Free The Champion by Morgan Karpiel Page B

his shoulder, he clenched his teeth, focused on the partially open dome of the Star Tower. He imagined her sitting on a catwalk, just as he’d left her, numb to his touch, the sound of his voice, the hope he’d once inspired now lost.
    “Wait for me, Nadira,” he whispered. “That’s all I ask.”
    Smoothing his hands reluctantly over the stone, he climbed onto the parapet and swung out underneath it, his boots searching for footholds in weathered blocks, descending the sheer drop under the cover of night.

Darkness
    S he felt their rage, their faces blurred with sunlight, a screaming tide of bared teeth and pinched eyes, their tight fists jabbing at the sky. They pushed and grabbed at each other, thousands wrestling to throw the first stone. The blows will fall like rain to break my bones, to crush me, until the street is wet with my blood, until they decide to drag me to my death.
    She cried out against them, her voice lost among stronger voices as she was pushed to her knees, her clothes ripped apart, torn from her shoulders. She shivered naked under the weight of their violence, folding inward, seeing only her own hands, one grasping the other, unable to let go. The first stone, the first stone…
    Crack!
    Nadira startled from sleep, the sound echoing from the dark catwalks around her. The tower was empty, the war machine inert beyond the thin metal rails, its crown of lenses shining blue with starlight. Not yet. They do not have me yet… Closing her eyes, she covered her face with her hands and struggled for calm, for sanity, imagining that Jacob’s arms still held her, his hands gentle on soft, unbroken skin.
    “Who are you?” she whispered. “Where have you gone?”
    Crack!
    She jumped again, hearing it clearly this time, a large stone hitting the metal doors of the dome, then bouncing back down to the yard below. Lifting her gaze, she focused on the swatch of night sky visible through the open doors above, hearing a voice rise on the breeze.
    “Your Majesty!” An old man called.
    Isban. Pushing up from the grate, she followed the cool draft of air, climbing another ladder and crossing a brace of scaffolding to gaze through the open doors of the dome. The courtyard appeared below, small fires lighting the temple and library entrances, shadows looming along the ramparts. Leaning out further, she swept her gaze to the gate, seeing a large pool of scholars gathered before it, their lanterns held high and glowing.
    “Your Majesty!” Isban called again. “Are you there?”
    “Yes,” she replied, knowing that he could not possibly see her.
    “Ah! Praise the old gods. Are you well?
    “Yes, I am well.”
    “More good fortune. I was afraid of what that outsider might do. Come, unlock the door. We must prepare quickly.”
    “Prepare for what?”
    “The Council of Abu Quardan has been negotiating with your senior army officers camped outside. They have agreed to spare everyone, if you present yourself to their envoy for identification. They will verify you are the Sultan and escort you past the others, safely back to Ruman.”
    Nadira shook her head, feeling as if the scaffolding were collapsing underneath her. It was trap, surely. The Grand Vizier knew full well that, even with her powders and clays, she could never biologically pass for Osman. “I—”I cannot meet them.”
    “But you must, Majesty. We can solve nothing without your appearance, nothing…”
    “I cannot.”
    The old man hesitated, sounding lost when he spoke. “But they will open the gate at any moment. The envoy will come here, to meet you. Please, Majesty, you must put an end to this. You must come out and be identified. I will gladly stay with you.”
    “I cannot,” she whispered.
    At the far end of the courtyard, the gate’s heavy chains pulled tight, horse teams dragging the rusted links through the pulleys.
    No. No, please.
    It was too late.
    The scholars had made their fool’s bargain.
    She watched, fear stealing her breath