Freedom's Slave Page 2

  Calar had been especially restless during the night, and Kes had half thought he wouldn’t be able to meet the gryphon after all. At one point, she’d gotten out of bed and taken long drags of the gaujuri pipe that sat on a low table nearby. Its rose scent filled the room, the smoke encircling her head like a crown. She stumbled over to the freestanding flames in a corner of the room that hovered above the thick carpeting, igniting the air with Ifrit power. Kes feigned sleep, one eye slightly open as he watched her sit before the fire, soaking her hands in it, the flames reflected in her anxious eyes. Gradually, they went glassy and dull, the drug sweeping her cares away. He was attuned to her every movement as prey is to predator, his body tense and still. Kesmir had lain beside Calar like this night after night, his fury mounting. This was the only time when his thoughts were his alone. As she slept, he could think about resistance and the end to her reign of terror. But if she were even half awake, he was in danger of her slipping into his mind, taking a peek, as she often liked to do.

  She’d spent the better part of her nights tossing and turning, moaning in her sleep. The secret work she did with the Ash Crones was affecting Calar more than she let on in her waking hours. Gods knew what those dark, ancient witches deep in Ithkar’s volcanic caves were conjuring with their hellish spells. It was whispered they were as old as the volcanoes themselves, the first Ifrit to be created from Ravnir’s smokeless fire. As soon as she was born, Calar’s mother gasped her last breath just as Calar drew air into her lungs for the first time. Calar’s now-dead father, having little interest in raising a child, had dropped his daughter into the Ash Crones’ gnarled, clawed hands. She nursed at their teats, milk soured with the tang of death magic. Was it any wonder she had become the cold, cruel mistress of a land that had tried, and failed, to annihilate her?

  It wasn’t until the faint sound of a horn blowing for the change in the watch in the latest hours of the night that she had finally returned to their bed. Now she slept on her side, eyes closed, breath shallow. The crimson linen curtains that covered the arch that led to Calar’s private balcony rustled in the slight breeze that carried the salty tang of the Arjinnan Sea on its breath. Kes drank deeply, filling his lungs with its rich, clean scent. He would never get used to this. In Ithkar, there had only been fire and ash and rot. The first thing he smelled the night of the coup was the amber oil that burned from intricate lamps that hung from elegant hooks along every hallway in the palace, a sweet, rich gift from the earth.

  Between the curtains’ folds he glimpsed fragments of the land that lay below the palace. Each blade of grass, each strip of velvety bark and drop of water and grain of tilled earth had been fought for with the blood of his people. Calar had no love for this land, rarely venturing beyond the walls of the palace. But Kesmir reveled in its beauty, in the non-Ithkarness of it. He liked nothing more than to take Yasri to his favorite haunts, where he taught her joy and kindness, instilling in his child a desire for beauty and peace, not the bloodlust of her mother. It was all he had to give her. That, and protection from those who would harm her if they knew what she really was.

  Kes reached for his tunic and drawstring pants, opting for soft Djan cotton over the formal uniform that the highest-ranking members of the Ifrit military wore. If he hurried, he just might make his meeting with the gryphon. For much of the night, he’d lain wide awake, so angry at his restless lover that he could have killed her in her sleep. He wondered, belatedly, why he hadn’t just done it while she slept and his scimitar was within reach, before Yasri was brought into their room by the nanny, inconsolable after a nightmare, arms reaching out for her papa. Always her papa.

  Why, why couldn’t he just end this?

  Because you haven’t given up on her yet, he reminded himself. Because she’s the mother of your child. Because killing her would only solve part of the problem.

  He tied a belt around his waist and filled its notches with poisoned daggers before throwing his scimitar over his shoulder, where it rested against his back, a familiar weight. A coup, as he well knew, was more than just eliminating the leaders. The dead needed to be replaced with jinn who weren’t tyrants. And how was he going to find those leaders, organize his jinn, earn the trust of the resistance that he prayed would spread like wildfire among the Ifrit, and ensure the safety of his people—all without Calar having a clue?

  Then there was this shame he carried around with him, this weakness that could shatter every hope he had for peace: he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through with killing the jinni he’d once called his rohifsa. A stubborn part of Kes still loved her—not in the way he once had, but enough to shudder at the thought of being the one to stop Calar’s cruel heart from beating. And Yasri—dear, sweet, unexpected Yasri. He’d been less than twenty summers old when she came into his life, her mere presence reorganizing all that he believed about the world and his place in it. He didn’t want her to inherit a life of blood and revenge. A life of being hated and feared because of her birthright. And so he’d vowed to the gods that he would end the war among the jinn and give his life for the land if they would spare his daughter and place her in loving hands that would help her grow into everything her mother was not. A reckless bargain, and one he’d be happy to make again and again.

  Kes crossed to the wide double doors leading out of the bedroom—thick slabs of lapis lazuli inlaid with a repeating teardrop pattern made of pure gold. To his right was the bathing room, hidden from view by a floor-to-ceiling lattice carved from a single piece of marble. Tall candles inside the room glowed, the warm light flickering behind the delicate floral pattern of the latticework. He longed for the hot waters of the submerged bathtub, the musk-scented steam. Once, the pleasures of the palace had been enough for him. But that was years ago, before his daughter was placed in his arms for the first time.

  Kes hesitated, his hand on the golden knob of the doors leading into the sitting room. A part of him was tempted to stay—this whole meeting could be a trap. Nalia’s father could be planning to ambush him and punish Kesmir for the death of his son, Bashil. Kes had been against Calar’s killing the boy, but she’d wanted to hurt Nalia and that was the best way she knew how. Pain was not something Calar could ever resist inflicting. Of course, the problem could come not from Nalia’s father, but from within the palace itself. All it would take was one of his enemies at court to see Kes skulking through the hallways and have enough idle suspicion to follow him. Then again, Calar might have read Kes’s mind without him knowing it, and this was her chance to catch him in the act, to make a lesson of him.

  But in the end, the opportunity to train his mind was too good to pass up. Kes didn’t know if he’d ever again have a chance to keep Calar out of his head. And until he could do that, a coup was next to impossible. He glanced once more at Calar before leaving the room. Her white hair spilled over the black pillow like a giant spider’s web, a beautiful trap. When she was asleep, he could almost remember what it had felt like to love her. Kes turned away. There was no point in longing for the past. All he could hope for now was a chance to change the future.

  He turned to go when he heard her voice from across the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  Terror seized him, a freezing burn that crushed him in its grip. He turned around, his face bland. She was still lying down, her eyes heavy with sleep, one hand absently playing with Yasri’s hair. That one act of affection toward their daughter was enough to throw Kes into confusion. How could he hurt the only family he had left? Perhaps the price was too high to pay. And yet.

  “I just need a walk—can’t sleep,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”

  She studied him for a moment. He waited, searching for that calm he’d once had in her presence. The sun hadn’t even risen and his nerves were already frayed.

  “Very well.” She turned on her side, eyes closing as she threw one arm over Yasri, pulling their daughter closer.

  Kes slipped from the room, sighing in relief as the door
shut behind him. The weight of her power, the fear of her wrath and how it would affect their daughter, just two summers old, threatened to overwhelm him. Being in Calar’s presence was akin to being suffocated without the hope of death’s kind release.

  Calar’s maid shot to her feet when he reached the hallway outside Calar’s rooms, her scarlet eyes struggling against sleep.

  “What does My Empress need, sir?” she asked, her face flushing as it always did when he looked at her.

  Calar had nearly killed the girl after reading her mind and discovering the jinni’s attraction to Kesmir. He had never been sure what it was that made Calar more furious—that someone else could want Kesmir, or that her maid hadn’t desired Calar herself. The only reason Kesmir had managed to save the girl’s life and her position was to remind Calar how much she hated training new servants.

  “Nothing, Elvka. I’m just out for some air. When the empress awakens, please let her know I’ll return after the morning meal.”

  She nodded, and he could tell she was trying not to look at the deep scar that ran along his left cheek, a present from one of the Aisouri who’d burned his village down when he’d been a child.

  “Have a nice . . . walk,” the jinni said.

  Kes raised a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall, making his way to the palace’s highest dome. It had become his place of refuge, nothing more than a small, unfurnished room made of alabaster stone with a widr roof, the wood covered in prayers to Grathali, goddess of air. It was unclear what the Ghan Aisouri might have used the tower for, but it was perfect for Kes’s purposes this morning. From the keyhole window cut into the wall just below the dome, he could see the Qaf ridge, dark against the lightening sky.

  Kes fixed his eyes on Mount Zhiqui, then closed them as the image connected with his will. Crimson evanescence filled the small room, surrounding him in a cloud of smoke that smelled of burning widr, a campfire in a secluded clearing. He felt the chilling breeze of the mountaintop as he touched down seconds later, the cold wind as restless as his own heart.

  Dawn as seen from the top of the Qaf Mountains never ceased to amaze Kesmir. He’d often come up here as a child, gazing longingly at the land he’d been exiled from. He’d never been entirely clear just what it was exactly his ancestors had done to piss off the Ghan Aisouri so much, but it’d been enough to get Kes’s entire race banished for thousands of years to a lifeless region of rock and fire.

  As the sun rose behind the palace in the far west, rays of light spilled over the Infinite Lake, turning it into a shimmering sapphire. The palace blazed with golden light, a collage of onion domes and spires, elegant arches, and elaborate windows. He could imagine Calar where he’d left her, sleeping in the bed they shared in the room directly above where Antharoe Falls tumbled into the lake below.

  The Forest of Sighs spread out beneath him, still wreathed in shadow. He’d never seen the tavrai camp. Despite their small numbers, the forest was well fortified. Though its bisahm was strong, it wasn’t the magical shield that protected the tavrai—it was the forest itself. Whether from some ancient magic or the gods, the forest served those who took sanctuary in it. An Ifrit army intent on ridding the forest of its tavrai was met with a solid, invisible, impenetrable wall that no number of weapons or mages could get past.

  Kes waited until the sun sat just above the palace’s highest dome, then put the golden whistle to his lips. It emitted a strange sound, something between that of a crashing wave and a hawk’s piercing cry. Within seconds, a large shadow was moving toward him across the sky, following the line of the northern ridge of the mountains. Kes had the good sense to be nervous. He’d seen the viciousness of the Aisouri gryphons in person many times. Teacher, bodyguard, war horse, and companion—the gryphons had been all these things, and more, to their Ghan Aisouri mistresses. He well remembered the purple-eyed witches riding the creatures into battle and, later, the fierce struggle they’d put up when Calar and the Ifrit stormed the palace. Many of his own Ifrit soldiers had died of merciless claw and beak wounds, gutted, their innards spilling to the marble floor. In the end, it had taken five Ifrit soldiers per gryphon to bring them all down. It was anybody’s guess how this one had survived.

  Kes hoped, belatedly, that it had eaten breakfast already.

  The shadow drew closer, its form materializing as it prepared to land. The creature was enormous, twice Kes’s height, powerfully built. The front half of its body was reminiscent of a hawk, with eyes that seemed to look into his soul, ringed in blue feathers, but the bloody beak with bits of flesh still clinging to it reminded Kes of the creature’s animal nature. The lower half of its body was that of a lion, with huge paws and a whiplike tail, strong enough to push Kes off the mountain if its owner so desired. As the gryphon landed, its muscles rippled beneath its fur. It paused before him, taking the measure of Kes in one glance. Its eyes were unlike any Kes had ever seen, dozens of colors that swirled together.

  “So,” it said, its voice a building avalanche, “you wish to undo the mess you made three years ago.”

  Kes settled into a defensive stance, his eyes straying to the blood on the creature’s beak. “We both know that’s impossible.”

  The gryphon looked at him for a long moment, then seemed to nod.

  “Good answer.” It settled onto its haunches, surveying the land. “Still, I’m not sure why I should help your attempt at a second coup. You tried to kill my mistress in the first one, and you destroyed not one but two races that night.”

  “I was not one of the executioners of the Ghan Aisouri.”

  That had been Haran’s job. Kes had never liked Calar’s ghoul, but he’d been a force to be reckoned with. The Ifrit empress had been none too happy that the last Ghan Aisouri had killed Haran before he’d managed to make a meal of her. The night of the coup was a collage of memories: cutting down guards in the palace throne room, blood coating the stairs as the gryphons were sliced open, one by one, Calar exuberant as she took the crown off the dead Ghan Aisouri empress’s head and placed it upon her own. Kes, his bloody hands tracing her jaw, her lips—he’d had to resist taking her right then, the corpses of guards and gryphons that littered the floor be damned.

  “That you were not in the killing room of my slain charges is of little comfort to me, boy,” the creature said. “The royal race’s blood is on your hands—I can smell it. But their deaths will be avenged soon enough by my mistress, may she reign with light and power.”

  Kes went utterly still as the ancient expression—and that one word: mistress—washed over him. Fate. Destiny. There was no other explanation for what he was hearing.

  “You’re—you’re Nalia Aisouri’s gryphon?”

  Each gryphon had but one mistress, the two souls bound when the Aisouri was little more than a babe. Was this one able to survive because she had?

  The creature seemed to grow taller as it answered. “Yes. And her life is to your advantage. If she had perished that night, you would be in my belly by now.”

  Kes did not doubt the truth of this statement. The gryphon pawed at the ground and Kes felt the stone tremble beneath him. It gave an agitated flap of its wings, and again, Kes was reminded of how easily he could be tossed from the mountain’s peak.

  Kes nodded. “Fair enough. And what shall I call you?”

  “Thatur.”

  Of valor. What an apt name for Nalia’s battle companion.

  “Ghar lahim.”

  Thatur raised his eyebrows. “Nice to meet you? No jinni ever thinks it is nice to encounter my kind.” Thatur stepped closer. He smelled of the verbena that coated the fields in spring and a musty, animal wildness. “Baron Shai’Dzar says you’re gathering a resistance already. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after you dethrone Calar, will you kill her?”

  Kill. He already knew he wouldn’t. No matter the evil in her, Kes couldn’t watch the chiaan spill out of his lover and disappear forever. Yasri would never forgive him, murde
ring her mama. Even if he was the favored parent. Kes was a coward and would need someone else to do it for him, if it came to that. Which he hoped to the gods it wouldn’t. He’d do everything he could to save her life. Everything. It was the least he could do for the little jinni she’d once been, the girl who’d taken him in when he’d lost everyone he’d known and loved.

  “It needn’t come to that,” Kes said.

  “Calar gets to live while an entire caste of jinn does not? While every gryphon but myself is but ashes? You want my help and Calar doesn’t perish? That will never be an even trade,” the creature said.

  “It is all I have to offer.” Please, he begged silently. You are my only hope.

  “You are one jinni,” the gryphon said, impatience leaking into his voice. “What makes you think you will be able to defeat the woman who annihilated the royal caste in one night—without killing her? Do you expect Calar to return to Ithkar to live out her life in peace?” He snorted, a leonine huff. “Absurd. I’m wasting my time.”

  Thatur turned and Kes rushed forward.

  “I’m the only person she trusts,” he said, desperate. “If she has no other choice, I may be able to reason with her. And I’m not just trying to end Calar’s reign. I want my people to have a chance to make real lives here in Arjinna. We can’t have that while she rules, I agree. But there has been too much death—surely you must recognize that?”

  “Peace.” Thatur shook his head. “And how do you propose doing that?”

  “In any way possible. Once she is no longer able to read my mind, I can set my plans in motion. I can think about them whenever I want. I can lie to her.” He held out his hands in helpless supplication. “I’m tired of shedding blood and burning bodies. Aren’t you?”