Chapter 1
Jai’s head throbbed with every jarring bounce as the khiro’s massive hooves pounded the ground beneath them. The rough sack over his head chafed against his skin, but the discomfort barely registered; he was too preoccupied with clinging to the rhino’s coarse fur, desperate not to fall upon the rushing green long grass below.
He could sense Winter beside him, straining against the same ropes that trussed her to the lurching beast’s side. Jai comforted his dragon with a thought, but it did little to quell her terror. It didn’t help that she could sense the same in him.
The khiro’s pace began to slow, the great muscles beneath him shuddering as the thunder of hooves slowed to silence. The creature’s breath was heavy, punctuating the quiet that had settled.
Then the air around Jai and Winter grew tense, as if filled by some signal with the yammering of men, Steppespeak so heavily accented even Jai’s childish understanding could not discern a single word.
Rough hands grabbed Jai, pulling him down from the khiro’s back. He stumbled, disorientated, as he was dragged across the ground, the sighing of the breeze suddenly muffled as his feet found flat ground. The sack was yanked from his head, and a sudden rush of light and air left him gasping. Blinking against the glare of a fire, Jai struggled to bring the tent’s interior into focus, even as he was shoved to his knees.
The tent was made of animal furs, and lashed bamboo, large as a three-horse stable. The smell of smoke and leather hung in the air, mingling with a faint scent of herbs. At the centre of the space, a firepit smouldered, casting shadows that danced upon the tent walls.
As his eyes adjusted, a woman stooped into a crouch at his front, hawkish eyes boring into Jai’s. She was a Steppewoman, and undoubtedly one of status. The finely braided plaits in her hair, adorned with bones, teeth and precious stones, spoke of her standing among her people, if what little Jai had glimpsed before his blindfolding held true. Even without the symbols, the woman’s posture exuded a confidence that came from leadership, her gaze sharp and calculating.
Summoning his courage, Jai opened his mouth to speak, but a swift slap to his cheek silenced him. The Steppewoman tugged Jai’s head down, examining his scalp, appraising him like a piece of livestock. Jai’s head reeled from the blow, but he held the woman’s gaze, refusing to let fear rule him.
She grinned at Jai’s defiance, then squinted as if spotting something, clucking her tongue as if in disapproval, checking Jai’s fingernails and tugging Jai’s lips apart to view his teeth, even sniffing a lock of his hair as if trying to glean some hidden information. The indignity of it all burned in Jai’s chest, but he knew better than to resist, not wanting to be slapped again. Instead, he reached inward, drawing on the bond he shared with Winter, finding comfort in their connection.
The woman sat back, sighing and clapping her hands. She bit her lip, looking pityingly at Jai, as if on the verge of speaking. Then she shook her head, turning and striding out of the tent’s curtained entrance.
Jai took a breath. Then another, and another, attempting to quell the hammering of his heart. He knew not where he was. Nor even who had taken him. But he was alive . . . and far from Magnus and his ilk, if the journey’s bruising of his ribs was anything to go by.
Yet he had no way of knowing if Erica and the Huddites had been so lucky.
By all accounts, he had succeeded in his mission. These were his people, after all. But not his people. Not the Kidara.
For as Jai examined his surroundings, he knew this was no great tribe of the steppe. In his childhood, Balbir had spoken of their tribe and the world they had left behind. He knew, in his childhood pride, that the picture he had built in his head was far grander than it likely
was. But these dirt floors and ragged pelts were not the rich tapestries, rugs, and embroidered cushions Balbir had once described.
He sniffed, his stomach groaning at the smell of cooking nearby. Jai could hear the stirring of pots, laughter of women and children. He had been taken into the heart of their camp. No . . . their village. One that moved with their herds, as all Steppefolk did.
A wheezing from the corner spun Jai’s head, such that he almost fell, turning with his bound feet. In the corner, an old man stared at him with beetle eyes, trembling beneath a hairy khiro pelt. Beside him, an old woman spooned a thin milk into his mouth, using a wooden spoon and a burnt clay bowl.
This was a small tribe, and a poor one at that. And they were keeping him alive for a reason.
The two elders ignored him, as if the sight of a battered, bleeding captive was nothing new to them. But then, he supposed it would not be, if Balbir’s tales were to be believed. No people warred more than the Steppefolk. Nor did any take more captives. Half the fettered in the Phoenix Empire were made up of the defeated captives of the steppe.
Footsteps approached, and Jai was swift to cast down his gaze, returning to the position he had once been in. If escape was an option . . . he would do well to appear compliant.
A diminutive man stumbled into the tent, shoved by a hand unseen. Then another entered, shouting in jest over his shoulder. It was a Steppeman this time, though he shared the woman’s features. Those same hawkish eyes, compounded by a hooked nose that could only be familial.
A brother of the Steppewoman perhaps, or a cousin. Certainly he seemed of similar standing based on his fine furs and adornments, though there was a cruelty in the man’s smile as he turned his eyes upon Jai, one that had not existed in the woman’s gaze.
He clapped a hand upon the smaller man’s shoulder, forcing him to kneel in front of Jai. He was trembling, and flinched as his superior stabbed a finger at Jai.
‘I am Feng,’ the man muttered, his gaze fixed firmly upon the ground. ‘They say you speak High Imperial. Is it true?’
Jai said nothing, if only in shock at the fluency of the man’s speech. The other bristled at Jai’s silence.
‘Speak, lest Zayn angers,’ Feng hissed.
‘I do,’ Jai blurted.
Zayn clapped Feng’s back in a sudden movement, laughing in delight. Then, as suddenly as he had laughed, his face turned into a scowl, and he gripped the back of Feng’s neck.
Zayn spoke, spitting his words in guttural bursts. His eyes never left Jai’s face.
Feng translated, his querulous voice a poor imitation of the venom in Zayn’s own.
‘Where did you steal this from, half . . . breed?’
Zayn tugged something silver from the furs that adorned him, letting it
fall into the dirt. Jai’s breastplate. Even as Jai’s gaze turned to it, Zayn seized Jai’s face in a vice-like grip, lifting it back up at him.
‘Speak, worm.’
Jai curled a lip, then spat off to the side, though in truth his mouth was so dry it was little more than a gesture. The man grinned . . . then slapped Jai so hard his head spun.
It was the blow of a soulbound, and a powerful one at that. Dizzied, Jai’s vision swam, even as a curved blade flicked in front of his eyes, Zayn dangling it like a toy over a cooing babe.
‘You’re not listening,’ Feng translated, as Zayn snarled out the words. ‘It seems you’ve no need for your ears.’
Jai groaned and felt the cool of the blade against his cheek, slipping down towards the side of his head.
A shadow darkened the tent entrance, and a voice rang out. Muttering as if disappointed, Zayn lifted the knife, before striding out of the tent. Outside, voices were raised, followed by the slap of blows.
Only when there was a curse, and a final, hard thud, did the tent entrance darken once more. The first woman entered, blood staining her lips and teeth as she offered Jai a smile.
Feng translated, as the woman spoke:
‘I am Sindri, khan of the Valor tribe, and I apologise for the behaviour of my brother, Zayn. He can be . . . impulsive.’
Sindri’s tone, even in the harsh speech of Steppespeak, was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. ‘How came you to our lands?’
Jai hesitated, weighing his options. He decided to speak the truth – up to a point.
‘My mother was not of the steppe, and my father was Rohan, khan of the Kidara. I was raised as a hostage in the imperial court. My two older brothers were framed for treason and executed at the hands of Emperor Titus, but I escaped. I have travelled across the empire in search of my tribe.’
Sindri listened intently, her expression thoughtful.
‘I know little of the . . . politicking of the larger tribes,’ she said after a moment, Feng stammering as he searched for the correct words. ‘But we well know this Rohan of whom you speak.’
Sindri drew a blade from a sheath at her side, and Jai flinched back. She raised her free palm in peace, and cut Jai’s bonds with two deft slashes of the dagger. She straightened, half-turning to the tent’s exit.
She spoke, and Jai listened intently to Feng’s words.
‘You are free to walk among us, but your beast will remain captive until I decide what to do with you. But know this, so-called Jai of the Kidara:
‘Try anything, and it will be more than an ear you’ll lose.’
Chapter 2
It was not long after Sindri had left that Jai realised he had been holding his breath. He let it out, releasing the fear he had hardly been able to stifle.
Beside him Feng shuffled his knees, his head bowed.
‘It’s okay,’ Jai whispered. ‘She’s gone now.’
Feng’s eyes flicked to the elders behind them, and gave a shake of his head, pressing a thin finger across the crease of his lips.
Only now, as he slightly raised his face, could Jai get a good look at him.
Feng looked a little older than Jai, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, with dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to hold an unspoken sadness. His face was thin, with a hint of moustache dusting his upper lip. His hair, unlike the braids and adornments of Zayn and Sindri, was simply pulled back in a short ponytail, and his facial features seemed different than that of the other plainsmen, telling of mixed heritage. Something in his features that reminded him of the Phoenix emperor’s diplomats and traders that had rarely made the long journey to Leonid’s palace from the far east.
Jai studied Feng for a moment, wondering what thoughts lay behind that guarded gaze. He needed to tread carefully if he was to gain Feng’s trust, or perhaps even his help. Clearly, the man was as unwelcome a guest as he was.
‘Thank you for translating,’ Jai said, his voice soft. ‘Your High Imperial is very good. How did you learn to speak it so well?’
Again, Feng said nothing, instead standing and heading towards the light of the entrance. Jai followed, rubbing his wrists and aching ribs. He had long run out of mana, and had not had a chance yet to soulbreathe so he could heal – Jai had figured out pretty quickly that being strapped upside down to the back of a khiro was not conducive to soulbreathing.
Outside the tent, the vibrant pulse of the nomadic tribe’s everyday life thrummed around them. Men and women busied themselves at cooking fires, preparing meals with knives and pots, while children darted playfully among the tents, their laughter rising with the last of the day’s heat. Beyond this centre of activity, older men lingered at the edges of the camp, their presence an uneasy contrast to the familial atmosphere. Some gathered in circles, playing and laying bets on games of knucklebones, while others sat and stared into the distance, sipping from their horn flasks. All were clearly armed.
Most captivating of all were the khiroi, which grazed contentedly nearby. Their massive, shaggy forms moved with surprising grace, the curved horns atop their heads like masts in a fleet of ships. Jai was relieved to see Navi among them, her scarred, smaller frame and grey fur easily discernible amid the hulking beasts. The older youths of the village were gathered there, keeping watch, their eyes never ceasing to search the horizon.
This tapestry stood in stark contrast to the sterile halls of the imperial palace, and despite the fear coiling in his belly, Jai found the scene strangely comforting.
Feng led Jai to a quiet spot near the edge of the camp, where they could talk without being overheard. Beyond the circle of tents, Jai had to stop and take in the view.
It was a sea of green, stretching out from horizon to horizon. A moving sea, stirred by the eddies of the wind, blushed by the first hint of sunset.
Feng pulled at his sleeve, tugging him to sit amid the grass. Glancing back the way he came, he finally answered Jai’s earlier question.
‘Like yours, my father too was a plainsman,’ he said, his voice soft and distant, like a memory that had begun to fade. ‘But my mother was a trader from the far east. It was she who taught my sister and me your language, as well as her own tongue. I guess that’s why I was chosen to be your . . . minder.’
Jai could hear the bitterness in Feng’s voice, even if the young man tried to hide
the pain in his eyes. It seemed that, like Jai, Feng was caught between two worlds, never truly belonging to either.
‘We ventured into the steppe to trade with my father’s people, and to avoid the Sabine tax collectors. He and my mother paid for it with their lives. My sister and I were traded back and forth, until we ended up with Sindri three years ago. I made myself useful enough to not be traded away once more, as they so often do.’
Jai recoiled, the story sullying the peaceful scene before him. It was all starting to make sense. Jai had gone from being a Sabine hostage . . . to that of his own people.
‘And your sister?’ Jai hardly dared ask.
‘Still here . . . for now.’
Feng did not meet his gaze, instead tugging at a strand of grass with his fingers.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jai said, finding no need to force sincerity. ‘I know what it’s like to not belong.’
Feng’s gaze met Jai’s, and for a moment, it seemed as if the walls between them were softening. But just as quickly, Feng’s expression closed off once more, and he looked away.
‘We should get you some food,’ Feng said abruptly, standing up and brushing the dirt from his clothes. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around the camp.’
Jai found it hard to focus, for he could sense Winter, still struggling against her bonds. She knew his own had been cut, but far from calming her, she was panicking that he would be taken away. Jai knew she would not rest until she laid eyes upon him, but also knew to not push his luck just yet in seeking her out.
He had but a moment to close his eyes, entering the half-trance that let him hear Winter more clearly.
Jai! Jai!
His name, his scent, his very soul. She was crying out for it. Yet he could offer her no lies to calm the hammering of her heart, let alone his own. Instead, he sought out the glimmer of hope buried deep within him, and offered it up to her like a salve, before the clamouring in his mind quelled to a gentler dread.
‘Hurry, before the light fades,’ Feng’s voice called from his retreating back.
As they walked through the camp, Jai took in every detail, trying to memorise the layout and the routines of the tribe.
The camp was alive
with a harmonious blend of function, chaos and beauty, with plant-dyed tents of lilac and woad arranged in an orderly fashion around a central open area. This space seemed to serve as a gathering place for the tribe, for Jai could see people congregating to share meals, stories and laughter.
Most interesting of all was the symbol painted on each tent, and even stitched into the clothing of the villagers: a crossed pair of flowering lupins. That explained the purple everywhere.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of spices and herbs that he had only experienced before at the imperial palace’s most lavish feasts. The scent was enticing, a heady mixture of fragrances. There were aromas he couldn’t quite place, but knew were foreign to the Sabine cuisine he was accustomed to.
Curious, Jai was careful not to stare too long at those around him, even if they did not share the same qualms. Children pointed, giggling, at his hair, for it was far shorter than the long braids of every man and woman there, children included. He smiled at them, only for them to squeal and to run behind their mothers’ skirts.
Feng settled by the central campfire, and Jai was curious that the captive was handed a bowl of simmering stew without hesitation. Feng gave it to Jai, and then took one for himself. It seemed the prisoners here were treated well, at least. Sindri had been true to her word so far.
Jai took a tentative spoonful, and was surprised by the complex flavour. It was unlike anything he had tasted before, rich in spices, herbs and more. But even as he moaned with pleasure, his mouth began to burn.
Within moments, he was gasping like a beached fish – much to the amusement of those watching.
Jai lifted his chin defiantly, and spooned more into his mouth . . . only for him to splutter, as a fresh wave of heat hit home. Another bout of mirth followed, one man finding it so funny, he was bent over double.
‘Here,’ Feng said, passing Jai a drinking horn. ‘You caught one of the chillies. You should leave those in the pot.’
‘You . . . gave it . . . to me,’ he gasped.
Feng shrugged and nodded at the jug.
Jai took a deep swig . . . and gagged. For it was not water, but rather milk. Sweet, fat and acrid milk, with claggy lumps that coated his tongue and mouth.
‘Interesting taste, no?’ Feng asked, grinning as Jai handed it back with a foul face. ‘But worth it, right?’
And Jai wanted to disagree, but the heat in his mouth was soothed, and Jai found himself reaching back for it but a few seconds later. Feng nodded his approval as Jai took another sip.
‘Fermented khiroi milk,’ Feng said. ‘Sithian fuel, some call it. Most call it khymis. Not too much now, it’s strong.’
Jai raised a brow, and took another swig. Then spooned some more stew into his mouth, careful of what came with it. Surprisingly . . . it worked.
He survived the meal with the alternating heat and cool, until he was sated with a full belly and left with a pleasant buzz. That feeling was fleeting, though, his soulbound body processing the booze faster than he might have wished it.
He could have used a little numbness right now.
Despite Jai’s full belly, he felt uneasy. His eyes caught Zayn, the man watching him darkly with an entourage of beetle-browed men. Their gazes locked for a brief moment, and Zayn shook his head, his expression a mixture of contempt and disdain.
Sindri might have welcomed him, but her brother clearly did not like the fact that he was sitting among them.
And that he still had his ears. ...
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