Race the Sands Read online

“Inside I am screaming,” he said in a flat, calm voice.

  She laughed. “Inside we all are.”

  He laughed too, then said, “I have no idea why I’m laughing. That’s horrible.”

  “Because it’s better than crying.” She thought of Shalla and hoped she was well and happy and not worrying about her mother. “You know, I used to think all augurs were inhuman, after they took my daughter. Or separate from human, at least. Augur Clari is constantly trying to convince me to abandon Shalla, to catch me in a missed payment and yank her away from me permanently.”

  “I grew up in a temple,” Yorbel said. “The augurs were kind to me.”

  Tamra snorted. “Did they love you?”

  “I believe they did, in their way.”

  “Unconditionally?”

  “I . . .”

  “Or would they have kicked you out if you’d failed their lessons?” She nodded at the tent behind them. “Raia was in augur training, enrolled at the temple. Like all the others, she was forced to train at the temple, no choice in her future. And then, after she’d accepted her fate, they determined she wasn’t right for it. They spit her out, taking her choice away a second time. Seems to me that’s the opposite of unconditional love.”

  He didn’t argue with her on that. But he did say, “The empire needs augurs.”

  “Does it?” Tamra dared. It wasn’t a question she’d ever voiced out loud, much less one she ever expected to say to an actual augur. She’d seen the way the augurs reminded people of their better selves—without them, it was said, the empire would dissolve into chaos. Would it really, though? “Does it truly benefit people to know what their soul will become? What does it matter? Shouldn’t they just be good people because they love their family and they care about the people around them? People should be good because it’s right, not because an augur tells them it’s what they should do.”

  He was silent.

  “It’s not as if we carry our memories into our new life, at least not reliably,” Tamra said. “So I’ll be a fish. Or a bird. Or a cricket. Or whatever. Does it matter, so long as I’ve done the best I can?”

  “You truly feel this way?”

  He sounded stunned, as if no one had ever questioned the entire purpose of his life’s work before, which she supposed was most likely the case. She wondered if she should apologize.

  But why should I apologize when it’s what I believe?

  “I used to believe I had to do something extraordinary to make my life worthwhile,” Tamra said. “Now I only want Shalla, and more recently Raia, to have a chance at happy lives.”

  “But your next life . . .”

  “Death erases all we are and all we were. So the past and the future? They don’t matter as much as what you do in the moment. In every moment.” She grinned at him. “It’s okay if you don’t agree. I’m not the one who spent hours in contemplation of ancient ethics texts.”

  “You are, I’m told, the one who can control multiple kehoks at once,” Yorbel said. “I heard the rumors on the way in. It’s an unusual talent.”

  She shrugged. It was a useless talent for a rider—you could race only one kehok at a time—but pretty handy for a trainer when there were multiple kehoks acting up. “It’s just being stubborn.”

  “I believe it’s linked to your whole philosophy of life,” Yorbel said seriously. “You are somehow able to let go of the past and future and focus on the present. You don’t merely pay lip service to the idea of making the most of each moment. You inhabit the moment fully, and the kehoks respond to that. Amazing.”

  She laughed. “I haven’t been called ‘amazing’ in a very long time. And certainly never by an augur. Either this is a sign that I’m doing things very right . . . or you’re doing things very wrong.”

  “Very right,” he insisted.

  Certainly, there were two things she knew she’d done right.

  One of them was many miles away, but the other was right here, asleep in a tent near her beloved monster.

  Yorbel returned to the temple with no clear idea of what he thought or felt about anything anymore. The sky could be green, the sands purple, and the river red, for all I can tell, he thought. And that’s fine. Everything’s fine. Better than fine. Because at last he knew why he kept being drawn back to the races, why he was able to so easily swallow the lies that entailed, why he was inexplicably happy despite all the fear and worry he should be feeling:

  Tamra.

  She was amazing.

  He hummed to himself as he walked through the familiar stone corridors. Nodding to augurs as he passed, he climbed the stairs to his room. He was still smiling as he opened his door.

  Gissa was seated by his desk. She’d turned the chair to face the door and was sitting calmly, patiently, with her hands folded in her lap.

  He let out a “Gahhh!” before his brain caught up with his scream and cut it off. “Gissa! You surprised me. How long have you . . . Have you been waiting long?” Also, why was she here? Why not wait until he was in his room and then knock, as was customary? “Is everything all right?”

  “You tell me.” Gissa rose, circled around him, and shut the door.

  Yorbel instinctively backed away, though he wasn’t sure why. This was Gissa, one of his oldest friends. Still, she looked as if she was about to lecture him like his second-year teacher, whose approach to reading auras was to yell at you until everything blurred red.

  “You said you were finished with all that kehok business, that you’d be staying in the temple, yet every time I look for you, you’re out again. I’m here because I’m concerned about you, Yorbel.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t need a mother hen, Gissa. I’m a grown man.” She saw him as too hopeless to keep a plant alive, much less take care of himself. Pointing to the plant on his windowsill, he said, “See? Not dead yet.”

  “You are darkening your soul.”

  He sank down onto his cot, feeling as if the air had been sucked out of him. He knew it wasn’t possible for Gissa to read him, any more than it was possible for him to read her. Gissa, though, was looking at him as if she could see every shadow that stained his soul, and it unnerved him.

  “You know beyond Becar,” she said, “at the mouth of the Aur River, where it opens to the wide sea, there’s a lighthouse that stands so that ships can find their way to the river even in the darkest night. You have always been my lighthouse here in the temple, guiding me back home. You have always been that solid, dependable beam of goodness, reminding all of us why we do what we do. Yorbel, please, tell me what is going on with you. Tell me the truth!”

  Yorbel dropped his face into his hands.

  There were a dozen truths he could tell her, and perhaps if she’d asked him another day, he would have chosen a different answer. But there was just one dominating his thoughts at the moment his old friend demanded the truth:

  Muffled through his hands, he whispered, “I think I may be in love.”

  The room was absolutely silent, as silent as the old stone that formed the walls and the floor, as silent as the shadows in the corner.

  “With whom?” Gissa asked, and the two words sank like stones into still water.

  “Trainer Tamra Verlas.”

  He then heard an odd kind of strangled noise. Raising his head, he saw Gissa was tucking something into a fold in her tunic, and that her face was contorted as she tried to hold in—

  “You’re laughing at me,” Yorbel said.

  And Gissa burst out laughing, a full belly laugh, bent over, with her hands on her knees. “You. Yorbel. That was . . . I was not . . . Oh, by the River . . .” She laughed for a solid minute while Yorbel waited, feeling himself blush to the tips of his ears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I mean, it’s not that you aren’t lovable . . . You absolutely . . .” She dissolved into laughter again.

  “You are not making me feel good about confiding in you.” He didn’t see the humor in this. He was, as h
e’d pointed out just a few minutes earlier, a grown man. He had control of his thoughts and emotions, he’d believed. He’d dedicated his life in service to the temple, to higher intellectual causes, which left little time for things like . . .

  Things like living in the moment, he thought.

  She got ahold of herself and sat down next to him. A giggle escaped her lips, and she swallowed it back. “So this trainer . . . She is the one you brought back to the emperor-to-be? She is who you see when you go to the royal stable? And the racetrack, where you’ve never set foot in your life?”

  “I saw the Becaran Races once,” he said defensively.

  “And you thought they were barbaric.”

  “She’s not barbaric.”

  “I’m sure she’s not.” Her face was contorted with the effort of not laughing.

  “She . . . constantly surprises me,” Yorbel said. “You would think, given what she does, the choices she’s made, that she would be . . . lacking. But, Gissa, when I read her soul, she has this core of strength. She isn’t a pillar of light, like the purest souls, like I have been taught to aspire to, but . . . I can’t explain it.” He shook his head. “I sound ridiculous, don’t I? At my age.”

  Flopping back on the bed, Gissa laughed again.

  “You are being a terrible friend,” he told her. “At least give me some advice. I want to tell her, or show her, how unique and special she is.”

  “My intellectual friend is a romantic. I truly had no idea.” She sat up. “I am so very relieved that this is the explanation. I will spread the word to your concerned friends.”

  “Gissa!”

  “You can’t expect me not to gossip about this.”

  He glared at her. “A. Terrible. Friend.”

  “All right.” She composed herself. “You want a grand gesture, to show her how you feel. Traditionally, I’m told sweets, flowers, or jewels work. Poetry.” She held up a hand. “Wait. Forget I said that. Please do not write her poetry.”

  He couldn’t picture how Tamra would react to sweets, flowers, or jewels. Somehow it didn’t feel right. And he sensed it would make him look ridiculous. She’d laugh at me like Gissa is laughing, Yorbel thought. “I’m not looking for a way to confess my feelings. She doesn’t know how I feel, and she doesn’t need to know—she has enough to handle right now. This isn’t about me. It’s about her. I want her to know she’s amazing.”

  “If you truly care for this woman,” Gissa said, “what you should do is obvious: do something that would make her happy.”

  Of course! Yes! That was perfect advice. And with that, he shot to his feet. Because he knew exactly what would make Tamra the most happy. “I take it back. You aren’t terrible. Thank you, Gissa.” He rushed out of the room.

  The sound of her laughter followed him.

  Chapter 24

  While her sponsored rider and racer continued to win during the day, Lady Evara spent her evenings drifting through the palace, twinkling at everyone. That was her personal term for it: a light laugh, a twinkle in the eye. Every so often, she’d toss out a compliment. “Lovely bracelet, darling.” Or “Your hair looks divine.” Or stop, stare, and then say, “Stunning,” before sweeping on. She’d hear in her wake: That’s the woman who sponsored the emperor-to-be’s racer! She may have picked the winner!

  As pleasant as that was to hear, she rarely paused long enough for a full conversation. Until she knew who was interested in her, she was careful not to appear interested in anyone.

  It was a delightful game. Be accessible, but not too accessible. Aloof, but not too aloof. Charming without seeming insincere. Superficial without seeming inconsequential. And she was good at it, which was proof that, no matter what her darling parents had thought, she could be good at something. It helped that the emperor-to-be frequently summoned her for updates on “their” rider and racer—their mood, their health, their training regime. He sometimes employed musicians for their conversations and sometimes not, presumably to keep any busybodies from guessing that he was fond of hiding important discussions beneath the cacophony of sound. He’s a clever boy, Lady Evara thought. I do hope he lives to be emperor. She liked the idea that she could do something to help ensure that, even though she hadn’t uncovered anything useful yet.

  She was just about to retire for the evening, though the shrimp being served in the statue hall were divine, when she was approached by an impeccably dressed man with a truly stunning mustache. He had tiny jewels clipped to his mustache and had somehow endeavored to make it curl twice before ending in a three-pronged split capped with diamonds.

  “Lady Evara.” He bowed. “I am honored.”

  “You are a work of art,” she said. “Let me admire you.”

  “Sweet lady—” he began.

  She laid a finger on his lips and then walked around him in a slow circle, taking in every detail of his outfit, which was at least three layers of silks plus a braided belt that draped from his shoulders, circled his waist, and then vanished within the silks. “All right, you may speak now.”

  “It has been brought to my attention that, despite your beauty and your many charms, you do not belong among us.” This shocking statement was delivered in a soft voice that sounded better suited to reciting lyrics from love songs.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If my sources are correct, my sweet lady, you are within months of losing your ancestral home, your title, and your reputation, due to an unfortunate clause in your parents’ will that prevents you from accessing your inheritance.”

  She would not let him have the satisfaction of seeing he’d rattled her. “Your manners, unlike your mustache, are deplorable. You must have mistaken me for someone else.” Sources? What sources? Her parents’ will was a private matter, known only to her and the augurs who handled such matters, and they were honor-bound to silence.

  He bowed again. “Please believe me, my lady, I have not said these things to embarrass you. I am, in fact, in the happy position to help you reverse your fortunes. For that is, indeed, why you have come to court, is it not?”

  That was so very close to being true, it was disconcerting. Do not lie to yourself, she told herself sternly. That is precisely why I came. Self-delusion had been her parents’ flaw, not hers. In that, she and her rider, Raia, were alike. However he knew, the truth was the truth. “Speak on.”

  “I am very fond of the Becaran Races. So fond that I have sponsored my own racer and am investing heavily in the fate of several other riders and racers. I believed I had accounted for all variables, but then your rider and racer appeared on the scene . . . and it has thrown a shadow of concern onto all of my careful plans.”

  A servant bearing a platter of puffed pastries passed by them. The man declined to take one, but Lady Evara made a show of selecting the perfectly puffed pastry, to buy herself a moment to think.

  The man’s story could be the truth. It was plausible. He certainly knew the truth about her own situation, however he obtained it. My dear mother and father, of course, she thought. The augurs who knew the truth would have been discreet, but she had no proof that her parents hadn’t whispered their little inheritance plan into the ear of a “trusted” friend. Her mustached acquaintance had probably begun researching her when Raia and her racer began winning. Bribe the right people, and you could learn anything about anyone. If the leak wasn’t her parents, a servant could have overheard sensitive information and shared it for the right price. Their loyalty would have naturally diminished after she was forced to dismiss them. She tried to hide how much that thought dismayed her. She’d always tried to be kind to them.

  She bit into her pastry, and discussed the state of the weather and vague statements about the inconvenience of unrest in the street until the servant was far enough away. When there were no more nearby ears, Lady Evara said, “To the point, then. What are you proposing?”

  “If your racer were to come down with an illness, say a permanent illness, I would stand to profit greatly, and I
would ensure that you were to profit equally greatly.”

  “You want me to poison my own racer?” This man was lacking in subtlety, so she used none. If their positions were reversed, she would have been much more careful in how she led into this request. Maybe begin with a few innocent conversations, feeling her target out before exposing her plan. Amateur, she thought. “Such an action, if detected, could lead to expulsion from the races for life. The race committee frowns on tampering with race results.”

  “Expose me, and I will expose the fragility of your finances and the . . . ahem . . . state of your soul,” the man said quickly. “I am in a position to do so. I am Lord Petalo, cousin to Lady Nori of Griault, whose star is on the rise, and my word carries weight.”

  Ah, so it was to be blackmail. She was glad she hadn’t retired to her rooms earlier. She wondered if Lord Petalo was motivated by greed, or if it was more sinister—he might not care as much about his chosen kehok’s winning as he did about the emperor-to-be’s kehok’s dying. “I would need to know your definition of ‘profit greatly.’”

  Lord Petalo leaned forward and whispered a sum in her ear, making it look as if he were whispering a flirtatious compliment.

  She played along, with a twinkling laugh and a loud, “Oh my!”

  In truth, the sum he named was worthy of an “oh my.” It would restore her family fortune. She could not imagine what kind of bets this man could be placing that would result in that kind of payoff for her and still leave a profit for himself. But was he truly that rich?

  Well, he was not the only one who could research a peer. She didn’t doubt that with the assistance of the emperor-to-be, she could discover whether this man did in fact have the finances to make her such an offer. Or if he had another, wealthier backer behind his request.

  “How can I refuse such a very generous offer?” Lady Evara said, fanning herself as if she were swooning at his attention. “But while the reward is substantial, so are the risks. I must wait for an opportunity to present itself.”

  “Of course. Please know if you were to succeed, it would fill my heart with joy, and both our vaults with gold.” Bowing, he excused himself.