“Did you hear about the giant sea turtle that rolled in with the tide this morning?” Kofi starts to say, but my attention lands on Rudjek. He’s wading through the thicket of people, making a direct line toward me. The effect he has on the market is immediate. Girls flash him smiles and some try to catch his eye by stepping into his path. People stare at the craven-bone crest pinned to his collar.
Whenever anyone from a family of status comes to the East Market, there’s always a ruckus. But he loves the market as much as I do: it’s our second-favorite place to meet, aside from our secret spot by the river.
Merchants clamor for his attention, but Rudjek’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. He sidesteps a man selling the tiny bells favored by followers of Oma, the god of dreams. He’s grinning from ear to ear, his pale brown skin flushed. I let out a breath and the tension in my belly eases.
“This morning was interesting,” he says, interrupting Kofi. Up close the shadow of purple bruising on his right cheek matches his fancy silk elara. His obsidian eyes sparkle in the sun beneath long dark lashes.
I shift onto my heels. “Are you okay?”
Rudjek waves off the question, though his body tenses. “You missed my glorious match yesterday. I came in second.” He glances to his right, where his attendant and best friend, Majka, stands clad in a red gendar uniform. I didn’t notice him until now. “Only because he cheated.”
“By ‘cheated’ I think you mean ‘wiped the arena with your ugly face,’” Majka says. He presses two fingers to his forehead and flourishes a slight bow to me in the way of my father’s tribe. The perfect Tamaran diplomat’s son. More so than Rudjek, Majka has the look of a typical high-bred Tamaran—rich brown skin, hair as thick and black as night, and deep-set dark eyes. I return the greeting with a smile.
Kira—to Rudjek’s left—clears her throat. She’s also clothed in a red uniform, a single black braid across her shoulder, her face as pale as a Northern winter. Unlike Majka and Rudjek with their double shotels, she has a dozen daggers strapped to her body. A merchant tries to shove a crossbow into her hands and another one waves tobachi knives to get her attention.
Families of import rarely set foot in either of the markets, not if they have attendants to send in their stead. Some families either can’t afford attendants, or choose not to have them. We have Nezi, Ty, and Terra, but to my relief, none with the sole purpose of following me around everywhere. Rudjek isn’t so lucky.
“I see you’re enjoying your new post, Kira,” I say as she shoos off the merchants.
Her face contorts into a frown. “I wouldn’t call guarding him a real post.”
Rudjek grabs his chest in mock offense, his eyes wide. “You wound me.”
I shake my head, still not used to Majka and Kira in their new gendar roles. At seventeen, they’re only a few months older than us, but old enough to begin careers. Majka’s mother is a commander under the Master of Arms, Rudjek’s aunt; his father is the Kindgom’s ambassador to Estheria. Kira’s father is the Master of Scribes. Both of them grew up competing in the arena with Rudjek for fun. After they joined the gendars, he petitioned to have them replace his old attendants. It’s a high honor to serve the royal family and their closest cousins, the Omaris, and Kira and Majka hadn’t earned the rank to be considered. But Rudjek’s father agreed, if only to strengthen political alliances with their respective families.
“Hey, I was talking to her first,” Kofi says, crossing his arms. “Wait your turn.”
Rudjek laughs and pats Kofi’s head. “Hello to you too.”
I cast an apologetic glance at Kofi. “I’ll stop by to see you tomorrow, I promise.”
Kofi pokes his tongue out at Rudjek before darting off into the crowd.
“That little runt.” Rudjek feigns indignation. “I have half a mind . . .”
“Shall we go?” I ask.
Without waiting for an answer, I head for our spot along the river, taking one route while they take another. It wouldn’t be so secret if four people marched straight to it. Rudjek has had many attendants over the years, and he’s bribed them to keep our secret. When coins haven’t worked, he’s turned to subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle persuasions. He really can be charming when he wants. Not that I’d tell him, lest it go to his head.
As I push through the crowds, an ice-cold chill runs down my back. Familiars slink across the market like a pack of rabid cats ready to pounce. No longer than my arm, their shadowy bodies are shapeless and ever changing, as fluid as a breeze. As they flood the streets, their presence sucks the warmth from me. I take a deep breath, watching as dozens of them swarm around a young girl. They crawl across her face and cling to her limbs, and she’s none the wiser.
A few others in the market see them—the ones with tribal blood. Their faces have gone stark and they whisper to each other. But most people don’t see the Familiars at all.
One or two Familiars are a nuisance, with the way they slither over everything, but a horde means only one thing: something bad is coming. Thinking of the missing children, I realize that the bad thing is already here.
In a daze, I cut through the mud-brick houses on the bank of the Serpent River and travel upstream from the docks. There are no Familiars here, but cold gnaws at my bones. The tribes believe that Familiars are the relics of a people destroyed by the demons long ago. In the demons’ lust for kas, they ravaged a whole realm before Koré and Re’Mec, the Twin Kings, waged war to stop them. Familiars are the only things left of that time. Restless ghosts with no souls, seeking what they cannot have again—life.
When I reach our well-worn spot amidst the tall reeds, I see Majka and Kira standing guard on the riverbank—far enough away to give us privacy. Rudjek sits on a yellow blanket spread across the grass. “Father’s putting on a big fight to celebrate the end of the blood moon,” he says after a yawn. “You must come. I’m undefeated in the swords competition three years straight. I’m only the best swordsman in Tamar. Well, outside of the gendars, I suppose.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea after this morning,” I say, my throat parched.
His eyes, darker than the hour of ösana, widen in question. With his full attention on me, the space feels smaller, the air warmer. “What’s wrong, Arrah?”
His voice cracks when he says my name and his boasting fades away. As I sit beside him, his scent of lilac and wood smoke sends a tinge of heat up my neck. I should say something to distract him or pretend that I don’t like the way my name rolls off his tongue, but I don’t. Not immediately. I let this strange, wonderful thing linger between us. He’s my best friend, and insufferable half the time. But lately I imagine something else—I imagine something more.
Guilt settles in like an old friend, and I glance away. Even if our parents didn’t hate each other, a wrongness edges into the back of my mind. Yes, I want more, but I don’t want to ruin what we have now if it goes wrong. One moment I’m on the verge of confessing to him and the next I bury my feelings under a rock.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, before our conversation veers off-course. So many thoughts tangle in my head. The Familiars, the child snatcher, the green-eyed serpent. On the surface they’re unrelated, but together they remind me of moves in a game of jackals and hounds. A game built upon strategy, evasion, and misdirection. I could be drawing connections where none exist, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I shake my head and smile at him. “Why the fancy blanket today?”