As a heavy rain began to fall, Merit reached Rifka. The rain pelted her carriage as it rolled into the High City. The roof leaked; it let sheets of rain run through its cracked, knotty face. Merit was drenched, but cheerful. In the desert, a hard rain meant good luck—good fortune had come to her. Long, thunderous showers rarely struck Harwen, but when the rains did come to the desert kingdom, the downpours always preceded a good day, a lucky day. So as Merit’s carriage crossed the bridge leading into Caer Rifka, as she passed the wall and the Chime Gate, she felt invigorated, she had suffered for a reason. She had learned the truth of the empire and had returned to Feren to undo the mess she had left behind.
Gray clouds pushed at the sun, obscuring its edges as Merit stepped from her carriage. The hour felt like twilight, though she knew it to be closer to noontime as she thanked her soldiers, then Sevin and Asher. She thanked Keegan and his company of Feren soldiers. The king of the Ferens was nowhere to be seen. He had not come to greet her, nor had he sent a messenger. She tried not to let it bother her; she told herself he was busy elsewhere, that it meant nothing.
His soldiers led her entourage to a set of interconnecting chambers within the caer. When they arrived at the suite of rooms, Merit made certain Samia was well cared for, was given clothing and blankets and food. She made certain that her servant and all of her soldiers were content before she allowed Dagrun’s men to guide her to her chamber. The soldiers led Merit to the last door at the end of the hall. The room was sparse, but adequate. It was not a queen’s chamber, but she guessed her presence here was only temporary. Soon Merit would sleep at Dagrun’s side. She lingered in the room long enough to change her wet clothes, but no longer. Her feet felt too light to stand in one place, so she went looking for Dagrun. He was no doubt busy with preparations of some kind. There was war in the kingdoms and it was his task to defend Feren.
Merit strode from her room, down a corridor, and out onto the great lawn. She scurried beneath a dripping trellis, past pale-faced slaves and worried soldiers, some faces familiar, others new. A pair of guards trailed behind Merit. She asked one of the men where she might find the king. “Past the Queen’s Chamber,” he said, “in the Chathair.”
He pointed, but she told him to lead. Her attention lay elsewhere. Everywhere she looked the city was alive. The rain made Rifka glow, the water washed clean the thatched roofs and soot-soaked chimneys, it washed the mud from the gravel paths and the stink from the sewers. Rifka was a green place. The city was full of life and energy. Even in the rain there was hammering and sawing, and the sound of workers talking as they went about their tasks. The Ferens hardly paused when the sky poured. Twice one hundred men labored in the misty square to finish the Queen’s Chamber. The structure was larger than she recalled; it towered above nearly all others. Its blackthorn frame—arched beams topped by spindly purlins—rose through the fog like a skeleton, marvelous and gruesome.
They led her though open doors, deep into another part of the caer. In the corridor she heard shouts, iron breaking on wood, cheering. Then Dagrun called out something unintelligible, and the crowd roared.
Through the door to the Blackthorn Chathair she went, smelling earth and fresh lotus. A shifting crowd of slaves filled the entryway, jostling one another to get inside the inner chamber. She had not yet grown accustomed to the lack of clothing that was so common among the Feren slaves and recoiled from arms and elbows moist with perspiration pushing against her, trying to get a better view. What were they so eager to witness, she still could not say; too many heads stood between her and the spectacle in the hall, too many spears, too much noise in too cramped a space. On all sides the slaves wore necklaces of blue lotus, the fragrance mixing with their unwashed bodies, overpowering her senses. She pushed her way through, the clash of iron resonating from an opening somewhere up ahead.
A slave stepped back, crushing her toes, pressing his dirt-smeared body against her gown. The slaves and soldiers who filled the hall were moving backward, clearing a wider ring around their king and, Merit now saw, their new queen. Kepi and Dagrun stood facing each other across the ring. Then they bowed, tipping their swords to each other in respect. So that was the racket. Were they trying to kill each other? Had Dagrun decided he’d had enough of Kepi’s scorn and decided to teach her a lesson?
No—he was smiling, and even Kepi showed a grin. Dagrun gave a thrust that put Kepi back on her heels, barely deflecting the blow, but his body language was loose-limbed, full of enjoyment. “Had enough yet?” he said.
Merit could not hear Kepi’s response.
“Very well then,” Dagrun said, and raised his sword again.
Kepi attacked, but it was without her usual ferocity—the last time, at the Harkan games, she had been all hands and blade, power and hatred—and Dagrun fought her off without difficulty. What was this? Some kind of public spectacle, a Feren tradition perhaps, meant to display the change in the couple’s relationship since the wedding ceremony?
Row by row Merit pushed until her sister and Dagrun came into full view. They stood upon a simple platform, Kepi in tailored sparring clothes, the tree of Feren emblazoned on her chest. It was a regal set of leathers, expensive and certainly a gift from her new husband, as they carried his crest. Dagrun wore a woolen tunic and rough leather breeches, his skin even and smooth where the tunic fell open at the neck. How many times she had wanted to press her mouth to that place at the base of his throat. How many times she had stopped herself.
It had been fear, nothing more. She was regretting it now. Regretting that she had not made her mark on him before she left, that she had not given him what he had asked her for, many times over and over again. Merit had taken his interest for granted, it seemed.
But perhaps there was time yet.
She advanced until a soldier barred her path, blocking the way with his spear. She must have lost her escort at the door. In her haste she had forgotten about the men and now she was alone. Still, Merit was close enough to see Kepi’s face, Dagrun’s too—she could read the looks he was giving his wife. Kepi stood with her hands in Dagrun’s open palms. Kepi laughed, her shoulders shaking, her face turning slightly red. When Kepi smiled she was beautiful.
It made Merit’s stomach churn.
What was happening here?
Kepi was meant to be a proxy, a placeholder, but now she was queen.
A true queen.
A beautiful Harkan queen, who carried the same royal blood in her veins as Merit did. The same lineage that Dagrun had sought when he first came to her, asking for her hand and to dismiss her husband who could not love her.
Dagrun had his Harkan queen, and it was not Merit.
A young boy came in to carry away the swords, another bringing cloths wrapped in silvery leaves. Dagrun picked up one and used it to blot Kepi’s face. The soldier at Merit’s side, the man whose spear blocked her path, saw Merit’s look and mistook it for confusion. “The king and queen had a duel. It’s a celebration, I guess—something the king invented. Seems he met our new queen during a match in Harkana, or was it Rachis?”
“Harkana,” Merit murmured, her mouth suddenly dry.
“If you say so.”