"And if she's not?"
Ragnar paused, moving towards the tent flap."Sisi will sink her claws into her."If his wife were a weakness, his enemies would exploit her, and all he could do was brace himself for the inevitable fallout, which would take years to recover from.
Nyraxa laughed—a low, amused sound."To find a princess willing to marry a man of common blood is already hard, let alone a warlord.She might die of fear before you even make it to the steppes.Even just seeing your disfigured skin is enough to repulse a woman of the Grass Sea; how much more a princess who grew up surrounded by finery?You have truly forgotten your origins, Great Khan."
Ragnar glanced at her.The Khanvaaris of Valthorne were not friends or family; they were simply people with similar origins and goals who desired the same thing as their Khan: to conquer.
The tent flap opened.A man entered—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden behind a bo? that left only his dark eyes visible.
"Kasimir," Ragnar acknowledged.
Kasimir nodded."The assailants are handled.Eighteen in total.We should move at first light.They'll send more once they realise this group failed."
Ragnar nodded, then he turned to Nyraxa.
"You'll handle the rest?"
She waved a hand dismissively."I'll drag our forces away from the main route and make enough noise to draw Sisi's attention.She'll think you're with me, buying you time to reach Tarsyn."A smile."Enjoy your bride, Ragnar.Try not to frighten her too badly."
Nyraxa watched them go.Then she picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and returned to her letters, this one addressed to one Caius Zarnok.
Chapter 3
ObiagelioftheBorjiginpressed her forehead into the wooden floor until the grain imprinted itself into her skin.The air in the chamber had turned thick, biting and alive.Her white wrapper offered no warmth against the chill that crept up her arms.
She rose slowly, remaining on her knees.Her coral beads clacked with each movement.The white clay on her face had dried into precise patterns—spirals at her temples, crescent moons beneath her eyes, a line of dots marching from the bridge of her nose to the parting of her lips.When she relaxed her shoulders and let the cold seep into her marrow, the paintings seemed warm on her skin, as if the spirits themselves were using them as a gateway into her soul.
She bowed to kneel again.
For nineteen years, she had been trapped in this courtyard—not allowed one foot past its threshold except to visit her grandmother's compound.Each day she awoke with the dawn, before the roosters, before the market women began their trek.Each day she prayed to the goddess of the Udamili for protection, for grace, and for a successful harvest.She prayed for the health of her people, for the prosperity of their tribe, and for the strength to wake up the next day and do it all again.Her voice never rose above a whisper, but the goddess heard.The Udamili had no choice but to listen to the words of their beloved, born with their gift and raised in their faith.
After her third bow, Obiageli stood.She admired the ritual circle at her feet.White chalk, red camwood, black charcoal.
In her ears, whispers circled.They spoke in the language of the gods, trying to burrow their way into her mind.If she were not careful, if she hadn't trained under the previous Shaman, whose bones were laid in the ancestral grove, she would have driven herself mad with the cadence of the gods.The power to listen and discern its true meaning was what many Shamans spent their entire lives trying to acquire.Many were not lucky enough to be born Djinn, who could discern the language of their parents without much effort.
She brought her fingers from her lips to her heart—taste to blood—and bowed once more at her waist.Then, with her feet, she broke the ritual circle, scuffing the eastern line first, then the western, then the north and south until the protection was undone.The noises, the whispers, the ancient breathing—all came to a sudden stop.
Footsteps came from the corridor.A young girl's voice announcing, "The Dowager has arrived."
Obiageli turned.Her grandmother stood in the doorway, magnificent in indigo, and behind her stood a man.She didn't need to be told his name.She had seen him every year at the New Yam Festival, hovering at her grandmother's elbow, watching everything but saying nothing in her presence.A warrior.A paranoid man.A smart man.His head was shaved low to respect the customs of the Imperial Court, and his eyes were like hers.
Cold, ruthless, and calculating.
"What did the Udamili say?"Her grandmother asked.And at her words, Obiageli's servants scattered like flies, vanishing behind doors that lined the shrine.
Obiageli looked up; something warm trickled from her nose—blood.She wiped it without much bother."You were right.I couldn't call the Red Moon because my power was incomplete."
Her grandmother's face flickered in rage, but the man before her remained unfazed.Obiageli met his eyes, and they came to a mutual understanding.
The Ancestral Shrine was in an isolated part of the Borjigin palace, only visited occasionally by concubines who wished to seem pious.As a result, it had become a haggard stone hall, open on all sides, providing some much-needed breeze.It was surrounded by lush trees with singing birds and winding lakes.To arrive at such a remote court, one must cross three bridges and bypass five pavilions.
Despite the distance, Azul did not mind.She needed the peace and quiet to consider how she'd wring Somadina's pretty little neck.
Since the shrine was so far from the main palace, she was given the grace to sleep there by the Ugoeze's superficial benevolence.Her maids were not as accepting of their new sleeping quarters as Azul.And so they grumbled and cursed the entire hike.Though Azul had it in mind to slap someone, she wished not to ruin her day by getting angry.
The Ancestral Shrine held the headstones of dead members of the royal family and many large tablets with inscriptions of the various chi they favoured, even ones they considered to be their own personal chi.
The cobwebs had to be taken down and the dusty floors needed to be dampened and swept.Sheets needed washing and rugs needed to be thrashed.So the grumbling group of girls got to work.
