Page 43

How To Rule

Never in my life did I think I’d see a Wanderer funeral.

I never thought I’d use my ability to make a glass coffin out of sand, either, but here I am.

The sun creeps toward the horizon, bringing evening with it, but I’m still hot under its blaze. Or maybe it’s the way Reven stands at my back. No one knows what happened, and yet the awkwardness has ratcheted to a level that has most everyone flicking little glances between us.

That could be in my head, made worse by the handful of resentful stares burrowing into the back of my skull. Not everyone in the zariphate is happy about me or Tabra being here for this ceremony. Outsiders are strictly forbidden. Ledenon looks like he’s chewing and swallowing glass.

It’s possible Cain allowed us to be here because of his feelings for me. I’m not so naive that I can’t see that. I’m also not in the headspace to deal with it.

It’s not like I would have stayed away, regardless. His allowing us saved me from having to play the queen card and demanding they let me attend. I would never—not ever—let my best friend go through this alone. Pella either, now. She seemed relieved when Cain asked me to come, and Pella never wants anything from me. But even if she hadn’t been, they are as much my family as Tabra is, in my heart at least, and they’re hurting.

Not that either of them shows it.

I try not to, either, keeping my focus on what I’m doing.

My sister and I are not clothed identically. We left off the crowns as a sign of respect to the zariphate and are wearing simple, yet visibly royal dresses made of the same expensive fabric that blends from the top to the bottom in a rainbow of muted colors. At all funerals in Aryd, it’s traditional to wear the color of your desert. As the queens of all Aryd, we are supposed to wear the colors of all the deserts.

Mine is simpler, with thin braided straps over my shoulders, a deep V between my breasts, and long otherwise, though with two thigh-high slits over each leg. Another braided cord is tied just where the V of the neckline stops. Too revealing for what we’re doing today, but it was the best the servants could come up with given the short notice.

Tabra is more covered than I am, with longer billowing sleeves and no cleavage on display. How she got lucky with the outfit selection, I have no idea. But I’m too busy to worry about it, my hands up, golden light spilling from my palms turning brighter each second with the setting of the sun as I sink the double coffin I made deep into the sands.

Inside them, Zariph Cainis and Zaripha Magda lie in their warrior’s clothes, side by side, one hand clasping the other’s, while in each of their other hands, they both hold their preferred weapons. They appear so lifelike I almost expect them to open their eyes, like they’re asleep…or poisoned, or enchanted, or cursed. But not dead.

Bene offered to fly them to the heart of the Singing Dunes and let the deserts claim them over time, but Cain refused. The Wanderers, because they have no single home, have a tradition of burying their dead where they perish.

As bonded mates, at least they will never be parted again in this life. I pray that they have an easier time finding and holding onto one another than Reven and I have.

I don’t watch as I drive the coffins deeper. In my heart, all I can see is Cainis’s backstabbing betrayal of us, his power-hungry grab for the throne. I wonder what he’d think about the fact that I’m the one burying him using my power and planting him deep in the sands of my dominion?

Cain stands tall and stoic beside me, and Pella beside him, looking not at where the dead have gone, but straight out into the desert, to the east where the sun will rise again tomorrow as it always does, bringing with it a new future.

When I nod, Cain turns and waits for the last rays of the sun to disappear.

Which is our cue. As soon as I glance Vos’s way, he cants his head in the direction of the city. I nod, then lean over to Tabra and whisper, “Time to go.”

What comes next is for the zariphate, we were told. Besides, we have business in the palace that we’ve put off. It’s time to get to it.

Before we go, I reach out and squeeze Cain’s hand, and he squeezes back.

When I turn away, Reven’s hand brushes my back and I come close to jumping out of my skin. He gives me an innocent stare that seems to say he’s just escorting me, but it’s the closest he’s physically gotten to me since last night.

Tziah and Hakan choose to wait at the back palace gate where Cain and Pella will enter when they return from the funeral. When we enter the night-cooled halls, Vos and I peel off, Bene prowling along at my side in his wolf form, leaving a trail of dust on the marbled floors in his wake.

And every second I’m deeply aware of Reven, silent and watchful at my back. No longer touching, but my own personal shadow.

Tabra grabs my arm, pulling me up short. “Where are you going without me?”

“You don’t want to—”

Her face takes on a mulish cast. “I’m not being left out. Not anymore.”

Vos leans around me. “It’s not going to be pleasant, T.”

She doesn’t give in by so much as a twitch. “Your point?”

Goddess, she sounds like me now.

He glances at me, and I shrug.

We make our way through the palace to the building that houses the throne room, back toward the crypts and then down a series of winding stairs and halls to the dungeons below. With each passing minute, my adrenaline rises. With fear? Anticipation? I can’t be sure, but I’m ready to get what we need from Eidolon’s advisor and be done with this.

Vos takes us to a door where Trysolde is already standing, ready and waiting. We told the leaders of our other allies what we’d be doing tonight, but they decided to let us deal with it without them and tell them after.

With a sharp nod at the Wildernyssian king, Vos sails into the room where Pollux is still wrapped and bound by the same metal chair Trysolde made. Was that only a few days ago? The metal no longer covers Pollux’s face, the space is clean, and trays of food tell me he’s been fed at least. Honestly, until now, I didn’t even think of his care.

What kind of queen does that make me?

Pollux glowers at us with his wide-set eyes. “What is your intention—” He breaks off, gaze directed over my shoulder. Then his eyes narrow. “ You are not my king.”

“No.” Reven’s voice is darkness itself. “I am a different beast entirely.”