In the Skin of a Nunqua (8 page)

8

The Thrill of the Race

T
he click of
the door latch woke Shanti.

Her weapons rested on a table near the bed. She unsheathed the sword and pointed the blade at the door as it swung open.

Commander Gy entered the room. “How are you feeling?”

She returned the weapon to the table and relaxed, falling backward onto the dark quilt and flat pillow. “Violated.”

He closed the door for privacy. “It wasn’t my idea. The other Guardians wanted to ensure that your intentions are honorable.”

“It isn’t right,” she said. “Reading someone’s future without permission.”

“Is it right to take Bayla away from her home under the pretext of an invasion and test her competence without her knowledge? We do what we believe is best for our country.”

Her boots lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. Someone must have removed them while she was under the sleeping spell.

Gy leaned against the wall with one hand in his pocket and looked through a window. “Would you like to know what Madiza said?”

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, pulling on her boots. “No.”

“I’m going to tell you anyway. Madiza said you’re like a string pulled so tight, it’s bound to break.”

“That’s my future?”

“Many paths lead to the future. Our choices determine the way we go there. At this juncture, your future is linked with Rega Bayla’s. Madiza said that your path is intertwined with hers. If you don’t train her properly and she fails, then you also fail.”

“Magen,” she breathed. “If Bayla doesn’t succeed, King Magen said he will have me beheaded.”

Gy laughed at the revelation.
Laughed
. “He’s bluffing, trying to protect his daughter. I’ve known Magen for a long time. He wouldn’t do such a thing. The Guardians won’t allow it.”

“What if she doesn’t pass?”

His expression turned serious. “You understand the consequences for Willovia.”

“Would there be a war?”

“In all probability, yes. Shanti, I believe you’ve already made up your mind about Rega Bayla. You’re determined to fail her. Give her a chance. Teach her. You yourself said she’s intelligent.”

Shanti touched the side of her head and grimaced. A painful lump had formed there.

“When Madiza put you under the spell, you fell and hit your head rather hard.”

She remembered no discomfort, only the opal bracelet and the forest. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“All afternoon,” Gy said. “I must tell you something else about your future. Nunqua warriors dressed in black, with spots on their skin and marks like yours across their arms, will come looking for you.”

Caravey
. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Or maybe it wasn’t him. It had been almost two years since she last saw Caravey. Perhaps the Nunqua warrior looking for her would be her uncle, wishing to convey important news of the family. Or perhaps Madiza was wrong, just like the old hag who foretold King Magen’s death.

A washbasin rested on a table. Shanti rinsed her face and dried it with a thin towel. She viewed her reflection in a mirror: hair disheveled from sleep. She twisted it back into the warrior’s knot.

“I’m going to give you an opportunity,” Gy said. “Here and now, you may reject the task that has been assigned to you, with no unfavorable repercussions. You can walk away, go back to a regular military encampment, and have nothing more to do with the princess. You are free to choose a path separate from hers.”

Walk away? Give up? Accept a lesser position because the responsibility was too great? The other soldiers would think her weak. They would never respect her if she walked away from duty in the face of hardship. “Gy,” she said, “I’m looking forward to showing the princess what it feels like to be ordered around.”

He stopped leaning against the wall and stood tall. “Do I have your word that you’ll be fair in your treatment of Rega Bayla?”

“Fair?” Shanti said. “You mean, like you treated me when I was training? Every time we played the game of war, you changed the rules of engagement so that my team would lose. You tied my ankles together with rope during sword practice—a burden no other candidate had to endure. You sabotaged my equipment—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Gy said. “Will you give Bayla a chance to prove herself?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told King Magen,” Shanti said as she put on her sword and wristlet. “I’ll do what’s best for Willovia.”

“I expect nothing less from you, Commander.”

*

During the first night of her journey, Bayla left the cottage under the cover of darkness, in the company of Commander Gy and her guard, Shanti. They did the rest of their traveling in the light of day. The weather was cool but not cold. The summer’s heat would be upon them soon enough, though. The princess ate outside or in inconspicuous taverns, and Commander Gy and Shanti never once called attention to her royal identity. After four long days, they reached a place where the road entered a forest of bare trees. The woodland sloped upward into rocky, mountainous terrain, and snow capped the faraway peaks. The Hedgelands.

“Finally,” Shanti said. She and Gy galloped up to a group of mounted men in brown uniforms, milling about the edge of the tree line.

Bayla saw no castle, no houses—just fields and trees and the distant mountains. The soldiers congregated around her traveling companions, leaving Bayla alone. The dust of the road felt grimy on her face, so she decided to dismount and rinse off in a nearby stream. Kneeling on a rock, she splashed her face with the frigid water.

A dragonfly with iridescent wings flitted about. Bayla lifted her arm, and the creature landed on the back of her hand. More dragonflies flew over to greet her. The insects swooped about and rested on her until she was half covered with their gossamer wings.

Bayla looked up to see only strangers. Commander Gy and Shanti were gone. Panic lumped in the pit of her stomach, and the skittish dragonflies, sensing her distress, zoomed away.

One man stood apart from the rest, giving orders. She had no choice but to grab the reins of her horse and approach him. To her relief, she did not have to speak first.

“Rega Bayla,” the man said, “I’m Commander Jun.”

“But . . . where is Commander Gy?”

“He and Commander Shanti have gone ahead to camp.”

“Isn’t this where we’ll be staying?” Bayla immediately regretted asking the question that exposed her inexperience.

“This place is out in the open and vulnerable to attack. The camp is farther down this road.”

A dirt path disappeared into the forest. Brown branches the same dull color as the soldiers’ uniforms arched over the pathway. The entrance to the woods reminded her of an entrance to a cave.

All the soldiers except Commander Jun were mounted now. Men hollered in excitement, and restive animals fidgeted and snorted. Even her stallion pawed the ground.

“Rega Bayla!” Jun shouted to be heard over the clamor of the men. “When entering a newly established camp, it’s customary for those on horseback to race.”

Twelve riders waited astride horses eager to run. Commander Jun walked in front of them, lifted his arm, then dropped his fist. “Go!”

The horses bolted for the woods, kicking up divots of sod as they strove for the lead. Bayla’s whole body vibrated in response to the pounding of hooves.

Commander Jun put his hands around his mouth. “Bayla.”

The sound of her name pulled her out of the trance.

“What are you waiting for? Go!”

Bayla’s horse, a gift from her father for her sixteenth birthday, was the foal of the two fastest horses in Willovia. He whinnied and pranced about, tugging the reins in the direction of the racers. After the slow pace of the past four days, he was ready to run.

“Go!” Commander Jun yelled.

Bayla jumped onto the prized horse and raced into the woods.

The straight path slit the woodlands like a long scar on a hairy scalp. Bits of sunlight filtered through the bare branches. The riders and their horses focused only on what lay ahead of them in the dangerous chase. Bayla and her steed passed the men with astonishing speed. She leaned low in the saddle, weaving through the pack.

Bayla arrived first at the clearing in the forest where Commander Gy and Shanti stood with several others. Coming in second was a well-built soldier with dark hair and eyes.

Bayla dismounted and put her arms around the stallion’s sweaty neck. She could feel its satisfaction at competing and winning. It truly was a horse bred for speed.

The young man who had come in second put his hand on the flank of Bayla’s horse. “Congratulations, Rega. My name is Zindar.”

She nodded politely. “Zindar.”

Other racers entered the camp. They, too, got down from their horses and commended her victory.

Commander Gy put his hand on Bayla’s shoulder. “The winner is Rega Bayla.”

She felt awake and alive as the men cheered her victory. The exhilaration of the race still quickened her blood. Her status as a leader, the future ruler of all Willovia, was now firmly rooted in the minds of her guards.

Shanti’s stern expression contrasted with the cheerful countenances of the others in the crowd. “She didn’t win.”

The noise of the soldiers quieted as everyone waited for an explanation. Fear rose in Bayla at the thought of what Shanti would say:
it wasn’t fair for her to race; she’s not a soldier; her horse is worth more than all the others put together.

“She didn’t win . . . because she cheated.”

“Commander Shanti,” Gy said, “how could Rega Bayla have cheated?”

“Trust me, she cheated.” Shanti walked away from the group.

No one spoke a word in Bayla’s behalf. The thrill of the race vanished. The men left to pitch tents, their previous exuberance destroyed.

Although Bayla appeared calm, a storm raged inside her. Shanti knew that she hadn’t needed her power to win, but she had embarrassed her in front of her new royal guards anyway. Was it in retribution for the shabby treatment Commander Shanti had received from the Daughters of Fortunate Birth? Or was it out of jealousy? It was a bold move—a move that she would make Shanti regret.

9

Infestation

D
ried leaves and
twigs crunched beneath Shanti’s boots as she approached a soldier checking a list of provisions in a cart. The cart contained blankets, soap, lanterns, oil, tent pegs, tools, and various other necessities for the camp. Larger items, such as storage cabinets and cots, were neatly stacked in piles on the ground. Wagons must have delivered the supplies before she and Commander Gy had arrived at the Outer Boundaries with the princess.

“Commander Jun?” she said.

He stopped inventorying the goods. “Yes.”

“Are you in charge of supply?”

“Why? Is there something you need?”

Commander Jun had short hair, a cleft in his chin, and he wore the uniform well. “I . . . I need a map of the area.”

“There is only one map. You may look at it if you want.”

“I need it
with
me to set up the guard posts—along with shovels and pickaxes.”

He pointed to the road leading into camp. “Just put one of the guard posts there, one by the horses, and one at the rear of camp. It’s simple, really; even someone like you can figure it out without a map.”

“Someone like me?”

He grinned. “A joke.”

Her face flushed in embarrassment, or was it something more? “Map, shovels, pickax.”

He took a bag out of the cart and shook out a scroll. “This is the only map. Be sure to return it to me when you’re done. Shovels are by that tree.”

Shanti took the scroll and put it in the jacket of her uniform. A shovel and a pickax leaned against a nearby tree. The pickax had a broken handle, and the shovel was cracked.

“You can’t be serious.”

“The other tools are in better condition. They’re being used now.”

Shanti grabbed the worthless gear and left, wondering whether Commander Jun was married. He had to be or, at least, had to have a significant woman in his life. She glanced in his direction once more, and her legs collided with the thorny branches of a low-growing shrub. She untangled her feet, feeling stupid and hoping he hadn’t seen.

While soldiers were putting up tent poles, Shanti dropped the broken shovel next to a functional one and picked up the good one without anyone noticing. She tapped a soldier on the back. “Come with me.”

By the time she left the camp accompanied by four other soldiers, Shanti possessed the map, three serviceable shovels, and a pickax in excellent condition.

They climbed to a stony promontory jutting low from the mountain, with a good view of the area. It was the perfect place for a guard point. No digging would be required, and cover was plentiful. The four men examined the map while Shanti scanned their surroundings. Below them were roads, grasslands, a town, and a winding river. The sound of a rip caused an icy spasm to rush up her spine.

“It’s his fault, Commander Shanti, he—”

“I don’t care whose fault it is.” She carefully took the map away. A gaping tear ran down its center. “It seems I have four volunteers for guard duty tonight.”

Maps as detailed as the one in her hands were hard to come by. And expensive. Commander Jun was going to be angry.

*

Bayla watched the soldiers work together with speed and efficiency. Strong youths in the service of her father—the backbone of the Willovian forces, doing what needed to be done. And she would rule them one day.

Brown and green tents nestled among the trees—a small one for each of the commanders, and larger ones to accommodate twelve soldiers each. Men hammered nails into the roof of a wooden pavilion. A tree stump marked the middle of camp. Beyond the tents, horses grazed in a roped-off enclosure.

Several men were cooking something in pots over a fire. A scrawny fellow plucked feathers from a headless chicken. He was the only person besides Bayla not wearing a uniform.

Food was set out, and the soldiers gathered for their meal. Commander Gy went first, and the rest followed. The men sat on rocks and timbers, chatting and eating. Gy came over to her, carrying a plate of food that contained no meat.

“Rega Bayla,” he said, “let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

They entered a tent the size of her stallion’s stall at the castle. It smelled of mildew. Gy gave her the plate and excused himself, saying that much work needed to be done.

The tent was the color of mud and altogether unfit for the daughter of the king. She usually ate from plates rimmed in gold, not from a wooden trencher. It would be understandable if her stay was to be short, but the pavilion indicated otherwise. Something was wrong here.

Bayla wondered about her father, and for the first time, she worried about his safety. She knew that the king was alive. If anything should happen to him, the monks would find her immediately.

The monks, forever the servants of Willovia’s rulers, were soothsayers, prophets of doom. If her father died, they would take charge of the fallen king’s body and march it through the city of Erbaut before burial in the royal catacombs. Then she would be queen, and the monks would become her advisers, inexorably by her side, telling her strange things about the future. She hated them more than she hated Shanti.

“Rega . . .” Someone was standing outside her tent. “May we come in?”

“You may enter.”

Two soldiers carried a cot, blankets, soap, and a storage cabinet into her tent, then left her alone.

Bayla touched the lumpy pillow and the coarse, woolen blanket—so different from the fine bedding she was used to. The gritty soap smelled like sawdust. What was going on? Why hadn’t she been informed of the measures put in place for her safety in case Willovia was ever attacked? Even Shanti had known of the plan to take her to the Hedgelands should an invasion occur at the castle. Damn her father for never telling her anything! She was almost twenty, the future queen, yet voiceless when it came to matters of importance.

Angry power surged around her like a whirlwind. She was trapped in this secluded camp with her guards, just as she was trapped at the castle. A slave to the will of her father, a pathetic princess to be protected under the command of others. The tent felt like a cage. Bayla pointed her hand at the plate of food sitting on the ground and splayed her fingers wide.

“Baylova.” She spoke her formal name with a mix of pride and pain. “Queen of Willovia, sovereign of the people, supreme commander of the military, unquestioned leader.”

The plate shook. Her hand clenched into a fist, and the plate cracked in twain with a loud crunch. Food scattered across the tent.

“Someday,” she whispered.

“Rega?” Men gathered outside her tent. “Are you all right?”

Commander Gy barged in, followed by three others. They saw the broken plate and food strewn across the ground, the canvas walls, and Bayla’s boots.

“What happened?” Gy said.

“I dropped my plate.”

He looked around at the mess.
“Dropped?”

“It slipped from my hand.” Bayla pulled her shoulders back as she had been trained to do since she was a child. How many hours had her governess made her walk around with a book on her head, teaching her never to lower her face to others?

“You’re bleeding, Rega.” Commander Gy pointed to her hand.

Blood trickled down her fingers from a cut in her palm—the price for using her power. “Oh.” Her shoulders hunched in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the pain until now.

“Where’s Commander Shanti?” Gy asked one of the soldiers with him.

“She’s setting up the guard posts.”

“Rega Bayla,” Gy said, “see Commander Shanti when she returns. She should have some bandages.” Commander Gy and the others left as abruptly as they had entered.

Bayla could hear the men’s conversation through the cloth walls of her tent.

“Not even here a day, and the princess is already having tantrums.”

“Really! Throwing plates of food around . . .”

She strained to hear more, but the soldiers had moved too far away. Using her unbloodied hand, she wiped the food off her boots and riding pants. She removed a sheet from the mound of bedding and ripped a strip of cloth off the end. Taking the improvised bandage to the stream near camp, she washed the blood from her hand in the cold water, exposing a shallow cut. She wrapped the wound with the cloth but had trouble securing it with only one free hand.

She wouldn’t lower herself to ask Shanti for a bandage, but she did have an order in mind. Shanti was her guard, after all—her servant. It was time to start exerting her authority.

*

“Do you know how much this cost?” Commander Jun inspected the torn map on a table inside the pavilion. Dinner was being prepared in the fading light, and oil lamps hung low from the rafters.

“I’ll pay for the replacement.” Shanti pretended to look down at the map. Instead, she looked at his hands: strong, with clean fingernails and a small scar between the left index and middle fingers.

“This is one of a kind.” He rolled up the damaged map and returned it to its leather pouch. “I hope you’re a good artist.”

“What do you mean?”

Bayla entered the pavilion. “Commander Jun,” she said.

“Rega.”

“Shanti, my tent needs to be cleaned. I want you to see that the bed is made every morning and the storage cabinet organized.”

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Shanti said.

“It’s just a scratch.” Spots of blood darkened the bandage.

“Let me see,” Shanti said.

Bayla moved her hand behind her back. “It’s nothing. I expect my tent to be taken care of in the manner I’m accustomed to.” And with that, she left the pavilion.

“And I expect you to make me a new map,” Jun said. “Better yet, four identical maps: one for each of the commanders.”

“That would take weeks.”

“Are you going to make the soldiers clean her tent?” he said.

“Of course not. She can do it herself.”

“What about the map?”

“The map was in my care and, therefore, my responsibility. Do you have any glue?”

He laughed. Apparently, he didn’t approve of the idea.

“All right,” she said. “When I have time and you’ve provided me with the proper materials, I’ll attempt to make a single copy to replace the map that was damaged.”

“Three copies, and you keep the torn original.”

“One copy.”

“Three.” He smiled. “Now I understand why everyone says you’re so difficult to work with.”

“And why is it that everyone who works in supply is motivated by greed? One copy is fair.”

“Two.” Laugh lines deepened around his eyes.

“I’ll not haggle with you. Who says I’m difficult to work with?”

“Everyone,” he said.

Soldiers were lining up for dinner just outside the pavilion. The aroma of roasted chicken filled the air. She looked at his short hair. “Commander Jun, I may have to borrow scissors from you. Looks as if you’ll need a haircut soon.”

The smile left his face. “Are you threatening me?”

“What’s so threatening about a haircut?”

“Only Nunqua warriors are known to cut the hair of their enemies. I believe that Commander Mossgail found that out the hard way.”

“Mossgail? I think I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he in charge of supply, just like you? Weren’t all his provisions stolen in the middle of the night while he slept, and a lock of his hair found hanging by a string in the doorway? I wonder if they ever found the culprit.”

Jun’s voice was as cold as his stare. “I’d advise you to be careful, Commander Shanti. I’m not as stupid as Mossgail.”

“Nor are you as fat.”

Men entered the dining area, holding plates of hot food and sitting at tables.

“One copy.” Shanti pushed her way to the front of the line of soldiers waiting to get their dinner.

Damn him. He was just like the others, regarding her authority as insignificant. Bayla wanted her to clean a stupid tent, and Commander Jun wanted her to make four copies of the map when one copy was fair. No male commander would be treated in such a demeaning manner. Shanti slammed her plate down and put a hunk of bread on it.

The more she thought of Jun—the harsh look on his face, the coldness of his stare, the breadth of his shoulders—the more she felt a delicious rage swarm over her senses.

The food smelled good. She spooned the hearty chicken stew with carrots, peas, and potatoes onto her plate. A familiar laugh grated on her ears like a rusty blade scratching glass.

“I knew it. Knew you wanted to see me again. I have that effect on women.”

In front of her stood the scrawny cook who had insulted her at the castle. Smears from a dozen meals discolored his shirt, and his greasy yellow hair was tucked behind his ears. “But I didn’t think you were desperate enough to follow me all the way to the Hedgelands. Are you ready for your first lesson on how to command?” His gaze traveled over her body. “Perhaps I should teach you some submissive positions. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Shanti set down her plate, ready to haul the cook out of the pavilion, tie him to the nearest tree, and leave him there until morning. A hand squeezed her shoulder.

“My compliments on the food, Mr. Pascha,” Commander Gy said. “It’s excellent. Don’t you agree, Commander Shanti?”

She picked up her plate and walked away from the cook.

“I don’t mind plain women,” Mr. Pascha called out after her.

“Ignore it,” Gy said. “I know he’s an ass, but he’s the best cook I could find. Try to be friendly.”

They sat at a table in the corner of the pavilion. The stew and bread on her plate did look appetizing. She took a bite. “Needs salt,” she lied.

“Shanti . . .” His voice was stern.

“Okay, I’ll try to be civil for the sake of the camp.”

The food was good. Shanti decided to do her best to avoid Mr. Pascha and even returned for a second helping of stew.

*

Shanti slept soundly that first night, lulled by the singing of crickets and frogs. The smell of sausage enticed her out of bed. Taking a bar of soap, she headed out into the misty morning as most of the soldiers still slept. She washed in the river, fixed her hair, put on her uniform, and went into the pavilion for breakfast. Men emerged from their tents and tightened tent ropes or groomed themselves for the day.