Descendant of the Crane(49)

But that naive hope died when his voice followed her into the open.

“You will honor me with a toast, will you not?”

He was striking in the sunlight. The piercings above his brow flashed gold, and the sands swirled at his feet as he lifted his horn of wine. “It is a custom of ours to end a discourse with a toast. I hope you will partake.”

With that, he drank. Deeply. Hesina’s stomach pulsed with each undulation of his throat, and she scowled when he refilled the horn and held it out to her.

It was impolite to refuse the wine. But it was even more impolite to expect her to poison herself, which was almost certainly the prince’s play here. Had Hesina made the mistake of seeding dangerous ideas in the head of a rival queen, she would have done the same. The wine was spiked; she would die if she partook. The kingdom would weep, war would erupt, and Xia Zhong would drink libations in her name.

And here the prince stood, licking his lips as if to say: I’m fine, aren’t I?

Hesina would be, too, if he did her the courtesy of sharing the antidote.

Think of a plan. Slowly, she reached for the horn; to refuse it was to tarnish an otherwise pristine negotiation. Think of—

A hand beat hers to it.

“Vrakan,” said Akira, bowing over the rim. “Hahzan un dal. I will make this toast.”

The prince’s brows lifted. “Who is this one that speaks the Kendi’an tongue?”

A convict who kept too many secrets for his own good and left Hesina speechless more often than she liked to admit.

“Just the queen’s representative,” Akira answered. “Which, if I remember the customs correctly, allows me to partake on her behalf.”

Then, before anyone could stop him, he drank.

He displayed the emptied horn, and Hesina wanted to smack him. Elevens. Her knees went weak. What had he done?

“I wanted a taste,” Akira said without looking at her. His eyes were fastened on the prince, who appeared equal parts amused and irritated. “I was told Siahryn the Dragon never fails to serve his finest.” He glanced down at the horn. “Sadly, I’m disappointed.”

Hesina didn’t care who Akira was, what crimes he’d committed, or how many languages he could speak. He’d drunk the poisoned wine. He was about to die, not her. The breath in her lungs moistened with a mixture of emotions she couldn’t name, and she grabbed Akira’s hand and dragged him to her while signaling to her guards.

“We take our leave,” she said to the prince.

“That will not do.”

A wave of desert wind rolled over the banks, but it wasn’t strong enough to explain why entire mounds of sand shifted back.

Hesina’s guards pressed close as black-hooded figures rose out of the ground.

“Stay a little longer,” rasped the prince. “And I will serve you the finest.”





FIFTEEN





IGNORANCE LEADS TO THE SPREADING OF LIES.

ONE OF THE ELEVEN ON EDIFICATION OF COMMONERS


IF YOU LISTEN TO WHAT THE SOOTHS SAY, YOU’LL NEVER BE FREE.

TWO OF THE ELEVEN ON EDIFICATION OF COMMONERS

Twelve mercenaries sprung from the sand like bamboo shoots.

Hesina’s hand tightened around Akira’s before she realized she was still holding it. Dropping it, she glanced toward her men and women. Their gazes had hardened. They might not have understood what magic entailed, or how it worked, but they knew it when they saw it. It was abnormal, just like the ones who wielded it. This—the shifting sand, the rising mercenaries—was unquestionably the work of sooths.

“Make it quick,” ordered the prince with a flick of the hand.

Blades whispered out of sheaths, and in unison, the mercenaries charged.

“Kill only if necessary,” Hesina hissed to her men. Then she drew her bombs and flung them high.

Red smoke shot into the sky, mushrooming outward and drifting down over them.

Please, Hesina prayed, hoping Sanjing would see. Hurry.

“You cannot run!” cried the prince from somewhere in the red haze, mistaking the signal as a diversion. A yell burst at Hesina’s left, a clash of metal to her right. When the smoke cleared, she found her guards fighting in formation around her. But they were outnumbered. Several guards dealt with two or three mercenaries at once. As they overextended, the formation cracked.

They scattered over the banks, with Hesina ending up near the scout. A mercenary launched himself at them. Hesina slashed him down. The man hadn’t even fallen when two more appeared. One attacked the scout. The other came at Hesina.

She deflected his first blow and met the second. Their gazes locked with their blades. A black scarf had been pulled tight over the man’s skull, and he wore an animalistic ritual mask that cut away at the mouth. The stench of rotting gingko eked past his teeth, which clenched as he jerked his sword up.

The hilt of Hesina’s jumped out of her hand. She recaptured it and, without dwelling on the close call, transitioned left. The mercenary swung in from the right. She spun away from the silver slice of his blade. It was too late to escape the blow, but if she could avoid the brunt of it…

It connected. Sensations came to Hesina in fragments: a blooming warmth, a sticky trickle, a pain that scaled over her ribs and resonated in the spaces in between.

Her fingers fumbled to her right side, meeting the shredded cloak, the torn ruqun, all wet with blood. Her thoughts ran hot with panic. Where was Mei when she actually needed her?