The Silver Sparrow

To See You Die

He stilled for a time, watching her intently from across the table. She returned the gesture, waiting and making herself ready for the next blow to come.

It never came.

He reached for the pitcher to refill her cup, then his, before leaning back on the chair. "I take it you won't give up Citara even if I vow to kill every living soul of the prisoners here today?"

It was spoken in the most unanimated, practical tone possible, as if they'd been discussing a transaction over a sack of grains. She swallowed the lump in her throat at the sudden image of more women and children being executed on that plain, shut her eyes to quiet the different voices in her head, and replied firmly, resolutely, "No."

It would mean more deaths, tremendously more, if they ever find Citara. The sacred city, the beating heart of the White Desert, was where all the collected tributes were sent, where the wealth of every Kha'gan was kept and guarded. The city traded directly with Makena—the last independent nation in the peninsula protected from the Salar's army by a treacherous mountain range and the White Desert itself. Makena's riches supplied the Kha'gans. Destroy Citara and one destroyed the White Desert as a whole and for good.

The Salasar had always known this, of course, but for centuries, Citara's location had been her people's most well-guarded secret. Apart from Bharavis and oracles, only the White Warriors who delivered the tributes and brought back traded goods to the Kha'gans were allowed to enter the city. All of whom must take an oath of secrecy upon entering the gates. The punishment for breaking such an oath was an execution of the entire three generations of one's bloodline.

Everyone chose their own death over that punishment. It was the price and weight of becoming a White Warrior, of wearing the white robe called the zikh, why her father and brothers, along with all zikh-clad warriors had not been captured alive. They fought to their deaths or killed themselves before being put to torture to protect its secret location.

She would have to find a way to join them soon before she, too, was put to torture. He would never have it, not from her.

There was a small knife on the table for the purpose. She had been trying, despite her need to reach for it, to not let her gaze linger too long on the blade.

The prince regarded her quietly for a time before reaching over to pick another grape, toying with it as he had done a few minutes ago before putting it in his mouth. "And if I throw you out there as a reward for my men?"

"It would be predictable," she said, "and disappointing." He might kill her for that, if she was lucky.

The prince responded with a chuckle. He rose from the chair and walked over to her side, seating himself on the edge of the table. "You are aware," he said, "that it's never a good idea to leave a man with so few options."

"Or a woman." She raised her chin to meet his eyes. "Understand me. No Rashai will ever set foot in Citara. You will not have the White Desert, in this life or the next. That is my answer. The wine," she said, emptied her cup, and placed it down on the table, intentionally near the plate and the knife, "is brilliant."

He smiled, and in the small window of time when he turned back to the pitcher, she leaped off her chair and reached for the blade, making her decision in that split of a second. The silver tip of the knife gleamed as she plunged it forward, aiming at the spot she knew would kill him in an instant.

Losing none of his composure, the prince slipped out of the way with the ease of a cat and positioned himself behind her. His large, strong hand closed around her neck and slammed her back down against the table as if she'd weighed no more than a child.