Page 18 of Wild Flame (Wild Bond #2)

Chapter Eighteen

I t had been six days since the attack on Unari, and the official day of King Nazeem’s funeral had arrived. Twenty-two people were killed, and dozens more injured during the attack. For a people who didn’t mourn their dead, the attack on the city had left a morose pall over everything.

The banquets to honor the dead king had gone on as before but had been understandably subdued, with many members of the court—including the royal family—only attending briefly before retiring or not attending at all. I had barely seen Malik.

No new information had come to light about what happened that night, and Ramin was still being held in the tower. Zara was beside herself with worry because Sura refused to see her or anyone and had yet to make an appearance since her argument with Malik. I didn’t blame her. Much of the court was crying for Ramin’s death, most animatedly a courtier whose daughter had been one of those killed. People wanted answers. Rumors and speculation abounded, but no one seemed to know anything of any real substance. Zara told me that Ramin had been interrogated but claimed to remember nothing of the events of that night and that he was devastated by what he had done.

The funeral wouldn’t be until later in the day, so I had gone to Zara’s room and asked if she wished to accompany me on an errand, even if it wouldn’t be the most uplifting of visits. I thought she might need to get out of the palace. That was how we found ourselves walking together in the gray of the early morning hours down to the site of the attack.

It was hard to believe it was the same street I had walked down with Malik not even a week before. Then, it had been lit by firelight and filled with music, laughter, and life. Now, our steps and those of our guards were muted as I took in the dozens of crumbled buildings and burned out, blackened stone. I could see where an effort had already started to begin rebuilding in the form of wooden scaffolding along the side of one building.

But what drew my eye was the large collection of flowers and other small tokens that had been placed in the middle of the street at the base of a simple but beautiful statue of The Maiden and The Warrior standing side by side with The Child depicted playing on the ground at their feet.

Zara and I stopped before it, and I placed my offering with the others. A bouquet of the same simple white blooms the little girl had given me. I had picked them from the gardens this morning. I had learned that she and her grandmother had been two of those who perished in the attack. My heart ached as I thought of her sweet smile when she offered me the flower. And now she was gone.

Unconsciously, I stroked at my hand where the wound had been. It was already healed, thanks to that magical salve.

We stood there for several moments before I glanced at Zara. She had been uncharacteristically quiet beside me and had tears in her eyes. I knew they were not just for the devastating scene around us.

“Zara,” I murmured sympathetically.

“Sorry,” she apologized, wiping at her eyes. “It’s just all of this . . .” she gestured around us, “and it being today and all. I can’t seem to hold it together.”

“Would you like to sit for a moment?” I asked, motioning to the knee-high pedestal at the base of the statue. “No one will be expecting us at the palace for several hours yet.”

She took a bracing breath and nodded, so we both sat.

Mesmera, who up until that point had been flying in the air above us in her minor form, swooped down and landed on her rider’s shoulder. She nuzzled Zara’s cheek and made a soft trilling sound. Zara gave her dragon a watery smile and stroked her small snout. “I’m all right, Mes,” she whispered. She made a humorless sound. “I promise I will get a handle on these tears before we go back. We can’t have a princess blubbering in front of her people, now can we?” She inhaled sharply in that way people did when they had been crying too hard for too long. “At least . . . that’s what my mother says.”

It sounded like something my mother would have said as well. Though her reprimand would have likely been harsher. I reached over and clasped Zara’s hand, and I couldn’t help but think she was heartbreakingly beautiful even when she had tears in her eyes. She would be a stunning woman one day.

“Grief is not something to be ashamed of, and it cannot be held back,” I said with a weak smile. “So, cry all you want. I won’t tell.” I squeezed her hand. “And besides, today is your day of mourning, so tears are allowed.”

She gave me a grateful smile in return and wiped away another tear. She gazed briefly at the street around us. Her voice was a little stronger when she spoke again. “You told me before that your people mourn your dead.”

I nodded. “We do.”

“What are some of your traditions?”

“There is a period of mourning where we wear black and no rich foods are eaten, only simple fare. And in the case of a king or another public figure, no weddings or celebrations are held. Lamenting processions where people wail or cry publicly are sometimes held.” I paused. “We also sing.”

“You do?”

“It is most often mournful music, laments, or songs that tell a tale of loss,” I explained, “but some are truly beautiful.”

Zara stared down at her hands. “I should like to hear that one day. We have nothing of the like.”

At her statement, I glanced around. There were a few more people about than when we first arrived, but thanks to the guards, most of them seemed content to give us our privacy.

Nerves assailed me at my sudden idea, but then I took in Zara’s grief-stricken face and thought of the little flower girl whose name I didn’t even know. A sweet spirit whose life had been cut short.

I could do this for them.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I took a deep breath. Then I opened my mouth and began to sing. My voice carried in the quiet morning air, crisp and clear. As I sang the first sorrowful line, I felt Zara turn to me in surprise, but I didn’t open my eyes.

I got lost in the feel of the music as I wove the tale of the woman and the lover she had lost. It was a song of grief and pain, and I couldn’t help but think of all those who had died. I thought of the old man we found in the rubble, Zara’s grief over her father, and even Sura and Malik’s distress over not understanding what Ramin had done, and I wove it all into the song. I let the emotion pour out of me into every note. The lyrics were in old Halmarish, so no one here would likely understand the words, but I hoped I conveyed the emotion behind it, and that some part of them would.

I swallowed hard as I brought the song to a close and the final haunting note echoed through the street around us. I opened my eyes in the silence that followed and was shocked to find we had collected quite an audience while I sang. Several dozen people now stood around the street, watching me, and as I glanced around, I saw several tears being wiped from glistening eyes. Others wore expressions of sorrow, while still others gave me a soft or grateful smile when I met their gaze. Even our guards stared at me with a quiet reverence.

I tried not to show the wave of self-consciousness that suddenly overtook me. Choosing not to face all those weighted stares, I turned to Zara and her tiny dragon instead. Zara had tears streaming down her face as well, but thankfully all she did was squeeze my hand with gratitude burning in her eyes.

An elegantly appointed horse-drawn wagon carried King Nazeem’s intricately carved stone coffin at the head of our procession. The rest of the royal family walked closely behind, followed by a much larger group made up of the Zehvitian courtiers as well as any personally invited guests—such as myself, Nilfren, Leif, and the other foreign delegates.

As we walked the stone streets of Taveran, winding our way through the city, street after street, I was amazed at how quiet the crowds of people that lined the roads were. They were so different from the joyful people I had become accustomed to seeing night after night during the celebrations. Now, hardly a word was uttered as we passed, save for the occasional hushing of a child or the rustle of clothing or shift in movement.

Everyone either wore all white—like all those in the procession—or some form of white. If not a piece of clothing, then a ribbon or scarf or veil. Many wore sashes around their waists or tied to their garments. I wore a simple white gown trimmed in silver. Hilde had dug it out of the bottom of one of my trunks when I explained to her that I couldn’t wear the black gown she had laid out for me. The last thing I wanted to do on today of all days was offend everyone in sight.

Every face was solemn as they watched us pass. Some wept openly while others showed little emotion at all. Their dark gazes riveted on the coffin and then their new king, who was stone-faced next to his siblings. Amir’s expression was just as blank as his brother’s, while Zara kept dashing silent tears from her cheeks. I fought the urge to go and wrap my arms around her. The queen also looked appropriately solemn, though no tears fell from her eyes.

I knew from my reading that today was the only time public mourning was considered acceptable as I had pointed out to Zara earlier. It was honestly a relief to finally see people around me sharing in and showing their grief and sadness as I was accustomed to.

Many people cast white flower petals in our way as we passed, and the ground was soon covered with them. I felt as if I was back home walking over the snowy ground of a Halmarish winter. Though it was definitely not winter. The day had been cooler than normal, though still quite warm, but it was now late evening and there was a slight breeze. For once, I wasn’t uncomfortable in my heavy skirts.

We walked for what felt like hours in the procession as the sun set around us and finally reached our destination just as dusk fell over the city. Standing torches were lit along either side of our path and illuminated the massive stone edifices as we passed under a gated stone archway and entered the ancient cemetery.

There were no public spectators allowed inside the graveyard itself out of respect for the family, but hundreds still gathered around the outer wall surrounding the place. I tried to be respectful and not gape as I took in the large crypts of white and gray stone that surrounded me. Each tomb bore a large stone statue of a dragon standing protectively over it. Each dragon was different, some depicted with wings spread wide and snarls forever immortalized on their faces. Others stared calmly down as if assessing any who dared visit those they had been charged with guarding.

Zara had explained to me that this cemetery was known as the Path of Rulers, where all the past monarchs of Zehvi’s ashes had been buried since Queen Lethara herself.

I noted inscriptions engraved into the front of each crypt. I squinted to read one that said:

Herein Lie the Ashes of King Aarav Kathar

Rider of Ashar

Then it went on to list his queen and several of their children, who were apparently buried with him, along with the names of their dragons—if they were riders. This was the king who had built Ashar Palace.

I was astounded at the size and majesty of the place, even if it was made somewhat menacing by the way the firelight cast shadows over the hulking forms of the stone dragons overhead.

The procession halted at the base of a hill on which sat a raised stone slab in what I guessed to be the center of the cemetery itself. Dozens of stone steps had been carved into the hill in order to reach it. It was huge, and on it lay the body of Savarax, King Nazeem’s dragon. I knew it had to be him, even though I had never seen the creature before today.

The large umber-colored dragon lay on his stomach with his neck and tail curled inward and his wings tucked close to his back, almost as if asleep. Dragon bodies decayed slowly, over decades. So even though it had been over a month since he and his rider’s deaths, the dragon still appeared relatively unaffected. In Halmar, it was tradition to deliver the bodies of both rider and dragon to the sea. While in Zehvi, riders were cremated and put in crypts or mausoleums. I had read that they took their dragons to The Pit—a massive sinkhole in the middle of the Daazi Desert that swallowed the body of the dragon whole. This was done in part out of respect, but also because if the dragon were simply buried there would be no end to the grave robbers and thieves that would come after the dragon remains.

Dozens of men came forward to move the late king’s coffin to the slab, directly before his dragon. It almost appeared as if Savarax were cradling his rider. The top of the stone coffin was then removed and placed to the side. I could make out nothing in the dim light save for the vague shape of a body shrouded in linen wrappings.

I had been curious about how Zehvitians burned their dead and entombed the ashes. Mother had been horrified by the prospect, but I hadn’t understood why. It truly didn’t seem that strange to me, though I had to admit that I had been curious to see it actually done.

Malik stepped forward into the wide-open space surrounding the base of the stone slab and faced those assembled, while Zara, Amir, and Queen Vashti stood off to the side. A thin woman with dark graying hair clipped close to her head, wearing the customary red robes of a Zehvitian priestess, stepped up next to Malik. She was the only one not in white. She raised her hands to the night sky above and began to offer up prayers to the gods. She cried the words in a lilting wail that was almost singing but just fell short. The prayers were in ancient Zehvitian, so I didn’t understand, but it was beautiful. When she was done, she too moved to the side.

Then Malik spoke, his powerful voice carrying easily in the quiet night. “Here lies Nazeem Kathar, Rider of Savarax, King of Zehvi and Ruler of the Seven Rajids. May he rest in peace and glory in the realms of the Nine for all eternity. May flames mark his path.”

“May flames mark his path!” everyone around me echoed loudly in response.

Malik nodded to his siblings, and they both moved to stand on either side of him as they turned to face their father and his dragon. As if they had rehearsed it, their dragons emerged from the darkness, seeming to materialize out of it. Each dragon stood proudly in their natural form, surveying the gathering from the opposite side of the flat stone.

Azrun and Virath stood on either side of Mesmera, and the larger males positively dwarfed the younger female, much like their human counterparts themselves. The small violet dragon appeared completely unbothered by this, however. As one, the three dragons raised their heads and roared, trumpeting their farewell salute to the heavens.

The incredible and terrifying sound echoed through the night and coursed through every part of me. Filled with the immensity of it, I had to fight the instinctive urge to turn and run, while at the same time wanting to weep at the beauty of it.

They then lowered their heads and, again as one, let loose a stream of flames directly onto the open coffin before them. The flames lit up the surrounding night as if it were midday, and the heat of the flames washed over me in a wave, tightening my skin and making me shiver all at once.

When the breaths of flame finally ceased, it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. A single pile of ash now rested in the center of the blackened stone coffin.

And just like that, the king was no more.

Later that night, I lay in my bed, not quite asleep, when I heard a whooshing sound overhead and then a soft rumble outside my window. I remained still and decided it must have been a dragon when there came a faint knock. I sat up quickly when I realized the knock hadn’t come from my chamber door, but from my balcony doors. I waited, my heart suddenly racing when the soft knock came again, slightly louder this time, and I saw movement beyond the curtains there.

I cautiously slipped out of bed and padded over to the doors, my bare feet moving silently over the plush rugs on the floor. I peeked through the distorted glass but couldn’t make anything out. I paused for only a moment before opening the double doors to find Malik standing there.

Saying I was stunned to see him here on my balcony was an understatement. I noticed Azrun behind him in the shadows. The great beast’s back was level with my second-story balcony. I stared at the dragon for a moment, standing amidst the silent gardens, then back to the man before me.

“Did I wake you, siren?” he asked in a low tone, offering no explanation for the late hour or unorthodox manner of his calling on me.

I shook my head, suddenly very conscious that I was only in a nightgown and hadn’t pulled on any kind of robe. I rarely wore one anymore due to the infernal heat. The night felt pleasant enough now though, and the nightgown covered my back, so that was all that mattered. It was also then that I remembered my hair was down and loose around my shoulders.

With a squeak, I stepped back inside and closed the door. Then I hastily braided my hair into a simple tail down my back. Traditionally, no man outside my family was allowed to see my hair out of its braids. Even if my hair was mostly down with a few simple braids, that was acceptable, but only my husband would ever see it completely down. It was meant to be something private between him and me.

When the braid was finished, I rested my hand on the handle before taking another deep breath and opening the door.

Malik still stood there when I reemerged, taking in my hair without comment.

“My apologies,” I murmured.

He smiled faintly and extended his hand. The bronze skin of his palm was just visible in the moonlight. “Ride with me?” he asked. His voice was nothing more than a mellow hum on the wind, barely disturbing the warm night around us.

Malik looked far different than he had in the cemetery. He now wore the traditional sand-colored Zehvitian riding leathers rather than his regal all-white clothing. Then, he had been a soon-to-be-king, publicly mourning his father, commanding and fierce, as he stood with his siblings, ready to take the reins of the kingdom. He still looked imposing, like the warrior he was. That was too much a part of him to ever change. Now, though, he looked . . . tired, like he had the weight of the realm on his shoulders and, in some ways, he did. But he also just looked . . . sad. A son mourning his father.

It tugged at my heart to see so plainly that he was suffering.

“Are you sure?” I asked him hesitantly, gesturing to Azrun.

“He’s carried you before,” he stated.

I gave him a look. “That was hardly the same thing. That was life or death. This . . . this is . . .” Intimate. The word came to my mind unbidden. “This isn’t like that,” I finished lamely. “You can’t ask me to—"

“I am asking you. I want you to ride with me. Just a short flight, then I will bring you back, I promise. Please, isholet ?” Malik asked, when I still made no move to take his hand.

The endearment caught my attention, as did the look on his face when he used it. I finally decided to ask. “What does that mean? You called me that before.”

He smiled slightly, his expression softening. “You,” was all he said in response.

I decided not to press him on it. Then tried in vain to settle my nerves as I finally took his hand. It was warm and rough to the touch, and he gripped mine tightly as he escorted me to the edge of the balcony and assisted me onto the back of the dragon.

I had never truly appreciated how big Azrun was until this moment, but I didn’t have long to consider it before Malik swung his leg over and sat behind me in the saddle. His movements were swift and efficient as he took the leather straps attached to the saddle and tightened them over our thighs.

My heart pounded, and the blood came alive in my veins as he pressed closer against my back and lowered his head to whisper against my ear. “Ready, siren?”

I nodded breathlessly. I had only ever ridden on a dragon once before when I was young. Nova had barely been big enough to carry us both, but Helene and I had snuck away to the small cove we had discovered and spent hours swimming in the ocean and riding Nova as she dove into the waves. When we returned home, Mother and Father had been waiting to reprimand us—along with our tutor, who had been frantic when we disappeared—but we didn’t care. It had been one of the best days of my life.

Now the thrill was just as exhilarating as we rose into the inky sky. With only a few beats of Azrun’s powerful wings, we were soaring high above the sleeping city below.

At first, I drank in the feeling of freedom that being so high above the ground inspired, breathing in the lush, warm air. But as we flew through the silent night, only the occasional beat of Azrun’s wings disturbing the quiet, I wondered why Malik had asked me to ride with him. I thought again of the raw look in his eyes just now and guessed I had my answer. Malik had admitted to having a complicated relationship with his father, but it was obvious he still loved him. And today he had put him to rest.

As if he could sense my thoughts, Malik’s arm came around me and held me more closely to him. Slowly, hesitantly, I placed my hand over his. He immediately laced our fingers together. We said nothing as we flew. Words weren’t needed.

Hours later, as the first watery rays of dawn were lightening the sky, he returned me to my balcony. I thought he would just watch me go inside, but instead he surprised me.

“I hear I missed out on quite a performance,” he said.

My brow pinched. “Performance?”

“Zara and several of my warriors couldn’t stop talking about your song this morning.”

Understanding dawned. “Ah. Yes, well, it was for Zara.”

He nodded, a soft smile lighting his lips. “Will you sing for me one day?”

He had asked before, but as I stared at him now, I found I couldn’t give a snarky reply. “Perhaps. One day.”

“I look forward to it.” We were quiet for a time, watching the sky continue to lighten before he asked, “Are you planning on attending the Coronation Games?”

“You Zehvitians never stop, do you?” I teased. “I fear when I return to Halmar in a week, I shall die of boredom from the lack of grand parties and events every night.” As I said it, I knew I really would miss it all and Zehvi as a whole. And even though I had been here for over a month already, I felt slightly mournful at the thought of leaving.

His lips twitched at my lame attempt at humor, but not before something flickered in them as I mentioned returning to Halmar. “So, you will be there?” he persisted.

Of course I would be there. It was expected, and he knew that. But I said none of this. Instead, I simply nodded. “I will be there.”

“Good.” He bent down and placed a soft kiss on my hand. Then he waited until I returned inside before flying away.