Kepi rode through a postern door, past the low hills and scattered dwellings, riding out across the lonely road that straddled the basin of Amen, the great plain that stood between the Dromus and the hilly highlands of Harkana. It was not Harkana’s safest road, but she had always been careful—she had never encountered any kind of trouble that her horse’s hooves could not outrun, and she concealed a pair of curving blades beneath her saddle.
Ash, her gray-haired rouncy, carried her mistress quickly across the desert hills toward Blackrock. The steady thump of the saddle made the cut on her neck burn and the bruise on her cheek throb. Kepi was aware that once again she was trying to forget, to escape, though she knew she could do neither. She missed her absent father. Was it a month now? The king had never been gone for so long. I wish he would return. She needed allies, she needed the king at home and not off hunting as he usually did during the five lost days. She had so little family left. Her father was away, her brother and her mother too. Kepi had not seen either in a decade. The king of Harkana had his flaws; he could not abide the Soleri holiday, so he left Harwen each year at this time. But he always returned. Isn’t that what matters? she thought. Isn’t that the one thing a parent must do? Stay. Yes, that was it, she thought. Sarra had left them all behind when she fled to Desouk, and Kepi had never forgiven her for that. If her mother had a reason for leaving, Kepi didn’t know it. She didn’t want to know it. I’ve fled the Hornring, but I know I’ll go back. I’ll face Merit and Dagrun. She would not flee from her problems as she guessed her mother had done.
Not long after the low sun had turned the desert’s gray sand into a shadowy mass of purple, Kepi caught sight of the badgir-spiked silhouette of Blackrock’s wall. She rode toward the black stone pylon with her cloak bunched around her shoulders, her hood pulled down. She rode past the city gate, past the statue of Ulfer, past the stables and barracks that housed the garrison’s men and horses. Up ahead stood the lime-washed walls of the Elba—an amber house whose only advertisement was its chalk-white walls and the loud sounds of drinking and cursing that echoed through the open archway. Kepi slipped from her mount and tethered her horse. A boy rushed from the archway; she flipped him a copper turn and asked him to make certain Ash was watered and fed.
Inside, she strode past the crowded front toward the alcoves that ran along the back walls. There in the far corner she saw a boy sitting at a table with three cakes of bread. One black, one brown, one shaped like a star.
“You got my message,” she said, taking the seat across from him.
Seth caught her eye and grinned. “How could I miss it?” He laughed. “No one ever orders black bread. I think the kitchen girls are starting to suspect something.”
She beamed as she tugged back the hood of her cloak. Seth tracked every order that came through the kitchens. If Kepi asked for anything—a glass of amber, salted quail, or a cake of bread—Seth was the first to see her order. Courgettes and olives was an invitation for Seth to visit her chamber; tagins in pots meant to meet at the market; lamb with tagins meant the stables. Cakes of emmer meant Assur. Black bread signified Blackrock. Fast bread told Seth to come quickly, that same day, when he had finished his work. Barley bread, in this case, told Seth to meet her at the Elba.
“This is the third time this month you’ve ordered black bread and everyone hates black bread,” said Seth.
“So do I. I don’t like barley bread either.”
Seth shook his head. “Barley bread was all I ever ate growing up.”
“So you hate it too?”
“Can’t say I do, it’s like hating amber—what’s the use in hating something you can’t live without?”
“I assure you a person can live without barley bread—it’s as hard as rock,” Kepi said as she lifted the cake and broke it in two.
A girl arrived with a cup of amber. Kepi took the clay vessel before the girl could place it on the table. She drank and nearly emptied the cup. “Did you know that my brother was born on the last day of the year?” she asked, putting down her cup.
“Today?”
“Ten and three years ago, but I doubt he knows it. They say the ransoms don’t celebrate such things,” she motioned for another drink.
“I don’t know much about the ransoms,” Seth said, taking a sip of amber. “Do you remember your brother at all?”
“Not really. I was only six when he left. I think Merit remembers him, but she won’t admit it. I tried asking her about him once, but she said she couldn’t recall much, nothing worth sharing.”
“I’ve got eight brothers, but I can’t imagine having one taken when we were young.”
“I would like to see his face. They say the ransoms have gray hair and white skin. They are boys, but they look like ghosts, like withered old men who have never seen the sun.” She shook her head. “That sounds silly—doesn’t it? There are so many stories, but no one really knows the truth.” Kepi took another drink. “Tell me something happy, Seth.” Even if she had seen him only the day before, it felt as though months had passed since they last spoke.
“Not till you tell me what he said. I heard Dagrun proposed, that’s what the cooks are all saying. You replied with some long speech that no one understood, but in the end you turned him down. The bakers all said there’d be war, that Dagrun would come for you for certain.”
“I know.” Kepi lowered her voice. “Dagrun will return. He won’t rest until I’ve married him or one of his lords. The damn Ferens have too much pride, they think they own me,” she said, shaking her head. “Even my own sister seems bent on arranging the marriage. The two were practically grinning until I told him I was still in mourning for my old husband.” Kepi sighed. “You should have seen it, Seth, the Feren slaves, packed shoulder to shoulder, an entire army of them, barely clothed—it was a strange sight, ugly and cruel.”
Seth scratched lines in the table, digging the pointed end of a knife into the soft part of the wood. The candle on the table tipped forward, dripping wax. “You don’t have to marry him—or anyone else,” he said, righting the candle.
“It looks like I have no choice—if not Dagrun then some other Feren. I’m only stalling.”
He shook his head. “There has to be another way.”
She stuck her finger in the melted wax, liking the sharp pain from its heat. They had had this conversation before, and there was nothing she could say to him that he wanted to hear.