Her fingers brushed the outlander’s. She offered him the gold, but he wouldn’t take it.
“What is it you want?” she asked again, though she knew he could not understand her. “What are you waiting for? Kill me or capture me,” she said, her eyes following her soldiers as they crept up the hill. Merit waited, counting the seconds. When the men were close, she threw herself out of the way. A Harkan spear whistled past the outlander, striking rock, sending sand into the air. Merit pushed forward, trying to sidestep the man, but the outlander was gone before she could act, scrambling silently through the tall rocks and vanishing.
Merit was left alone at the top of the cliff, wondering what had just happened. Why had he hesitated? Why had he not struck when he had the chance? The outlanders had twice left her alive, once when they slaughtered the horses and again just now. She understood their earlier tactic—she knew the benefits of starving your enemies—but this man had no reason to hesitate. She was his to kill, but he had stretched out his hand to her. He had wanted something other than blood.
“Queen Regent,” said Sevin as he arrived at her side. “Now that you’re done trying to get yourself killed, would you like to return to the camp?”
Merit smirked and Sevin grumbled something about foolish women and the problems of protecting a queen regent who wasn’t anxious enough about her own head. Merit’s waiting woman was as pale as alabaster when she saw her at the base of the cliff.
“It’s all right, Samia,” Merit said. “Get ahold of yourself, or they’ll hear you.” The girl settled back down on the hard sand, using her dress to wipe her face. Merit did her best to ignore Samia, but the man she had seen at the hilltop was clearly not alone. She heard animal cries echo across the canyon walls. Had her captors at last decided to advance?
Darts whistled through the canyon, a soldier fell. Merit drew her sword. Her captain came to her side and raised his shield. Loud cries bounded through the canyons. Blackwood staves raised to the sky, the outlanders crowded near the canyon’s edge, approaching slowly, carefully making their way across the brown, hard-baked plains; through the scrub and the stones, they were coming.
The Hykso held back their attack for a reason. The man on the hilltop, his outstretched hand, he wanted a ransom, not a kill.
“We’re not fighting our way out of this, Sevin. There is no need.” Merit sheathed her mother’s sword. She turned to the last of her soldiers, her hands raised over her head. “Put down your weapons!” she shouted. They looked confused, glancing from her to Sevin, to Asher and back. “Now!” she commanded, and they did, reluctantly.
Sevin sputtered. “You men, rearm yourselves,” he ordered, but before they could pick up their weapons, Merit stopped them. “My orders stand. You serve the queen regent of Harkana and no other.” The men lowered their weapons. The outlanders had not come for her head; she was certain of it—that was why the man had paused on the hilltop, why their darts had targeted the horses.
Merit Hark-Wadi stood tall and patted her captain on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Sevin, Asher,” she said. “Trust me.” But her soldiers’ eyes followed her, their expressions tense, confused. Let them tremble, she thought. The men’s swords would not save them this time. They were outnumbered, trapped. If they fought they would perish, and Merit was not ready to die, not when she had just learned the secret behind the empire. She would rather bide her time as a captive than risk dying with her secret. So Merit strode to the edge of the camp, past Sevin, past the men hurrying to put on their armor, past the tents, past the little maidservant weeping into her hands that she didn’t want to die, she wasn’t ready to die, not today. Merit walked out beyond the stones toward the Hykso and held up her hands in supplication, in surrender. Her blue dress flapped in the wind behind her like a flag. What a sight she must have been to the fierce Hykso in their white ash, their mouths screaming for blood, to the Harkan soldiers sworn to protect her: a woman with long black locks surrendering herself to them, the queen regent of Harkana offering herself up as ransom.
48
Kepi startled when the door opened, the dress she held nearly falling to the floor. For a moment she had thought it was Dagrun. She had not seen the king since she left him in the tent filled with manuscripts. A week had passed since that day, but she still wasn’t certain what had happened in the tent, why she had frozen in place when Dagrun held out his hand. Perhaps it was his generosity that startled her. She guessed that was why she had recoiled. No, it was something more. Something she could not admit to herself just yet. She had believed his gifts to be false tokens, a pretense of affection, but now, days later, Kepi wondered if she had it wrong. Perhaps he had put a bit of consideration into his offering, but she hadn’t recognized it.
Dammit. Everything here was so foreign; she didn’t know what to think.
Dalla entered with a crock of amber and cakes of bread for Kepi’s morning meal. The girl kept her eyes properly lowered, but her presence was unnerving. Kepi had spent weeks in Rifka, her wedding was a fortnight past, but she was still getting used to her surroundings. She took the vessel from the girl and poured herself a cup, gulping it down, then took another. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
Though indeed blind in one eye, Dalla’s gaze was fixed on the floor. “Mistress,” she said, “the king has made you some armor. You’ll find it in that trunk over there.”
Armor?
Kepi knelt and opened the trunk under the window. Near the bottom, she discovered a well-made set of leather breeches, a tunic, and a leather breastplate embossed with the tree of Feren in the center. All new, all done in her size. Kepi took them out of the trunk, pressed them to her breasts.
Sparring clothes. Dagrun had had his seamstresses make her a set of sparring clothes, so that she could practice in the ring.
In all her life, no one had ever understood how much she enjoyed the thrill of a sharp blade and the chafe of hard leather on her skin, how much it meant to her that she could hold her own in the ring against anyone, man or woman. Her sister had always discouraged Kepi’s interests, and her father had always seemed amused and baffled that his youngest daughter was such a brute, wondering why she did not prefer needlework and dancing and other such girlish silliness the way Merit had.
But now here was her new husband, the man she had questioned above all others, presenting her with a set of sparring clothes, actually encouraging her to continue her swordplay after their marriage. Odd, she thought, of all the people in the world, it is Dagrun who understands what I need. Or is he simply playing to my weakness? Kepi could not be certain, but she thought she knew the answer.
“Mistress?” said Dalla, looking confused. “Are you all right?”