18
Inside the carriage, Malik had a death grip on Valine. The rocking motion and the aforementioned hold were much preferable to Valine than another second in the Twilight Sands. It was a luxurious coach, no doubt, a smooth ride with wheels carefully negotiating the rocky terrain. It was done up in slick black wood, polished to an impossible shine, gilded with gold accents of flowers and snakes. The irony was not lost on her.
Upon the hunter green velvet seat, Malik stretched out, Valine’s still weak form pulled across his lap, her head resting in the crook of his arm. The aroma of his scent was a spell on her senses; it was divine and wicked. Steadily, he brushed her hair back with his beringed fingers, delicate and sure, running through her dark tresses. The sensation was enough to lull her to dreams.
At some point, Sarim checked in on her, and Malik flinched, a possessive air rushing around them before he seemed to realize and relax. Neither Valine nor Sarim missed it, even in her semi-conscious state. She wondered what it meant and if she should be worried.
The few times Valine roused herself, too drained to do much else, she glanced out the curtained window. The drapes were drawn back enough to display the dark granite of the mountain walls and the stubborn beams of sunlight that managed to peek through the ceiling of the pass.
The Muravo Mountain Pass was created some hundreds of years ago by a ruinmancer, when he came to the conclusion that too many people were dying while crossing the Twilight Sands and too many ships were being wrecked by kraken. Unfortunately, at the time, the sea or sands were the only way to Talloh, and Talloh was rich in resources of jewels and fruit and exotic vices. From a logistic viewpoint, cutting them from trade was impossible. So, the ruinmancer, Ilyas Muravo, decided to create a pass through the mountains that bordered Talloh and Pravo—the majority of which belonged to the latter, who engaged in battle whenever approached. Using controlled detonations and slave labor, Ilyas Muravo became the father of the Mountain Pass, for which he’d given his namesake.
Despite the incalculable number of lives Ilyas saved, he had no regard for mortal life, and the arachne who lived in the mountains he so recklessly exploded through knew this. Countless slaves perished in the pursuit of his project, and the arachne watched and waited. Biding their time. Once the pass was completed, the carriage-sized spiders descended on the man to mete out the justice for every life lost by his hand and mind in their mountains. A single lance from their bladed legs per death. It had been said that he was unidentifiable by the end of his sentencing.
From what little Valine could gather, she understood they should reach Talloh by the next morning. Traveling the entirety of the pass, starting from the entrance at the border of Luneth, took four days. It followed the shape of the mountains, with a sharp turn that added an extra day that the sands did not.
“You owe me three silver!” Freyja shouted in triumph.
Valine turned over at the outburst, rotating in Malik’s lap to face the others. He lifted his hand from her head and resettled it once she was comfortable, his fingertips brushing at her temple. His other hand was resting on the ledge of the carriage’s side, fingers pressing to his jaw in a thinker’s pose.
She wondered what the others thought of the positioning. If the king were treating her as a pet or something more. She didn’t dare think on it for hope or for shame and pulled herself up, pushing herself as far from Malik as possible. Malik didn’t react.
Valine and Malik were cramped in their spacious carriage with Freyja and Sarim playing cards, and Alastair wedged into a corner reading a book from a Melusdan author. There was a small table between them that folded down from the carriage wall and currently an array of cards, coins, and baubles were spread across its shiny surface. The majority of which were on Freyja’s side.
“I only owe you two. You cheat!” Sarim tossed back, flicking two coins at her.
She caught them in a fist, and her hazel eyes flickered with a jubilant gleam. She examined them carefully, spinning them towards the light in the carriage supplied by a luxmancer riding outside their transportation. Aside from their group inside, there was a contingency outside made up of an assortment of mages and magic-less foot soldiers. Most of which, should be unrequired to visit a friendly kingdom, but on journeys, one could never be too careful.
“Are you sure these grays are real?” Freyja used the slang for fake silver, the counterfeit coins known to be made from various gray materials either dipped in silver or polished temporarily in clear fluid that lent the signifying color.
Sarim leaned back, crossing his muscular forearms across his built chest. “Frey, I was nearly devoured by sand serpents. Cut me a break here. You really think I would’ve had time to make grays? And if I did, do you really think they would be what I saved when we were trying to outrun them?”
“All right, that’s fair,” she allowed, holding up her hands in surrender, the silver pinched between two fingers.
Freyja smiled as she chucked her bounty into the pot at her side, her white teeth even and Valine noticed that her canines were slightly sharper than a regular person’s—nothing like Ishaq’s demonic ones. Definitely nothing from the Ixaithan Empire’s reign. It reminded Valine of those in myth whispered about—the blood drinkers that prowled in the Black Arbors.
Something niggled at Valine’s mind, and she noticed Sarim’s smile, his pointed incisors. She remembered hearing something about how people were drawn to those who shared similar qualities to one another, and in a burst of realization, Valine knew who Sarim had fallen for.
“So, were we all hired by Malik? Or what is everyone’s story?” Valine asked suddenly, startling the others.
Alastair lowered his book to his lap. His elaborate marigold and caramel clothing was simultaneously an eyesore and the most fashionable outfit she’d ever seen. The pants were brown velvet, speckled with stars, and his corseted waistcoat was caramel, rotations of the moon gilded across it, while his shirt beneath was bold yellow, billowing sleeves. And then his cloak. A beautiful monstrosity, pinned with his topaz sun, was a wild floral pattern of mustard and cinnamon, hand-sized daffodils, marigolds, roses, sunflowers, and dandelions scattered across it with browning greenery.
“I inadvertently was,” Alastair said airily with a candid smile. “I was sent away by my parents because they were so scandalized to have a gay son. The alcohol, drugs, and debauchery were fine, but the moment they saw me kissing another man? Virtually sold off.” He lifted his hand and examined his nails, remaining an unaffected air, but Valine knew he was hurt.
“My mother said I’d make a pretty whore,” Freyja told her, lounging back and smoothing the beige blouse she wore. “I brought down the house with her trapped in the cellar for that comment. I only let her out and restored the house once she apologized. She never said it again, but I know that I damaged something irreparably that day because she flinched every time she looked at me.” Freyja pursed her lips. “So, to answer your question, yes. I sold myself to him at fifteen, offering my services as a ruinmancer to Adraali. And thank Bela, he was in need of one.”
Valine had heard of parents selling their children to brothels as teens, but younger than fifteen? Valine could only think of Captain Ishaq and the young girls he raped, of Lord Bayliss and the youth he craved, of her father whose tastes ran close to children.
“You were fifteen, and your mother wanted you to become a whore?” Valine asked.
“No, I was actually thirteen, but I lasted another two years in that hovel before I ran off to the palace. I figured if my mother were afraid of me, others would be too, and at least I could get paid for it.”
“Saints,” Valine cursed. “I’m not condoning her actions, but why didn’t she try to sell you to mercenaries instead?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You already know my story, so yes,” Sarim answered last.
“Well fuck, do all of us have shitty parents?”
Valine glanced around, and everyone had raised a hand. Including the king. But it was clear that he was not going to be sharing. Valine bit her tongue to keep from asking because all she’d ever heard was that King Saalim Halil Amir was a benevolent ruler, devoted to restoring his kingdom. But just because he was a great king, did not mean that he was a good father.