Braid of Sand Read online

  “Keep it up,” she growled, reaching for the rope again.

  The archway leading into the Temple loomed above her like an open mouth. Iron sconces were bracketed to the walls but she never lit them. There were some memories no amount of time could erase.

  Her sandals shuffled across the mosaic tiles as she heaved the basket with every swing of her right leg. At the altar, she set it down and took a moment to shake out her arms. With no moon, it was difficult to make out more than the rough outline of the decanter of sacramental wine set on the shelf along the back of the room, but she was so familiar with the layout of the Temple that even with a blindfold she could’ve found the ceremonial chalice, poured a libation for the Great Mother, tipped her own mouthful down her throat, and knelt in front of the altar.

  The end of her braid slipped free from her belt loop as she lowered herself down. Raziela snatched it back up before it could trail in the dust.

  Reaching behind her, she dragged the basket across the floor. The scrape of the willow branches across the stone pavers raised the hair along the back of her arms. She took a deep breath and lifted her hands to the ceiling. She knew the old prayers that priestesses used to send tributes to the Goddess. It stood to reason that the same words would transport her offering the other way too.

  “Oh Great Mother, may your blessing shine on all those who are poor, hungry and sick.” She hesitated. With no one but Aeris to hear her, there was no need to waste her breath on a long-winded speech. Still, she cleared her throat and continued.

  “May your light guide those who lost a loved one tonight. May your enemies know the swift kiss of your justice, and may this offering find its way to those who need it most this night, where it can do the most good, and banish the darkness with Your light.”

  She finished her prayer by pressing her forehead to the floor. Then, she stood and heaved the basket onto the center of the altar. The tall, upright shape looked strange on top of the stone table. The crude, natural lines of rough-cut stone looked designed for animal sacrifices involving still-warm organs and bronze cups filled with blood. In a different time and place, those offerings had stained the ancient stone, but the Goddess had no use for wasted life.

  Staring at the basket, Raziela didn’t feel very hopeful. Anger still rattled through her. The Shadow Striker had claimed another victim. It was past time someone put him down.

  Aeris tugged her braid near the base of her skull. A wooden door creaked open along the far wall. Torchlight flickered in the stairwell leading up to the living quarters of the Temple’s lone tower.

  When she didn’t move fast enough for the zephyr’s liking, it pushed her with what felt like a shield made of air. She resisted on principle, but even when she planted her feet, her sandals slid across the tiles.

  Every muscle in Raziela’s thighs protested the three flights, but at long last she reached her wooden door at the top. It swung open thanks to another small gust from Aeris.

  Crossing the circular room, she kicked off her sandals and unwound her braid from around her body. Several feet were coiled through a loop off her hip like a lasso before draping around her waist and then crisscrossing her front and back like a bandolier. If the day ever came when she was called to defend the Temple, she would go armed with throwing knives tucked in each level of braid.

  Of course, slipping them out of her hair at night was almost more tedious than she could bear. If she missed even one, she’d roll over in the middle of the night and impale herself.

  After disarming her braid she unwound it and then wrapped it over her shoulder like a hose to drop on the floor in a neat coil. The gorget bit into the back of her skull as her head tipped back at the sudden weight. The silk of her floor-length indigo gown pooled at her feet as she stepped out of it to reach gratefully for the clean, linen shift Aeris laid across the end of her bed.

  The curtains rustled and the candle sputtered as Aeris sailed out into the night.

  She sank onto her bed and undid the clasps of her gorget at last. It clunked to the floor, never out of arm’s reach.

  There were only a few hours before dawn set her window ablaze. Her body was exhausted, but the scene in the well replayed itself across her mind until she knew with grim certainty it would follow her into her dreams. There the Shadow Striker waited for her. She snuggled into her pillow. She was ready for him.

  4.

  It was only a matter of time before the King’s soldiers came for him. Exhausted from the fight with Bulderic and the long ride back across the desert, he wasn’t in the mood for a drawn out game of cat and mouse with the guards.

  The most conspicuous of all his bolt holes in the city, Castien opted for his villa on Millionaire’s Row. His neighbors had been horrified three years ago when he bought the place on a whim, but thanks to their obsession with keeping tabs on every move he allowed them to see, he knew word went winging off to the Palace the moment he turned the key in the front door.

  Still, as soon as the furtive knock shivered across his door, he regretted his decision to hide in plain sight. It’d have taken at least another hour for them to scrounge him out of the apartment he’d found above an abandoned mechanic’s garage near Market Square.

  He came awake instantly. According to the twitching arms of the silver clock on the end table, he’d only snagged three hours of sleep since he collapsed on his couch.

  His hand leapt to his dagger as if drawn by a magnet. He stayed perfectly still, glaring at the door.

  Another knock came with more confidence a few moments later, long enough for the person on the other side to start hoping he wasn’t home.

  Castien slid off the couch and crossed the sitting room to the entryway. A peek through the window to the left of the door revealed a boy in his late teens shifting his weight restlessly and rubbing his knuckles. A bronze badge bearing the charging bull of King Herodes pinned his cape over his right shoulder. Sweat dripped down his neck in a combination of nerves and heat from the heavy wool uniform he wore.

  Castien relaxed his grip on his dagger and tipped his head to one side until his neck gave a satisfying ‘pop.’

  Growing bolder, the messenger stepped forward to lean his ear against the teakwood.

  Castien gave the door a swift kick that rattled it in its frame. The boy jumped so high he nearly did a backflip over the railing.

  “If you’re looking for trouble, come back at a decent hour.” Castien’s grin was razor sharp as he watched the boy glare at the door for startling him.

  “His Majesty demands your presence.” He threw out his chest so the badge caught the light. Squinting, Castien could read the name Galatas etched above the boar’s head. It wasn’t a last name he was familiar with. Castien gave a loud exaggeration of a yawn, stretching his arms over his head.

  “His Majesty—or his messenger—forgets I am not one of his trembling subjects who leaps to do his bidding. If he wants the pleasure of my company, he knows my fee.”

  The boy’s lips parted, and the color drained from his face only to rush back in an lurid flush. Eyes flashing, he stepped toward the door with his fist raised.

  Castien rescued him before he did something he’d regret.

  “Leave the money in front of the door and take two steps back.”

  Galatas scowled and fished a leather pouch rattling with coins from a pocket hidden among the folds in his jerkin. He pressed the heavy pouch to the badge on his chest before flinging it at the doorstep.

  Castien rolled his eyes.

  Clearly, the boy was a true child of the new regime—brainwashed into believing endurance, strength, and loyalty were virtues to be prized above baser traits like compassion and generosity. He’d have no qualms stealing food from someone too feeble to defend it, but spit in the name of the King and suddenly you were the one without honor.

  Galatas retreated from the doorstep as far as the railing would allow. His hand inched toward his belt where no doubt he kept a dagger tucked. Not even a fool woul
d approach the lair of the Shadow Striker unarmed.

  Castien took his time opening the door—less from wariness and more to give the kid a chance to see that he was no one he wanted to cut his teeth against.

  The moment he stepped over the threshold, Galatas’ eyes jumped to his bare, left arm.

  In order to bandage the wound from Bulderic’s knife, Castien had changed into one of the sleeveless jerkins he preferred to wear while he was in the city. The long, forking scar was on full display, stretching from his shoulder to his wrist. Galatas failed to stifle a gasp.

  Despite solid theories one way or the other, no one knew for certain whether Naiara had claimed him or cursed him. Considering the agony she’d put him through to inflict it, he doubted it was a sign of her goodwill. However, his continued survival was taken by many as proof he was protected by the gods. He saw no need to correct that superstition whenever it cropped up. Like any of the other weapons in his arsenal, with careful handling, the people’s fear had its uses.

  Even the King didn’t know what to do with him. He’d tried abandoning him in the Scorching Wastes only for Castien to return six months later having not only survived the desert, but thrived. Unwilling to risk the Goddess’s wrath further, Herodes renounced all ties to Castien, proclaiming him a man without a country. In the end, as the Phalyrians wasted away from their own attempts to save themselves, it was Castien the King had to hire to keep the city safe.

  While Castien did the King’s dirty work, puffed up pigeons like this strutted around thinking they made a difference.

  “You’re young to be an errand boy for the King. I don’t see any bruises, so either you got where you are because you’re a weasel, or you spring from a proud line of boot-lickers.” Appointments to students enrolled in the King’s Academy typically went to the fiercest fighters or the children whose parents had the deepest pockets.

  Galatas’ chest swelled, but he managed to hold his tongue. Castien scooped up the coin pouch and weighed it with raised eyebrows.

  “Wow. Your king really is eager to see me.”

  The boy’s wide nostrils flared.

  “Only a dog expects payment for the honor of going before His Majesty.”

  Castien let out a short bark of laughter.

  “Honor won’t fill your belly, boy, no matter how you let it fill your head. And you’d be wise to remember that a hungry dog is more dangerous than one used to the comforts of a gentle hand and a safe bed.”

  “He’d be better off putting you down then and ridding us all of a rabid stray.”

  Castien’s left arm shot out swift as a cobra to seize the boy by the front of his shirt. For all his anger and bravado, the moment his feet left the ground, the whites of the kid’s eyes showed, and he dug his nails into Castien’s wrist—to no avail.

  “He tried that already. It didn’t take. Six months in the Scorching Wastes and three years in the Northern Wilds, yet here I am. If the gods couldn’t kill me, what will, do you think?” Castien held him in midair. The sting and seep of his wound reopening was his punishment for showing off.

  “What’s your name?”

  Galatas flinched as if he thought answering meant writing his name on Death’s ledger. Castien gave him an impatient shake.

  “Micha,” he said through clenched teeth. Micha Galatas. A strong, warrior name. Definitely a product of one of the old families angling for a better position with the new king.

  “Well Micha,” Castien tilted his head to one side, studying the angry face staring back at him. “I doubt even his Majesty would complain if I take a moment to wash the blood off my hands.” And indeed, by the time he dropped Micha to the ground, the cut on his arm had bled enough that crimson droplets splattered the ground near his feet. Micha scuttled away from them as though they were drops of acid. Castien’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

  “Tell His Majesty I’ll be along shortly.” With that, he slammed his door in Micha’s face.

  PURCHASING THE VILLA had been Castien’s idea of a joke—and a warning to anyone capable of reading between the lines. After a particularly lucrative job silencing the lead scientist from SIAR Labs before she could reveal the true state of Phalyra’s agricultural crisis, Castien sent her message in a much subtler way. He bought the most expensive property he could find and—after converting its impressive wine cellar into a modest armory—furnished its living quarters with a single couch.

  While he preferred the honest truth over a politician’s version of the facts, he agreed with the gray-haired lord who’d contacted him that the general public needed something a little more palatable to swallow than doom and gloom to avoid an inevitable panic. Threatened with the Shadow Striker’s brand of persuasion Dr. Laninga agreed to hold her silence, but it was only a matter of time before the sprawling, stately homes along Millionaire’s Row would become nothing more than monumental seashells for gulls to peck over.

  It gave him a perverse pleasure to flaunt the wealth he’d amassed off their desperate games of cloaks and daggers. The nobles employed him to squash rumors, hunt their rivals, and silence voices speaking truths they weren’t willing to hear. They competed to buy his venal allegiance, and he took their money with an indifference that only spurred them to offer more, as if larger sums vouched for the worthiness of their cause. With every coin they drained from their pockets, the more his respect for them washed away.

  What use was wealth in a world without food?

  Still, as the highborn ladies sat on their balconies in the early morning light, their throats were decorated with layers of finely wrought chokers and beaded necklaces while their skeletal bodies were swathed in elaborate layered costumes threaded in gold.

  In no hurry for his audience with the King, Castien strolled down the street with his hands in his pockets.

  Old Lady Panagou, who lived in the manor next door, hissed and brandished her walking stick at him as though she were driving off a stray. Her grandson sitting on the terrace with her leapt forward to use his body like a shield. He was another victim of the current fashion that favored thick, padded shoulders and layered shirts to conceal an emaciated frame. Though the sun had barely risen above the edge of the sea, already sweat stained the maroon velvet beneath the young man’s arms.

  Castien stopped walking to stare up at them. He didn’t reach for his weapons or threaten them in any way, but Old Lady Panagou gasped and her grandson shuffled them both inside as if he’d drawn a gun on them. Castien chose to find humor in their fear. It required less energy than taking offense.

  At the end of the street, Millionaires’ Row opened onto Market Square. The place was infested with beggars. Their empty cans rattled like cicadas the moment they detected movement. Too hungry and beaten down by circumstance to care who or what he was, they crawled toward him pleading for a spare coin or crumb. Even the King’s guards had given up trying to drive them from the front of the palace where they harassed the nobles who attended the King’s court.

  Now that the price of fuel was too exorbitant for even the wealthiest families to afford and few had the resources to keep a private team of horses to pull the weather beaten wagons bought off farmers and antique carriages reclaimed from museums, the courtiers had no choice but to walk past the sea of desperate faces and avert their eyes lest they see their own futures looking back.

  “Good morning! Many blessings on the day! Have you heard the news? New vitamins from SIAR Labs! One capsule contains all the nutrients of a four-course meal! Be the first to sample these remarkable new pills!”

  On the public stage in the center of the Square, a man stood beside a table laden with white bottles stamped with the official seal of the Sestrand Institute of Agricultural Research. He shook a bright green pill into the palm of his hand and tossed it to one of the beggars hovering near the stage. The man flung up his hand to protect his face as the pill bounced off his chest.

  “Try it, and see. You won’t feel hungry again until this time next week!”

&nbs
p; The man picked it up with shaking hands and put it in his mouth. After a moment, his stooped shoulders straightened and he licked his lips. His eyes grew round with wonder as he rubbed his belly.

  “I feel full.”

  The salesman was bombarded with curious shoppers eager to know more.

  “Forget peddling those colored peanuts. He should’ve charged admission for that show.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Castien’s mouth as he swung his head to find Osee lurking in the shadows beneath the tattered awning of a boarded up bakery. Slightly bow-legged, Osee stood armed with a bland expression designed to wither the courage of any beggars who dared look in his direction. At Castien’s approach, he straightened with an exaggerated stretch of his stocky limbs.

  “About time you turned up. I’ve been standing here so long people were starting to confuse me with Old Linus.”

  Surrounded by so many people, Castien couldn’t afford to crack a smile. Old Linus was one of the homeless men who wandered the city. He had a strange habit of standing in one space and staring into space for hours on end, as if his spirit flew off somewhere far away and left the shell of his body behind waiting for its return. However, Linus was little more than a human scarecrow, whereas Osee weighed as much as Castien despite only coming up to his collarbone.

  “Did you get summoned as well?” Castien led the way up the white marble steps to the palace. Osee scrubbed his hand over his unshaven jaw.

  “No. I just finished unloading the rest of our haul into the grainery. I was on my way back to the Dancing Goat when I saw that puffed up little pigeon winging his way toward your house. There’s talk going round about some sign from the Goddess. It was all anyone was talking about—well at least until this charlatan decided to put on his little show. I couldn’t get the details of what the sign actually was, so I thought I’d tag along with you to get the real story.”

  The Dancing Goat was the inn that had once been the finest establishment in the city. Now, even Castien didn’t let his hand stray too far from his purse strings in there, but Osee insisted he felt right at home in the room he and Barak rented on the second floor.