In the Skin of a Nunqua (17 page)

“They forced me out of Willovia—kidnapped me. I didn’t know what was happening. I surprised the warrior, took a knife—or was it a sword?—and . . . My memory of that night is vague.”

“You stayed with the Nunqua willingly. They cut your arms to teach you to overcome pain. You can change your appearance. You’re the perfect spy.”

Jun stood close, smelling of soap. He lowered his head, his voice soft and low. “You’re trying to scare me with your stories. It’s not going to work. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me.” He touched the spots emerging above her left eye.

Shanti morphed gradually, unwillingly, into the natural state of her birth. She was not Willovian, nor was she a full-fledged Nunqua. She was different, a hybrid with faded spots and dark lips.

“Tell me you’re not loyal to the Nunqua,” he whispered, fingers moving down her cheek.

Her body flooded with warmth. “I’m playing the part of a traitor.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

Was Jun pretending to be interested to get information? “Is this an interrogation?” she said.

“Willovian or Nunqua? What are you?”

“Both.”

17

A Ruby Ring

“
I
’ve received a
message,” Gy informed the commanders inside his tent. “As you know, Mr. Pascha and Zindar have been trailed since leaving camp. This message states that Mr. Pascha has found a position as a cook for a mining camp in the southernmost part of Willovia. Zindar is now working as a sailor on a merchant ship laden with trade goods for the Merulians.”

Gy unrolled the map drawn by Aiden on top of a small table. Black lines on beige parchment illustrated detailed features of the terrain. “Now, to other business. We shall leave during the next full moon, over these mountains and to the east, for a game of war. When we reach this area”—he pointed to a blank spot representing a flat section of land—“the soldiers will split into two teams. Vittorio, you’re in charge of the red team. Jun, you’ll lead the yellow. The goal is to capture the enemy and confine him temporarily. You may also try to rescue members of your own team if you choose. Whichever team has the most prisoners after two days will visit the town when we return.”

Gy rolled up the map. “Commander Shanti, I need to speak with you alone.”

Jun and Vittorio left the tent, slapping each other on the back and bragging about who would win the game.

Shanti was excited to get away. The same scenery and day-after-day routine of camp were getting dull. Playing war was just the change she needed to work off some frustration.

He avoided her gaze, walked around the small space, and pulled the pipe out of his pocket to inspect it. Finally, the words came. “You’ll not be going. I need you to stay at camp.”

“I protest.”

“I knew you would. Protest away.”

“Why am I being excluded? You’re purposely prohibiting me from interacting with Bayla, not to mention undermining my authority.”

Gy rotated the pipe in his hands. “You’re not being excluded. Someone’s needed to watch the camp.”

“May I speak openly, Commander Gy?”

“Yes, but I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Please allow me to say it anyway. There was a time when you called me a useless and weak woman, a freak, a maggot-infested pile of dung, and that was when you were feeling charitable. You smacked me in the back of the head every time I did or said something wrong.”

He nodded in agreement.

“And squeezed my arms so hard they bruised. You sabotaged my equipment, overturned my belongings, made Taran and the other candidates hate me. You did all this to train me to be a commander. Bayla will be queen, if the Guardians allow it—in charge of the commanders and the entire Willovian military. And you have never once raised your voice to her, not even when she lied at an inquiry.”

“The consequences for the kingdom are great if she fails.”

“The consequences are even greater if she’s allowed to succeed without proving her worth. You taught me how to shoot an arrow into a target at a hundred paces, surrounded by chaos and insults and hate.”

“I taught you how to fight in battle,” he replied. “Bayla is a royal. She can, and will, choose to stay at the castle in times of war. Control of the military will be given to the commanders.”

“There are far fiercer battles being waged inside the castle than on the battlefield. She must be strong and learn to rule Willovia surrounded by chaos, insults, and hate. She must not be manipulated. You’re a Guardian, Gy. You made me a Guardian. I don’t understand why you’re spitting on the plan.”

“I’m not spitting on the plan! Let me ask you: who do you think will rule Willovia if Bayla
doesn’t
become queen? She’s the last of the royal bloodline.”

“I don’t know.”

He slipped the pipe back into his pocket. “You’ll stay here with the cook, go to town, relax. That’s an order. We return in seven days.”

“Am I still to play the part of a traitor?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Bayla will pass the final test?”

He gazed into the distance. “Yes.”

She could tell it was a lie.

*

Pirates captured the Willovian merchant vessel after a brief skirmish. While the ship was being looted, Zindar stood in the brig, hating his bad luck. Two Nunqua guards conversed outside the cage.

“Spots,” a skinny Willovian sailor sneered. Tattoos of skeletons and sea creatures covered his skin, and multiple gold loops pierced his eyebrows. “Have you ever seen anything so ugly?”

“I have.” Zindar leaned against the bars with his arms crossed. “Met a half-breed once. Her name was Shanti.”

The Nunqua guards turned toward Zindar.
“Tuv condelettka Shanti?”

Zindar lifted his sleeve and showed them the scar across his forearm made by Shanti after the sword fight.

The Nunqua men hooted and hit each other on the shoulder. One said,
“Eh, cov Shanti sus mak,”
and left.

The Willovian captain, imprisoned in the brig with his crew, came over to Zindar and whispered, “Boy, if you get out of here, I want you to bargain for our lives. They’re ignoring protocol and refusing to speak with me. You seem to have their attention. They can keep the goods. Tell them we want the ship and enough food to get to land.”

The guard returned with a Nunqua sailor wearing golden earrings and a necklace with an emerald stone. “You know Shanti?”

“Are you the captain?” Zindar said.

“I’m the interpreter, but I can take you to the captain.”

“Then yes, I know her.”

Pirates escorted Zindar out of the brig and brought him up on deck. A Nunqua sailor, his gray braids dyed blue, inspected a silver mug, furs, a case of Willovian wine, and bolts of cloth. Gemstone rings adorned each of his stubby fingers. The captain looked over Zindar in the same appraising way he looked over the goods.
“Tuve wah condelettka Shanti?”

“How do you know Shanti?” the interpreter said.

“I was a royal guard responsible for the princess’s protection. Shanti . . . worked for me.”

The captain spoke directly to Zindar; the interpreter stood to the side and translated. “If you’re a foot soldier, how come you’re on this ship?”

“Because I had a relationship with the princess. Shanti and the commanders didn’t want a commoner to become king, so they conspired against me. I was banished from the military and given this.” Zindar lifted his shirt to show them the four stripes across his back.

The two Nunqua men conversed. The captain slid a ruby ring off of his finger and gave it to Zindar.

“He asks that you come with us to Nunqua territory,” the interpreter said. “The captain can guarantee your safety.”

“I’ll go only if the crew and captain remain unharmed and enough food is left on the ship for them to reach land.”

The interpreter translated, and the captain nodded.
“Kreha.”
He lifted his bejeweled fingers.

Zindar shook hands with the captain, then put the ruby ring on his finger. It was worth more than he would ever make swabbing decks, mending sails, and tying knots. The Nunqua weren’t so bad after all. Maybe his luck was changing.

*

The interpreter examined the ship’s logbook. “They intended to sell their cargo to the Murulians at far below market price,” he said.

“The Willovians are trying to forge an alliance,” the Nunqua captain said. “It’s good we intercepted this ship.”

“What about Zindar? You know what those marks on his back mean: he’s a criminal.”

“Aren’t we all?” the captain said.

The interpreter frowned. “He can’t be trusted.”

“Zindar has connections to the royal family and Shanti.”

The interpreter looked up from the logbook. “You believe his story, then?”

“No, but he may be valuable. We’ll bring him to land and let the military extract information from him.”

“Torture?” the interpreter said.

“Torture, money, drink, soft words, women cooing over him—whatever it takes. Tell the men that our guest is to be treated well. We’re ready to sail back home with our newfound wealth.”

18

Scapegoat

B
ayla wore a
yellow armband as she searched the woods for the enemy. Lightning flashed, offering a temporary view of trees swaying in the wind.

They had been away from camp for three days, with little rest and even less to eat. Commander Jun, leader of the yellow team, was a different person when playing war. The game excited him, as did the storm. He insisted on making the yellow team hunt for prisoners in the bad weather. The storm would mask their movements, he said, giving them the advantage of surprise.

Twigs scratched her arms, and her stomach growled. Bayla leaned on the trunk of a dead tree that had yet to fall, and realized she was alone. She must have wandered away from her partner, another soldier with a yellow armband. Should she stay here? Thunder rippled across the sky. Spending the night in a downpour by herself would not be wise.

The sound of water rushing over rocks perked her ears. A creek ran alongside her team’s site. If she could just find the creek, she could follow it back to where guards watched over the prisoners wearing red armbands.

Bayla moved toward the sound, arms up and protecting her face from branches.

She had just found the creek when someone jumped out of a tree and landed in front of her. The soldier wore a red armband to match his red hair.

“Hello, Pirro,” she said.

“Hello, prisoner.”

She smiled. “Not without a fight.” Bayla pulled the ugly sword from its tattered sheath as raindrops pattered on her skin.

“Fine with me.” Pirro unsheathed his sword.

She swung at him again and again, forgetting the rain, her heartbeat quickening.

He blocked her efforts but did not fight in earnest. “You’re getting much better, Rega. Really, you are.” Pirro’s boots splashed in the ankle-deep water. He tripped her, and she plunged into the creek, her pants soaked through. “But I’m still taking you prisoner.” Pirro offered his hand and helped her to a standing position. Lightning struck close, distinguishing the shadow of a figure watching them. Thunder cracked.

Did the soldier belong to the red or yellow team? Her eyes strained to see who approached. Features came into view: long hair, dark lips on a pale face, and spots on mottled skin. “Shanti?” But this man’s girth far exceeded Shanti’s, and he held a broad sword.

Pirro pushed Bayla away from the Nunqua warrior dressed in black. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The warrior cracked his neck from side to side, then ran toward Pirro. He attacked—his skill with the blade evident at once.

Watching the warrior duel Pirro was like watching a bear fight a dog.

“Find the others,” Pirro said to her. “Stop the game!”

“Pirro!”

He turned to look at her. “Get out of here now!” Pirro bellowed, and collapsed into the creek. He tried to stand, but the stranger sliced his neck.

Wolves howled in the distance. The pack raced to her aid, but they were too far away. She planted her feet on the ground, held the worthless sword in front of her, ready to . . . to what?

The warrior glanced at her, then returned his attention to the body. “You are joking.” His accent was thick. He bent over and cut off a lock of Pirro’s red hair, putting it in his pocket. He disregarded Bayla while rummaging through Pirro’s uniform.

Five soldiers emerged from the bushes and converged on the Nunqua warrior. Commander Jun carved a deep gash across his leg, but he broke free from the soldiers and limped into the trees.

“Stay with the princess,” Commander Jun ordered. He chased after the warrior, disappearing into darkness.

Rain fell in sheets as thunder split the air. Two men lifted Pirro’s body from the creek. More soldiers arrived at the scene and positioned themselves around Bayla and their fallen comrade.

A pack of growling wolves reached their position. Wet hackles rose stiffly along their spines.

“Do not touch the wolves,” Bayla said.

She knelt next to Pirro. Red muscle blossomed out of the hole in his side, blood pouring out and mixing with the rain. A gaping wound split the flesh of his neck. Pirro’s eyes were unblinking; no groans of suffering escaped his lips. He was gone.

Bayla wanted to touch Pirro’s blood; it would connect her with him somehow. She wanted to lie on the ground next to him, die with him. Funny, wonderful, perfect Pirro had given his life to protect her.

*

The Nunqua was large, and he was wounded. He crashed through bushes and clambered over boulders that stood in his way. Jun followed the noisy warrior’s trail.

The warrior stopped running and spun around, ready to fight.

The clanging of their swords mixed with the crashing thunder. Wind bent the treetops. Jun stabbed the warrior’s abdomen. The Nunqua buckled onto his hands and knees and made a hacking noise, his back hunched.

Jun’s sword, in a two-handed grip, arced high above the head of his enemy.

An arrow whizzed under Jun’s armpit. He dropped flat on the ground in the thick underbrush. The murmurings of men speaking a different language reached his ears. Their voices grew louder.

“You think you’ve killed me?” The large Nunqua warrior chortled. Then he moaned, gurgling blood and holding the skin of his belly together with one hand. “Eh, Willovian?”

Unfriendly figures came into view among the trees. They hefted swords, bows, and spiked maces. Their eyes shone silver in the dark. Jun crawled through the foliage, away from the Nunqua and toward the creek. He changed directions, not wanting to lead the warriors to the princess and his Willovian cohorts, and stopped when he reached a jumble of smooth boulders, some as big as houses. Jun concealed himself amid the boulders and listened. Pounding rain tapered to a steady drizzle. He stayed in that spot, shivering from cold, anger, and fear, until the sky grew lighter and the clouds dispersed with the first rays of dawn.

*

Commander Gy spoke with Jun, Vittorio, and Bayla in a sodden field, their uniforms muddy. A pink and red sunrise adorned the no longer stormy sky. A short distance away, Leanna wrapped Pirro’s body in a cloth, and the soldiers lashed it onto two poles to be dragged behind his horse.

“I saw ten Nunqua at least,” Jun said. “I say we find them before they find us.”

Gy scratched the stubble on his chin. “What are they doing here?”

“They’re after Bayla,” Vittorio said. “They want to kidnap her.”

“They had their chance,” Gy said. “The warrior could have taken her but didn’t.”

Bayla, with a wolf sitting obediently at her feet, said, “It was Shanti. She’s alone at camp. She went to town and sent a message telling the Nunqua where we’d be.”

Gy closed his eyes. Only when Bayla mentioned Shanti’s name did he realize the Nunqua’s purpose. “I don’t know how they found us, but I know why they’re here. They’re not after you, Rega. They’re after Shanti.”

“But she’s one of them,” Bayla said.

“She’s a traitor to them!” he spat. “Madiza, the fortuneteller, predicted it. I should have figured it out sooner. Madiza foretold of warriors with marks across their arms like Shanti’s, who would come looking for her.”

“Madiza.” Bayla’s eyes narrowed “The hidden witch . . .” She straightened. “Commander Gy, Shanti is a threat to the safety of the men at this camp. Pirro is gone because of her. She will be removed from our presence.”

Gy wanted to hit her for that remark. “Camp is over, you stupid woman. I’m tired of listening to you make her the scapegoat.”

“You must see—”

“Shut up, Bayla!” Gy ignored the wolf growling at him. “Pirro died honorably in the service of Willovia. I’m in charge. His death is my fault, my responsibility. Shanti was right, only I didn’t want to listen to her. You are selfish. I’ve waited a long time to hear you ask about the invasion at the castle, to show concern for your people, to take responsibility for your actions. We’ve given you too many chances. Camp is over.” Gy faced Vittorio and Jun. “The trials are over. No final test is needed.”

“What test?” Bayla said.

“Your guards will bring you back to the castle, Rega. I will take ten men and return Pirro’s body to his family, offering my deepest, sincerest condolences for their loss.”

The wolf lowered its head, yellow eyes fixed on Gy.

“What test?” Bayla said.

“It’s my utmost wish, Rega, that you marry, soon, to somebody who cares more about Willovia than you do. And if that wolf bites me, may the spirits help you. I’ll not constrain my actions any longer because of your gender or your privileged status as heiress to the Willovian throne.

“Commander Jun,” Gy said, “you’re in charge of the princess’s protection. I know you have the skills to keep her safe. Do not think for one moment that you have fooled me. I know the reason you’re here.”

Jun nodded.

“Commander Vittorio, you’re now in charge of supply and taking down the camp. The tents and other equipment will be returned to the permanent encampment. I believe you know the way. Commander Shanti will go with you, and you may take six other soldiers. Protect her and be on the lookout.” He glared down at Bayla. “Although Shanti’s quite capable of defending herself, a true leader always does his best to protect those under his command.”

It felt liberating to finally say what needed to be said. Gy mounted his horse, feeling terrible about Pirro but better about himself. He was no stranger to combat. Young soldiers under his command had died before, and he had long ago learned to channel his grief into determination. He rode in front of the princess, fifty-eight soldiers, and one fallen corpse, over rough, mountainous terrain. Gy only hoped the Nunqua hadn’t raided the camp already and found Shanti alone.

*

Shanti hiked away from camp, eventually reaching the peaceful river—her sanctuary as foretold by Madiza. She dug a hole in the ground. Beside her was a blanket, and Bayla’s sword with the dragon carved on it. The edge of the barely used sword was still sharp. She sheathed the weapon, wrapped it in the blanket, and placed it in the hole. Then she covered the sword with dirt and stacked four rocks on top of the mound. The sturdy cairn of stone reached her knees. The ground near the river made a much better hiding place than the earlier location at the camp. Shanti rinsed the dirt off her hands in the river, then removed the warrior’s knot from her hair.

Taking the sword after Bayla finished the obstacle course had been easy. No one saw her hide the weapon in her jacket, then slip away from the group to conceal it in her tent.

Shanti strolled through the woods at a leisurely pace. She touched the rough bark of trees, inspected wildflowers, and climbed the crumbling rock walls of abandoned buildings. A patch of blackberries grew along the trail. She picked a handful to eat, in no hurry to return to the empty camp. The earthy aroma of the woods filled her senses, and the lush forest radiated a calm serenity.

Two more days, and the soldiers would return from playing the game of war. Being excluded wasn’t so horrible. She went to town and bought sweet-smelling soap, a local wine, and sugared cookies. She took a long soak in the river, cleaned and organized her tent, and even, purely out of curiosity, walked through the men’s tents, trying to figure out who slept where. At night, she played cards with the cook. Still, a tiny annoyance, like the buzzing of a solitary fly on a beautiful summer’s day, distracted her thoughts. Gy didn’t trust her.

She returned to the campsite, and goose bumps rose along the back of her neck. Scanning the area, nothing appeared amiss. The cook had left for the afternoon to gather provisions from the town. Her intuition screamed that someone or something lurked close. Shanti drew her sword, alert to every sound: the babbling river, gently rustling leaves, singing birds, chirring insects. Out of the pavilion they came, bizarre specters from a forgotten dream, two men in billowing blue robes. Monks.

The monks were royal advisers, definitely not dangerous. She returned the sword to its sheath and headed toward the servants of Willovia. Although dressed the same, the two monks were complete opposites in physical appearance. Skin like wet parchment clung to the older monk’s frail bones. His hair was thinning, and his eyes were rimmed in red. The younger monk looked healthy, wore spectacles, and observed the camp with great interest.

“We need to speak with Rega Bayla,” the old monk said.

Shanti bowed to the scholarly monks. “She’s not here.”

“Not here? What, then? Training with the soldiers? Where is she?”

“Aren’t you supposed to know?” Shanti asked.

The din of voices, rattling equipment, and horses’ hooves sloshing over wet ground reached their ears. Commander Gy led the soldiers into camp. The storm must have caused them to end the game prematurely. A two-pole drag behind a horse carried a body wrapped in cloth. Leanna, somber faced on a dappled-gray mount, rode beside the corpse.

Shanti clasped her hands near her mouth and bit her knuckle. What had happened? What could have gone so wrong? She searched for Jun. He sat astride his horse. And Bayla and Vittorio were both alive. So who was swathed in the sheet?

She moved toward the body, the forest and soldiers fading from view, and pulled away the top of the sheet. Red hair peeked out of the covering. “Pirro.”

Gy dismounted and stood beside her, the reins of his horse still in his hand.

“How?” was all she could say.

“Look again,” he said. “The hair.”

She uncovered more of the top of his head and noticed a tuft of hair cut away.

Shanti caressed the cold forehead. Her skin itched. She wanted to tear the flesh from her bones—the dichotomous flesh that made her such a freak. A Nunqua warrior had killed Pirro and made a trophy of his unusual red hair.

Madiza had predicted that the Nunqua would come. How had they known where to find her? She scratched the exposed skin of her arms until bright red patches formed. Two lines of tears rolled down her cheeks for Pirro.