The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Arin came to my room a few hours later. I would rather have suffered my injuries than induce my already-roiling magic to the surface, but he stood in the door until I rolled out of bed. He took my arm—not my hand—until I no longer looked like I’d been thumped repeatedly into a wall. The disappearance of my wounds only served to heighten my disgust. The puppet must remain pristine for its master. The surge of magic at this touch felt more controlled, but I saw Arin’s other hand tighten into a fist. Good. I hoped he suffered. I hoped the pull of my magic flayed him from the inside.

As soon as he removed his hand, I climbed into bed and gave him my back.

Sleep wouldn’t come. My magic was active, its pressure against my cuffs unpleasant but bearable. It thought we were still fighting, but this kind of fight wasn’t one where a sword would help. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing death: my family, Dawoud, Soraya, even Adel and Mervat Rayan.

Loss was an anchor I would always drag behind me. If I stopped moving, if I let the anchor catch, I would never summon the strength to keep going. I was not kind. I did not choose right over wrong or my heart over my head. But I was tenacious. I was spiteful. I had cultivated these lesser traits, fed them every morsel I could spare, because someone good would not have survived Hanim. Someone good would have died as miserably as Adel. But once I stopped needing to survive, what would be left? What if the worst parts of me had already cannibalized the best?

I slept poorly and woke a few hours before dawn feeling inclined to find Vaun and finish what I started. Perhaps the guards could predict my bloodlust, because it was Sefa and Marek at my door the next morning.

They helped me pack the room while they chattered about nothing. I appreciated it—allowing me a signal to fix and focus on while I rebuilt the walls I’d damaged last night.

“Sylvia?” Marek reached for my shoulder and thought better of it. I hadn’t moved in over ten minutes. “Do you want us to leave you alone?”

“No. No, stay.” I swallowed and tentatively patted Marek’s arm. He held himself stiller than a man luring a rare bird to his palm. Despite his hotheadedness, Marek always knew which moments demanded a gentler hand. Being raised by a Nizahlan military legacy family hadn’t turned him into someone harsh and uncompromising, and I admired him for it.

As I stared at Marek, an intriguing prospect occurred to me. I’d allowed Arin’s tirade about Jasad to quietly fester. I had nobody reliable to recount the events around the war, but here stood two people who had grown up close to the heart of Nizahlan politics. Two people I trusted as much as I could trust anyone.

“What did people say about Jasad before the war?” I asked Sefa.

Sefa finished packing her sewing materials under a protective layer of skirts. She didn’t seem perturbed by the question. “About Jasad in general?”

I had to tread carefully. “The Malik and Malika, royal politics, the nature of their rule. That sort of talk.” I glanced at Marek. “Either of you.”

“I can’t recall specific sayings, honestly. Most of what I remember is resentment,” Sefa said. “So much resentment. One winter, the frost came too early and caused most of the farms to bloom before anyone was prepared for harvest. An unbelievable amount of food went to waste, rotted from disease or the cold. It was a lean winter. No kingdom was spared from struggling… except Jasad. The previous Sultana swallowed her pride and reached out to the Malik and Malika for help, and they refused her.”

I had braced myself for such a conclusion, but it still brought a grimace to my face. I reminded myself that unkindness did not necessarily translate to corruption.

Sefa wasn’t finished. “Ten days later, Lukub’s northeast mountain borders were attacked. Jasadi forces raided the stores of Lukub’s precious metals and stole their entire supply of silver and copper. The Sultana couldn’t retaliate. Their armies were withering, and—”

“The fortress,” Marek finished. “The fortress was a topic at our dinner table almost nightly.”

A queasy unease had settled in my stomach. I was still caught on the raid on Lukub. Why would they do that? They had had plenty of silver and copper in Jasad; they hardly needed to steal it. Nothing in my life had ever

been as stable as my notions of Jasad. So many cracks had begun to splinter through the image of Usr Jasad and my grandparents, and I could feel myself growing defensive in preparation for the shatter.

“Your family served the Supreme. Of course they spoke often of the biggest obstacle to invasion.”

“Everyone talked about the fortress, Sylvia,” Marek said, a little coldly.

“It allowed Jasad to get away with doing whatever it wanted. I understand you hate what Nizahl has become. I do, too. But it is the only kingdom created at the will of three Awaleen. Its most basic function was to protect against the tyrannies of magic and power after Rovial’s madness. Nobody could have replicated Jasad’s fortress, not even when each kingdom still carried magic. They were insulated from the consequences of their actions, and Nizahl couldn’t do anything about it.”

My pulse pounded in my head. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked Nizahlans to refute the word of the Commander. They thought all magic was inherently unfair. “What a relief it must be for Nizahl to finally achieve their full purpose,” I said, unable to prevent the hurt seeping into my tone. “They have certainly balanced the scales.”

Sefa called out as I left the room, but the door was already closing behind me.

I calmed down after hiding in one of the empty rooms to eat. I had known there would be a risk I wouldn’t like their answers, and I had asked anyway.

They stopped talking when I entered. I hated the guardedness that sprang to Marek’s features. “Sorry,” I said. “I was childish.”

Sefa was already shaking her head. “No, we’re sorry. We should have known the fortress meant something completely different to you. You were

right to be upset.”

“I was not upset.”

Marek rolled his eyes and threw a bundle of tunics at my head. “Finish packing. We’re going to be late.”

Since most of my belongings would be sent back to Raya, I wasn’t as

prim about putting everything away as Sefa. As we passed the training center, I pressed a palm to the wall. “Forgive me,” I whispered to my grandparents. Their flaws were many, probably more than I knew, but they had given everything for me. I could not say the same.

Sefa and Marek waited by their carriage, belongings already stowed away. We would be taking two carriages on our journey. Sefa and I watched Marek bustle around the horses, diligently checking over the gears, and exchanged a resentful glance. He had the energy of ten people.

“Not very ostentatious, are they?” Sefa remarked, nodding toward the carriages. Compared to the gilded contraption Felix rode into Mahair in, these boasted few adornments. Each wheel had a secondary support to help negotiate the unruly terrain, and the rectangular exteriors were painted a dull brown. If a vagrant caravan or enemy cabal happened upon us, they wouldn’t give either carriage a second glance.

“Ego does not often defeat Arin’s practicality,” I said.

Sefa stared. I touched my chin, self-conscious. “What?”

“Arin?”

On cue, the tops of my cheeks reddened. With my hair pulled back, Sefa noticed instantly. She grabbed my elbow, yanking us away from the others.

“What is your relationship with the Heir?”

Her accusatory clip raised my hackles. A sliver of rage raced along my jaw, cracked between my teeth. My eyes narrowed to slits. “I beg your

pardon.”

“You called him Arin.”

“That is his name.”

“Not to you!” she hissed. She stepped forward, either unaware or unbothered by the anger emanating off me. “To you, he is the Nizahl Heir.

The Commander. The man who would cut you into more pieces than there are leaves in Essam if given half the chance. The way you two gravitate toward each other scares me. You are a Jasadi.”

“There is nothing to concern yourself over.”

From the tightness in her temples, she wasn’t convinced. “I hope not.”

We returned to where the others were climbing their horses. I waved away Marek’s help, hauling myself into the carriage with a grunt. Though outwardly unremarkable, the carriage’s interior had space to support two parallel benches, heavily cushioned and wide enough to lie down and sleep.

Arin was already seated inside, a stack of parchment folded neatly beside him.

“Where is Vaun?” I managed not to make the question a snarl.

“Vaun has been dismissed from my service,” Arin said, drawing a line under a sentence.

I gaped. Arin took Vaun on almost all his hunts. If the other guards were to be believed, the two had been together since boyhood.

“I have no use for easily provoked guardsmen.”

Had I been a more charitable woman, I might have experienced a spark of sympathy for the devoted guard. What would Marek do if Sefa cast him

aside so cruelly?

He would find a way back, Hanim warned.

With a mortified flush, I wondered if Vaun had relayed my taunts during our fight. “Did Vaun mention in detail what transpired between us?”

Arin’s hands knit together over his stomach as he sat back. “I am open to any suggestions on how I can improve my clumsy affections—”

I hurled a folded quilt at him, boiling with embarrassment. He batted it aside. “Vaun had a weak point. You exploited it. Where we’re going, you grapple for every advantage you can gain.”

“The other Champions may not be as sensitive about insults to your virtue.”

“This is the fourth time you’ve mentioned my virtue,” Arin said, and I would swear to Sirauk he sounded amused. “Perhaps preoccupy yourself with a different matter.”

“I don’t—I have not—” Since I would rather have stuck my head under the carriage’s wheels than continued this conversation, I shut my mouth.

Significantly more buoyed by the lack of Vaun in my future, I stretched my legs and tapped the other side of the carriage with my toes. Wes glared from his horse until I slid the window drape shut, pitching us in darkness.

Arin’s profile on the opposite bench disappeared. The carriage juddered into motion.

The rocking lulled some of my sharper nerves. I was contemplating the wisdom of dozing when Arin spoke, startling me. “After the Hound attacked me, you didn’t run. If you had used your dagger to deepen the existing wounds, I would have lost consciousness and bled my last. You could have laid blame at the Hound’s feet. The guards would have believed

you. My body would have been borne to Nizahl, the Alcalah postponed, and you freed.”

I’d become accustomed to the chilling labyrinth of his mind. Still, this one gave me pause. “You’re right.” The Hound’s claws had raked deep.

Cutting into them a bit more wouldn’t have garnered notice. A few scratches and cuts on my person, and the authenticity of the encounter couldn’t be doubted. “Jeru would sway Wes and Ren’s doubts. The Mufsids would be held responsible—maybe Lukub, too, because of the Hound. In the melee, I’d be forgotten. It’s a good plan.”

I hadn’t considered the enormous amount of trust Arin had shown by allowing me access to his wounds. He’d sat there, rigid, contemplating the methods of his own assassination. Though I couldn’t confirm it in the gloom, the prickling on the back of my neck suggested he was watching me. I lifted a shoulder. “It didn’t occur to me,” I said truthfully. “I have to plan in advance for cold-blooded murder.”

The carriage jolted, rocking to the left. Wes rapped on the window in apology.

“Peculiar woman,” Arin mused. The carriage rattled on, carrying us into the heart of Essam Woods.

The trip to Lukub took three days. Three days of jumping at every noise, bathing in the river, and sleeping at the base of the tree with the least ants.

Arin’s eyes grew more bloodshot the closer to Lukub we rode. I doubted he had slept more than an hour. The open, uncontrolled environment must have been scraping his nerves raw.

The Nizahl brigade met up with us an hour away from the palace. Fifty soldiers, stiff in their Nizahl uniforms, knelt when Arin descended from the carriage. The sea of black and violet unsettled me to my core.

“My liege, if you will,” Jeru said. He gestured at the carriage the soldiers brought. The new carriage resembled Felix’s gilded nightmare more closely. Undeniably Nizahlan, it rose on massive black wheels, the body painted obsidian and outlined in violet. Sleek and menacing. Twin

wings crested from the sides of the carriage, their iron feathers gleaming in the moonlight. Sefa, who possessed an unshakable need to verify her surroundings through contact, reached for a wing. Wes caught her wrist. “If you value your finger, think again.”

The Nizahl royal emblem, a raven soaring between two crossed swords, had been meticulously painted across the side. The raven’s beady gaze followed me.

I observed the new soldiers with contempt, following Arin into the carriage. Did we really need fifty soldiers for the Banquet?

Two panels in the window pushed outward, and Arin didn’t stop me from throwing them open. I poked my head out.

“Greetings, traveler,” I told Wes. He startled violently on his horse. His head bobbed level with mine, such was the carriage’s ridiculous height. The tree line had thinned a few miles behind us, leaving greater room for the carriage to maneuver. The soldiers spilled behind us like rot trickling from a forgotten fruit, the beat of their horses reverberating around me.

“Get inside!” Wes ordered.

I glanced at Arin. “Can you command him to be nicer to me? Or at least less tightly wound?”

Arin unfurled a map of the Ivory Palace onto his lap. “No.”

“I suppose that would be hypocritical, coming from you.”

Wes groaned, long and loud. Luckily, everyone else was riding out of earshot.

“Sylvia, you’re going to have to exercise some forethought before you speak,” Arin said, uncorking a pocket-size vial of ink. He circled a spot on the map. “The other soldiers might take badly to your attempts at humor.”

Outraged, I managed to say, “Attempts?” before I lost track of the rest.

The carriage shook as the ground shifted from hard, packed earth to soft soil. To our left, the trees cleared to reveal six identical wells dug into the ground. A revolting stench assailed me as we rode past the wells. I glanced down—and promptly reared back.

“Why are there people in those wells?” I whispered.

Twenty feet deep and smooth on every side, all but one of the narrow wells had an occupant. An elderly man, beard matted with filth, turned to glare as we passed. A pool of foul water sloshed around his ankles. The others were emaciated, slumped in a fetal curl. The wells were too narrow

for them to lie down. If they weren’t already dead, they would be soon.

“Traitors,” Arin said. We passed the last well, and I forced myself away from the window. “Sultana Vaida had them dug after her mother’s murder.

Traitors to Lukub are thrown in to starve and perish. Half her council died

there.”

“Nobody stops her?”

Torture was limited only by imagination. The forms it took were more than anyone could count. But I had thought at least one rule, one unassailable edict, united the hands of cruelty. Torture should be private.

Torture was meant for dungeons and stone cells. The quiet of Essam. For the trees that watched you bleed and the silent earth you soaked in your tears.

“You should see what Orban does to traitors.” Arin tapped his fingers against a knee. “Vaida prefers a more nuanced approach.”

I hated that I understood the Sultana. Few weapons tormented as thoroughly and bloodlessly as fear. Lukubis walked past these wells, listening to the prisoners’ mournful wails, and prayed they weren’t next.

People from all over the kingdoms escaped to Lukub for its glamor and style. They climbed Baira’s Shoulders, the highest cliff in the kingdom, to gaze upon the beauty of a land founded by an Awala whose face could entrance an enemy to fall on their own sword.

Beauty dazzled. It drew the eye toward it… and away from the horrors hiding in its shadow.

“Malika Palia and Malik Niyar would have their soldiers lift thieves and traitors into the air.” Arin set his neat stack of parchment aside. “Once they were suspended over the crowd, each soldier found a creative way to execute their prisoner. One soldier would drown their prisoner on dry land.

Another would split the earth with a wave of a hand, burying their charge alive. I believe one particularly creative soldier decided to split his prisoner in half and shower the crowd in viscera.”

My nails dug crescent moons into my palms. “Is magic a worse weapon

than a well?”

“The well isn’t promoted afterward.”

The cuffs throbbed with my spiking magic. “Where was this compassion when your father pillaged our villages? When Nizahl soldiers destroyed centuries of custom and culture? When Lukub, Omal, and Orban helped

strip our lands to bare parts? When Jasadis were raped, ripped apart, or sold?” Hot fury filled the carriage, blazing in the scant space between us.

“Do not insult me by pretending invading Jasad was some mercy.”

“Our.” Arin cocked his head. “You said our lands. Our villages. Not ‘the Jasadis’.’”

I glowered, searching for his trick. I always said our. What else would I say?

The carriage’s momentum changed, sending me hurtling to the other end of the bench. Arin braced his elbow against the window, using his other arm to keep the parchment from scattering.

Jeru appeared in the window. “Apologies, my liege. We are on the palace grounds.”

Eager for distance, I opened the carriage door and leaned out, throwing an arm over the roof as we sped ahead. The wind whipped my braid into my chin.

As magnificent as the Awala responsible for its birth, the Ivory Palace shone brightly against the night sky. Pillars rose in cerise spirals between towering ivory walls. Behind the gate, a ruby obelisk pierced the sky. White flowers grew in the seams of the walls, their petals sharper than the wings of our carriage. I followed the path of the precious jewels welded into the looming white gates that formed an enormous Ruby Hound snarling down at our approaching carriage. The Hound glistened a dark, sinister red under the waxing moon. Unlike Arin, I cared little for the sophistication of symmetry or the hidden meanings behind design. The Ivory Palace cast aside subtlety in favor of a message no one could misread.

Something beautiful waited behind these walls, and it was as likely to caress you as it was to eat you alive.

I returned to my seat when we pulled to a stop at the gate’s head, letting the carriage door close. A pair of Lukubi guards approached Jeru and Wes.

My heart thundered. I was going to enter Lukub as the Nizahl Champion.

Sit among Heirs who had happily led their troops against Jasad, wetting their boots with Jasadi blood in exchange for Nizahl’s approval.

What freedom is worth this? I thought, wild. Can I cut into my own soul and sell away the Jasadi pieces?

The carriage door opened. “Your Highness,” the Lukubi guard said.

“Sultana Vaida welcomes you and your Champion to the Ivory Palace.”

Arin answered. I wasn’t listening, focused on corralling my magic and

my frantic breathing.

The gates parted with a groan.

“Loyalty rears its mutinous head,” Arin said softly. “Mervat Rayan.”

I looked into his wintry blue eyes, so like his father’s. The air held itself still around us. The Nizahl and Jasad Heir. I would leave this carriage to deliver the Supreme the most complete victory over me. Over Jasad.

One day, I would stand trial before the spirits of my dead. One day, the bodies I never buried would call upon me to answer for my sins.

One day, but not today.

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