Chapter 22
Melia
Melia ran.
The night outside was lit by hundreds of torches, the streets crowded with people.
In the flickering light, their grinning faces looked like masks of terror, their lurching, inebriated movements and twisting shadows like monsters descending from the black sky to swallow this town and everybody in it.
She couldn’t tell if Abia was celebrating or writhing in agony as panic pushed her through the crowd, where hands grabbed at her fine dress and men wrapped their hungry hands around her waist, slid them between her thighs, their breath sour and hot, the stench of desire and wine choking her.
She clawed at their faces, twisting out of their arms furiously, running on, even though she knew it was too late.
It had already been too late when she arrived in Abia. When she married Amron. When her brother died.
Her father’s house at the end of the winding alley, hidden behind the high wall, was—for once—lit up and crowded. The guards at the entrance recognized her, and she ran through the door to find herself in a hall filled with men. She recoiled, sick of the crowds, when a hand grabbed her shoulder.
“Ah, you’re here. Finally,” Ferisa said. “How did it go?”
Melia could barely recognize her, this woman dressed in sleek black silk, filled with a sinister light.
When did she change to this? When had she stopped being the lowly priestess and death-guide who’d wormed her way into her father’s household and become this suave, bloodthirsty thing?
Finding a lonely, desperate, motherless girl wandering the corridors of Syr must have seemed like a gift from the gods.
A path to Melia’s trust and her heart, and ultimately, to her father’s ear.
“The crown prince is ill and the carevna fled to the embassy. I guess that’s exactly what you wanted to achieve.” Melia narrowed her eyes, focusing on Ferisa’s chin. “You have a speck of blood here. Whose is it?”
Ferisa rubbed her jaw and smiled instead of answering. “Come, your father will want to see you.”
Roderi of Elmar sat in his office, giving orders to half a dozen men, but he sent them all out with a flick of his wrist when Melia stepped in.
“Father, I need to talk to you in private,” she said, nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms.
Ferisa turned to leave, but Roderi of Elmar said, “Stay.” And then to Melia: “Ferisa knows all my plans. Whatever it is, I want her to hear it.”
His glare peeled away layers of Melia’s skin until she was nothing but a soft, vulnerable worm twisting before him. Still, from some unknown well in her heart, she pulled the courage required to say, “Father, you must run immediately.”
He lifted his eyebrows, feigning confusion. “And why would I do that?”
“Because Amron knows you’re a traitor, but I begged him to give you the chance to retreat to Syr before the king finds out.”
Unlike Ferisa, her father wore no sleek silk. He was in chainmail, and instead of making him panic, Melia’s words provoked a bout of grim, mirthless laughter.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the king,” he said.
Melia had no sixth sense, no special feeling for the uncanny, yet her blood turned cold and a feeling of finality akin to the moment when the soldiers brought her brother home came over her.
“Father, what have you done?” Her voice betrayed her, fading into a ragged whisper.
“You didn’t think this was some game to drive the Seragians away and spend the rest of our lives under the boot of the king and his ilk, did you?” her father said. “This is a rebellion, Melia, and it won’t end until all of the royal cowards are gone.”
“And the Empire?”
“Back to where we should have been, were it not for this cowardly treaty: at war.”
The great, courageous, warlike Roderi of Elmar couldn’t see it, he really couldn’t.
Perhaps because Melia was a blind spot, a disposable thing to him, a blunt tool to distract his enemies.
The war with Seragia would be nothing like the border skirmish in Elmar.
The emperor wasn’t distracted this time, he wasn’t uninterested.
The whole blasting focus of the imperial gaze was on Abia, because this was personal.
Because, unlike the Black Lord, the Emperor of Seragia cared about his daughter.
“Don’t do it,” she whispered.
Her father was already saying something to Ferisa when she uttered the words. He paused, turned to her. “What did you say?”
She should have said nothing and scurried out, like always.
But she couldn’t stand the stench of death that had been following her everywhere, she was tired of the endless bloodshed, endless grief.
And therefore she threw herself on her knees before her father, under Ferisa’s incredulous gaze, and begged.
“Please, no more death, no more blood.”
“Is that what your spineless husband has taught you?” He grabbed her chin and forcefully lifted her head. “To be a coward? To run away from your enemies?”
“I want no part of it,” Melia said. “I’m done.”
“You’ll be done when I’m finished with you.” He shoved her so hard she crashed into a cabinet. “When they pulled you out of that heap of corpses, I praised the gods for saving my child. Had I known they’d take Rovin instead, I’d have left you to rot.”
Ferisa, who used to be her friend, who used to comfort her in the bleak loneliness of Syr, now made no move to help her. Instead, she put her hand on Roderi’s shoulder in a sickeningly intimate, plainly possessive gesture, and said, “It’s time to let Abia know the Seragians have killed the king.”
The king?
What have they done to the king?
Melia fled the room. As she climbed the stairs, she heard her father giving instructions to his men. “Spread the word that the king is dead and the Seragians are to blame. Lead the mob to the embassy.”
From the stairs leading to the first floor, she watched the grim-eyed guards leave the hall, armed to the teeth, the noise of grinding metal and harsh voices making her tremble. She scurried up, running blindly until she found a dark, empty room, where she huddled in the corner.
It didn’t help; the tide of death still found her, as it always had.
A black wave of grief and loss washed over her and filled her with darkness, followed by sights and sounds she couldn’t ignore, no matter how tightly she covered her ears or shut her eyes.
They played out in her head, relentless, unending.
Rovin in his last moments, delirious with pain, begging for mercy.
And that older, cursed image that had haunted her since childhood, which she could never place. The dead horse on a dusty road, its entrails spilled, the stench of shit and blood, the screaming in the background.
It was important, it was crucial, it refused to let go. She was always too afraid to go back to that moment, to allow herself to be pulled into the vortex of death. For years and years, she had been too afraid to remember.
When they pulled you out of that heap of corpses, her father had said.
And Melia remembered.
· · ·
The riders had materialized out of the whirling cloud of dust tinted red by the setting sun.
Melia only saw them because she had nothing better to do than look out of the carriage window.
Her nurse was dozing, head thrown back at an awkward angle, a thin line of dried saliva in the corner of her mouth.
Mother and Teya were whispering about the upcoming arrival of some delegation to Syr and Father’s expectations and the difference between southern and the northern hospitality.
Melia didn’t understand half of it, and that’s why she was watching the arid hills outside, counting the stunted trees, hoping to see some interesting animal.
The hot wind lifted clouds of fine dust that scratched one’s throat and got into every crease and pore. One moment, there was nothing before Melia’s eyes but the barren landscape, the next, a group of horsemen was riding at full speed towards them.
“Mother,” Melia said. “There are men coming.”
Her mother ignored her, fervently discussing something with Teya. So Melia elbowed her nurse, provoking a sleepy grunt, and tried again: “Riders are coming.”
Her mother shot her a quick glance. “Don’t interrupt us, please.”
The approaching group was close enough now that Melia could see individual riders.
No uniforms, just dust-colored wool that made them almost invisible.
And small, fast desert horses, known for their sturdiness.
The setting sun gleamed on the steel in their hands.
Melia’s curiosity now gave way to suspicion that something might be wrong.
“Mother!”
“Melia, stop it! There’s no one around—”
Shouts from their escort cut her off. Horses neighed, and the carriage plunged ahead. One of their soldiers shouted through the window: “Hold tight.”
Melia’s nurse woke up with a cry. “What?”
“Brigands,” Melia’s mother said, a thin crack of uncertainty spoiling her perfect poise. Beside her, Teya’s golden face paled to sickly yellow.
The carriage sped up on the uneven country road, rattling and creaking. Melia’s teeth chattered, biting her tongue. The taste of blood, hot and metallic, filled her mouth. She whimpered.
“Oh, gods!” The nurse pulled Melia close and tucked her under her arm like a hen tucking chicks under her wing. “Close your eyes, dear, don’t look out.”
Melia shut her eyes and buried her face in the nurse’s soft flesh. But even with her ears covered, she couldn’t block the shouting from outside. The carriage flew, shaking them like marbles inside a box.
“What are we going to do, my lady?” Teya moaned.
“Nothing,” her mother said, clinging to the edge of her seat. “Our men are proper soldiers, armed and trained. These are just some desperate outlaws, looking for easy prey.”