Ten Years and Six Months Later

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"How much longer?"

"Not long."

"How long is 'not long?'"

I pulled my focus from the dense green forest to glance at the small girl on the carriage bench beside me. Her eyes were the same gray as my father's, but they burned with a life long since extinguished in his. She twisted a lock of chestnut hair around her finger and bounced her knee. I wasn't sure she had ever sat for this long in her life.

I patted the space to my right. "Come closer and I'll show you."

She scooted over to nestle into my side.

"Now let me see your—" She raised her left hand, palm up. "Right. So here is the route we have taken." I traced my right index finger from the tip of her thumb down to the joint.

"Uh-huh." Impatience stained her voice, but her hand remained still.

With my left hand, I reached past her head to point out a series of dusty old roads threading through the hillside. "The Rakim tribe used to mine gold there. That's here." I pressed the pad of my finger just below the crease between her thumb and palm. "And we are headed toward the palace, which is here." I trailed my finger up a quarter inch.

She studied her own palm for a minute, thoughts dancing over her face. I prepared myself for a question about what happened to the gold mine or perhaps about the geography of the Rakim Lands.

Instead, she asked, "Why do people always talk about Najila using their left palms?"

"Legend says the Goddess Rashika formed Najila in the image of her hand."

"Does the legend say it was her left hand?"

I blinked. "No, I don't think so. But the Fooja Peninsula is in the west."

"I know, but look." She made her right hand into a partially-closed fist, palm down with her thumb open at the side. "This way, the knuckles can be the mountains in the north."

I smiled. "Huh. I guess you're right."

"Plus then you have your fist ready in case someone calls Father a Loser King."

My smile dropped. 

"Who called Father a Loser King?"

"One of my friends at school," she said. "Well, he used to be my friend before I knocked two of his teeth out."

"Finny..."

"Don't worry, I have plenty of other friends. And he has plenty of other teeth."

From beside the coachman in front of us, Stro snorted a laugh—quickly transformed into a stately cough.

I made my best effort at a stern face. "What did I tell you about fighting, Finny?"

"But you and Father fight people."

"That's different."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Because I'm a girl?"

"No, because you are ten years old. I was twelve the last time I saw Rakim, and I didn't know anything about fighting then."

"I bet you wished you did, though."

I recalled my unsuccessful efforts to defeat Niako a lifetime ago. Try as I might, I had never been able to forget about his voice, his smirk, the way he had looked at me like some fascinating creature he could never quite understand.

"Doesn't the Rakim Chief have a son your age?"

I narrowed my eyes at her, but her gaze was innocent. "Close to my age, yes."

"If you didn't know how to fight last time you came, he'll sure be in for a surprise when you beat everyone in the Challenge Day sword fight tomorrow!"

Not for the first time, I wondered whether Niako had trained as intensively as I had since we had last met—and whether he could still beat me. But there could be no rematch. We were here for negotiations, not petty competition.

"I won't be participating in Challenge Day this year, Finny."

"What do you mean? We are going all the way to Rakim to celebrate Challenge Day, and you are not even going to fight?"

"Toom," hacked a voice from inside the carriage.

"I'll be right back," I promised Finny, and I scooped her up from my lap and set her beside me as I rose to my feet. Then I cracked the door behind us open and slipped inside.

Yuri sat back against the wall beside the door, whittling a knotted chunk of wood. His silver-streaked black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.

My father sprawled across the ground at the back. Light from the open door washed over the King, revealing hollowed cheekbones and sunken eyes. His clothing still reeked from the previous night's nool, liquor distilled from Fooja's sugarcane and infused with tropical fruit. He groaned and slung an arm over his eyes.

Brosia crouched beside him and dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth. As usual, the nursemaid was stuck caring for my father instead of Finny.

I took a deep breath, summoning patience. When my fists relaxed, I pulled the door shut behind me, returning the room to darkness. "What is it, Father?"

"The sound. It's hurting my head."

Gravel crackled under wheels and horse hooves, and an occasional bird twittered.

"What sound?"

"The girl. Your sister." The stench of nool wafted from his breath like rotten fruit. "Tell her to quit talking."

My patience evaporated. "She has a name, Father. And you can tell her yourself."

I spun on my heel and pushed open the door again. When the door slammed shut behind me, Finny's eyes widened. 

"What did he say?" Her voice was brusque, but her nose scrunched and shoulders stiffened.

"He asked if we are there yet."

She rolled her eyes. "You're lying, and I hate you."

I plopped down beside Finny and squeezed her knobby knee. "I love you, too."

She held stiff for all of two seconds before slipping her small hand into my much larger one. Her head dropped toward me, resting heavy against my upper arm.

She stayed like that for a while, body still enough that I checked three times to see if she had fallen asleep. Her eyes remained open, idly watching the landscape.

Rakim's efforts to recuperate profits from the goldmine had backfired. Farming exclusively potatoes had destroyed the soil. Year-round fishing had depleted the fish population. And recent attempts to raid the island of Trog had ended in such resounding defeats that Trog now controlled most of the Paksha Sea. Still, none of this knowledge had prepared me for the gaunt lines and hopeless faces.

We entered the shade of a bluff, and dense trees crowded the road.

Finny perked up beside me, pulling her hand out of mine. "Do you hear that?" 

When I caught the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, I smiled. "The Paksha Sea."

"Does it really look like your eyes?"

"That's what Father used to say. You'll be able to decide for yourself."

"And were Mother's eyes really just like yours?"

I heard an echo of Niako telling me I had the eyes of a whore when I first met him. At the time, I was proud of my eyes and infuriated by the insinuation. My mother's death had changed my perspective. Now, I felt neither pride nor anger. Selling her body did not lower her worth, nor did unique eyes raise her value.

I still missed my mother every day, but her eyes were not what had made her special.

"Toom?" said Finny. "Were Mother's eyes—"

"Yes. Her eyes were like mine."

Finny craned her head around to study my eyes. After a minute, she said, "If I looked more like Mother, do you think Father would love me more?"

Her words were light—almost teasing—but they raked straight through to my heart. I opened my mouth to attempt a response.

My response never came. 

"Thieves!" Stro had jumped to his feet and was pulling out his sword. "Please take cover, Your Highnesses!"

Five dirty men in tattered clothing charged the carriage, waving blades.

I hooked my hands under Finny's armpits, swept her off her feet, and shoved open the door behind us. My father, Brosia, and Yuri faced us. Yuri brandished his sword and shouldered past me as I pushed Finny toward my father. 

I snatched up my own sword. "Father, protect Finny. I will help Stro and Yuri."

"Stay with us." In my father's trembling voice, the words sounded more like a plea than a command.

"Can't. Five attackers, two guards. They need me."

"The rest of the Royal Guard will be here in—"

"Not soon enough." I jerked my sword free from its sheath.

My father sucked in a jagged breath as if fighting with his own lungs and nodded. "Goddess protect you, my son."

Finny tugged at her wrist where my father held her. "Toom, don't—"

"Shh, shh," said my father. He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest.

And I leaped out of the carriage to join the fray.

Yuri danced around a tall ruffian, their swords clashing in a blur. Stro twisted to parry a thief on either side. The last two attackers closed in on the carriage.

I cut off one approaching thief and swung my sword. He halted and parried, but he staggered under the force of the blow.

I spun toward the second man, who scrambled up the side of the carriage. Springing forward, I snagged his boot and wrenched him off the wall. As he fell, I plunged the sword up through his back under his ribcage.

I knew the angle and the force required to end a life, but my knowledge was purely theoretical. I didn't know how it felt to actually kill a man.

Muscles ripped.

Organs squelched.

Blood gushed.

The man spasmed, a final war against the lethal invasion. He smacked the gravel road, motionless.

I whipped around to parry an attack from the first man. The impact reverberated up my arms, but I recovered quickly and struck out at him. He knocked my sword to the side with a screech of metal on metal. I feigned left, then jabbed at his right, but he dodged and countered.

A chill swept over me. This man was trained in sword-fighting. 

These were no ordinary thieves.

I backed toward the carriage, sword weaving to parry his blows. He was building confidence, increasing his force. When my shoes crunched on gravel, I ducked under his blow and stepped past him. His sword thunked the side of the carriage behind me and I spun around behind him, lashing out with my blade.

As he turned to meet me, my blade caught his right arm, slicing clean through. Blood spurted out over the gravel and the carriage like a bucket of scarlet paint. He screamed, but the sound soon transformed into a choking gurgle as I sliced through his throat.

Blood. So much blood.

I reached up an arm to wipe it from my face, but my sleeve was also drenched. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, I turned toward the remaining assailants.

Yuri had taken out the tall ruffian, and he now fought one of the two who had been teaming up against Stro. Stro appeared unharmed. Yuri hunched, left arm clutching his wounded gut while his right blocked attacks. 

I rushed up behind Yuri's attacker and slashed out at his shoulder. As the man spun to face me, Yuri thrust his sword up into the man's chest. The marauder slipped to his knees, gurgling blood and staring at me with unseeing eyes. Then he flopped forward like a ragdoll.

Yuri sank to a crouch, releasing his sword to clutch his stomach with both hands.

Feet trampled the ground nearby—the rest of the Royal Guard. Stro fought the one remaining ruffian, who was on his knees now, blood pouring from his shoulder. Stro lay his sword against the man's neck and then drew back for a swing.

"Wait!" I said. "I want to talk to him before you—"

The sword swished through the air, slicing the man's head clean off of his body.

"—kill him," I finished, scrubbing a hand over my face.

"Your Highness! Are you injured?"

Matino, the Royal Family physician, bustled toward me. His black curls were fading to white, and wrinkles creased the brown skin of his delicate hands. I was accustomed to seeing him sigh and roll his eyes at whatever new injury Finny or I showed him. Climbing trees again, Your Highness? Fighting with other children again, Your Highness?

Never had I seen his eyes so wide.

"I am fine," I said, "But Yuri needs you."

He scanned my face and chest, frowning. "Then the blood is..."

"Not mine," I said, and as I said it, the full import of the words sank in. 

I just killed two men.

The words washed over me like a wave. I expected to feel either pride or grief, but I just felt uncomfortable. Like the words did not quite fit inside my chest.

The physician took Yuri to the carriage behind ours, and five other guards joined us in his stead, crowding the cabin. I hardly noticed the company. The same words repeated in my mind as I tried to find a place to put them.

I just killed two men.

By the time we reached the Central Plaza, dusk had settled over the land. All of the marble and gold pillars, statues, and platforms that dazzled by day appeared cold and austere in the moonlight.

The servants began setting up the Royal Tent. As the Royal Council gathered for a meeting, my father opened the bottle of prak—a liquor of distilled potatoes infused with chilli peppers—left by the Rakim family. Meanwhile, water was heated over a fire to fill a tub for me.

I had not realized how much cold had seeped through me until I stripped off the blood-soaked shirt and pants and slid into the warm water. I relaxed for a moment, letting the water envelope me like a blanket. But my mind inevitably returned to the thieves. Though clothed in rags, their swords were of high quality, and their training was evident. How did they know we were coming? And what thieves would attack the Royal Family's carriage?

Distantly, I heard hushed voices, and I knew my father was meeting with the Royal Council. I wanted to soak until my skin shriveled and then collapse onto my bed. Instead, I pulled myself out of the tub to towel off and dress.

I usually avoided the Royal Council's meetings, but tonight I needed to attend.

* * *

My father, sovereign King of Najila: "This prak is even better than Fooja's nool!"

I dragged a chair to the table and hunkered down beside my father. The conversation halted, and all eyes turned toward me—representatives from the mountainous states of Busk and Bard, the desert states of Kulas and Kalasiki, and the two independent tribes of Zarku and Ram. Only Yuri of Fooja, the wounded guard who also served as Fooja's Royal Council advisor, was absent.

"I wish to discuss the recent attack," I said.

"I heard you fought valiantly to eliminate those thieves, Your Highness," said Zeke. His smile dimpled both cheeks, a sharp contrast to the tight-lipped expression he had worn just moments prior.

"Those attackers were not thieves."

My father paused in the middle of lifting a mug of prak to his mouth. "Not thieves? What do you mean, Toom?"

"They fought like trained fighters, and their weapons must have been worth at least a few gold apiece."

Wahano of Kulas, a rotund man with hair, skin, and eyes all the same shade of brown, frowned at me. "What are you suggesting, Your Highness?"

"These were assassins—hired by someone with money and power."

A silence followed.

My father took another swig of prak.

Lox of Bund, a lumbering pale man with flaming red hair, recovered first. "Who would do such a thing?"

I hesitated, glancing at Rastofa of Kalasiki, who studied me with claw-like fingers steepled before her. With the close relations between Rakim and Kalasiki, I knew I needed to tread carefully.

"I don't know," I said, "But I fear they may try again."