The Shadow’s Curse (19 page)

Come back to me.

Not for the first time, Raim felt his heart twist inside his chest. Not for the first time, he thought about turning back.

Not for the last time, Tarik had to convince him to keep going. Raim had run from Pennar so fast that his feet seemed to fly over the ground.
I will come back to you, Wadi. But not like this. I’ll come back when I’m no longer an oathbreaker.
The words hardly convinced him.

Tarik had been waiting for him, just as they had planned, and Oyu too. Tarik had bartered for two sturdy steppes ponies, which had carried them right to the very edge of the blackened, scorched deadlands that led to the Temple of Bones. They let go of the horses, and watched as they galloped off across the steppes in search of greener pastures.

Raim wished he could join them. Instead, he dropped down to one knee and picked up some of the scorched earth in his hands. It ran through his fingers, so dry it barely stuck to his palm. It was different from sand, though – this was burnt soil, devoid of any moisture. Here should have been more grasslands, more greenery, something for his ponies to eat. But instead there was nothing but death.

Who would do this? Only those with a lot to hide – like the Council, and their ship. For any Darhanian, the sacrifice of grassland was almost inconceivable.

He pounded his fist into the ground.

She’s my life, Draikh. What have I done, leaving her behind?

The shadow swirled in front of him. ‘You heard what she said. You have to come back stronger. You have to come back ready. What are you to her now anyway? An exile? A fugitive?’

An oathbreaker.

‘Exactly. Come back to her a khan. That is, if she hasn’t crowned herself Khan first.’

Raim laughed.
She would do better than either of us.

‘That’s for sure,’ said Draikh. Then the shadow shuddered and swirled in the air. ‘She might have help, if Mhara has her way.’

It was the same thought that had been lurking in the back of Raim’s mind, ever since the last time he had seen Mhara. His former Yun mentor hadn’t told him her plans, but it wasn’t hard to guess. Mhara had been brought back from the brink of death for a single purpose: vengeance for the khan she had sworn to protect. She wasn’t going to miss that opportunity when the culprit was right there. And there was no better shot in Darhan than Mhara with the right weapon.
Mhara is following her own path
.

‘Come on,’ said Tarik, mistaking Raim’s silent conversation with Draikh as hesitation over continuing their journey. ‘We can’t be far now.’

Raim reached over and put his hand on Tarik’s arm. ‘I know I haven’t been the easiest companion, brother. Thank you.’

Tarik stared at him. ‘I can’t go back. I can only go forward. But you and the Council have offered me the chance to learn more about the world than Qatir-bar ever did.’

‘Well, thank you, anyway. Do you miss the Baril?’

‘Miss what? Waking up at daybreak to scrub the floors with blades of grass? Scuttling along a cliff face trying not to slip to my death while trying to shear fur off a mountain goat? Copying page after page of books on the ancient history of butterflies? No, being a Baril apprentice wasn’t exactly what I expected.’

Raim thought back to his brother’s wedding day, and the years of preparation he had completed for that moment. ‘You seemed happy,’ Raim said, with a shrug.

‘Solongal and I used to compete to see who could copy the most pages. Those were the most fun moments.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It wasn’t much. This, though, is real discovery!’ He reached into the folds of his tunic, and to Raim’s surprise he pulled out a thick fold of paper. ‘I’ve been writing down what you and your shadow can do. It’s fascinating! And tell me how many Baril have been to the South in the past century. I can document it all. If I can learn from this, I could come back the most learned Baril and see if they dare treat me like an apprentice any more.’ Tarik’s eyes flashed, and Raim smiled at the fire racing in his brother’s blood.

Yet, it was also Tarik who cut him some slack from the tight knot of ambition he had agreed to: to fulfil his destiny as the rightful Khan of Darhan. ‘Look,’ Tarik said. ‘Serving Khareh is all you’ve ever dreamed of – trust me, you could talk of nothing else growing up. But if you want to do the best thing for you, your family, your way of life, your people . . . you have to learn to think like a leader. And that’s going to take time.’

Raim had never before rebelled against things he
had
to do – duty was drilled in to him as deep as any vein – yet it opened a fear in him he wasn’t sure he could easily ignore. He knew how to follow, not how to lead. And he was afraid of how much this journey south felt like he was running away from his problems, when what he wanted to do was stay in Darhan and fight.

That was when Draikh came and floated in front of his eyes. He wouldn’t let Raim look anywhere but directly at him. ‘Fight. Yes, Raim, that’s what we all want you to do. But fight when it is fair. Fight when you can win.’

He understood.

They kept walking. He could sense eyes around him, as could Tarik, who glanced nervously in all directions.

No one approached, even as they continued to walk further into the barren land. The place grew stranger as they progressed. The wind picked up, tossing the thick black strands of Raim’s hair. He licked his lips and tasted the sharp tang of salt – the air seemed to cling to his skin. It stung the inside of his nostrils.

That was when Tarik let out a loud cry.

‘What is it?’ asked Raim.

But then he saw it too, even without following Tarik’s outstretched finger. In front of them, the horizon rose and fell, swelling like a beast taking a breath. It shimmered in the dying light of Naran’s rays.

The sea.

Raim had never seen it before – neither of them had.

They approached the edge of a steep cliff that fell straight down onto a rocky beach. Of course, there would be a cliff here. Sharp cliffs broke the land across Darhan, marking the border of the Sola desert.

The view from the top of the cliff brought other wonders too . . . like the Temple of Bones itself, on a headland jutting out into the waves, almost as if the sea was eating away at the land it had been built on. Raim wondered if it had always been like that, or if the sea had crept closer with every passing year.

From his vantage point, the temple looked like any other he had seen – built of layers of wooden planks, though the side facing the sea was covered in barnacles. For some reason he had expected the Temple of Bones would be made of just that – the bones of the damned – but perhaps it was just another story designed to keep curious people away.

And just beyond that, the most unbelievable sight of all: a ship. A proper ship. Bigger, and more terrifying than anything else he had seen sitting atop water. It filled his lungs with fear, and that fear threatened to drown him. He took a breath, to remind himself he still could.

A voice sounded from just beneath their feet: a Baril priestess stood below him on a pathway cut into the cliff face. ‘Come on, then. Let me take you to meet the captain. There isn’t much time.’

Wadi tilted her head back against the wooden post in the centre of the yurt. It was funny how in a way this had become her safe place in the centre of the maelstrom. Khareh could be ravaging the world around her, and she could just shut her eyes to it for a few moments.

Her memory would let her think of nothing except the night’s events, overpowering even the joy of seeing Raim again. She had witnessed Khareh at his most brutal, but also at his most powerful. She remembered Mermaden’s message to Khareh before the battle: the sickening heads of his emissaries, who had only been messengers in the war, slung around the neck of the only survivor. They should have been protected. But brutality ruled on the steppes, and Wadi understood that.

But not cruelty.

There was a burst of commotion and Khareh strode into the yurt.

He looked drawn and tired, with dark circles like bruises underneath his eyes. Wadi shifted against the post.

‘Don’t stand, Wadi, I think we’re beyond that now.’

Wadi swallowed hard. She had to seem normal. ‘Tired, are you?’ she said, trying to appear defiant again, rather than scared or shocked. She hoped she was hiding the shake in her voice better than she felt.

Khareh’s eyebrows rose, and she clamped her mouth shut. ‘You’re acting strangely. I suppose you think Mermaden’s death was too much. You understand that I had to show him – or rather, show the tribes – who is in charge?’

‘What, so you think having someone brutally trampled to death is the way to prove your strength? Please.’ This time, Wadi didn’t need to pretend to be defiant.

‘It’s what they expect. They need to see their leader as powerful.’

‘You’re not powerful; you’re cruel. You enjoy it.’

‘I don’t.’

Wadi’s lips formed a thin line. But something in Khareh’s demeanour changed. He placed his head in his hands. ‘I don’t enjoy it,’ he continued. ‘I have no choice. If I show weakness, that will be the end. Altan says already I show too much weakness.’

Wadi scoffed. ‘How could that be? I could call you many names, but weak would not be one of them.’

He shrugged. ‘Because of you. Because I haven’t had you killed or locked away. Because I let you talk to me like this.’

Wadi didn’t respond to that. She knew Altan didn’t like her, but she hadn’t realized how much poison against her he was pouring in Khareh’s ear. Maybe even more surprising was that Khareh was ignoring it. She looked over at the young khan and took in the grey tint to his skin, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. She had to admit that he looked genuinely distressed. ‘What you did to Mermaden was unnecessary – and cruel.’

Khareh nodded. ‘I know. He was a bad ruler, though. He ran from his people when they needed him most. He vowed to protect that city, and he failed in his duty.’

‘I’m not saying he was a good ruler. He deserved punishment. But it’s a fine line . . .’ Even Wadi didn’t know how to continue. She knew nothing about how to rule a nation.

‘A line I crossed, but trust me – it is not easy to see where it is. Maybe I got it wrong.’ He stood up then and began pacing the perimeter of the carpet. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been preparing to be a khan?’

Wadi just stared at him.

‘My whole life,’ he continued. ‘When I wasn’t studying old Baril manuscripts with Altan, I was being trained to fight, or I was sitting in on meetings with my uncle. Every moment of my life has been about manipulating me, shaping me into a great leader.’

‘I don’t think any amount of training can prepare you for this,’ Wadi said, gesturing to the yurt, but meaning the entire situation. ‘And no great leader would have betrayed his best friend like you did.’

‘I realize that now,’ said Khareh. ‘Raim was my
only
friend. He was the one who distracted me from my training, but also who pushed me to be better. He would have been loyal to me to the very end. But don’t you see, Wadi?’ He came right up to her then, grabbing her hands in his own. She tried to pull away, but he held on tight. ‘That’s why I have to make this work. I can’t have broken my vow to him for nothing.’

A tear rolled down his cheek, streaking the ash on his face from the campfires. ‘I am not always cruel,’ he said.

The curtain to the yurt flew open, and both turned their eyes to the bright light, where Wadi could just make out a tall, shapely silhouette.

‘My Khan, I have a surprise for you.’ The words died inside her mouth. It was Erdene. Her eyes darted from Khareh’s face to Wadi’s, and then to their hands, which were still clasped together.

Wadi snatched her hands away.

Erdene’s face turned a bright shade of crimson. ‘What’s . . .’ Then she remembered herself. She clenched her fists at her side and adopted her normal, sneering expression. ‘Well, doesn’t this look cosy,’ she said.

Khareh stood up slowly and turned his back to Wadi. He walked over to Erdene and kissed her on both cheeks. The girl stood as rigid as a board. ‘You said you have a surprise? What have you planned for me?’

Erdene bowed her head. ‘It’s just a small thing, my Khan, but I have arranged a tournament for you, like the games held during the Festival. A tournament of Yun.’

One of Khareh’s eyebrows rose. ‘I thought Yun didn’t fight each other, except on the battlefield?’

‘We have made an exception for you, my great Khan.’

‘Well then, what a treat! This should be a sight to see.’ He swept past Erdene and out of the yurt.

Wadi braced herself for Erdene’s wrath, wondering what vile barbs would be thrown her way by Erdene’s sharp tongue. But none came. Instead, Erdene narrowed her eyes into a look so deadly and full of hatred, Wadi felt her throat constrict and her heart pound at full speed in her chest.

Then Erdene left, following behind Khareh. But Wadi knew it was not over between them. Another reason to have to watch her back.

She tilted her head back against the pole again.

They were outside again, and it seemed to Wadi as if Khareh’s army had doubled overnight. More of the nomadic tribes had travelled to see the mad – but brilliant – new khan, and to pledge their allegiance to him so that he would not move to attack their people next.

Khareh was back to his normal self – a different man in front of his army than the boy Wadi knew in the yurt. He sat up on his makeshift wooden stage – really just a platform of planks hastily nailed together and raised up off the ground. He made Wadi and Altan sit just off to one side, watching as the tribes made their pledges.

The warlords presented him with gifts, from rich pelts of fur to stunning varieties of promise-string, and necklaces made of teeth from rare animals. One of the most impressive gifts was a set of throwing knives, their handles carved out of bone. It made Wadi’s fingers itch – not just for the revenge she could wreak, but also for the sheer pleasure of fighting with knives. It had been her speciality in the Alashan tribe, and made her yearn for home. The desert was a harsh mistress, but the one who had made her into the woman she was. With the knives, she was as dangerous as a sand snake, lightning fast and deadly accurate.