10. Rani
10
RANI
h e Zmaj arena hums with restless energy, a low vibration that thrums against my skin like the prelude to a storm. The scent of burning pitch from the torches set into the walls mingles with the distinct musk of the gathered warriors. Hundreds of Zmaj, elders, warriors, and even the humans are gathered on the sandy floor, all of them watching and waiting.
I stand beside the Al’fa, my head high despite the sensation of a thousand blades piercing me from every pair of eyes. Every glance cuts deeper than the last, but I refuse to flinch. The weight of their hatred presses against my chest, thick and suffocating.
And yet, I endure.
Khiara and Dilacs stand close enough that their fists brush against my sides, a silent vow. They would shield me with their bodies if they could. Their tension radiates with a heat of its own. The occasional, barely suppressed, growl is the smallest sign that they are not happy. I’m exposed and they don’t like it. I don’t either, but this is what it is.
The Al’fa speaks, his voice steady and deep, reverberating through the cavern like a command from the gods themselves.
“Today, we speak of survival,” he rumbles, his eyes flickering to me. “The Urr’ki Queen has come to us seeking peace.” A storm of murmurs swells. Disbelief. Disdain. A few shout in protest. The Al’fa waits until silence resumes. “She offers an alliance.”
I steel myself against their scorn. I knew this would not be easy, but the hisses and protests exceed my expectations. Khiara growls, low and dangerous. The Zmaj guards tails rasp over the stone as they take a step closer, ready for violence. I unclasp my hands and make a soothing gesture, urging the brothers to be calm.
A Zmaj steps forward, breaking from the crowd, massive and imposing. His horns gleam menacingly beneath the torchlight, casting long, jagged shadows across the arena. His rage rolls off him in suffocating waves, coiling like a serpent around my throat.
“This is madness,” he growls, his voice vibrating with fury. “An Urr’ki speaks of alliance, and we listen? We are Zmaj. We do not kneel to scavengers and cowards.”
The accusation hits its mark, though I let none of it show on my face. I sense the Al’fa’s restrained amusement beside me, but it’s the Zmaj on the floor who commands the crowd’s attention.
“She has not proven herself,” he snarls, locking eyes with the Al’fa. “Let her earn her place.”
The threat is clear. A challenge. My stomach knots. I can’t refuse. To do so would mark me as weak and render my mission dead before it begins. The Al’fa leans back, his expression one of quiet intrigue.
“You issue a Challenge, Hakti?”
“I do.”
The arena responds with approving growls, excitement bleeding into the tension.
The Al’fa’s eyes settle on me, heavy and curious. He’s judging, but also something more. Cold, calculating evaluation is in his hard eyes.
“Do you accept, Urr’ki Queen?”
I feel the weight of a hundred gazes crushing down on me, but my voice is steady as stone.
“I accept,” I say, as fear lances through me, a cold, sharp wire winding tight around my chest. Against this Hakti’s brute strength, I wouldn’t last a heartbeat. I know the Zmaj think with and respect strength, but my people have also studied them for years. We know their ways and from what I have seen we might know them better than they themselves do. I draw in a quiet breath and take a calculated risk. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but by the oldest Zmaj laws, I invoke the Challenge of Wits.”
I let the words fall into the silence like a blade striking stone. Hakti stiffens, surprise flashing across his brutal features. Around us, warriors exchange bewildered glances.
“The Challenge of Wits?” someone echoes.
The Al’fa’s lips twitch as though he enjoys the sudden shift in the air.
“Few remember such traditions,” the Al’fa says.
“Am I mistaken? Does the law exist or not?” I ask calmly, though my heart races.
The Al’fa stares. His eyes searching, mine and I meet his gaze. Something in him shifts. The tension in him eases. While he narrows his eyes, a slow smile spreads over his mouth. A fine mouth, actually. Full lips. He nods; it’s subtle but I do not miss it.
“They do,” he agrees.
“Then I ask they be honored, as I will honor them.”
Hakti’s claws flex at his sides. He is trapped. His pride is his prison.
“So be it,” Hakti spits.
The Al’fa nods his agreement and motions. I turn and leave the balcony. Khiara and Dilacs follow down the tunnel. When we are out of earshot, Dilacs growls.
“Queen, are you sure?” Khiara asks.
“I am,” I say. “We need them. I must defeat this Zmaj in a way that wins us honor and hopefully at least some trust.” Khiara huffs but he mutters understanding. “No matter what, let it play out.”
“No matter what?” Dilacs asks. “We cannot trust them.”
“We must,” I say. “We do not have a choice.”
I step out of the tunnel and onto the sands of the arena. A double line of humans and Zmaj has formed, watching me emerge. I pause in the opening. They’re all watching me with baleful eyes. I smile, not that I feel it, but I cannot appear to be bothered. They must see nothing but strength and composure. They see us as animals, I must disabuse them of that belief.
I step onto the sands, head held high, and stride forward. The brothers wait at the opening. Unspoken it may be, but it is clear they are reluctant and want to resist my command to let me handle this. They are good warriors and I am glad they are here, but I must face this challenge on my own.
Silence fills the arena as I walk a gauntlet of unfriendly eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I keep my hands clasped before myself and my stride is carefully and consistently measured.
In the center of the arena the warriors quickly form a ring around us. The anticipation is thick as smoke roiling from a bonfire. I square my shoulders and meet Hakti’s glare with the quiet resolve of someone who has survived worse.
“The Challenge of Wits is simple,” the Al’fa announces, his voice echoing around the large chamber. I see, in my peripheral vision, that Rosalind is at his side, watching. “Three rounds. Each will make a statement, and the other must discern if it is truth or deception.”
I nod, dropping my hands to my sides. Hakti glares, his tail tapping on the ground in anger or nervousness, I’m not sure.
“I will begin,” I say, my voice level despite the churning in my insides.
Hakti crosses his arms, daring me.
“I once saw an Urr’ki warrior outfight three Zmaj and live.”
“A lie,” he scoffs. “No Urr’ki could survive three Zmaj warriors.”
A ghost of a smile touches my lips.
“True. But the warrior did escape, therefore he lived as I stated.”
Ripples of amusement and surprise pass through the crowd. I savor the small victory. Hakti’s eyes darken, his eyes narrowing.
“My turn,” he says in a low, seething voice. “When I was a hatchling, I survived being buried in a collapse for three days.”
I study him. His pride is palpable and his body language betrays no falsehood.
“True.”
“Correct,” he says, his glare is predatory.
One round complete.
“I have never killed,” I say softly, letting the words hang.
Gasps ripple outward like a stone dropped into still water.
“Lie,” Hakti snaps.
“No.” I hold his gaze. “It is the truth.”
Shock radiates through the arena. I can almost hear them questioning the idea. How can a queen not have blood on her hands? Hakti calls it weakness aloud, but I feel no shame. His turn.
“I have never been defeated in combat,” he says.
It feels too smooth, too proud. A mask.
“Lie.”
His grimace tells me I am right, reinforced by the murmuring of the crowd. The final round.
“I believe in peace,” I say, voice steady, but laced with iron.
“Lie,” he growls.
“No. You are wrong.”
Hakti’s composure cracks beneath the weight of humiliation. The Al’fa’s laughter rumbles warmly.
“You have lost, Hakti.”
The crowd murmurs, the tide of their respect turning, if only slightly, in my favor. Hakti drops to one knee, the scent of his frustration fills the air.
“I concede,” he grinds out.
Relief washes over me, though I keep my posture regal and controlled. The Al’fa is watching with renewed curiosity and something sharper behind the amber of his eyes. I offer a hand to Hakti. He glares, his shoulders tensing and for a moment I think he will refuse it. Then he raises his head and takes my hand.
“Well fought,” I say.
He grunts and rises to his feet. He is much taller than I am. He tightens his grip. Pain flares up my arm, white-hot, but I bury it beneath a mask of calm. My heart speeds up and my breath catches. Will he break the peace? Will he attack? His dark claws could rip my throat out long before the brothers could reach me.
I do the only thing I can. I hold his gaze and refuse to let hate into my heart. It feels as if the air around us is too thick to breathe. All eyes are on us, but I’m particularly aware of the Al’fa, leaning over the railing of the balcony but even so he is too far to stop Hakti if he decides to attack.
“Trust does not come easy,” Hakti says, his voice low. “But you have won. Do not betray us.”
“I will not,” I say. “Believe me when I say that I want no more war between our peoples,” I answer, pitching my voice so that it carries to hopefully every pair of ears that can possibly hear my message.
“We will see,” he says, letting go of my hand, but he bows, if only partially. “I hope this is true.”
A smattering of scattered applause and then the gathering disperses, people returning to their day’s activities and work. I look up at the Al’fa. Rosalind remains at his side, looking thoughtful. She nods, then turns and disappears but the Al’fa remains. When I meet his eyes, the distance between us seems to crackle, charged with something heavier than duty alone.
The brothers come to my side, silent and waiting. The Al’fa frowns, then makes a gesture indicating I should join him. I give a nod every bit as subtle as his and then walk to the tunnels. Dilacs grunts as the brothers fall in with me, staying close.