THEcontinent of the Sand and Sky actually wasn’t that big.
Not really. At a fast clip it took little more than a week to cross. Some heathens—Ula included—would call it an island. But not loud enough that any of the royalty could hear.
Even Ula wouldn’t do that.
Still, she would point out, even to royalty, that themajorityof the continent was actually Torrence, stretching from the borders of every other kingdom before swallowing the center and plunging straight west to its only sliver of coast between where Pyrenee ran along the Divide to the north, and where Myrcell sliced up from the southwestern half and encroached north, taking a bite out of the western half of the continent. Between those two were Torrence’s single natural port and miles upon miles of sheer rock cliffs.
Yet, after days on horseback, Ula and Urtzi found themselves not in some new corner of the sandy bowl of promise called Torrence, but back in a place they’d been several times.
The Warlord’s Inn.
The Warlord laid no claim to it now, and hadn’t since the day the Innkeeper was fed, broken and bloodied, to his own compost pit of quicksand. Instead, the inn had become a pro-Otxoa stronghold, populated by watchers, squatting after taking control of the rambling, fenced estate.
These people had heard the news of the Otsakumea’s return, that much was clear by their augmentations to the inn’s open-air honeycomb of rooms, which these squatters had adorned now with roofs, thus creating a little village of huts, in what might be the first stationary, permanent community Torrence had seen since its cities had become firepits.
Yet, though they were ostensibly on the same side, and had the same amount of knowledge, the mood among the few dozen or sonow living here was quite different from within all the caravans the group had visited so far.
Tala had just completed the same spiel Ula had heard dozens of times already, and instead of relieved smiles, the people of the inn met the speech with closed stances and stern faces. Finally, a man with a bandage tied high about his leg spoke—mean, direct, suspicious.
“Is it true that the Otsakumea is in league with Ardenia?”
Tala’s stock answer was as smooth on delivery as it had been previously. “The Otsakumea has forged a diplomatic alliance with Ardenia.”
“Analliancewith the Warrior King’s pretty daughter, you mean.” This lilting accusation came from a snarling woman with a black wolf by her side, the same as Beltza, who’d stayed behind with Luca. “We all know why he sleeps in her castle instead of under our Torrentian stars.”
The insinuation knocked all air from Ula’s gut. How could another woman think so little of both Amarande and Luca to boil them down to their affinity for each other? As if the whole of their love was concentrated on where they laid their heads each night?
There was so much more to them—to any person—than that.
Ula’s body was fighting the reflex to act, her shoulders rounded to her ears, her hands balled into fists, nails carving half-moons into her skin. She did not touch her trusty curved sword, always at the ready, but couldn’t help but take a half step forward. Urtzi, though, seemed to anticipate her next move, firmly gripping her arm with one bear paw palm before Ula could advance further.
It was a reminder, but in no way an order. Not that she’d follow one anyway—something Urtzi very well knew. And yet lately she’d heeded directions from the big oaf. Ula told herself it wasn’t because she’d worried more than any friend would over the peril he’d faced while traveling with Osana to an Itspi held by Geneva.
Still, the hesitation allowed Tala time to draw in a steadying breath and supply an answer to the woman’s crass insinuation. “The Otsakumea is preparing for Torrence’s reentry into the covenant of the Sand and Sky with the advice—”
“We remember exactly what happened the last time Ardenia gave the Otxoa advice!” This from an old man, Tala’s age, his fraying tunic slumping to reveal a paw print above his heart. “Or have you forgotten, Tala?”
“I have not forgotten.”
It was clear this old man knew the whole story, not the abridged version Tala had first told in the resistance caves. That Sendoa had warned Lotyoa of Domingu’s plan for mass, coordinated regicide, and that he should expel his brother’s newest wife. When he didn’t, Sendoa created a plan to stoke the Torrentian resistance as a lesson and a distraction to Basilica. It did not go as he’d envisioned to say the least. Tala nodded to this person, hooded eyes not wavering. “However, the moral of the story is that King Lotyoa did not accept King Sendoa’s advice, and—”
“And Sendoa fed an uprising, yes, we know,” Ula snarled, done with Tala’s calmness in the face of yet another person intent on disagreement.
All eyes swung to her straight-backed form and Ula spit into the air every ounce of frustration that had built within her during this futile argument. These were not the sort of grievances she’d agreed to hear and note. They were a useless attack—useless because these people obviously had no interest in changing their inaccurate thoughts.
“What does any of that have to do with the Otsakumea Luca? Nothing. Come see him, listen to him, and then decide to support him, or simply return to your home and mind your own business. He will not attack you, he will not jail you, he will not feed you to Ardenia. You have lived with fear for more of your days than not, I know, we all know. The fear won’t immediately evaporate. We know this. It’s how you’ve survived this long, and we’re not asking you to let go of it just yet. All we’re asking is that you give the Otsakumea a chance to help you.”
The man with the bandaged leg was not assuaged. In fact, he took a hobbling step forward, emboldened. “And what has he done for you, girl?”
Ula did not like that he called her girl. She did not like that his voice twisted with the same insinuation the woman at his side had used. As if she were Luca’s lover and not his trusted partner.
“He has given mehope!”
Her fury echoed through their faces as theyfeltevery quivering reverberation of her belief. Believing it themselves was another matter. Ula tore aside her tunic to reveal her own paw print—the faux wolf ink from the battle long gone.
“I have lived my life with this tattoo, and it was not until I met the Otsakumea that I truly understood what it meant to be beholden. I am beholden to him—I’ve pledged my life to his cause. He did not ask me to, nor did he demand it. I believe in him; I believe in the world he can create. The Otsakumea has given me that hope, and that is more than anyone else has done.”
For a moment, Ula thought understanding had come over them. Then, the man’s lip curled in the beginnings of a sneer.
