Tiger Queen Read online

  No. If that boy was to be stopped, it had to be someone who wasn’t afraid of the desert. It had to be me.

  I slowly backed away, tracing my fingers along the railing, hoping Rodric wouldn’t notice my path took me closer to the same door the boy had pulled the cart through. Once I was far enough away from Rodric and my father, it would be an easy leap into the arena and a quick jog across the sand. I was calculating my chances of making it when a shadow fell across my back.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Rodric said. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from him despite the afternoon heat. “You plan on following that Desert Boy.”

  I turned to face him, pushing my back against the railing. It shuddered under my weight, threatening to topple into the arena. “If you’re not going to do your job, someone has to.”

  Rodric’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve already found one of their old hideouts. It’s just a matter of time until I find their current one.” He had tried several methods to catch the Desert Boys, like setting traps around seemingly unguarded wells to tempt a raid in the middle of a deserted square. He’d also tortured the few suspected Desert Boys he’d caught. But despite being hung upside down above the tiger cages or put in boxes with hundreds of raw worms, the boys never spoke.

  “You think your two guards are going to follow him into the desert?” I retorted.

  “And you would? You’re no Tamlin. You don’t know what’s beyond the city walls like I do.”

  I forced myself to meet his gaze. He stood a little more than a hand taller than me, and his body was thick with muscle. “The desert doesn’t scare me. I am my father’s daughter, and Tamlin’s blood is in my veins just as it was in my ancestors’. He faced the desert and lived, and so will I.”

  Unlike anyone before him or since, Tamlin had survived traveling across the entire desert on foot, emerging from the sands to be crowned king when he saved the people from an approaching army. But even before his trek, the Achran people had believed the desert chose its rulers. Endless plagues of sandstorms, incessant droughts, and ceaseless scorpion invasions were signs of weak blood on the throne. Although my father blamed the increasingly awful drought and run of sandstorms on the Desert Boys, claiming even the desert itself was trying to rid them from its dunes. And things wouldn’t get better until they were stopped.

  “What was your plan if you found their hideout?” he continued. “Were you going to take them all on at once? I’ve taught you well, but not even you could take on Cion.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cion doesn’t exist.” As far as I’d heard, no one had ever laid eyes on the Desert Boys’ leader. He was more likely a myth made up to scare us. No one could be as good with a blade as the rumors made him out to be.

  People said he could swing his sword through the gap in a snake’s forked tongue before the snake could retract it. That tale was outdone only by the rumor that if you threw a grain of sand into the air, he could split it in half with his blade. But the people who spread such things were likely the same ones who said the sand parted for him, and that’s why he could sneak up on the wells so quietly. Or that the dunes settled around him like a cloak, making him impossible to see. Some even claimed he was made of sand, and that’s why the guards couldn’t catch him. He would just melt away into nothing when they tried.

  I didn’t believe any of it.

  But Rodric did. Especially the claims about his skill with a sword, which is probably why he sliced out the tongue of anyone he found talking about Cion’s abilities.

  That was why I didn’t dare mention I’d tried to do the things Cion was rumored to be capable of. I’d snuck down to the kitchens and stolen snakes from the baskets before they were killed for feasts. I’d set them free in my room and tried for days on end to slip my blade between their outstretched tongues. All I succeeded in doing was scraping my floor and having to dodge endless numbers of bites. I’d even tried splitting a grain of sand in half. I could smack it and knock it away. But only one grain of sand ever hit the floor. It wasn’t possible. None of it was.

  Rodric’s face darkened. “He exists.” His hands clenched the bars of the railing, strangling them as he leaned his weight forward.

  “If he’s as good as everyone says, what will you do if you’re the one to find him?”

  “I’m the best swordsman this desert has ever seen. No one could beat me, not even you.”

  I scoffed, pretending to brush off the comment, but this time his words bit deeper into my skin than any cut he’d given me while practicing. He was right. I couldn’t beat him. And I’d tried.

  During our first lesson, he’d sliced three hairline slashes into each side of my neck. He’d said if he’d made them any deeper, I would have been like a fish on land, unable to breathe. Rodric called it a new technique, but he hadn’t bothered to teach it to me.

  In order for the desert to accept me as its future queen, there could be no one fiercer, stronger, or better than me in a fight. I’d pulled out my sword and rushed up behind him. Just as I was about to send my blade into his back, he turned, grabbed my arm, and flipped me over.

  The next thing I knew, he’d pinned me to the ground and whipped out a knife, pressing the blade against my throat. “If you ever try that again,” he said, his eyes wild, “I’ll hang you from the tower of your father’s palace.” He eased off me and dropped the knife to the ground.

  I’d lain there for a moment praying that sand hadn’t found its way into my new wounds and dealing with the stinging pain that swept through me every time I moved.

  I wanted to pick my knife up to try again, but something in Rodric’s eyes made it clear he’d follow through on his threat.

  As these weren’t normal training injuries, I’d started wearing a thick golden cuff around my neck after that to cover the scars. To keep my father from seeing, from knowing I’d failed to be the best. And it worked. My father saw me embracing my strength, not hiding my weakness, because he believed there was nothing stronger than metal in the desert.

  But I hated how it choked me and slid like oil across my body when I sweat. It also fettered me to my father in a way that felt like I’d given up on my mother’s beliefs entirely, that I’d lost another part of her.

  The cuffs were typically worn by the rich nobles as a symbol of their wealth—a show that they didn’t need that metal to bar their windows against sandstorms or to hold water buckets together. Some had ornate patterns scrawled across the metal with holes dotted across them like stars in the sky or depictions of flowers or thick, wavy grooves.

  My father had given my mother many when she married him, but she’d never worn one because she said it weighed too heavily on her.

  I’d always thought she meant its physical weight. It wasn’t until years after she died that I realized she meant it was because it was a waste to wear gold merely as a decoration when it could’ve been given to someone who needed it.

  It was a stark reminder she hadn’t grown up in the palace. She’d been a poor but beautiful sand dancer when she caught my father’s eye.

  She’d made me promise once that I wouldn’t wear one, that I’d look for strength in myself instead. I’d kept that promise until Rodric had made me break it, had made me so weak that I needed one.

  My hatred for him burned brighter than the noonday sun.

  As much as I wanted him dead, though, I needed him alive. He was the only one who’d ever been able to find a Desert Boys hideout. It’d been old and empty, but it was more progress than the old captain of the guard had managed.

  And if Cion really did exist, I needed Rodric to help me fight. As well as to help me train for my final two bouts against suitors in the arena so I could secure my place as our next queen. Though once I became queen and the Desert Boys were destroyed, I’d send Rodric away. My father had been the first to teach me that you want strength to surround you, and Rodric was strong. But something about the way he’d shown up and killed the old captain of the guard made me u
neasy.

  He’d emerged too much like Tamlin from the desert, and I’d never gotten a word from him about where he came from or how he came to be so skilled. I was only grateful he wasn’t nobility so I’d never have to face him in the arena. Because I was going to be the one to rule these people like Tamlin had done. Not him.

  “Why don’t we go after Cion together?” I asked.

  “Because Cion is like a yellow-spotted sand snake. You’ll never see him coming. The only way to get him out of his hole is to set a trap. I’ve got my two best trackers after the boy. Once they’ve followed him to the hideout, we plan our next move.” He shook his head. “Besides, you should be focusing on your fight tomorrow.” He crossed his bulging arms and stared down at me.

  I looked to the door the Desert Boy had gone through and groaned, knowing my chance to slip away had evaporated faster than spilled water. But there would be others. They couldn’t hide forever.

  “Come on.” Rodric pulled out his sword and leapt over the railing into the arena. He motioned for me to do the same. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t lose.”

  Sighing, I unsheathed my sword and leapt down into the sand. He was right. Tomorrow I’d be fighting for more than my life. I’d be fighting for my freedom.

  CHAPTER

  2

  I slipped two daggers into the laces of my high sandals while my maid, Latia, tied my breastplate in position. I’d never been considered tall, but Latia had to stand on her tiptoes to accomplish the task.

  “Good luck, my lady,” she whispered. She’d always been quiet, but whenever I put on my battle gear, she shrank into herself even more, as if putting it on turned me into a monster who might run her through if she forgot to double knot a fastener or polish the family crest emblazoned on my armor.

  I ran my fingers down the crest. A roaring tiger’s head with a scorpion on either side, their tails raised so they connected at the top of the emblem.

  My father had added the tiger and kept the scorpions that had been placed generations ago because of Tamlin. Once, Tamlin had been nothing more than a caravan leader. But after his caravan was attacked, he escaped, and during his legendary journey across the desert, he had run across Scorpion Hill to bring news of the approaching Smorian army to the Achran people. No one had ever crossed the desert on foot before. And no one had since.

  Tamlin’s warning allowed the city to fortify against the impending siege, ensuring not a single Achran died, while the Smorian army perished outside the city gates from a mix of thirst, snake and sun spider bites, and assassin wasp stings. They hadn’t understood the desert like Achrans did.

  As a result of his heroic actions, the people clamored for Tamlin to be their king as much for saving the city as for not being stung while crossing Scorpion Hill. People said that the scorpions didn’t sting him because they recognized him as the master of the desert. The legend that all Achran royalty is immune to the scorpion venom that kills everyone else originated from that incident.

  And once I finally cemented my place as the next Achran ruler, I would venture out into the desert to hunt for the Desert Boys myself. I wouldn’t be scared of the scorpions that hid in the sands. The desert would’ve chosen me, and I would show it my gratitude by ridding it of the gang of thieves that continued to bleed it dry and poison it with its presence.

  I admired myself in the mirror once Latia finished. Behind me in the reflection, two dresses lay folded on a shelf. One was a thin, gauzy gown. The other was a traditional wedding dress. It was bright blue, like crystal clear water, and covered in dangling, multicolored ribbons. It was said that each ribbon represented good luck to the guest who tore it from the dress. It had been brought down on the chance I didn’t win the fight.

  I had no intention of wearing it. I’d already decided that when my seventeenth birthday came next month, I would burn it. Or maybe I’d hike as far into the desert as I could and fling it away to face the same future as all my failed suitors.

  Next to the dress lay one thin gold bracelet. That I wouldn’t discard. A swirling pattern that resembled dunes was embossed on its surface. It had been my mother’s engagement bracelet.

  Another Achran tradition. One bracelet worn on the left arm meant a girl was engaged. If I lost, I’d have to put it on along with the dress. And after the wedding, a second bracelet would be added to the right wrist as well.

  I’d kept my mother’s as it was one of the few things of hers I had, preserved for me only because mothers were supposed to pass down their engagement bracelets. But that didn’t mean I actually wanted to wear it. I’d always thought of them more as shackles than symbols of love.

  Somewhere through the ages, it had also become tradition for husbands to give their wives a bracelet for each year they were married. Some of the ladies could barely lift their arms due to the weight of their bangles.

  That would never be me. I’d rather be incapacitated in the arena than by jewelry.

  There was only one piece of jewelry I did want. My mother’s crown.

  I thought they had burned it along with her body almost ten years ago. My father had let me think that when, weeks after her death, I’d asked him for it, for another piece of my mother, because I’d wanted to wear it someday. But he’d surprised me before my first fight in the arena months ago, arriving at the gladiator prep area with the crown in his hands.

  I’d gasped when I saw it. Its jagged metal peaks rose gallantly upward, sharp enough to prick a finger and strong enough to withstand almost anything. It encapsulated everything the desert was—sharp and unyielding but regal and strong—and everything I wanted to be.

  I reached for it, but he pulled it back.

  My distorted reflection showed a face not unlike my mother’s, though clad in thick gladiator gear. A true mix of my mother and father, who would continue to lead the Achran people back to prosperity. I’d stood a little straighter.

  “I brought this to show you what awaits you at the end of this journey,” my father said. “Let it inspire your fight today.”

  I had nodded.

  My father hadn’t brought the crown out since, but it was because I’d won the first fight so quickly; my father knew I didn’t need to be spurred on. I would uphold his legacy—my family’s legacy—by winning the throne.

  The memory faded as the door to the gladiator preparation room swung open, screeching as the joints ground against the sand caught in them. Rodric didn’t wait to be invited in. To him, I was his pupil, not the princess. Latia lowered her gaze and backed away so quickly she nearly knocked a pitcher of water off the table.

  Rodric smirked.

  “Ready for battle?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said, grabbing my helmet and shield and following Rodric out the door. The heat in my blood had risen with the sun, as though my body could sense the fight to come. My veins thrummed with life, coursing just beneath the surface, ready to respond when I raised my blade.

  We emerged into the cool tunnel under the arena that stretched all the way to the gated entrance leading to the city streets. Past the contingent of guards who had escorted me from the palace, I could just make out the mass of scrawny arms clutching at nothing through the bars.

  The guards used their spears and swords to keep back anyone who tried too hard to get into the stadium, although I couldn’t fathom what they expected to find inside. The tunnel’s only offshoots were the prep area I’d just vacated, which held little of material value, and the tunnel used to lead the tigers from the palace dungeons to the arena.

  I ignored the crowd and pulled on my helmet, moving farther down the tunnel. The closer I got to the closed doors, the more claw marks lined the walls. My fingers had sunk past my first knuckle when I’d run my fingers down those grooves before my first fight. The wounds my sword left behind always seemed thin and shallow in comparison after that.

  I stepped past the cage-like bars that kept the tigers in place when they were needed for arena judgments. The tunnel s
melled like the cages, the heavy odor of sweat mixed with unwashed fur.

  The door I stood behind now was the door that had concealed the goods won by the Desert Boy. I let the thought spread anger through me.

  “Remember,” Rodric said, banging my helmet to bring my attention to him, “he’s got a weak right side, but he’s big. Don’t let him use his bulk against you.”

  I nodded as Rodric receded back into the darkness of the tunnel. Then, I was alone facing the wooden doors. In a few spots, you could almost see through the gouges the tigers had left.

  I took a deep breath.

  My mother had taught me an old sand dancer tradition; they used to sprinkle sand over their feet before every performance, asking the desert to guide their steps. I slid my sword from its scabbard and bent down and grabbed a handful of sand, releasing it over my weapon and offering up my own prayer to the desert. It was my way of keeping my mother with me, of asking her to help determine my path. And my husband.

  Only two more fights until I earned her crown.

  Outside, I could hear the crowd roar.

  I moved my head from side to side, loosening the muscles in my neck. Then I jumped a few times, tucking my legs high up under me, making sure everything was in place and that my movements weren’t restricted. I shook the tension from my arms and wiped my sweaty palm on my tunic before gripping my sword tighter. Then, I waited.

  The doors creaked open, and the sunlight blinded me. I held my sword above my head as I entered. My heart rate drowned out the crowd, and I took measured breaths as I moved forward into the arena.

  My eyes immediately went to the man entering through the other door to my right. It was Lord Hamic’s son, Hardesh. He was tall. A good head taller than me, but he didn’t have the amount of muscle Rodric had. His dark sideburns were visible under his helmet. He was about twenty-five years older than me. His first wife had died some years ago, after giving birth to two daughters.