy.
Prophecy, dream, or vision, it had been crushed—nay, burnt to ashes—when Jilana had denied Krushita’s claim and Vrath had seconded her. Nor had any of the assembled lieges and nobles dared to question their decision. Aqreen and Jarsun had watched her daughter’s claim of legacy razed to the ground. Both were devastated by the decision, but Jarsun had embarked on a campaign of war against the Burnt Empire, unleashing hell and fury against his own kith and kin.
His warmongering had begun almost the instant they left Hastinaga; Jarsun wanted to visit the most powerful kingdoms that were reluctant allies of the Krushan and solicit their support at once. His goal, to tear down the throne that had been denied his heir.
Aqron had refused outright. The kingdom, named after its founder—her father’s namesake—a thousand generations ago, had been a peaceable land for almost all its history, its geographical isolation and plentiful resources enabling it to thrive and prosper on its arts, crafts, local resources, and a flourishing trade. Her father had no intention of turning the safest, most peaceful kingdom in all Arthaloka into a war machine to serve Jarsun’s desire for vengeance.
An argument had ensued which then escalated shockingly into a physical altercation. Aqreen had intervened—her daughter had grown increasingly agitated by the violent voices. Jarsun had backed off with visible difficulty, barely able to contain his rage.
What happened next was still a matter of debate in almost everyone’s mind, except for Aqreen’s, and the cause of the argument was still being debated—albeit good-naturedly—by the caravan campfire right now.
The Aqron entourage had been attacked by bandits in the Ravines of Beedakh—a detour Jarsun had insisted on taking—and they’d had no choice but to defend themselves. Jarsun had placed Aqreen and Krushita into a protective circle of Aqron’s finest, while he and Aqron led the rest of the accompanying marshals against the bandits. That had troubled Aqreen. She knew that Jarsun was more than capable of dealing with a few hundred bandits. But she could hardly ask her father not to do his duty as a parent, grandparent, and commander of the marshals. Alas, Aqron had been killed in the brief but bloody skirmish.
That had shocked Aqreen. The only way Aqron could have possibly come into harm’s way was if Jarsun had intended it to happen. Whether it was a crime of negligence or commission, she never learned, but after her father’s death, Jarsun had gotten his way: she and Krushita had been sent home through a portal at once, while Jarsun began his war campaign, just as he’d desired.
Until then, Jarsun had never acted violently in front of her. She’d heard rumors but had chosen not to give them credence. The outburst against her father had shocked her and upset little baby Krushita. But Aqron’s sudden death in the ravines had stunned Aqreen thoughtless. Later, she would have many questions, but at the time she was too numb to think, let alone speak. And, of course, she had Krushita to care for.
So she had willingly gone through the portal, the palace marshals traveling with her and carrying their late king’s corpse back home, and as the dutiful daughter, Aqreen had tended to the funeral arrangements. The nation went into mourning, equally shocked at the violent end of their beloved liege, and it fell to Aqreen to oversee the affairs of the kingdom as well as nurture Krushita through that difficult period. Though just a baby, Krushita had loved her grand-da dearly and asked for him constantly, insisting he was still “there.” By the time the dark tide of grief had receded and Aqreen could think clearly again, Jarsun had returned to the palace, crowning himself king of Aqron and declaring war against the Burnt Empire, which he claimed was responsible for their late liege’s murder.
From that day to this one had been a straight, inevitable line.
Jarsun’s rage at his daughter being denied the Burning Throne had escalated into a fury. He instituted martial law and then drafted every citizen of the kingdom, able or disabled, old or young, into his army. Incredibly, he had succeeded in provoking several powerful allies of Hastinaga to join his cause, and in the months after his return, Aqreen saw firsthand the manipulative, authoritarian way he compelled pacifist Aqron to prepare for the first all-out war in the kingdom’s history. Those who dissented or even protested were killed without trial.
Aqron changed almost overnight. The prisons and dungeons were emptied, their occupants either recruited or executed summarily. In a few short months, her beautiful, peaceful homeland, once deemed the “safest space in all Arthaloka,” had turned into a despotic tyranny. Jarsun ruled with an iron hand, using his powers as well as playing on the people’s own desire for revenge for their king’s murder and the denial of their princess’s rightful claim. Jarsun vowed that once he’d installed Krushita on the Burning Throne, Aqron would be the new capital of the Burnt Empire, which would encompass all Arthaloka.
Jarsun’s treatment of her worsened, his outbursts escalating and bordering on physical violence. Aqreen began to fear for her life and even, Goddess Jeel protect her, her daughter’s. Every day in that palace became an insufferable agony. Finally, she was faced with a stark choice: stay and be complicit, or escape and fight.
And now, only a few short weeks westward out of Aqron, she found herself standing in the darkness of the White Desert, looking into the eyes of her dead father, whom she had last seen as he rode away from her and Krushita, promising to return as soon as he dealt with those “miscreant bandits.”
He looked exactly the same.
Yet it could not possibly be him. Could it?
King Aqron was dead.
She had spilled hot tears over his bloodied body, seen him given to Jeel, watched his funeral ship floating away on the clear blue ocean marked by the national flag as well as the personal colors of the House of Aqron. Jeel, in her avatar as the Mother of All Waters, would carry him safely to the Unknown Lands, as she had borne a thousand of his ancestors and would one day bear Aqreen herself. Aqron was gone forever, and that was at least partly the reason why Aqreen had had to leave her homeland; without him, Jarsun was unstoppable and ungovernable.
But right now, here was King Aqron, her father, standing right before her in the White Desert gazing up at the star-studded sky, and her heart desperately wanted to believe it was really him.
“Regulus and Magellus are ascendant,” he said in his soft, musical voice. “The seasons are about to change across Arthaloka. Soon it will begin to snow.”
“Father?” she repeated in a wavering voice.
He went on without acknowledging her. “Of course, here in this part of the known world, we have only two seasons to speak of: balmy hot summer and icy cold winter! Your mother would complain to me, saying if we were not monarchy, we could spend more time enjoying the different seasons of this great continent. I used to tell her, if we were not monarchy, we would never have had the opportunity to go on those royal tours that allowed us to experience those different seasons. Like all else, they were the privileges of royalty.”
Aqreen took another step closer.
“Da, is it truly you?”
She had always called him Da in private, even as a grown woman. That was how it had been between them.
At the use of the endearment, King Aqron turned and looked at Aqreen.
She felt a ripple of emotion pass through her.
“Aqreen,” he said with familiar pleasure, the exact same tone he had always used when she came upon him unexpectedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” she said. “Are you . . .” Her thoughts swam. “Are you with the caravan?”
He looked at her with the same remote expression that he had when gazing at the stars. “You know where I am, Aqi.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Aqi was his private nickname for her. He hadn’t used it in a year or three, perhaps because they’d had few private moments together once Jarsun came into her life and swept her up like a whirlwind.
He glanced toward the lights of the caravan behind her. Even from here, she could feel the cadence of the tabal drums like distant heartbeats pulsing in the background. Somewhere, a shvan bayed and was answered by a thousand more.
“You are doing the right thing, taking Krushita away from that evil man.”
She listened without speaking. Just the sound of his voice, the sight of him, the presence . . . she had needed it desperately. This was a precious gift, even if it was only a desert mirage.
“Your instinct was true. The bandits outnumbered us, but Jarsun could easily have destroyed them all unassisted. Before it happened, I saw him glance at me, venom in his eyes. He moved aside to allow them to attack me, while he pretended to help the marshals. Two of them witnessed this, so he killed them. I tried to fight back, but he had done something to me when I wasn’t looking—my arms and feet had turned numb and cold. It was like being snakebit. The bandits struck the killing blow, but Jarsun watched as they did so, not moving a finger to help.”
Aqreen felt a tear spill down her cheek.
King Aqron saw the tear and shook his head.
“Enough of that,” he said. “It was important that you be sure of it, but that is not the reason I left Mother Jeel to come speak with you.”
“I am glad you came, Da,” she said, almost choking on the words. “I need you so much.”
His eyes crinkled sadly. “Aqi, you must be strong now. You have taken a great step, but even now you are not safe. That is why I came to warn you. He is coming after you and Krushita.”
Her palm came away damp when she wiped her cheek. “I know. He will send marshals after us. That is why I joined the caravan. They will never find us here. We are two among tens of thousands. Once we reach Reygar, we will begin a new life. We will be free of him forever. Krushita will be free to live happily, far from his poison.”
His gaze hardened. He took a step forward. “You do not understand. He comes tonight! Not his marshals. Jarsun himself!”
Her heart froze. “But . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know. You waited till he was away before you left. But you remember his powers. He knew of your escape almost at once. He had other business to tend to—the business of war—which delayed him a few days. Tonight he returned to Aqron through one of his infernal portals. As we speak, he is killing the last of the palace marshals for letting you escape. When he is done, he means to come after you.”
Her hand rose to her mouth. “By Jeel.”
She spun around, her heart going to the wagon where her daughter slept. From here it was faintly visible as a faint dark silhouette against the glow of the campfires. “Krushita!”
“She is safe for now. He will not harm her. She is his blood, an heir to the Burning Throne, his only chance of regaining control of the Burnt Empire and claiming his legacy as a Krushan. He is right about that much; she is the rightful ruler of Hastinaga, and Vrath and Jilana must pay for denying her the throne. But even had she been accepted, he meant to use her as an excuse to control the empire himself. He has terrible, unspeakable plans, Aqi. He means to commit genocide on entire nations. To take over the entire world, known and unknown. That is the very reason he was banished by his own brother. Sha’ant was true to the Ashcrit meaning of his given name: Peace. Although he had inherited a legacy built on war and violence, he had no intention of continuing that legacy. He was content to rule the empire as it was, resorting to battle only as a last resort. Jarsun wanted to use war as a stick to beat the world to its knees and lord over it. He believes in the ways of the first Krushan, Kr’ush himself, who was more stone than mortal. It was the cause of their falling-out and the reason Sha’ant eventually banished him. Jarsun will not rest until he regains the Burning Throne. He needs its power to enable his campaign of conquest. That is the way of the Krushan. Only when empowered by the throne can they ascend to true godhead. Sha’ant was careful not to seat himself upon it too long and was redeemed by his mortal love for his wives, Jeel and then Jilana. If Jarsun sits upon it, he and the throne together will unleash a reign of rage and fury such as Arthaloka has never before known. And to achieve the throne, he needs the legitimacy of Krushita’s claim.”
Aqreen felt her face harden. Her tears dried, her hands clenched into fists. “I will die fighting before I let him take her from me.”
Aqron shook his head. “That is exactly what he wants. Except it will not be a fight. Though a brave, strong woman, you are mortal, as was I. Jarsun is a demigod, a direct descendant of one of the original stone gods. When cojoined with stonefire, his powers are unstoppable. Even Mother Jeel fears the terror that he will unleash. She loves all things that live and breathe upon Arthaloka, just as she loves the dwellers of her oceans and rivers. She it was who woke me from my endless sleep, that I might come here and warn you in time.”
Aqreen felt her head swim again. “What should I do, Da? Tell me!”
“You—”
Aqron broke off abruptly. He looked away, into the darkness.
A pack of shvan—a very large pack—began shrieking suddenly. That brain-penetrating sound was their way of issuing a warning that something dangerous was approaching. Not merely a stranger or a threat, but a predator. Suddenly, tens of thousands of the watchbeasts were shrieking shrilly at once, filling the desert night with the piercing siren alert. From the caravan behind her, Aqreen heard the music and laughter cut off as people began shouting and yelling to one another, and she knew even the most sodden drunks would be reaching for their weapons. In the desert, all fellow travelers were family; the group she was with would defend Krushita’s life with their own if anything dared threaten her. It was the only thought that kept her from racing back to the wagon.
“He—” her father began as he looked up.
A portal burst open.
A whirling maelstrom of blinding white light exploded into existence in the air yards over Aqron’s head. A blast of icy glacial wind raised a cloud of sand mingled with flurries of snow, forcing Aqreen to take several steps back and shield her face. The veil guarded her eyes and enabled her to breathe, but the fury of the gust drove sand and snow at her like a thousand pinpricks. A furious howling filled her senses, drowning out the shrieking of the shvan packs.
She struggled to see through the dust and snow.
Aqron stared up as twin dark shapes fell upon him. They thrashed, entwining him like a pair of scourges whipping in concert, as if seeking to cut him to shreds. But his seemingly mortal form, so solid and real until a moment earlier, dissipated into a cloud of hissing steam, like water evaporated by a sudden blast of heat.
Even through the blinding, deafening maelstrom, Aqreen could not mistake the tall, stick-thin form of the father of her child, the husband of her body, the assassin of her father.
Jarsun Krushan.
His face was clotted with rage as he scanned for his intended prey. Two snaking tongue tips flickered out of the corners of his mouth. He hissed his frustration.
“Send back your mortal devotee to face me, Water Goddess!” he shouted. “I will kill him a thousand times over.”
As abruptly as it had appeared, the portal winked out of existence. The steam evaporated, the sand settled. Only a faint smattering of snow underfoot, indistinguishable from the white of the desert, and a brisk chill in the air lingered.
So too did the shrieking of the shvan cease.
Jarsun turned his gaze upon his wife.
“Aqreen,” he said.
“You will never have her,” she said, standing her ground. “I will not let you make her the instrument of your evil.”
His slitted eyes squinted to thin lines. His pursed lips were a curving slash across his face. His bunched fists rose, baring the folds of the flowing red-ochre robe. He wore no jewelry or adornments. When they met, during those first breathless nights of passion, Aqreen had marveled at how smooth, unbroken, unblemished, he wore his skin.
I have never known a prince to be without tattoos or jewels, she had murmured.
You have never known the likes of me, he had replied.
Now she shuddered with revulsion at the very sight of him.
How had she ever found this man attractive? Not even a man . . . a thing. What must her poor father have thought? It was a great credit to Aqron’s tolerant nature that he had never questioned her choice of mate, merely listened quietly as she had expressed her determination to wed him. Aqron was a matriarchal society where males could rule only with the permission of women. Not quite a strict queendom like Reygistan, where men were considered fit only for reproduction and laborious tasks, but different only in custom and grace. She could not comprehend what madness had caused her to give her heart and body to this animal. Was it only three years ago? It seemed a lifetime.
Jarsun hissed plaintively, but there was amusement in the sound now.
“I should have put you down the instant you birthed me an heir.” The sibilant syllables carried on the still air. “As my mother did my father after he seeded her. All she’d needed from him was his Krushan blood. His link to stonefire and her Serapi power combined to make the most powerful being that has ever existed. It was his awareness of this fact and jealousy that made my brother Sha’ant resent me. He deprived me of my birthright when I was still unformed and lacking my full strength. Now Sha’ant’s remains have been absorbed back into the throne, and none who remain possess the power to challenge me.”
“You are not the only demigod that walks the world,” she said scornfully. “Vrath is the son of Jeel herself, birthed by her mortal avatar and fathered by Sha’ant. Your nephew alone is sufficient to put you down, monster!”
A snapping of the air, a rush of wind, and he was in contact with her, his hands clasped tightly around her throat. She choked, gasping, and flailed as her feet left the ground. His fingers slid around her windpipe, squeezing the life out of her. She struggled, but it was futile. He could have snapped her neck instantly but was instead choosing to make her suffer.
“Your foolish escapade has cost these travelers their lives,” he hissed in her ear, his breath cold and musky. “I will slaughter every last one, mortal and beast. Just as I slaughtered the last of your pitifully loyal palace marshals. All you did was delay the inevitable and hasten your own end. I was willing to let you live to tend to the child’s needs until she was grown. It would have saved me the use of slave nurses. I shall not even show you the mercy I showed Aqron as I put him down in the grey dust of Beedakh. Him, I numbed with my venom so he would not feel the cuts and hacks of the bandits as they chopped him to death. You will feel every last instant of pain and terror before the life leaves your pathetic mortal form.”
Aqreen felt the darkness rush into her and knew she was dying. Struggle was impossible.
Her last thoughts were of Krushita, of all that could have been and, horrifically, all that now would be.
Jarsun howled with pain.
A hurtling shape collided with his rakelike form, clenching razor teeth onto his deceptively skinny arm. Other shvan flew at him from all directions, gripping different parts of his body. Instead of finding their teeth gnashing on bone, as would have been the case for a mere mortal, they sank their sharp fangs and talons into thick, juicy meat. Utterly boneless meat.
At the moment of contact, their bodies stiffened, and they dropped dead, the potent venom in Jarsun’s body stopping their hearts instantly. Their bodies thudded to the white sand. But more replaced them, giving up their lives to assault the Krushan. More and then still more, endless hordes of them leaping at him from every side. Although Shvan bayed to call out to one another, chuckled at their human companions, and shrieked at predators, when attacking, they were silent as snakes.
Barely alive, Aqreen staggered back, breath trickling into her abused windpipe. Regaining consciousness with slow, ragged breaths, she dimly glimpsed the writhing sea of dark four-legged furry shapes surging around her would-be assassin and erstwhile mate. Unable to speak, she thanked Jeel for their presence.
But even as she struggled to recover, Jarsun bellowed with a sound that was more thunder than animal cry. His tall form burst alight with the bright viscous blaze of his stonefire. In most Krushan, stonefire burned blue at birth, but each individual developed their own unique shade as they grew. Jarsun’s had a greenish-reddish hue with swirls of yellow, a mottled diamantine pattern that glistened like the skin of a deadly serpent. It made him appear as if he were surrounded by a shimmering shield of power, which wasn’t far from the truth.
The shvan began shrieking again. Their kind had never encountered stonefire in several thousand generations, thus they did not know what to make of this alien threat. All creatures feared fire, but stonefire was more terrible than ordinary flame. The wave of fur receded, eyes glittering like a scattering of rubies in the desert as they held their distance. Aqreen’s heart fell in dismay. She should have known better than to count her stars too soon.
Jarsun’s stonefire reduced in intensity until Aqreen could once again make out the man shape within the unearthly blaze.
He strode toward her, his features a mask of rage and murder as he raised his hand to unleash a blast of stonefire that she knew would destroy her. Already her hair and brows were being singed by the unbearable heat, her veil starting to smoke as the fabric caught fire.
“You will—” he began.
But he never got to finish his threat.
An invisible force struck him in the face, knocking him sideways like a rag doll. He flew several yards to one side and landed in loose sand, skidding and tumbling, his stonefire suddenly extinguished.
The shvan were still keeping their distance in a large circle, safe from the searing stonefire. They were baying now, passing on the word of the attack to their fellows.
“Ma.”
Aqreen turned her head to see, several yards behind her, a small shape on two legs. “Krushita!” she cried, and stumbled toward her daughter, who ran to meet her, barreling into her with the fierce possessiveness of a loving child.
“Da hurt Ma!” she cried indignantly as Aqreen wrapped her arms around her. “Da hurt Ma!”
“Oh, my child,” Aqreen said, tears spilling freely from her sore eyes. “You should not have come after me. It is not safe.”
Krushita hitched in a tearful breath. “Krushni know. Ma in trouble. Krushni come.” Unable to pronounce her own name fully, she had settled on Krushni. For once, Aqreen went along with her self-given nickname.
“Oh, my baby.” Then it occurred to her. “What did you do to Da? How did you—”
Krushita’s head snapped around. She made a sound Aqreen had never heard from her before: a kind of growl that was less animal than flame. Like a forest fire feeding on a thousand trees at once.
Aqreen turned to see Jarsun striding toward them.
His eyes glowed in the darkness.
“So my daughter has begun to demonstrate her power. Early even for a Krushan. She is strong, stronger than I was at her age. But still a child.”
The crackling growl built in Krushita’s belly.
Aqreen could see the glow faintly visible through the slim gap between her daughter’s teeth; she could feel the rising heat; the banked power of stonefire in the little girl’s core. But she’s only a baby, she thought. It was only a few weeks ago that she began to form words!
“Come to me, girl,” Jarsun said with the smooth oily tone that passed for affection in his lexicon. “Come away from that woman. You will be raised by your father now. We have no need of mere mortals, you and I. Together we will be unstoppable. I will train you to use your powers to—”
Again, he never got to finish.
A tongue of fire flashed out from Krushita’s mouth, disappearing almost instantly as it flew toward her father. No, not disappearing, transforming.
Jarsun staggered back as an invisible fist struck him in the torso. He hissed with outrage. “Ungrateful wretch!” he cried as he clutched a palm to the struck region. “You dare attack your own forebear!”
“Da hurt Ma,” Krushita said from beside Aqreen.
Aqreen stole a glance at her daughter. Krushita’s eyes swirled with curlicues of power. Within them, she could see distant stars and entire worlds. It was not a reflection. It was within Krushita. She stared. She had never seen this side of her daughter before. It was awe-inspiring, but not in the repulsive way that Jarsun’s power could be; it was like looking up at the night sky and realizing how minuscule mortals were and how even the entire world of Ur and the great supercontinent of Arthaloka were insignificant in the vastness of the cosmos.
In the desert around them, the shvan bayed happily, converging again on Jarsun, who was staring at Krushita. Abruptly, he turned his gaze aside to Aqreen.
“This is not over,” he said. “I will find you again, and I will destroy everyone you touch. She is mine! Mine!”
An explosion of light and wind, and a dark empty space opened behind him. This time, Aqreen felt the musky wooded scent of an ancient forest. She caught a brief glimpse of a dense wood at night, smelled exotic flowers and herbs, then Jarsun stepped through and the portal snapped shut behind him.
The shvan bayed in exultation, celebrating the retreat of their enemy.
They crowded around Aqreen and Krushita, licking the little girl’s hands and softening their fur so she could stroke their heads. They stared at her adoringly.
Aqreen watched her baby daughter with the animals and felt a powerful mixture of motherly pride and renewed hope.
Now, she thought, we have a chance. We can do this. We can survive. Perhaps even more than that.
She rose to her feet, taking her daughter’s tiny hand, and together they walked back toward the caravan, followed by a river of tail-wagging shvan.