Merit took a step back from Dagrun. She would not be rejected. She was the prize, and always had been, not Dagrun, not his army. He was an upstart and a no-name. A brute with common blood.
And now the secret she held—there was no emperor, no more Soleri—was worth more than any army or weapon, god or throne. With this secret she could reverse Harwen’s fortunes and marry whomever she desired. She could even make a place for herself in Solus. Her father would need her at his side.
Dagrun and his kingdom of slaves could do as they pleased.
She no longer needed him. She no longer wanted him. A lie, maybe, but it would be true soon enough. Soon enough.
She was the queen of Harkana and no half-starved ransom from the Priory would take that away from her.
She brightened and faced her former paramour.
“I will go to my husband. I will tend to his wounds and we will ride out ahead of the bridge burning. Harkana needs me.” She took one step back, then another. “I am done here.” I am done with you.
54
Kepi strode from the Chathair, fleeing the crowds of slaves, the servants and the soldiers, wishing her husband had left Merit in the desert with the Hykso. No, she thought, I don’t want that. She simply didn’t want her here, in Feren. Her sister didn’t belong—this wasn’t her place and it never had been. This is my home.
The rain was clearing—though she still felt it on her brow as she dashed across the grass in the sparring clothes her husband had given her for a present. She crossed the clearing with small steps so as not to muddy the leather, then looked for cover. Finding none, she nestled against a wall and closed her eyes, feeling the last of the rain on her face, dripping from the eves, forming puddles, running through her hair, down her skin. The rain made a sound like river rocks rolling underfoot, steady and constant. It dulled her longing for Harwen, for home—so much water, more than Harkana had seen in her entire lifetime, maybe. No wonder Feren was such a green place, so much growing. And I am queen here. She opened her mouth to let the water run into it, cold and sweet.
Eyes closed, she listened to the water falling, to the sound of her own breathing, to the voices of the soldiers leaving the Chathair. She tried to forget the scowl on her sister’s face, the way she glared at Kepi in the throne room. Dagrun had saved Merit from the outlanders, had paid her ransom, and now Kepi wanted her gone—back to Harkana, where she belonged. Dagrun said he would dispatch her, that her sister and Shenn would be gone before the bridge burning. She trusted him. At last she believed her new husband, but she was still eager to see Merit gone. She listened to the rain and tried to forget, but she could not push the image from her thoughts: Dagrun talking to Merit, the two of them together. It left an odd feeling in her stomach and she realized it was jealousy. Dagrun was her king and her husband. Merit didn’t belong here.
A bird cried in the distance. She caught its shadow on the wall but missed the creature itself. Looking around, she saw only damp soldiers, a little sunshine, the blackthorn swaying in the wind. A group of slaves, ones she had seen in the Chathair, scurried through the courtyard. Up ahead, there was a hole in the clouds, a bit of sun, so she stepped out onto the wet grass. The warm rays were a welcome relief. Beams of light washed the field, not burning like the sun in Harkana but softer, the light green with leaves and damp with rain.
She felt a pang of longing for the steadier heat and light at home in Harkana and remembered the last time she and Seth had met in Blackrock, how sad and angry she had felt then. So much had changed since that night. Mithra promised His followers that everything taken from them would be restored, in this life or the next, and it was true—she had lost her father and Seth, yet gained a kingdom and perhaps a husband, as if in answer to a prayer.
Thank you, she said to the sun, though she had never been the praying type before. Thank you for restoring what was taken from me. I don’t know what I will do with this gift, but I accept it. I’m tired of running. If Feren is to be my home, if I am to be queen of the Ferens, I’ll do my best to embrace what is given to me.
*
At the entry to the caer, she caught sight of Dalla. The girl hurried toward Kepi, concern on her face.
“Mistress? May I have a word?”
“Speak, Dalla.”
“Your master-at-arms, the boy, Seth? You asked me to look after him, to make certain he had a horse and provisions for his journey to Harwen.”
“Yes.”
“We couldn’t find the boy.”
“Did you ask the master physician?”
“He is also gone.”
“What? Where are they?”
“I asked the guards. But neither one has passed through the Chime Gate. They haven’t left the caer. There are whispers in the High City. Talk of traitors and men who are loyal to the old king.”
“Find them. Find Seth, Dalla.” Kepi heaved a fearful sigh—What are you up to, Seth? “The roads are unsafe. We should make certain he has a proper escort to Harwen.”
Kepi didn’t care about the roads—she was worried about Seth. The boy had clearly gotten himself mixed up with the old king’s loyalists. “Hurry, Dalla,” she said as she motioned for the girl to go. Dalla bowed her head and went, leaving Kepi once more alone, in the yard, a shadow interrupting the sunshine she had briefly enjoyed. It was the same shadow she had seen a moment earlier, the dark outline of a great bird. It’s the kite. Kepi had seen it many times before. It had come to her that morning when Seth betrayed her, then again as the Ferens led her into the High City, and now here it was, watching her. The gray bird landed on a wood spire. She held out her hand, but it would not approach. It seemed to watch, its black eyes keen, following her as she crossed the yard. “Do I look tasty?” she said to it. “Think I’m the midday meal?” It had a hooked yellow beak and a long tail that had feathers of a reddish-gold color, not uniformly gray as she had first thought. It was beautiful in a fierce, uncompromising kind of way. Kepi decided she was rather fond of it.
She went around to the other side of the caer, circling the yard. Each time she disappeared from sight, the bird moved until it could see her again. What was it doing? It could not really be mistaking her for its prey, could it? The kite came to the king when he took his throne. Why had it come to her? She was not king.
She watched the kite, holding out her hand again to see if it would land on her arm, but nothing happened. She climbed the post wall to move closer, but the bird retreated to a higher perch. She followed the kite, moving closer then waiting for it to retreat—reversing the game they had just played. The kite was certainly not hunting her. It seemed to observe her, but only from a distance. She recalled now seeing it off and again on her journey from the forest. Several times the soldiers had taken note of the great bird, astonished not simply by its magnificent wingspan but by its ever-watchful presence, its clear and obvious pursuit of their caravan. They had seemed almost afraid.