The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I was ushered into my room without fanfare. Three women arrived to attend me. Or they tried. I told them—quite emphatically—I could bathe and undress myself.

Sefa groaned when I closed the door on the baffled attendants.

“Lukub does not value hospitality as highly as Omal,” I said, defensive.

“The Sultana will not care.”

After months of the tunnels’ stark walls and dusty corridors, the chaotic rooms in the Ivory Palace shocked my nerves. Tapestries dyed in bright shades of red hung from the walls, their white tassels dangling over fox-fur rugs. Bundles of bukhoor mixed with resin hovered above the lanterns, saturating the air in a sweet, floral aroma. An ivory mask was propped in front of every candle. The light flickered behind its carved eyes.

“Lukubis may not care about hospitality, but they place great value on service,” Sefa said. “Servicing the body and the spirit. Finding harmony between the two.” She stepped over Marek, who had fallen asleep with a chunk of mushabak on his chest. The honey-soaked coil of fried dough shifted with the rise of his chest.

I squeezed the excess water from my drying hair. “Is it strange, visiting Lukub? You are a citizen here by blood.”

Sadness tinged Sefa’s smile. She removed the mushabak from Marek’s chest and tossed it in the wastebasket. “I am not a citizen. Nizahlan law does not permit marriage outside its territories unless one of them renounces their kingdom of origin. My father gave up his right to Lukub’s protections when he married my mother.”

I drew the absurdly plush pillow against my chest. Sefa grew up caught between Nizahl and Lukub, but I had rarely given Omal a second thought.

Though my father’s Omalian blood ran in my veins, my grandparents had done their best to purge my interest in him. As though my worth as a Jasadi would decrease if I entertained any notion of my Omalian heritage.

“Let us not get distracted,” Sefa said, stern. She flopped onto the enormous bed, running her dark fingers through the sheepskin covers.

“Baira’s kingdom is a land of illusion. They build lavish libraries and fill them with empty books, commission glorious paintings on the walls of deteriorating villages. My father told me a story about the feasts they host to celebrate the anniversary of the entombment. A tradition in the lower villages requires every family to leave an offering at Hirun’s banks on the eve of the anniversary. These days, it’s usually trinkets and what food they can spare. But in centuries past, the Sultanas encouraged the lower villages to throw the strongest child of every family into Hirun. If the child drowned, the family would say the river had blessed them by taking the child’s strength for its own. If the child survived, the family would be barred from having more children.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The lower villages were starving. The children most likely to survive the brutal winters were tossed into Hirun, leaving the weak ones to wither away.”

“Fewer mouths for the former Sultanas to feed,” Sefa confirmed.

“Lukub’s Sultanas are not women to be trifled with, Sylvia. Their skills of deception are parallel to none.”

If they had managed to convince parents to drown their offspring with a smile, what sinister whispers could they weave into my own heart?

The rumble of Marek’s snores and the amber glow of dawn behind the tapestry lulled me into a restless sleep. I dreamed of red-eyed masks grinning in the dark and children splashing into a boiling Hirun. When I careened to consciousness again, the sun hung much higher in the sky, and someone knocked insistently at the door.

“Sylvia?” It was Jeru. “Are you all right?”

Marek and Sefa were gone. I cursed, rolling to the wardrobe in a tangle of limbs. The women from earlier had arranged my belongings inside, and I yanked out the first article of clothing I touched.

“What time is it?” I flung the gowns to the floor.

Jeru’s weary voice came through the door. How long had he been knocking? “It’s past noon.”

I hopped into the dress, staggering around the room. “No, no, no! How could you let me sleep so late?”

“Me?” Jeru returned, indignant. “Marek and Sefa tried to wake you up

three times before they went to eat.”

The dress slipped over me in a whisper of silk, settling over my curves.

Sefa’s painstaking work hadn’t been in vain. The dress was long, swirling with hues of violet. Matching slits parted over each leg, and two tiny Nizahl pins held up the thin straps at my shoulders. Had I not been so terribly late, I would have found another dress. These slits hiked mid-thigh, showing miles of skin when I moved.

I scowled at myself in the mirror and rushed out the door.

Jeru stared. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yes. Maybe,” I picked at the fabric. “The banquet isn’t until tomorrow.

Nobody will notice.”

Jeru started to speak and reconsidered. He shook his head. “Sefa is certainly familiar with Lukub’s fashions.”

We sped past bustling servants and halls decorated in elaborate tapestries and delicate carvings. We took turn after turn, and I wondered if perhaps I should have asked Arin to share his map of the Ivory Palace. He had given me stacks of reading to complete the first three weeks, mostly layouts of buildings we’d enter, history texts, and instructions on following the customs expected of a Champion in each kingdom. I hadn’t paid them much attention, since the only free time I had was the fifteen minutes between my bath and falling into a dead sleep. I regretted it—the grandeur of this palace ensured I would lose my way.

The walls changed from shades of red to pure ivory. The art on the walls tapered to a small collection of frames set inside the wall. I wanted to stop and study them, but Jeru urged me along. We had reached the Sultana’s wing.

A heavy velvet curtain blocked the next hall. Jeru pulled it aside, unveiling parallel rows of guards lining the walls. Nizahl on one side, Lukub on the other.

“The Nizahl Champion,” Jeru said. He prodded me forward.

The Lukub guards glared. The Nizahl ones smiled. I did not know which was worse.

Go, Jeru mouthed. I forced myself into motion.

A soldier on each side gripped a bar on the doors and heaved. They split, yawning open to reveal a receiving room even more lavish with decorations than the halls. Ribbons braided into spherical shapes dangled from the

ceiling. Strips of gauzy curtain slanted around the ribbons and fluttered along the walls. A sleek bird with a white beak and riotously red feathers hopped in a cage shaped to resemble a Ruby Hound.

Arin and a stunningly beautiful woman sat across from each other, a tray of delicate desserts arranged between them. They both glanced up at my arrival.

Arin was the image of poise. Not a single strand of hair escaped from the tie at his nape, and he’d traded his usual uniform for more regal fare.

The two of them together made for an arresting sight. I smoothed my hands along the dress, barely stopping myself from fidgeting with the fabric. I longed for the comfort of familiar clothes.

“Your Majesty.” I dipped my head. “It is an honor.”

When Sultana Vaida approached me, my jaw slackened. Lithe and graceful, she carried herself with the assurance of someone thrice her age.

Her white gown glowed against smooth, dark skin. Dozens and dozens of intricate braids tumbled to her waist, tiny white and ruby flowers woven painstakingly through them. Slender and broad-shouldered, she regarded me with clever, dark brown eyes.

“Sylvia of Mahair. The honor is mine.” Before I could react, she leaned forward to kiss my cheek. My eye twitched, but I successfully refrained from flinching at the contact. “Join us, won’t you?”

“Forgive me my tardiness,” I said, seating myself beside Arin on the curved settee. To my surprise, he didn’t make room. Was he staying close in case he needed to intervene? I kept my hands in my lap, intensely aware of their proximity to Arin’s thigh.

Vaida waved a heavily ringed hand. “I loathe overnight campaigns in those woods. I don’t blame you one bit. I am forever attached to my creature comforts.”

“We were discussing how rapidly you’ve progressed in your training,”

Arin said.

“I’ve had excellent help.”

Vaida giggled, a musical sound. “Don’t demur, darling, not in my company!”

Unbidden, Arin’s warnings about Vaida rose to the forefront. He’d spent hours detailing what to expect from everyone we would encounter during the Alcalah. His description of the Sultana had puzzled me.

“Vaida must believe you are insignificant, a simple village orphan with aspirations of glory. Do not challenge her or distinguish yourself in any way,” he had said. “The Sultana plays with people, bats them around for her own entertainment. But if she thinks you merit a second glance, she will make it her dying mission to eviscerate your secrets and reap your soul.”

Arin was not a man prone to the melodramatic.

Vaida stirred a spoonful of sugar into her drink. “How magnificently your fortunes have changed, darling Sylvia. I could not believe the news. A chemist’s apprentice from Omal’s lower villages, chosen for the Alcalah?

Handpicked by the Nizahl Heir, no less? I must confess, my kingdom spoke of little else for a time. My poor Champion was quite distraught at losing their attention.” She pushed a chalice studded with rubies closer to me. I dared a glance at Arin, who gave me a small nod. I picked up the red drink and took a sip.

Karkade. The dry tang cut through the excess syrup she’d poured into the hibiscus tea. The drink was Jasadi in origin, but I wasn’t alarmed. After Jasad’s fall, the vultures had picked at Jasadi culture, tearing out the choicest bits for their own nests. I had seen the evidence in Mahair, watching bakers flip aish baladi into their ovens as though they had done it for generations. Then again, Adel probably had.

“I am grateful,” I said when it became clear Vaida expected an answer.

“Ah, gratitude.” Vaida wrinkled her nose. “Excise it with your sharpest knife and throw it away. Gratitude lowers women’s necks for a chain far more than it raises them for a fight. You earned your place. Correct?”

“Correct.” I would say anything if it meant she would stop talking to me.

“Tell me, Sylvia, does your husband wait anxiously at home for your

safe return?”

I blinked. “My what?”

I sensed Arin’s mounting unease. “Vaida—”

She talked over Arin, the first I met with the courage to do so. “A wife, then? Or a lover?” At my continued befuddlement, Vaida sat back. She looked genuinely upset. “It has been years since my last visit to Omal, but have all its citizens lost their appreciation for beauty?”

My veneer slipped a little, and I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t fret, Your Highness. My life is not lacking in fulfillment.”

Beside me, Arin was rigid and doing a fantastic job of concealing it.

Vaida and I stared at each other. I thought of the people in the well, languishing in their filth. Suffering a slow, undignified death.

Disquieting, Arin had called her. I needed to break my stare, to flush and stumble with my words. To my consternation, a remnant of royal arrogance surfaced, howling to answer her challenge.

“Who fulfills it?” she asked, her voice husky. She slid her gaze meaningfully to Arin, and we both straightened as though struck.

“That’s enough,” Arin growled. Even his iron control bent against this woman. “Do not antagonize my Champion. We are guests in your home.”

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Vaida picked up her plate. “Sylvia knows I’m teasing! Anyway, I already love her. Curiosity is a tempting mistress. No one knows that better than you, Arin.”

Though Vaida’s attention remained on Arin for the rest of the hour, I hadn’t a doubt she was attuned to my every movement. Too nervous to reach for the sweets spread on the table, I stayed on my side of the couch until we left her receiving room. Arin led us past the palace courtyards to a thriving flower garden.

“One of Vaida’s favorite patches,” Arin said.

Guards in their various kingdoms’ colors milled around. Servants rushed past us in frenzied preparation. “Crouch by the poppies and pretend to admire them.” Arin lowered himself on a concrete bench.

I fought a prickle of embarrassment. “Which ones are the poppies?”

Mahair didn’t waste fertile soil for plants that couldn’t be consumed or used for medicinal puposes. The only flowers I could recognize on sight were the ones Hanim warned could poison me.

Not a hint of scorn crossed Arin’s expression as he pointed at a patch of red flowers with thin, parchment-like petals curling up around a fuzzy black center.

With a small smile of thanks, I slid to the ground, folding my legs under

me. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have glared at her.”

“You did well, Sylvia.”

I pretended to keel sideways into the poppies. His mouth twisted ruefully. “I do wish you hadn’t matched her gaze, since Vaida prides herself on provocation. She finds you interesting, but she won’t bait you if you stay

near me. She cannot afford to stir bad blood between Lukub and Nizahl.”

The doll in the war room cabinet and its stained flag flashed through my mind. “The Battle of Zinish,” I recalled. “She must honor the peace accords.”

“Partly the peace accords, yes. With or without the treaty, Vaida would not cross me.”

My dress caught on a thorn from a different patch of flowers. “She’s afraid of you.”

“She is not the only person capable of playing this game,” he said, with a hint of aristocratic disdain. “I’ve known Vaida since we were children.

Our minds are much the same.”

“Well. That’s terrifying.” I adjusted my legs into a more comfortable sitting position. The slit bared my thigh, and I gave up trying to fix it. “Are we departing at twilight the day after tomorrow?”

It took Arin a second too long to respond. He seemed to be noticing my dress for the first time. His gaze trailed over me, a leisurely perusal that made my mouth dry. Arin’s attention was usually as efficient as him—he didn’t linger, and he certainly never perused. “Nizahl’s colors suit you.”

Something dangerous pulsed in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t help but mimic him, studying the change in his attire I’d noted earlier. The laces of his shirt stopped at his collarbones. It felt wrong to see the length of his throat so exposed. His hair had come loose sometime between leaving Vaida and entering the garden, falling like a silver cloud around his jaw.

Arin of Nizahl was maddeningly elegant. I wanted to cut him open and compare our bones to understand why his gave him grace and mine gave me back pain.

I busied myself with the flowers. I’d spent too long inhaling tunnel dust —it had addled my head.

“Twilight. Yes,” Arin answered belatedly. “Our route to Orban is longer than the others.”

The others weren’t traveling through the Meridian Pass.

The Meridian Pass was a narrow, flat canyon wedged between two reddish crags. Though it stretched a mere three miles, many riders met their doom there, crushed by falling boulders or chased by the vagrants and fugitives camped by the entrance.

The Pass was also the site of a massacre. Ten Jasadi families fleeing

capture in Omal found themselves trapped inside the Meridian Pass by Omal guards on one side, Nizahl soldiers on the other. They had met a grisly end.

Most of the Champions leaving the Banquet would take the route merchants used to travel between Lukub and Orban. Arin did not want to chance the Urabi or Mufsids whisking me away in the crush of carriages, so we would be the lone contingent going through the Meridian Pass.

I was about to ask Arin whether we’d be riding in the same carriage again when an orange cat strolled over the hand I’d pressed against the ground. I recoiled, crushing three flowers in my haste. Stray cats were a common sight in Lukub, I’d heard. It seemed even the Ivory Palace could not keep them out. A kitten swatted at my dress, swishing its gray tail in a pile of ruby petals. A presumptious older cat plopped itself onto Arin’s lap, glaring down at me from his knee. Idly scratching its ears, Arin said, “Allow the attendants to help you. The guards search anyone who enters your room, so the servants are secure. It reflects poorly on Vaida’s service for your attendants to wander around.”

We resumed our walk once the cats scurried away. “Do you allow your attendants to help you bathe and disrobe?” I challenged. I flushed as soon as I finished, already regretting the question. I couldn’t imagine Arin permitting anyone to push his coat off his shoulders or undo the tight straps from his uniform. Would he level his steady gaze on them while their trembling fingers disrobed him? Or stare at the far wall in blank indifference, unyielding in body and manner?

I turned a fierce scowl inward. The Sultana’s nonsense about lovers had clearly scrambled my senses. Arin was attractive—it was as obvious and indisputable as the sun. But I had spent nearly twenty-one years capable of acknowledging attractiveness without being attracted myself. I had never wanted anyone, never yearned for the physical relationships Marek chased.

I finally empathized with the girls in the keep. Especially Gana. The fanciful ward used to dress in Raya’s finest gowns every week, sing warbling ballads while dabbing fragrances on her wrists and behind her ear.

“There is power in conquering the unconquerable,” Gana had said one year, after rejecting yet another fellow’s advances. The keep had gone to Zeila’s for celebratory tea and ahwa after a successful market. Zeila laid reed rugs on the floor, and we sat on beaded cushions, a wooden table

wobbling at our feet.

I’d been a few cushions down with Sefa and Marek, sipping my bitter ahwa from a chipped cup. Gana’s conversation with Daleel had reached my ears. “Men don’t see women, dear Daleel. They see power. Which one of us has more of it, and how easily they can drain it out of her.”

Apparently, this wasn’t a trait reserved for men, because a dark thrill raced through me at the thought of conquering the Nizahl Heir. Stealing a piece of Arin’s power in the surrender.

The breeze ruffled Arin’s hair. He chuckled, drawing me back to the present. “No attendants are permitted in my quarters. Vaida has long resigned herself to my eccentricities.”

Disturbed at the ghoulish direction of my thoughts, I moved away from him. “I should get ready for the banquet.”

Without looking back, I walked through the shadow of a Ruby Hound protruding from the buttress and hurried into the palace.

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