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  “That will not do with Sâr Wilek. We will be married whether we like each other or not.”

  “Which is why you must let him know that you like him.”

  “But I cannot!”

  “He’s to be your husband. You must!”

  Lady Zeroah pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Let us talk of something else.” She stood and tugged Mielle toward the door. “Come, I will show you the manor.”

  “Are you angry about what I said?”

  “Of course not. I told you I wanted an honest friend. You are a gift from Arman, Mielle. I cherish you. But I cannot be forward with the sâr. I will have to find another way.”

  Mielle took hold of Zeroah’s arm. “Then I shall help you.”

  Charlon

  After months of freedom. A prisoner. Again.

  Huddled in the corner of the wagon, Charlon ached to get free. There were others here. Prisoners. Boys taken from the slums of Bar-Vorak earlier this evening. Just like she’d been taken. Grabbed . . . Dirty hands on her arms. Throwing her roughly into the wagon. No one had touched her in four months. Until now.

  Charlon trembled. Tried not to think of it. She was safe. For now. In her corner. Perhaps the men would not hurt them. She wondered again where they were going. All night the wagon had been driving. Hours and hours in the darkness. None could guess where it was headed.

  Dawn broke. Charlon gauged the situation. There were five captives in the wagon. Four male children and herself, who was neither male nor a child. Despite how she looked. Two men sat at the driver’s seat. Three more rode on horseback. One on either side of the wagon, one behind. Armed with shard clubs and whips. They had short, cropped hair. Brightly colored turbans and kasahs: the thin blankets Magonians tied around themselves for clothing. Charlon wore one too. It had been her disguise. She hoped it would continue to save her from evil men. Evil Magonians.

  But why take children? To sell as slaves? Charlon knew too well how lucrative the slave market was. Especially with the young and innocent.

  She peeked over the side of the wagon. Studied the landscape. Sandy ground sprinkled with cacti and shrubs. Everywhere the same. She had no idea where they were. Where they might be going.

  “Got to pee,” one of the boys whispered to another.

  “So go,” said an older one, motioning to the side of the wagon.

  The first boy crept toward the bed wall. Eyes fixed on the man riding alongside. The man seemed to ignore him. The boy stood and fumbled with the folds of his kasah.

  A whip snapped through the air. The boy collapsed, an anguished cry soft on his lips. A thin line of blood split his cheek.

  The older boy scowled at him. “Hey!”

  “Stay in the wagon,” the man said, voice calm.

  Charlon sank lower in her corner. Staring at the whip in the man’s thick hand. Heart pounding within. Warning her to get away. Away before she was hurt. Go, her heart said. Go now!

  But she remained. Going would bring pain. How could this have happened? Six years she’d lived a nightmare. After her brother had sold her. To that scorpion.

  Yet she’d escaped. And for four months . . . She’d been doing fine for four months.

  The gods were punishing her. For leaving. Leaving her master. The thought brought anger. Hot and bold. Not even a slave should suffer such cruelty. Gods be hanged! Charlon would serve only goddesses. Goddesses from now on. Males brought nothing but pain. Pain and betrayal.

  Gods included.

  “Please.” The boy who had been whipped rose to his knees, bouncing and grabbing himself. “I got to pee.”

  “Pee, then,” the calm man said. “But don’t stand or get near the side.”

  The boy opened his mouth. No words came forth. He glanced at his friend, then back to the man. “But I’ll make a mess.”

  “Where you’re going, no one will care,” Calm said.

  Charlon’s chest tightened. Such words made her want to leap. Leap from the wagon and run. Run, her heart said. Run now!

  “Just hold it and stop making trouble,” the older boy said.

  But the younger boy had more to say. “But how much farther ’til—”

  “No talking!” yelled one of the drivers, his voice thirsty and rough. “Stop encouraging them, Vald.”

  Vald spat on the ground but said nothing.

  Silence. From then on. Silence until the sun was hot in the sky. Imagined fears kept Charlon company. Goaded her. Haunted memories touched her. Again and again she forced them away. They always returned. Always.

  The wagon neared a hill. Slowed as it ground through drifting sand to the top of the ridge. On the other side, a valley. Prickly green bushes, huge cacti, tangles of whitethorn and cat claw. Growing thick from crags of sand and rock. Beyond lay a camp. Several white tents. One red.

  The wagon descended into the valley. The red tent sat on a perfectly round hill. A tart on an overturned bowl. The white tents ran side by side in two long lines. Maybe a dozen on each side. A narrow, dusty path between them.

  The wagon slowed to a stop in the middle of the camp. Vald rode away. Charlon’s heart still pounded within. She stared at the red tent, drawn by the color of blood.

  Would she bleed? Would these men make it so?

  The red tent on its hill reigned at one end of the path. The white tents blocked Charlon’s view of the other end of camp. All but the top of a bronze pole stretching into the air. Twice as high as any tent. Charlon squinted, trying to see which deity crowned the pole. Too far to tell. Until a cloud moved. The sun reflected off two red stones in the face. Gleaming eyes.

  Magon.

  Charlon’s breath caught. The altars! This must be one of the five. She had learned of Magon’s altars as a child. Each had a different rune carved into the base. One of five runes Magon had taught her first followers. Each altar required a different sacrifice.

  Her heart trilled in fear. They would be sacrificed. Five boys. Killed on Magon’s altar.

  No. Four boys. One woman in disguise.

  Run! her heart screamed. But she gazed at the pole. Prayed to the goddess. Prayed hard. Have mercy, great goddess. I give my life in service. Don’t let me bleed. Please, magnificent one. I beg you. Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let them—

  “She’s ready.” The calm one, Vald, had returned.

  The driver cracked the reins. The wagon jerked forward. Turned in a circle. Rolled away from the camp. They were leaving! Magon had answered her prayer.

  But they did not go far. The wagon stopped in the middle of the shallow valley.

  “Out,” Vald said, waving his shard club. “Time to run.”

  The boys stood, slowly. Some had been sleeping. The one nearest Charlon left a wet mark on the worn wood. The backside of his kasah was dark from moisture.

  Charlon pushed to her feet. Followed the boys to the wagon’s edge. Eyes watching the men. Must keep away. She jumped down to hot sand. Feet burning. She kicked aside granules to reach the cooler layer beneath the surface. The boys did the same. None had sandals.

  “I’m hungry,” a small boy said.

  “I’m thirsty,” said another.

  “Why’d you bring us here?” asked the oldest.

  “For the hunt,” Vald said.

  The boy who’d wet himself asked, “What we hunting?”

  Vald chuckled. “You aren’t hunting, lad. You’re the game. The Chieftess and her maids are hunting you. So I suggest you move quick and find a place to hide.”

  “Come on. Let’s go!” And the oldest took off.

  The other boys scattered. Charlon ran too. The man’s words settled in her mind.

  They were being hunted.

  Wagon wheels creaked. Charlon glanced back. The wagon heading back to camp. With it the men on horseback. But other horses were coming. She quickly counted six riders. Females. Approaching fast. Pikes in hand.

  Goddess, no!

  Charlon faced forward. Sprinted after the boys. Most had stopped. Crouched be
hind bushes or cacti. None hidden well. Charlon wanted to live. Needed to disappear.

  Feet smarted from hot sand, sharp rocks, prickly plants. She ignored the pain. Ran faster. Must crest the hill. Then she could hide. Sprinted up the slope. Arms pumping. Legs spinning.

  Behind her a boy screamed. Agony ringing out. Farther away another boy yelled. Closer, a third. The piercing cry echoed off the rocks.

  Charlon pushed harder.

  More screams came. Clomping hooves grew nearer. The sounds urged her legs to move faster . . . faster . . . faster.

  Pain exploded in her belly. Charlon collapsed. Slid down the incline on the hot sand.

  Don’t, don’t!

  Her gaze drifted to her waist. The tip of a wooden spear protruded from her stomach.

  Don’t.

  A keening moan sighed from her lips. Her body pulsed with heat. She pushed to her knees. Focused. The retreating rear of a horse. Galloping back into the fray. The rider must think her dead.

  She was not. Not dead yet.

  Reaching behind, fingers grazed wood. Gripped the shaft. Pulled the spear backward. Pain swelled within. Dizziness swept over her. She held her breath. Kept pulling, pulling. The spear slid free. Fire inside. Hot and draining. She gasped. Dropped the pike. It clattered against rocky sand.

  Fingers trembling, she untied the shoulder of her kasah. Folded it into a long strip. Wrapped it around her waist. Once. Twice. Tied it as best she could. Her breasts were exposed now. No matter. Nothing mattered now but survival.

  She stood. Her vision blackened. She paused to let it pass. Once her eyesight cleared, she stepped toward a tangle of brown branches. Three steps and she collapsed. On hands and knees. Crawling the rest of the way. Burrowing through thorny prongs. Scratching her skin. No matter. Must hide. The hunters would return.

  No strength left. She fell into tingling darkness.

  “How’d he get in there?” A man’s voice. Low and rough. Thirsty.

  “Must have crawled in after he got hit,” another man said. Calm. Vald.

  Then a more distant voice. Tight. Nervous. “Here’s the spear that got him! Must have hurt to pull this out.”

  “Tough little pinch root,” Thirsty said. “Times like this I want to flee to Rurekau.”

  Footsteps approached. “Don’t let the Chieftess hear you say that,” Nerves said.

  “Am I saying it to her face?” Thirsty asked. “No. I’m saying it to the backside of a dead boy, who’s about to become a burnt offering. Now shut up and bring the hatchet. I’ll have to cut him out.”

  The voices pulled Charlon toward the pain. She groaned, wanting to keep away.

  “Holy goddess, the kid’s still alive,” Thirsty said.

  “What should we do?” Nerves asked.

  “Slit his throat,” Vald said. “Put him out of his misery.”

  “Don’t!” Charlon gasped in a deep breath. A sound like a braying pig.

  “Easy now,” Thirsty said. “You’ve made a bed in a patch of sticky snare. We’re trying to cut you out.”

  “Don’t kill me,” Charlon rasped.

  “Can’t have only four sacrifices, can we?” Thirsty said.

  “No sacrifice,” Charlon said. “Don’t want to die.”

  “Neither do I,” Thirsty said. “And if I come back without you, I’ll be number five.”

  “Can’t you reach him yet?” Nerves asked. “Pull his legs.”

  “I’m trying, but—”

  Galloping hooves approached. The hacking stopped.

  “Why aren’t you done?” a woman asked.

  “This one dug his way into sticky snare,” Thirsty said. “We’re cutting him out.”

  Charlon turned her head. Squinted through the branches. The woman sat on a white horse. Wore animal pelts and skins. Dozens of furry tails hung around her waist. Formed a short skirt. Dangling above her knees. She dismounted in a single leap. Approached Charlon’s hiding place.

  “Don’t . . .” Charlon’s voice was but a whisper.

  The woman crouched. Peered into the snare. Their eyes met briefly. Tan face painted with red and black streaks. Hair pulled back. Dyed with bright red paint. Paint smeared along her skin at the edge of her hairline.

  Her eyes lit with fire. Turned to burn another. “You let us hunt a woman?”

  Behind Charlon the men grunted.

  “Looks like a boy to me,” Thirsty said.

  “You’ve seen many boys with breasts?” Even her voice burned now.

  Branches cracked as the men moved. Don’t touch. Please don’t.

  “Little breasts,” Vald said.

  Nerves snickered.

  “Cut her out of there, but do not kill her,” the woman said. “Mreegan will want to speak with her.” The woman strode back to her horse. Mounted. Galloped away.

  Charlon would not die. Not this moment, anyway.

  “Speak with her about what?” Nerves asked.

  The hacking resumed. “Either way, Roya will make trouble,” Thirsty said.

  Charlon fell into darkness. When she next opened her eyes, she was being carried.

  By a man.

  Touched!

  Don’t!

  She screamed. Struggled. Pain pulsed through her. Blurred her vision. “Let go!” The smell of sweat and blood. Her stomach twisted. She pushed her elbow into the man’s gut.

  Drop me. Please, let go!

  His hold tightened. “Not going to hurt you.” The voice belonged to Thirsty. “Can’t speak for the Chieftess, though. She’s a hard one to figure.”

  Chieftess? Charlon gripped his arms. Dug fingernails into flesh. “Put me down.”

  “Hurt me if you must, woman, but I’m trying to help.”

  Men never helped. “I must walk.”

  “You can’t,” Thirsty said. “You’re dying. The only way you’re going to live is if the Chieftess heals you. And I’m not saying she will.”

  The Chieftess wanted to speak to her.

  Muscles relaxed. Mind stayed sharp. Thirsty’s man smell gnawed. Twisted. She needed to run. Run far away.

  Thirsty carried her into the camp. Up the hill to the red tent. He stopped before two men. Men standing on either side of a door.

  “I’ve brought the woman,” he said.

  The door flap shifted. Thirsty carried her into darkness. She smelled blood and something earthy. Starchy. Strained to see. Woven straw mats on the floor. A pile of furs. Gnarled whitethorn branches. Lashed together. A throne. A woman sat there. A pale newt on her shoulder.

  Chieftess Mreegan of Magonia.

  A bare-chested man stood to one side. Waved a huge palm branch over the Chieftess. On the other side, a woman. Standing regal, like a statue.

  Thirsty dropped to his knees before the throne. Kept his hold on Charlon. Bowed his head. Did not speak. Charlon studied his closed eyes. Lashes thick against dark skin. She willed him to put her down. He did not.

  “She’s near death,” the Chieftess said.

  Thirsty opened his eyes. “I fear she has little time left.”

  The Chieftess’s cold gray eyes focused on Charlon’s. Probing. The newt watched her as well, its eyes red. “Who stuck her?”

  “The Fourth,” Thirsty said.

  “Then my Fourth shall take her place. Prepare her for sacrifice.”

  The woman beside the throne left.

  “Why did you dress like a boy?” the Chieftess asked Charlon. “Why have you cut short your hair?”

  “Boys draw less attention,” Charlon whispered. “Less than girls.”

  Gray eyes probed deeper. Chilling. “You’ve been hurt. Before.”

  She knew. Could see the pain within. Charlon could hide only by closing her eyes.

  A clap of hands. “Bring her to my bed.”

  Thirsty stood. Grunted.

  Charlon’s eyes flashed open. “Don’t!” She tried to struggle. Too weak.

  Thirsty held her captive. “You’re safe now,” he said. But men lied. Always.

&n
bsp; A few steps and he knelt again. Laid Charlon on the pile of furs. Leaned back. She was free! She pushed to hands and knees. Crawled over the furs. No way out.

  She turned. They were watching. Thirsty. The Chieftess. The man with the palm. Her arms wobbled. Darkness flashed. She fought to stay awake. Failed. Fell.

  Hands grabbed her. Stretched her out. She heard her own whisper. “Don’t.”

  “Remove the kasah,” the Chieftess said.

  Rough fingers fumbled with the knot at Charlon’s waist. She opened her eyes. It was Thirsty. He would hurt her. She reached out to stop him. But her hand barely rose off the furs. Her strength was fading. She was dying. Finally. Eyes closed forever.

  What would happen? Would she see her mother? In the Lowerworld? Would Gâzar let her in? She’d never served him well. Never pledged her life to any god. Until Magon.

  Thirsty pulled the kasah from Charlon. The wad of fabric slid under her back. Unwound from her body. Suddenly she was naked but for blood. Blood everywhere. Cold air from the man’s palm leaf tingled her skin. Everyone was staring. She closed her eyes. To hide. They could not see within. They could not take everything.

  A hand touched her side. Her eyes sprang open. A groan of pathetic protest. The Chieftess was kneeling beside her now. Eyes closed. Murmuring. Foreign words.

  Slowly, word by word, her voice grew. Louder. Until her words rang with authority. Power. “Magon âthâh. Tihyéna shel yâd. tsar dâm. Râphâ zōt chêts. Pârar môwth.”

  Charlon grew cold. The pain increased. The Chieftess removed her hand. Examined Charlon’s wound. With the kasah’s pressure it had oozed blood. Now blood poured forth. Ran down her side. Bubbled. Boiled.

  Charlon shivered violently. What had the Chieftess done?

  Breath wafted from her lips. A white cloud from within. Frost formed dust-like layers on the tent walls. Breath misted from the mouths of the Chieftess, Thirsty, and the palm man. Their hair turned white. The newt stiffened, as did the furs beneath Charlon. Blood stopped flowing from her side. Frozen by bitter cold.

  Charlon blinked. Her eyelashes stuck together. She could not open her eyes. Could not see. Panic lit her heart. But it beat slower. She’d thought she was dying before. This time, it was real.