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  “The only way,” she whispered. She walked along the shadow, stepping over the decaying bodies. Tylee peered down at her, watching her move. His eyes had a glow that was more than moonlight. The glow warmed her, helped her make her choice. When she reached the pole, she grabbed its rough wood and yanked with all her strength.

  It took several good pulls before she was able to loosen it. Then the weight of Tylee’s head nearly forced the pole—and Stashie—over. She took two lurching steps to regain her balance, then tipped the top of the pole into the hole she had dug that afternoon.

  She had covered the hole poorly. The dirt was still loose. She scooped out what she could with her hands, then grabbed Tylee’s hair and began to separate him from the wood.

  She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, pretending she was working with clay instead of her brother’s decaying head. She twisted the pole and pulled backward. It slid slowly. Finally, Tylee’s head pulled free, and she tossed the pole away. She placed Tylee’s head in the hole she had scooped, apologizing to her brother for the indignity that he had suffered.

  She scooped out the rest of the dirt as best she could. The hole wasn’t as deep as she would like, but it would do. She grabbed Tylee’s body and pulled it over to the hole, arranging his limbs carefully and aligning his head with his neck. Then she covered him. In the morning, she would gather rocks and cover the grave while Tarne was away.

  When she finished, she was sore, with bruises on top of bruises. The eastern sky had a dim light and she could see the open sores on her hands. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that Tylee was finally at peace. Maybe Tarne would ignore the whole thing, and leave her alone.

  She hoped so.

  She went back inside, pulled off the dirty dress, and set out some food for Tarne’s breakfast. Then she crawled onto the pallet, lying as far from him as possible, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  ***

  Pain, sharp pain, snapped her awake. She tried to roll over, but she couldn’t move. She was pinned on her back, with her arms above her head and her legs spread. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles. She opened her eyes and saw the sun still low in the eastern sky. Something scratched her back and she looked down.

  She was naked and tied spread-eagle on top of Tylee’s grave.

  Tarne stood over her, some of his men behind him. He seemed twice as big.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re awake.”

  He crouched beside her. She could smell wine on his breath. “I told you not to disobey me again.” He stroked her cheek with one hand. The calluses on his fingers scratched. “I admire courage and spirit. I hope I have enough if I ever have to defend my homeland against raiders. But I know how much damage rebellion does. As a leader, I can’t tolerate it.”

  He kissed her more gently than he ever had. She turned her head away and spat. The spittle formed little bubbles on the dirt.

  “I have to punish it,” he said. “And you, like your brother, only seem to understand extreme punishment.”

  Her heart pounded against her chest. If he had her, then what had he done with her mother and Kalie? “My mother didn’t do anything—”

  “She’s not the one tied to poles in the ground.” He got up, and opened his trousers. His member was long and hard and red. He stroked it, once, then stepped over her leg and crouched between her knees. He took a glass of wine from one of his men and poured it on himself, then shoved inside of her. She tried to squirm away. It hurt worse than it ever had before. She bit her lower lip, but didn’t scream.

  He pounded into her again and again, each time burning more. She couldn’t move; she was tied. And around her, the men gathered and laughed. Tarne’s face turned as red as the wine. He shuddered and pulled out.

  “Don’t disobey me again,” he said, and smiled at her. Her body throbbed. She nodded, relieved that it was over.

  “You promised before,” Tarne said. “This time, I’m going to make sure you don’t forget. I have things to do, but I told my men that they could enjoy themselves. You’ll make sure they have a good time.”

  Another man got between her legs and shoved inside her. She whimpered. Tarne’s smile grew. She wouldn’t satisfy him by showing pain. She wouldn’t. She stared at the top of the pole and, as man after man used her, she reminded herself that Tylee’s head was no longer there.

  She had set him free.

  ***

  It took nearly a week before she could move. The women in the tent had tended to her. She could barely remember who treated her wounds, and how their fingers had soothed. When she became more conscious, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her and treated herself. Finally the pressure of too many people got to her, and late one afternoon, she crawled out of the tent.

  The guards looked at her with surprise, but watched her go. She didn’t look at them, didn’t want to speculate if they were among the ones who had used her. She would go to Tarne and demand to see her family. He owed her at least that.

  She stopped beside one of the buildings, winded and hardly able to walk. With one hand braced on the mud-brick, she looked up—

  —and saw not one, but three heads on poles lining the street. Tylee’s was barely recognizable, decayed and covered with dirt. But she did recognize the others immediately. Her mother’s face had frozen in a cry of pain and her sister’s, her little baby sister’s, in one of anguish.

  Stashie sank to the ground and buried her face in her arms. She didn’t move for a long, long time.

  PART TWO

  Ten Years Later

  CHAPTER 3

  Tarne lay on his stomach on the soft mat. The masseuse’s fingers kneaded his back, easing the tense muscles. The heat was less intense here. The brick walls of the palace’s new wing and the gentle movement of six large hand-held fans kept the air moving. Fresh water stood in small pitchers in corners of the room. All he had to do was snap his fingers to get a drink. He loved it here. For an hour a day, he could pretend that life was easy, that he had no cares but rest and the maintenance of his body.

  The masseuse slapped oil on his back. The liquid, cool and slick against his skin, smelled faintly of roses. He closed his eyes and smiled. Roses had thrived in one of the towns on his last campaign. He missed the traveling, the feeling of absolute power as he took over a place, altered it, made it his. He loved the first drink of water from the streams, the first touch of the liquid wealth he had brought back to Leanda. He had owned, over his lifetime, at least fifty towns, holding them for a week, a month, until he had to move on, and allow the occupying forces to take over. But by then, he would always be restless and ready to conquer a new place.

  He would be restless here, if he allowed himself.

  But he couldn’t allow it, not when he was this close to true power. His reigns in those towns and villages had been temporary, his leadership an illusion supported by force. Yet all those campaigns, all that work, all those days riding in the harsh desert sun had given him the credentials he needed, the experience he needed, to become an adviser to the King.

  A trusted adviser, whose power would grow as the King grew older and more feeble.

  The masseuse spread oil along his naked buttocks, down the backs of his thighs. Her hands were gentle, and he felt a slow arousal build. He so loved this hour—

  “Sir?” The deep male voice sounded a little embarrassed. Tarne bent his head and looked toward the door. A thin man stood there, his hands clutching the edges of his blue robe. One of the King’s runners.

  The masseuse kept rubbing Tarne’s legs. Her touch distracted him. With a quick movement, he caught her wrist and she stopped.

  The runner took a step into the room. “The King bade me to come, sir. Scouts say horsemen approach to the west, and they bear the King’s colors. He believes his sons are coming home. You are to dress immediately. He would like you to greet them.”

  A shiver ran down Tarne’s back, even though the room had grown hotter. The arousal left him, as did the calmness, and
he shoved the masseuse’s hands away. “Thank you,” Tarne said, dismissing the runner.

  The runner nodded and backed into the hallway, facing Tarne until he could no longer make eye contact. Tarne stood up and walked across the rugs to the room hidden by a single curtain. The baths were inside, the pool empty. He stepped in the water and submerged himself to the shoulders.

  He used to marvel at the presence of so much water in a desert. The wonder had left, though, as he accepted his new post. Now the bathwater felt tepid, thick, and dirty. He would find no calm here, not this afternoon.

  He wiped the oil off his shoulders, climbed out, and dried himself with a large towel. The twins were back. They weren’t due for a visit for another year. Even then they wouldn’t be ready to rule. No one had trained them yet in the art of war. All they had learned so far were diplomacy, mathematics, statecraft, and languages. They were supposed to be touring Leanda and its colonies, learning about the land’s peoples and customs. The King had ordered the trip and only the King could cancel it.

  The shiver returned and ran through Tarne’s entire body. The King had said nothing, and planned to send Tarne to greet them. The old man was shrewd, shrewder than Tarne gave him credit for.

  He threw the towel aside, pushed back the curtain and returned to the other room. The fans continued to sway, but the mat was gone, as was the masseuse. A servant had left Tarne’s riding clothes on a pillow near the door. He clenched his fists and loosened them three times. Perhaps the horsemen were not the twins. Perhaps the King wanted his trusted adviser to deal with a potential problem. Perhaps the King was not being cunning, but simply cautious.

  Tarne hoped so. He needed the King on his side.

  ***

  The air had a gritty, acrid feel. If he closed his eyes, Tarne could almost believe he was on a campaign, his troops behind him, waiting for a command. But nothing surrounded him except desert. The palace and the walls of the city were behind him. Ahead, he could see the small cloud of dust that the watchers said hid horsemen bearing the King’s colors.

  Tarne touched his sword. Any treachery and he, and the ten men behind him, would end the threat immediately.

  He half wished a threat would materialize. He hadn’t realized, until he felt the horse’s muscles ripple between his thighs and the sword rest against his hip, how restless he had actually become. He had never been good at waiting. He didn’t know why he had expected to be now.

  The air pulled the moisture from his skin. He leaned forward and squinted to see the riders. Shapes appeared, horses bounding in the dust cloud. Tarne turned.

  “See anything?” he asked. His second, Melie, rode only a half-pace behind him. The other nine men were too far away to hear.

  Melie tugged at his scarf. Small grains of white sand had lodged in the wrinkles around his eyes. He looked as if he had been riding for a few days, although he had left the palace with Tarne. “The entourage seems large.”

  Tarne looked back at the dust cloud. The group would have to be large to create that much disturbance in the desert. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. He was glad he had chosen this particular nine to support him. They had all fought with him on various campaigns, each man exceptionally gifted in the art of war. If the force they met turned out to be hostile, all Tarne would have to do was bark a single command and these men would fight as a unit.

  They had done so numerous times against large odds and won.

  Tarne reached a small rise, picking the location for its slight strategic value. Here, in land as flat as the desert surrounding the palace, any break in the landscape provided an advantage. Tarne signaled his men, and they flanked him in a formation both ceremonial and protective.

  And he waited.

  The cloud of dust came closer. Eventually he made out a group of about twenty riders. Three led, bearing flags that fluttered with the breeze. Two rode behind, followed by a column of riders three across. The flags were rectangles, the right size and shape to be of Leanda, but the light and the dust made the colors impossible to determine.

  A drop of sweat ran down his back, followed by another. The heat burrowed under his skin. He had waited like this in Anleon just before ambushing a group of tribesmen. When that attack started, he had been sluggish, dizzy, almost faint from lack of movement and lack of water.

  He hoped the wait here would be shorter.

  The droplets of sweat covered his back by the time he could make out the flags’ colors. Deep brown and black. Leanda’s colors. He did not relax, having been a soldier long enough to suspect a ploy. But he moved his hand away from his sword and shifted his shoulders slightly, easing the kinks in the muscles. The two men riding together had the same build. As they got closer, he saw that they had the same features.

  Vasenu and Ele, the King’s twin sons. One of them would rule Leanda when the King died. Unless Tarne did something.

  He urged his horse forward, forcing himself to abandon the thought to overthrow. Throughout Leanda’s history, several groups had tried to destroy the aristocracy. None of them had succeeded. None even had popular support. The people in Leanda lived well, and the King made sure they credited him with their good fortune. It was the people in the conquered lands who hated the rulers of Leanda. And it had been those people who had tried to kill a king or two. They had failed and died, often at the hands of the very folk they had thought they were acting for.

  His men followed him. Quickly they covered the distance between themselves and the arriving group. Both groups stopped on a flat plain in full sunlight. Tarne touched a hand to his forehead, then his chest, bowing his head in a ritual greeting.

  “You may look.” The voice sounded like the King’s, only richer. Tarne brought his head up. The two men had ridden up between the flag bearers.

  Up close, the King’s sons were not identical. Their build and features were the same, but thirty years of different use had made them dissimilar. The twin on the right—Vasenu, judging from the “V” embroidered on his scarf—sat straight in the saddle. His shoulders were wide and firm, his gaze piercing. Ele, the other twin, moved with quick, jerky motions. Frown lines had formed around his mouth, and his hair refused to lie smooth.

  “Your father bade me to guide you into the city.” Tarne’s grip tightened on the reins. Damn the King. He had known, and he had planned. “I am Tarne—”

  “The general my father promoted.” Vasenu spat out the word “general” as if it were foreign to his tongue. “I know who you are.”

  Ele glanced at his brother, then smiled at Tarne. “We appreciate your guidance.” Ele’s voice had the richness Tarne had heard before. Vasenu sounded like the King, too, only Vasenu kept his voice pitched higher, as if something squeezed it from within.

  Tarne snapped his fingers. His troop fell in behind the twins’ riders. He rode up front, before the flag bearers, as if his presence would protect them all.

  I know who you are. Tarne frowned. He hadn’t seen the twins since they were young boys. His promotion had come after they began their tour of the conquered lands. He wondered what the twins knew of him, if anything. Had the King discussed his choice of advisers? Tarne couldn’t imagine the King committing information that sensitive to paper. Perhaps rumors, gossip, and stories circulated in the conquered lands.

  He nodded once. Of course. Stories of him in the conquered lands would not be good ones. He had killed a fair number of people, destroyed uprisings by threatening, maiming, and breaking a few obvious leaders. His strategies had worked. The places he overtook had no history of rebellion, no record of discontent. His methods had been effective. They had worked well enough to bring him to the King’s attention and, now, to this post.

  Tarne almost turned back to ride beside the heirs, but he did not. Let them think they knew him. They would be surprised when they found out that they did not.

  ***

  Tarne did not see the twins again for the next three days. He had arrived in the sitting room just past dawn, as ser
vants shaded the windows. The room was near-dark and felt cool; only a little light filtered in through the cloths. Tarne took his usual seat off to the side, near the candle stands and a small, rarely used brazier. The room was quiet, the cushions empty. The water pitchers were full, though, and five servants waving long fans looked as if they had been in the room for a long time. The other advisers hadn’t arrived yet and the King, as usual, was late.

  The King had not broken routine since his sons had arrived. Indeed, if Tarne hadn’t escorted the twins to the palace, he wouldn’t have known they were in the area at all. The King never mentioned them, and Tarne did not either, fearing that any breach of that unspoken confidence would be a failed test.

  Wydhe, one of the other advisers, arrived and took his seat. He was a large man with sallow skin, who had spent most of his life observing instead of participating. Still, his observations were sound; his advice good. Tarne found it amazing that a man with so little experience could be so astute.

  A third adviser, Apne, paused in the doorway. He had grown up with the King and had managed to remain, over all the years, the King’s most trusted adviser. Nothing Tarne could do could dislodge Apne from his position.

  Apne spoke quietly to someone Tarne couldn’t see, then came inside and sat. Tarne caught a faint whiff of sandalwood, and knew that Apne had spent his night in the women’s quarters. Rumor had it that Apne tried out the women for the King, making sure there would be no surprises—too much violence, or inexperience, or bad technique. A job many of the other advisers envied, but Tarne was glad he didn’t have. He liked to train women his own way, imprinting them with his own style. A king’s tester should remain invisible. Tarne glanced at Apne, a small, stick-thin man with few distinguishing features. He would be able to disappear from a woman’s mind. Tarne knew that he would not.