“There are always extremes, Sable,” Tallyn had said to her months ago. “Since the beginning, mankind has put his own twist on the Maker’s will, as Ventus did and does still. It’s what men do. We are masters at manipulating truth to suit our desires. But don’t condemn the Maker for the sins of man.”
If there were a Maker, and if Tallyn were correct in that men like Ventus had twisted the Maker’s will to suit his own selfish design, then…who was the Maker, really? And, moreover, what did he truly require of his people?
She remembered the voice that’d spoken to her during a moment of darkest despair. Contrasting the raging voice of her nightmares, and the legion that’d spoken through Astrid, this voice had been pure and good: Do not fear, I am with you… You are my chosen, and through you, I will make a great nation. If only you have the courage.
Imari had no idea what that meant, or what to do with it.
A cool breeze swept across the sands and Imari shivered, pulling her Corinthian-blue cloak tight.
Jos.
No—Jeric.
King Jeric Oberyn Sal Angevin.
It was still difficult thinking of him as Corinth’s king. He’d given her this cloak as a parting gift. It’d belonged to his mother, and she’d been thankful for it every day. Winter was pleasant in the desert, but its nights still burned with cold, and his cloak had kept out the chill.
Also, she liked having a piece of him with her.
Leaving Jeric had been difficult. Far more difficult than she’d expected, and she wondered if it had been difficult for him too. She wondered if he thought of her as much as she kept thinking of him.
The sky brightened with the promise of dawn, and Imari glanced around. Ricón and his saredd slept soundly, scattered on the sand, and the horses munched on tufts of grass nearby. Tired of laying hostage to her tangled thoughts, Imari crept to her feet and padded across the sand. Ricón’s gelding lifted his head as she approached, and she rubbed his broad nose. “Sh,” she whispered, holding one finger to her lips. She walked on, and he went back to his breakfast.
It felt good to move—to stretch her stiff limbs—and the early morning solitude breathed life into her weary soul. She’d spent the last ten years living on the fringes of society, and after being the object of everyone’s scrutiny these past two weeks, Imari was exhausted.
This was only the beginning, she knew.
She eventually stopped at a trough between two small dunes and gazed at the glittering stars above. Who are you? she wondered at the heavens. How did one talk to a god? She’d never been one for prayer, and she refused to emulate those gaudy platitudes spewed by sanctimonious priests.
“I have no idea what to do with this power you’ve given me,” she whispered to the stars—to Asorai’s hand cradling them. “How do I navigate my way in a world that hates what I am? And how do I help the Sol Velor?” For they are my people too, she thought.
Of course, there was no answer, not that Imari had expected one. Still, she felt a prick of disappointment.
“What are you doing?”
Tarq’s voice shattered the quiet. Imari tensed and looked back. Tarq stood a few paces away, at the bottom of the dune, his black eyes glinting like shards of nightglass. It bothered her that she hadn’t heard him approach. It also bothered her that she couldn’t see their camp from her low vantage point.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered simply. “Time to go?”
Tarq regarded her a long moment, and then pointed his scim toward camp. Imari took a deep breath and walked forward, but as she started up the dune, Tarq took two steps and blocked her path with his scim.
She glanced up, met his gaze.
Imari was no stranger to contempt. She had seen it plenty, taking many forms over the years, such as the way Tarq looked at her then. His mere posture was a threat as he searched for a deception he clearly felt so certain were there, if only he looked hard enough. His black eyes flickered over her Corinthian cape, roving with contempt over the rich blue wool. Jeric’s cape had been a constant point of contention. Ricón had asked her not to wear it, but she couldn’t bring herself to put it away.
And so Imari stared defiantly back at Tarq, though her pulse quickened. Tarq was no force to ignore, but to look away—to cower—was to admit guilt. And she was done carrying the guilt placed on her shoulders by other people’s fears.
“Don’t wander, beram,” he said at last. Bastard.
Tarq wouldn’t dare call her that in front of Ricón.
As if summoned by the insult, Ricón appeared over the crest of the dune. “Is there a problem?” he called out.
Tarq lowered his scim and took a quick step away from Imari.
“There’s no problem,” Imari said lightly. “Tarq was just making sure I was all right.” She smiled at Tarq, and his expression darkened.
“Time to go?” she asked Ricón.
“Sei,” Ricón said at last, peeling his gaze from Tarq, who’d already started climbing the dune. “Horses are ready.”
Within the hour, they were riding across the Majutén’s dunes, the winter sun huge and warm and bright. Tarq didn’t say another word—didn’t even glance in Imari’s general direction, though Ricón’s gaze kept drifting toward his largest saredd. Tarq’s behavior obviously concerned him. And it should. It sat like an ill portent of what was to come.
The sun had just touched the Baragas’ broad backs when they reached the edge of the Majutén.
“Go on. We’ll catch up,” Ricón said to the others.
Jenya gave him a lingering glance, but followed Avék and Tarq down the steep yet well-traveled thread that carved into a wide and sweeping valley.
Trier.
It was a city that should not exist—a pride of life, in this land of sand and rock. It defied nature with its palms and pools and white stucco, a treasure of pearls gleaming beneath a cerulean sky. And at its heart, framed by six enormous white towers that stood like sentinels around their sar, was the magnificent golden dome. Vondar. The palace.
Her home.
And there it was. Real and tangible, and waiting for her as though she’d never left.
The palace blurred and her eyes burned.
“We’ll go when you’re ready,” Ricón said quietly.
She would never be ready for this. “I am ready,” she whispered.
At last, he clucked his tongue and urged their horse after the others. They navigated Trier’s outer farms, made possible by a network of canals, and Imari inhaled deep, breathing in the scent of dried grasses and dust and woodsmoke—a smell her heart remembered, even after all these years. A few curious goats ambled to the fence to investigate, and beyond, she spotted field workers replenishing empty troughs with grain and water.
Sol Velorian field workers.
Of course they were Sol Velorians. Istraans never toiled like this, so they employed Sol Velorians for hard labor. They were paid, though minimally. Not quite slaves, but far too poor to buy freedom, and thus Istraa kept them subjugated.
Which compounded yet another issue that had increasingly nagged at Imari ever since leaving Skyhold: Jeric had promised to free Corinth’s Sol Velorian slaves, and Imari had promised to help. But after spending almost two weeks with Ricón’s saredd, with no obvious improvements in their attitude toward her, how could she possibly expect the rest of Istraa to give heed to her plea? If she started demanding Istraans release their Sol Velorian labor, or at the very least offer competitive wages, Istraa would think she was this elusive Liagé leader.