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Authors: R.K. Ryals

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BOOK: Tempest
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The sun bore down on us. We drank water, we walked, we ate, and we relieved ourselves. I wished I could remember more about the desert other than the heat, but honestly, all I wanted to do was curl up in the sand and die.

“So hot,” Maeve breathed. Brennus moaned in response.

The wyvers that flew above us didn’t seem like such a threat anymore. The heat was our enemy, and a mighty one it was.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

For two days, we walked. Our guards were silent companions, and anything worth speaking was out of the question. The Sadeemian captain spoke our language, and we feared anyone outside the rebels knowing our plan. As it was, only Kye, Lochlen, and I knew everything about King Raemon’s plot to assassinate the Greemallian princess.

And so, we walked. Day bled into night. Night bled into day. Everything took on a hazy, yellow appearance, a dream-like quality covered in wavering heat waves. I walked, and I begged Silveet for rain. Surely, the Goddess of the Forest had some control even in the desert.

“Silveet,” I murmured.

I stared down at the sand, my eyes meeting Oran’s dark gaze.

“You pray to the wrong god, Phoenix. Surely only Igneet rules here,” the wolf complained.

The God of Fire. I was certain Oran was right.

“The camp, sir,” the female guard said suddenly from behind me, and I looked up, my gaze hopeful. Camp?

On the horizon, hundreds of white tents, large and billowing, were set up in the sand. People moved among them. Heat made them blurry, but even from a distance, it was obvious a small army camped there. My gaze slid to Kye’s.

“By the gods,” Maeve breathed.

The blue-cloaked Sadeemian captain glanced over his shoulder, his hood shadowing his face. “That has nothing to do with your gods, Infidel.”

There was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, pride and confidence. Awe mingled with fear in my veins. I had read once that the Sadeemian army was mighty. I had even overheard my father tell an emissary from the capital that Sadeemian soldiers were impeccably trained warriors who knew dozens of ways to kill a man. I knew better than to trust word of mouth. I had always considered my father an honest man, but a good story never sounds quite as good without a little embellishment.
 

Shadows fell over us, and the desert wyvers lowered, their eyes on the camp. I started to yell, but Lochlen growled and I paused.

“Look,” he said.

I squinted, but Lochlen’s eyes were much better than mine, and I could see nothing past the mirages thrown up by the sun.

“They’re feeding them,” Lochlen murmured.

My eyes widened. “The wyvers?”

Kye looked fascinated. “Does it keep them from attacking?” he asked.

The captain waved us forward, his eyes on our group. “It doesn’t guarantee anything, but it lessens the risk of attack.”

It was a smart scheme, even if it wasn’t a certain fix. The captain had said his people traveled much in the desert. It was such a foreign idea. The Ardus was a cursed place, hot and lonely. It seemed wrong that any man would want to venture there.

“Ho!” a man called out from the camp beyond. He was nothing more than a shadowy silhouette standing in front of a harsh, afternoon sun, but other voices lifted with his. The greeting cries were met with raised fists and swords. Our guards relaxed, their shoulders slumping.

“Ho, Ryon!” the captain responded, his sword high.

We neared the camp, and our group was immediately surrounded by hard-faced men and women, many of them with light hair and skin. They wore loose white shirts and black and brown pants made of leather. Women tied back their hair, and almost all of the men were clean shaven. It was odd and captivating. In Medeisia, most men preferred facial hair, and women rarely wore their hair up except for special occasions. Only rebel women braided their hair, and only because long hair hindered them in a fight. Medeisians were olive-toned people with brown and green eyes. Height varied.

“What have you brought us, Madden?” the man who’d yelled earlier asked the captain before clapping him on the back.

The blue-cloaked Madden glanced at our group, his gaze pausing on Lochlen before moving away. The Sadeemian people stared mainly at the wolf, but they knew not what Lochlen was, and it seemed Madden had no desire to share our secret.

“Refugees, or so they say. They wish an audience with our king,” Madden answered.

Ryon’s eyes narrowed, renewed interest sparking in his gaze.

“Our king?” he asked.

Ryon and Madden’s gazes locked, and a look passed between them. Kye stiffened next to me, his jaw clenching.

“Is Cadeyrn within?” Captain Madden asked, his head inclined toward a large tent in the center of the camp. It was no different than the rest, white and billowing. But it was larger, and there were dark shapes moving within.

“He speaks now to his advisors,” Ryon answered.

Madden’s gaze moved to our solemn faces before sliding back to the soldier facing him.

“Tell him these Medeisans would like to see him about an urgent matter.”

Ryon’s mouth parted in surprise. “But, sir—”

Madden held up his hand, silencing him. “Now,” he ordered.

Ryon’s lips thinned, his gaze moving to mine before sliding to Lochlen. Among our group, we looked the most foreign; Lochlen with his reptilian eyes, and I with my
supposed
aqua pupils. I straightened.

Ryon bowed at the waist and backed away, his feet coming together in the sand before pivoting. His back was straight as he walked, his head high.

“We requested an audience with your king. Cadeyrn is
not
your king,” Kye remarked, his teeth clenched, his eyes on the captain.

Cadeyrn. That name was familiar to me. I stiffened.

“No,” I whispered. “He is not, but he is the king’s son.”

Madden’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “How would you know this?” the captain asked.

Kye’s green eyes met mine, and he nodded, sudden comprehension filling his gaze. It was Cadeyrn’s future wife Raemon intended to assassinate.

“What is this?” a man asked, the loud voice breaking through the tension. It was a deep voice, hard and commanding.

I looked up … and up, my eyes finally meeting the icy blue gaze of a large, rugged man. He had shoulder-length mahogany hair streaked with gold, high cheekbones, and full lips. A scowl marred his features. The people in the camp bowed.

Madden went down on one knee, risking a quick glance in our direction.

“Your Highness, I have brought you a group of refugees. We found them a day from the Medeisian border. They say they are seeking our king.”

So this was Cadeyrn. He was an intimidating man, young but old, as if his youth had been stripped away from him. There was nothing left but coldness. I wanted to reach out and take Kye’s hand, but our wrists were still tied behind our backs.

Prince Cadeyrn stepped forward, his eyes moving over our group, pausing as Ryon’s did, on first me and then Lochlen. He looked as if he might say something, but then thought better of it.

“Into my tent,” he ordered, pivoting on his heels before marching into the white interior beyond.

Our guards prodded us in the back, and we moved forward. I was weak and tired, but I walked as the other rebels did; with my head held high, my shoulder to Kye’s. I couldn’t hold his hand, but I still sought strength from him. He showed no fear, and I was determined to do the same.

Cadeyrn spun to face us as we moved into the enclosure, and he lifted a hand, waving most of the guards away. Only Madden and Ryon remained, along with another man I didn’t recognize. He was a handsome man, maybe Cadeyrn’s age, with a hard face and golden hair tied behind his head. He, like Madden, wore a blue cloak over a loose white tunic.

The tent was empty except for a small bed that was lifted a few inches from the sand, and it was cool. We all looked up in surprise, the breeze within welcome.

“What sorcery is this?” Brennus mumbled.

Daegan threw him a look. “Asked by a mage, no less.”

Cadeyrn stared at us, his gaze penetrating. He spoke our language, I had no doubt, and I felt something else from him. Something eerily familiar.

“No sorcery here,” Cadeyrn said in the Medeisian tongue. “Only magic. Am I to assume each of you are mages?”

No one answered him.

“Untie us,” Kye commanded, “and we will answer everything.”

The Sadeemian prince looked at him. “You speak as a royal speaks, refugee, with your command. I rarely negotiate. You wish me to free you? How can I trust you with your hands unbound?”

The tension between the two men was thick, and I bumped Kye gently with my shoulder.

“Because we come to save you, not to harm you,” I said, my voice low.

Cadeyrn’s gaze moved to mine. For long moments, he stared, his eyes cold, his face unreadable, but whatever he saw in my gaze made him nod.

“Release them,” he ordered.

Both Ryon and Madden sputtered, but one look from the prince had them rushing to our backs. The ropes fell away from our wrists, and I rubbed the raw skin with a wince, pulling my hands in front of my face while gritting my teeth. Pins and needles invaded my muscles as feeling came back to them. Cadeyrn’s eyes moved to our arms.

“What is this?” he asked.

The tattoos on our wrists were stark, the ink dark against our skin even with the rope burns.

Kye straightened. “This, Your Highness, is the mark of a mad king.”

A hush fell over the tent’s occupants. Cadeyrn approached us. He paused in front of me, lifting my wrists. I wasn’t prepared for the foreign prince’s touch, and I gasped. Kye tensed.

“A burning star,” Cadeyrn murmured, “and a busted inkwell. What means this?”

The prince’s Medeisian was very good. He had almost no accent, and I knew then he was well traveled. It was obvious in his gaze.

Cadeyrn dropped my hands. “Who are you?” he asked us.

Kye’s head lifted, his gaze as piercing as Cadeyrn’s, his scars vivid.

“I am Kyenar Grenville Berhest, the illegitimate heir to the Medeisian throne.”

Cadeyrn’s soldiers roared, and a sword was thrust against Kye’s back. Only Cadeyrn seemed unaffected.

“Spy!” Ryon accused. His sword lifted.

“Hold!” Cadeyrn ordered, his voice calm. “Step away from him.”

“B-but, Your Majesty ...” Madden sputtered.

Cadeyrn growled, his blue eyes going paler. It was disconcerting, and I stared. “I said step away from him!” the prince warned.

Ryon and Madden fell back, but they didn’t lower their swords. The unnamed Sadeemian man with golden hair stepped forward, an amused look on his face.

“They seem harmless enough, although the two on the end are strange,” the man commented.

Cadeyrn glanced over his shoulder. “You know as well as I do, Gryphon, what the one on the end is.”

The man smirked. “Yes, that I do. I wonder, why
is
a dragon traveling with a group of refugees and a prince.”

We all gawked. They knew what Lochlen was.

Lochlen’s own smirk mirrored Gryphon’s. “Ah, it seems your people have not forgotten our kind,” the dragon said.

Cadeyrn ignored them, his eyes locked on Kye. “Tell me, illegitimate prince of Medeisia, why do you come here now?”

Kye inhaled. “We come seeking aid. My father is a mad man. He slaughters his own people, slaughters anyone who bears his mark of magery or scribery. Both practices are forbidden in Medeisia. The marked have gone into hiding. Rebels, they call us.”

BOOK: Tempest
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