Beyond the Red (31 page)

Halfway through the set, I begin to wonder if perhaps I’d made a mistake, eating and drinking in the rebel camp. Perhaps I should have continued with a dry mouth and an empty stomach—it would have ended the torment much faster than having to wait for my body to dehydrate all over again.

Despite having walked nonstop, the suns dip way below the horizon before I even begin to near the formation. It’s larger than I expected, and regardless of how far I walk, I never seem to near it. It remains a stubborn shadow on the horizon, taunting me with its distance.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’ll die before I reach it.

But Enjos. Enjos seems close. I can make out the crumbled buildings half-buried in waves of sand. It can’t be more than two leagues away, and if I just keep moving, maybe with Kala’s grace I can reach it. Maybe He will allow me to die in the sacred city, on the bones of a people lost long ago.

Another step.

Another step.

Just one more.

This is how I stumble through the sands. This is how I fight the aching of my bones. This is how I take a breath and keep moving because I’m close, so close, so close to the ruins where I can rest at last.

I don’t count my steps. I barely register my feet dragging through the soft crimson sand. But my hands meet the rough surface of a red sandstone wall laced with black, rope-like vine and somehow, incredibly, I’ve done it.

I made it to Enjos.

I don’t stop as much as I sink—lower and lower into the sand until exhaustion overtakes me and I can’t bring myself to take another step. Kala’s Throne is still a silhouette somewhere beyond the ruins—one I will never reach, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here. I collapse, and I’ve barely closed my eyes before my consciousness drifts and drops me into sleep.

Something hums in my dreams, an incessant buzzing like a stubborn insect, determined to whiz around my mind despite my attempts to smother it into shadow. Louder and louder it becomes until I can fight it no longer and my eyes snap awake.

But the buzzing doesn’t stop.
Naï
, not buzzing—humming. The low, steady hum of engines.

I sit up and fist-shaped orange lizards skitter away from me, chittering as they race into their burrows. Headlights—six spots of light—swerve and wave toward me. Six sand bikes steadily growing larger, coming closer. I don’t know if they’ve seen me
—naï,
they probably haven’t. They’re still far enough away that their light is nowhere near me. Lying in the sand like this, at the base of an abandoned building, I must blend into the night with relative ease.

Truth be told, I’m not sure if it’s good or bad that I’ve remained unnoticed. It’s not likely to be anyone I want to see: my people don’t roam these lands in the middle of the night, and even if they did, they would likely want me dead now that they believe I’ve attempted to kill Serek. I doubt it’s the rebels who abandoned me in the desert this morning, because it would make little sense to leave me to die only to come pick me up again.

Could it be Eros? A jolt of excitement races through me at the thought, but I dismiss the notion entirely: Eros has been captured by my brother and his guard. Assuming he’s still alive, he’s probably locked up in one of Dima’s dungeons. And even if he did somehow manage to escape, he would be traveling alone.

So then who are these six?

Maybe they’re a band of thieves. Criminals have been known to wander these lands—both Sepharon and rebel—out where the reach of the guard is thin. And it isn’t unlikely that they might travel in small packs, like scavengers, to protect themselves from wandering wild
kazim
.

If that’s the case, I can’t lie here. It’s only a matter of time before they come across me—their current path will bring them right to me—and then what?

I crouch and move as quickly as I can, backing into the ruins while keeping low to the ground. If I can just manage to move out of their path unnoticed, I can bury myself in the sand or duck into a building until they pass. I can hide and pray they don’t see me, pray they drive right past me and I live another night. Their outlines are clearly visible now—six burly men on bikes. I can’t tell if they’re Sepharon or rebels. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

Four steps back and the worn edge of a crumbling flat roof is even with my shoulder. My heart slams against my chest, once, hard as my blood goes cold.
Kafra
! I’m on the peak of an uphill slope—they’ll see me if I don’t move!

I scramble over the ridge and tumble over the other side, kicking up sand as I slide and roll to the bottom. Scattered half-buried buildings surround me, some leaning so far to the side, it’s a wonder they’re still standing at all. A crumbling white totem carved into
Kala
’s name sticks haphazardly out of the sand, towering over me.

A whoop of laughter breaks the quiet of the night, followed by echoing cries and shouts. The lights swerve and shine over the sand dune I just spilled over.

I’ve been spotted.

My initial instinct is to run. To race across these sands as quickly as my legs will take me and duck into a partially destroyed building. But they are on sand bikes, and it would be all too easy to trap me in these ruins. Inevitably, they would catch me and I would be too exhausted to defend myself. Not to mention running and hiding would only excite them, and
Kala
knows that’s the last thing I need. So instead I stand, swallow my galloping heart, and wait. I clench my fingers into fists behind my back, I keep my eyes high and school my face. Whoever these people are, I will not allow them to see my terror. I am—was—
Avra
of these lands. It’s not the first time I’ve swallowed my fear.

They catch up quickly—they must have been closer than I’d anticipated. Their lights blare in my eyes as they cut over the crest and blaze down the dune. They form a tight circle around me as they slow to a stop and step off their bikes. I can’t make out their faces because of the blinding lights, but their excessive height tells me all I need—they’re Sepharon. And they’re not in any uniform, which makes my non-guard theory likely.

I keep my eyes on the man closest to me. He steps in front of his bike, blocking the light and temporarily revealing his face. He’s much older than me, perhaps forty or so, with a trim black beard, dark hair pulled back into a knot at the base of his skull, and a sharp smile like a bloody knife.

His gaze rolls over the markings on my bare arm, and a slow realization dawns behind his eyes like a sputtering torch. “What a nice surprise.
Ken Avra
herself, wandering the deserts … alone?” He glances around and smiles. “
Sha
, it would seem alone.”

“Former
Avra
,” the man to his left—a shorter man wearing a headscarf—says. “They say Dima is
Avra
now.”

“About time,” someone behind me says. “Women don’t belong on the throne.” The others mutter in agreement.

The bearded man steps toward me, flashing me with his menacing smile. “In most circumstances, I would consider returning you to the capital,
Avra
, but as I understand it, they’re not interested in you as much as they’re interested in your corpse.” His fingers reach for my cheek and I duck out of the way. The others snicker and his smile widens. “You know, I’ve never had royalty before. None of us have, isn’t that right men?”

Whoops and fits of laughter. I keep my racing heart in check with a quick burst of air and smother the hot panic clambering up my throat. His gaze rolls over me like I’m naked in front of them—truth be told, my skin-tight shredded dress isn’t covering much. Maybe it would have been better if the rebels had just killed me. I’d take a phaser to the chest or a beheading over this.

I clench my fists.
Naï
. I’ll die before letting anyone overpower me and use my body for their pleasure.

The urge to run is overwhelming—I dig my toes into the sand and steel myself into a strong stance, ignoring the tremor in my hands.

“What do you think,
Avra
?” The bearded man moves closer to me. This time when he reaches for my cheek, I bite down bile and stand still. His coarse fingers brush against my skin and coldness washes down my back. “A little generosity only seems fair, all things considered. And perhaps, if you’re any good, we’ll even reward you with your life. A good trade, I think.”

His fingers trail down the side of my neck and finger the cloth wrapped tightly over my scarred shoulder as he licks his lips. Nausea broils inside me and my nails dig into my palm. I must keep focused. I can’t panic; I can’t allow fear to overtake me. If I’m going to survive this, I have to be logical. I have to be calculating. I have to be ready.

And so I don’t move.

The man takes another step, closing the distance between us. His waist brushes against my stomach and his eyes are fixated on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He brings his lips to my ear and his salty breath washes hot over the side of my face. “I’ve been told I’m quite a good lover, although I can’t promise the same for the others.” His slimy lips touch the side of my neck and I step into him, pressing my body against his. He gasps in surprise as my arms slide around his waist and I train my eyes on his face. His lips are parted just slightly, the shock widening his eyes.

He reacts exactly as I expected him to—with a hunger I do not share.

A hunger that distracts him from my fingers wrapping around the hilt of his phaser, tucked away at the back of his pants. His lips close over mine and I slam the phaser against his temple with all of my strength. He crumples like a discarded doll.

I aim at the man with the headscarf and pull the trigger.

Nothing. The phaser doesn’t even charge up. It’s fingerprint-locked.

The lost moment is a lifetime—and twice the time the others need to pull out their phasers and aim at my skull. The man with the headscarf seems to be in charge now, stepping toward me with his phaser outstretched. “Drop your weapon,” he says. His hands are steady and a fire rages behind his eyes that I understand all too well—he won’t hesitate to kill me on the spot.

I slowly crouch and place the phaser in the sand. Draw a handful of red powder into my fist and stand.

“Check him.” He nods to the bearded man lying in the sand.

Someone off to my right rushes over to check his pulse. “Alive,” he announces. “Just unconscious.”

“Good.” He takes another step toward me, then stops, keeping distance between us. Apparently he’s not as impulsive as his friend. Which is good, because I might throw up if one of them touches me again, but it’s also very bad. I can fight a man who comes close enough to feel the impact of my knee against his groin. Much more difficult to fight an opponent at this distance without a weapon to throw in his direction.

Will the sand reach? I need to get closer.

The bearded man I knocked out has a knife strapped to his left leg—the silver handle glints in the soft moonlight. If I can somehow manage to get over there and grab the knife …

“On your knees,” the man says.

I step closer to him and he matches my movement with a step back.

“Don’t move any closer. I said
on your knees
.”