Chapter Twelve

We arrive in Nyriell during a level four cyclone.

Even dressed in heavy protective gear, I feel the dust and wind battering my body. The thick breastplate, pads, undertunic, belted skirt, and boots, as well as a full mesh covering for my head, seem flimsy against the onslaught. Hunkering down, I tug against the raised collar of the undertunic, the mesh cap falling into a hood over my face. The material is coarse and strong, made with some kind of reinforced fabric. It scratches against my skin like roughened wool, but I’m grateful for it.

Within seconds, a dark, oily haze on the surface swarms us as if the scorching sun has lit the air on fire. The portal winks out behind us, and I can barely hear the shouts of the others over the roar of the gusts. Waves of crimson heat make the earth look like an undulating ocean of blood. It’s simultaneously scary and beautiful, but I blink through my protective goggles, wondering where all the buildings are. There’s nothing but rock and gravel as far as the eye can see.

“There’s no one here,”

I shout to Roshan.

“This is the surface,”

he roars through the wind. “We have to go down.”

Down? I see it then—the black seam of a fissure that some of the soldiers are lurching toward. At least that’s what it looks like. One second, it appears to be rock; the next, I can see a visible crater. I squint behind the goggles. “What is that?”

“It’s an illusion. You’re supposed to only see rock, but the magic of the jādū must be disrupted by the storm.”

Roshan’s hand reaches over to mine as the ground starts to shake with the force of the unstable surface conditions. Bits of sand and pebbles smash into our bodies, the wind howling in the distance like some kind of voracious monster, as we follow the soldiers.

“Why couldn’t we portal directly into the city?” I ask.

“Too unstable underground,”

he replies. “The proximity to Droon means the volcanic bedrock interferes with the magic—which is why it’s a perfect hiding place for us.”

That’s news to me. Apprehension races through me. Will my fledgling power be inhibited, too?

The narrow crack in the cliff wall widens into a passage, and we press into it. There’s a gaping hole at the end with iron bars around the sides. Roshan leads me onto the metal platform of an ingenious pulley system, and we descend into a lightless cavern. The wind dies away above us in a mournful howl, and soon there’s nothing but silence and darkness as if we’re being swallowed up right into the maw of the earth. My heart rams into my rib cage.

“Are you all right?”

Roshan asks.

“Fine. Descending into an abyss is not my favorite.”

Panting, I try to focus on my body instead of the encroaching darkness beyond the rickety platform. My stomach roils with each foot. I guess this is why the Dahaka have evaded discovery for so long. No one in their right mind would suspect that there was any kind of secret city buried in the heart of this barren place. It’s brilliant, actually.

After what feels like an eternity, we finally come to rest on solid ground in the depths of the seemingly bottomless canyon. Tiny, gridlike illuminated pockets are visible in the rock walls rising hundreds of feet above us—structures carved into the rock face itself—as well as huge spindly towers of cubed light stretching upward for miles like massive stalagmites. An entire thriving metropolis built into the bedrock of the grotto. I marvel at the sheer enormity, ingenuity, and beauty of it.

In spite of the red dust coating the surface and the windstorm raging above, the landing area is clean and well run. The sounds of bustling life reach me even as the hum and drone of activity overhead draw my attention. Multiple bridges and roped platforms crisscross the width of the gap, stretching all the way up and leading into dwellings and buildings excavated from all sides of the massive cavern. Lichen and vines line the earthy walls from top to bottom, with various minerals glittering on the sides. It feels like a whole other world.

“Welcome to Nyriell,”

the commander says, striding toward us from a second platform that has stopped next to ours. I rear back at the sight of him—despite the many descriptions of him in the newssheets, none of them managed to capture how huge and imposing he is. The man is a walking mountain! He laughs at Roshan’s wan face. “I trust that little squall up top wasn’t too rough for the two of you.”

“Squall, my ass,”

Roshan grunts. “That was a fucking rock cyclone.”

I’m shocked at his reply, but the commander only claps him on the back with a gruff laugh. I frown—do they know each other? Or does Roshan’s charm work even on this man, the most wanted man in the kingdom. “Aran will get you settled in your quarters.”

He eyes me next. “And you, cadet, how are you? In one piece?”

Surprised at his friendliness—the newssheets had always touted him as a man whose only language was violence—I nod warily. “Sure. Aside from nearly dying.”

His smile is enigmatic. “Death comes for us all. What matters is how you meet it.”

When he moves to speak with another soldier, I lean toward Roshan. “What was that about?”

I whisper. “Does he know who you are?”

“Yes,”

he says in a low voice. “I made an arrangement with him to bring us here. I did not want to compromise your safety. We have a . . . temporary alliance.”

I blink, stomach souring at the idea of trusting a stranger, even as Roshan’s motives warm me. “In exchange for what?”

“Information.”

The way he says it makes me think that this agreement has something to do with his family and the crown, but it still doesn’t fully ease my nerves. The more people who know our identities, the more vulnerable we are.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I repeat to myself. Roshan has gotten us this far. I trust him. We’ll just have to tread carefully.

A slim, handsome man dressed in tan approaches us. Pretty ultramarine tattoos are etched on one side of his face and throat, and a thick gold necklace rests below his collarbones, hanging around his shoulders. He looks more like a monk than a rebel, and we bid him good day.

He welcomes us, bowing deeply as if we are esteemed guests. “I am Aran. It is my honor. Follow me, please.”

“Pretty advanced setup here,”

I whisper to Roshan as we trail Aran. “Where do you think they got the resources to build this?”

“The Dahaka are funded by many wealthy lords in each of the four houses,”

Roshan whispers back. “Not everyone is an admirer of the Oryndhr monarchy.”

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you said your father was a good man.”

“He was. But since his illness, my brother has held the Imperial House’s ear, and in the last few years, the aldermen of the other houses have bowed more to him and his mother than they did to my father. Javed’s the reason they’re so keen to expand beyond Oryndhr’s borders at any cost. You don’t think they’re salivating at the chance to have powerful, magical creatures of their own?”

Roshan’s voice deepens with feeling. “Greed and supremacy are powerful motivators.”

None of that surprises me.

“This way,”

Aran says, leading us around a crowd and then swerving sharply. “Don’t look, it’s unpleasant.”

Of course, with that caution, I crane my neck to see the source of the disturbance. I take in a broken wagon, and to my horror, it’s full of blood-spattered bodies.

“What happened?”

I blurt out.

“Scav attack,”

Aran says, his eyes downcast as he waves his hand in a circular motion over his face down to his chest in some kind of silent blessing.

I exhale slowly. In the Dustlands between the cities, if anyone comes up against a Scav siege, the chances of being sold off are high. And if they can’t sell someone for gold or trade them for jādū to distill into the hallucinogen they call Jade, well . . . Scavs are known for eating humans. I bite back my revulsion and turn away from the remnants of the wagon. Those bodies could easily have been mine and Roshan’s, save for luck.

“Are there more Scavs out there?”

“More than before,”

Aran replies, leading us into what looks like a huge warehouse. “Though they’ve never ventured this close to Nyriell in the past. Their migration and settlement patterns are changing.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not ideal. They seem . . . more organized.”

And with that ominous prospect, Roshan and I are whisked off to separate bathing areas to clean the clay and grit off our bodies.

Once I’ve finished in the tepid bath that has been drawn for me—with water that smells of soothing, earthy minerals—I dress in the soft garments that have been left in the cubicle. The feeling of being fully clean in fresh clothing is nearly overwhelming. My eyes prick with senseless tears as a knot forms in my throat. I miss my small room over the tavern, I miss my family . . . I miss home.

You’ll get back there, I think fiercely.

I meet Roshan in a receiving room at the other end of the chamber. He’s scrubbed clean, too, his dark hair damp and brushed off his handsome face, and dressed in a linen tunic and trousers. My heart skips a beat. I don’t know if it’s the nostalgia and the ache that has taken up residence in my chest, but the sight of him makes everything calm. All the complicated feelings inside of me settle with a sigh. At least in all this chaos, I can count on him.

“Everything all right?”

he asks softly, offering me his hand.

Gladly, I take it, wrapping my palm in his. “It is now.”

Once we are ready, Aran guides us through another door that leads outside into the hot air, and again, I gawk. It’s a riot of bustling chaos, not dissimilar to the town square in Coban, with traders of all colors, shapes, and sizes hawking their wares, their tables laden with food, clothing, jewelry, and weapons. Peddlers shout and haggle, laugh and curse. It looks and sounds so normal. I could close my eyes and imagine I’m back home during market day.

But many people hailing from the wider kingdom—tattooed skores from the plains of Eskorit, recognizable from the tribal etchings on their faces; mountain people from Xersten with their distinctive flaxen hair and pale coloring; and a handful of the slender, dark-skinned Jaxxians in their traditional jewelry and flowing sarongs—are also walking around the square in a communal harmony that is rare. I even see some wearing the richly embroidered, colorful, handwoven robes of Eloni, one of the richest cities in Oryndhr. Most of them pay us no mind as we follow Aran.

Nyriell is nothing like what I’d expected. I don’t know why I’d naively assumed that the rebel base would be a settlement of hardened, vicious armed soldiers and no one else. Perhaps that is what I’d been led to believe by the newssheets; propaganda is a tool, one well used by the monarchy.

But none of the people around me look like brutish mercenaries. Unsettled, I wrap my arms around my middle. A group of shrieking, doe-eyed children bump into me as they chase a ball through the middle of the square, and my heart squeezes. “Are there many children here?”

Aran inclines his bald pate with a slight smile. “Of course. Nyriell is a refuge to many who have been left homeless as a result of the monarchy’s expansion.”

“Expansion?”

“The crown controls the jādū mines throughout Oryndhr, and whole villages have been razed to make room for larger excavations to fill the coffers of the Imperial House. The citizens of all cities in the realm are expected to pay substantial tithes to their houses, and when they can’t pay, the tithes are taken in flesh. These people have been forced to flee for their lives to protect their families.”

“In flesh?” I ask.

“Conscripted to the crown’s army by force or to work in the mines.”

I frown—I hadn’t heard of that. I thought all military service had to be voluntary. Clearly, I’d been wrong about that, too. “Citizens here are from all the houses?”

He shakes his head. “Most of us have renounced house affiliation. Everyone in Nyriell is equal and on level footing—thinkers, farmers, musicians, warriors—we all just want to live together in peace.”

“You’re nameless?”

My stomach tightens. Long ago, my father had made the decision to renounce his own house ties. He’d seen through the greed and manipulation of Regulus and taken a punishable stance. Though most of the nameless were Scavs, outliers, and criminals, not all were. Some were nameless by choice.

Aran’s expression is patient, though I feel Roshan tense at my side. “We are houseless. There is a difference. Our names, even a single one, will always have power. We are more than the sum of a single political faction.”

His words hold a strange force to them—a resonance that I feel in my bones.

That the power of one could topple a kingdom.

“Here we are,”

Aran says, waving an arm to a narrow structure that ascends one of the rocky spires. He offers us each a square-shaped medallion on a cord. “You are on the third floor. Keep these with you at all times. It’s a runic identification.”

I stare at him, feeling an odd pulse under my skin, a surge of my magic in response to the brush of his fingers when he hands me mine. “Are you a runecaster?”

“I prefer magi.”

I stiffen. To admit such a blasphemous thing was grounds for immediate execution. Then again, there’s no one from the Imperial House here waiting to cast judgment. Well, besides the prince, who seems to have had no reaction to Aran’s words . . . but then I realize that Roshan has stopped to speak to a man selling carved bows.

“You’re part of . . . the order?”

I ask uncertainly.

“There is no order,”

he replies. “I simply use the gifts that have been granted to me . . .”

He pauses and glances at me. “. . . by Saru and the Royal Stars.”

This time I can’t hold back my gasp at the cavalier mention of the god of light and creation, and the Royal Stars. To even speak their names is anathema. “I don’t understand. You’re arcanist here? Do your people serve the old gods?”

There’s no apology or fear in his voice as he responds, “I am, and some do. There are no rules or restrictions on how you choose to worship or whom you choose to serve.”

The casual admission of his heresy in defiance of the strictest Oryndhrian law has me reeling. My brain is spinning like a children’s toy top, but all it can latch on to is something logical, something I can make sense of. “So if you’re a . . . magi . . . did you do the illusion on the surface?”

He nods and answers the next question on the tip of my tongue—the how of it. “Yes. It’s powered by jādū crystals. Runes craft the illusion.”

“Power runes.”

The only ones I’m familiar with are the elemental ones carved on weapons that Vasha commissioned. But then I remember the symbols on the azdaha’s collar that had served to reduce its magic and strength. “How many runes are there?”

Aran smiles. “Runes are the language of the Royal Stars, lost for so long now that we have forgotten its complexity. I suppose I can teach you a few casting symbols beyond the four elements, if you like.”

It’s like a lifeline—one I’d be foolish not to take, considering the position I’m in with my own abilities. I bite my lip and then nod. “I would like that,”

I say quickly, as Roshan returns to us.

Aran cants his head in a gracious incline even as the prince shoots me a curious look. “It would be my honor to instruct you, my lady. Get some rest. Later I will have some dinner sent to your quarters. You are both required to report first thing tomorrow morning for duty.”

“Duty?”

Roshan asks.

“Yes. In the weapons forge, two levels below this one. Everyone contributes here. If you need anything, place your thumb directly over this insignia”—he gestures to a circular hieroglyph on the reverse side of the medallion—“and I will come as soon as possible.”

I blink. “How?”

Aran chuckles. “Magic, of course.”

My heart jolts again at his casual use of something that has been so forbidden and is now the epicenter of my chaotic universe, but I don’t respond, keeping my face neutral.

“Thank you, Aran,”

Roshan says.

He bows so deeply that he nearly folds in half. “My deepest honor, Sire.”

* * *

A single chamber, with what looks like two sleeping pods carved out on either side of the bedroom adjacent to the communal living space, greets us several narrow flights up. A glass panel rests at the far end, leading outside to a stone parapet that looks over the market square. I join the prince out there.

Roshan and I don’t speak for a long moment, but then I clear my throat. “I take it Aran knows as well.”

“He’s part of the commander’s inner circle,”

he replies.

“Did you hear him say he’s a magi?”

Roshan peers at me. “Does that bother you?”

I glare at him. “It’s incredibly vexing when you answer a question with a question.”

The appearance of that teasing, crooked smile of his makes my breath hitch. “But when you respond so prettily, it’s hard not to.”

“You won’t think so when you’re flat on your back,” I growl.

With a low laugh at my very empty threat, Roshan looks over a shoulder at me. “I did hear Aran say that.”

I sniff when he doesn’t offer any more. “I can’t seem to get my mind around it.”

I hold up the medallion dangling at my neck. “Runes of power.”

“You carve magical runes into swords for Vasha,”

he says. “It’s not so far-fetched.”

I stare at him in shock. “How do you know that?”

“He supplies weapons for the palace, and I make it my business to be aware of the flow of jādū.”

Roshan lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I recognized your name that first day in the courtyard.”

He had? I don’t give any credence to the fluttery feeling in my belly. Not only had he known who I was and what I did for Vasha, but he’d seen the dagger I’d made and kept. The one ironically marked with runes of my own. “The symbols on the azdaha were different,”

I say. “They were ones of . . . control.”

“Yes. Though, I admit my knowledge of runes is limited. If you are interested, perhaps you should have Aran teach you.”

I don’t need his approval, but I’m glad for it all the same. “He offered to. And I said yes.”

We fall into a strange, heavy silence, but then Roshan clears his throat. “I forgot to tell you that I sent a man loyal to me to Coban. Your family is secure, and your father is aware of the threat. No one from Kaldari has shown up at the inn. They’re safe for now, Suraya.”

This man. The weight that had been crushing me at the thought of my family is alleviated slightly, and I fight the urge to burst into tears . . . again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I clear my clogged throat. “Have you heard anything else from the palace? Clem . . . my friend . . .”

“She’s still alive,”

Roshan says after a beat, and relief fills me.

As we stand there, staring out at the strange underground city, the sound of laughter drifts up, and I find myself smiling. I miss that, too. The sound of children playing outside the tavern in Coban, their innocence always a joy.

“Did they surprise you, too?”

I ask, pointing toward the happy group down below. “Seeing children here? I didn’t expect to see whole families. I mean, I thought the Dahaka were just an army of vicious militants.”

Roshan angles his head toward me, his warm brown eyes nearly orange in the refracted light of the gems in the cavern walls. “And what do you believe now?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,”

I confess softly. “The newspapers reported that they sacked mines all over the kingdom and brutally attacked the monarchy’s troops stationed in the cities, troops that were there to protect the people. That they were full of rage and hate.”

His low, mocking laughter chills me. “When my father got sick, the Imperial House elected Javed to take charge of the jādū trade. At Morvarid’s prompting, of course. It was unanimous. That’s why I keep track of the suppliers in each of the major cities.”

Roshan’s lips curl, latent fire coming to life in his eyes. I wonder if that is what he offered to the commander. That kind of knowledge would be priceless to the Dahaka. “As you’ve seen, my brother and the queen are not above using brute force to get their way if any of the aldermen dissent. Many of the people in Jaxx, Veniar, and Xersten fled for their lives after being forced to work for a pittance in the mines. When they resisted, their families were threatened and their children taken to provide incentive. Most of what you know as the Dahaka are refugees fighting for a better life, not a militia of mercenaries.”

I frown, remembering the attack on the palace and Kaldari that had sent us fleeing for our lives. “Even so, they’re not innocent. They kill innocent people, Roshan. I saw that with my own eyes in Kaldari. They set the explosives in the palace.”

“And how many of the dead were royal soldiers?”

I hesitate, recalling the bodies I’d seen on the streets, like the ones we’d taken the uniforms from. Most had been guards, true, but some had not been wearing royal insignia. They’d been ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire, just like with the palace explosion. “They started the war.”

He laughs humorlessly again. “The truth is the kingdom was already on the brink of war because of what it has become. People gorge to excess in Kaldari, while others elsewhere die of starvation. Javed’s bride pageant was a perfect example of his abuse of power. And, well, you saw what the Dahaka thought of that. It was a message, pure and simple—they can’t be manipulated, pacified, or silenced.”

“Is that what the commander spoon-fed you?”

I shoot back.

His jaw hardens. “Careful.”

It’s a clear warning—he’s still a prince of the realm after all—but I don’t back down. “So, you’re just going to stand by and do nothing while a bunch of revolutionaries destroy the mines because of some skewed notion of egalitarianism? Oryndhr is your home. My home.”

A dark look flashes across his face. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Defend your people. Just because Javed is a tyrant who only cares about himself doesn’t mean that the people of Oryndhr don’t need a champion. We have families, too. What about Coban? We have a few jādū mines—we could be the Dahaka’s next target, if that’s the information you choose to share.”

I wave a hand. “Regardless of what we see here, they are still the enemy. You said it yourself—the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

His eyes shutter. “Don’t you get it? Javed is the villain here, Suraya, not the Dahaka.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, Roshan blows out a frustrated breath. “As long as he controls those mines, he controls the people. None of the houses will openly oppose him. The aldermen all value their way of life too much and don’t wish to fall out of favor, so they sacrifice what’s needed to placate him.”

He gestures to the people milling about on the floor of the cavern. “You heard Aran. These refugees only want their freedom, the ability to choose. To live as they want to. To raise their families in peace.”

“And you think the Dahaka intend to redistribute any of the wealth they reclaim?”

But my argument feels brittle now. “They’re selfish, as dangerous as the Scavs.”

A low, furious hiss rips from his chest, shocking me. “The Scavs are drug-addicted criminals and outlaws. The Dahaka are fighting for something.”

Ashes below, he cannot be this brainwashed already!

“What? Freedom?”

I scoff, feeling inexplicably provoked by his skewed logic. “They’re already free.”

“But their version of freedom comes at a terrible cost.”

Roshan scrubs a hand through his hair, face tighter than I’ve ever seen it. “And there’s more to it than that. The Dahaka attacks started out as attempts to dismantle the monarchy’s power—disrupting trade and hitting the crown where it hurts the most, the royal coffers. But then they noticed that the crown’s focus was entirely on the jādū mines, even the small, barely producing ones.”

“Wait. How do you know this?”

I interrupt.

His brows draw down. “I told you, the commander and I came to an arrangement. When we were in the Indraloka.”

“We can’t trust him.”

Roshan turns to face me. “We don’t have a choice. We need their help to get you back to Coban. To see you safe. What’s the matter?”

Sands, does he not see that he’s being force-fed rhetoric by the leader of the Dahaka himself? Even if there’s some truth to it, Roshan is an Oryndhr prince, who would be a powerful ally for them. If I were the commander, I’d absolutely say anything to convince him to come to my side. This alliance is a fucking windfall to the Dahaka.

“Nothing,”

I say, guilt sluicing through me because I know he’s only doing this for us. To keep the promises he made to me. “What else did you learn?”

“Javed’s collecting jādū any way he can get it. But he’s not using it. He’s storing it.”

That draws my attention. “Why?”

“If no one else has jādū, they can’t fight back. They can’t fight you. Aran might be a magi, but he still needs jādū to amplify and cast. Oryndhr’s only the start of it. I know my brother, and he won’t stop until he gets his secret weapon back.”

My blood chills as my palms heat. Roshan doesn’t need to explain further.

I’m the final piece of Javed’s scheme to take absolute control.

The secret weapon is me.