The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Like a good little Champion, I allowed the attendants to help me dress for the banquet. Zizi, Mirna, and Ava chattered away while they untangled my hair and fussed with my gown. Comments about the meal, the guests, the wandering guards. They tried to rub sweet-smelling oils on my body, but I slapped their hands away. My politeness had its limits.

Since they were here as the Heir’s staff, Sefa and Marek would be dining with the soldiers. After the attendants departed, I dug out Rory’s golden gloves from my parcels. I needed an anchor to home, a line I could follow to shore in a sea of unknown.

I laid a palm on the mirror. The woman in the reflection cut an imposing figure in a billowing black gown. Thin violet lace crisscrossed from her hips to her breasts, exposing ribbons of her skin. The skirt fell shorter in the front, revealing her heeled boots, and trailed in a silky spill behind her. The Nizahl emblem hung from her pendant, displayed below her collarbones.

Her hair fell in shiny ropes around her.

Regal. Striking. A false queen.

I clasped the pendant and shut my eyes. I let myself imagine ripping it from around my neck and grinding it beneath my boot. Tearing myself from this gown and setting it aflame, scouring the taint of Nizahl from my body in boiling water.

Standing in a Nizahlan gown, under a Lukubi roof, I felt more like the Jasad Heir than ever. Was it possible to miss someone you had almost been?

Someone who but for a stumble in the sands of fate, I would have become.

Inexplicably, the watch guard frog hopped into my thoughts. Its frenzied croak averting its fellow frogs from my clutches at its own expense. What made the watch guard braver than the frogs who fled?

I opened my eyes. Rubbing the soft metal of my cuffs, I focused on why I was here. I would be almost-Essiya until the end of the Alcalah, when I would finally become Sylvia. I was my own most persistent ghost, and I

had grown weary of her haunting.

I opened the door. Wes’s brows nearly disappeared to the back of his head. “Huh.”

Articulate. I walked at a fast clip down the crowded hall. We were to gather at the massive stairwell on the second floor. Each ruler but Vaida would descend with their Champion. If I wound up late twice and interrupted Vaida’s grand entrance, Arin might just elect to push me down the stairs.

A group of guards, royals, and Champions had gathered at the head of the stairs, milling around in conversation. A hum of anticipation vibrated in the air. I scanned for Arin and found him tucked into an alcove, arms crossed over his chest. The only color in his black ensemble was a violet belt around his trim waist and the matching detailing on his coat. He had brushed his hair back, but a renegade silver lock fell over his temple.

Broad-shouldered and polished, Arin observed the others with feigned boredom. A predator playing at docility, probably contemplating the creative ways someone could try to kill him. He was the most achingly beautiful threat I’d ever seen.

Arin glanced up and froze. A myriad of emotions flashed over his features, too many and too complicated to name.

He straightened, gaze roaming over my gown. “Sefa did wonderful work on your dress.” He sounded dazed. I had watched him bleed half to death without sounding anything but composed. “Although you are certainly not

endearing yourself to Vaida.”

“Oh?” I managed.

“It’s customary for the hostess to outshine her guests.” Arin’s eyes swirled with humor and something quieter, more intimate. Just for me.

“You’ve made that impossible.”

I barely heard him. The most bizarre sensation trembled through me. A violence I didn’t recognize. Violence… that wasn’t the right word.

Against my own volition, I touched the loose hair at his temple. Arin held himself still as a statue while I swept the strand behind his ear. My fingers lingered against the strong line of his jaw. I had the most irrational wish for my gloves to dissolve into ash. But without them, he couldn’t have allowed my touch to begin with.

What a reversal of fortunes, that I should seek a touch and be denied.

“There,” I said, knotting my trembling hand into my skirt. It wanted to keep going, to taunt his relentless control, to push greedy hands into silken hair and watch the ice in his eyes melt to liquid flame. My control was fracturing beneath a pressure I did not recognize. I couldn’t trust my own body. “Now she will hate us both.”

The steady beat of a tubluh cut through the din. The crowd fell silent, turning to the bottom of the stairwell. Servants wearing gossamer red gowns or ivory tunics pushed open the looming doors to the banquet.

Everyone gathered at the head of the wide stairwell, grasping the banisters or leaning forward. I remained in the rear with Arin. I had seen more than my share of Vaida’s ostentatious displays.

“The ruby of Lukub. Champion of our shining Sultana Vaida. Raise your voices for the Alcalah’s coming Victor, Timur of Lukub!”

The halls went dark as the lanterns behind us were extinguished. A red glow lit the walls, casting fiery shadows over us. The servants scattered a powder in the torches, and the guests squealed as the fire shot up in clouds of red and orange. The flames roared between the jaws of the Ruby Hounds protruding from the walls and carved into the balusters on each side of the stairwell. We were awash in red, the deafening crackle of fire mingling with the excited whispers.

“How do you think she would feel if she knew we saw a real Ruby Hound?” I murmured.

A flash of delicious spite flitted over Arin’s face. “Murderous.”

“Nothing new, then,” I said, and Arin bit his lip. Trying not to smile.

“Are my attempts at humor improving?”

He smoothed his features almost instantly, but it was too late. He had revealed something entirely unintended, something I could not reconcile with my own understanding of him. Arin of Nizahl was a twenty-six-year- old man, filled with the ennui of one who thought most everyone in the room beneath him, struggling not to exchange a laugh with the girl on his

arm.

Perhaps Arin was his own ghost, too.

The Omal Heir and his Champion stood to our left. Felix’s glare bored into the side of my face. I waited for Arin to adjust his sleeves and winked at Felix. The brat reddened, his nostrils flaring wide. Nobody should reach Felix’s age without experiencing a solid beating. It built character. I would

love to be the one to pound humility into his skull. Was that not what

cousins were for?

Arin offered his hand. “Shall we?”

My golden glove fit against his black one. In a burst of restless nerves, I said, “We match.”

Instead of taking the excellent opportunity to mock my inane comment, Arin’s eyes softened. “So we do.”

We began our descent, perfectly tuned to the other pairs. The drama suited Vaida, who’d donned her crown for the occasion. She and her Champion took the steps first. When our turn came, a bizarre rift happened within me. As though the dusty, Omal half of me lingered at the top of the stairs, watching the decorated Jasadi half descend on the arm of the most powerful Heir in the kingdoms.

He is on the arm of the strongest Queen since the Awaleen, Hanim said.

Or the ghost of her, anyway.

I resisted the urge to glance back. Hanim’s voice had quieted lately, leaving more room for my own thoughts.

“Should I be watching my food? Felix is not happy to see me.”

Arin tipped his head to speak into my ear. “Ren is in the kitchen watching the cooks. We already have serving boys tasting the food. Don’t worry. Vaida would never allow anything as crass as an assassination attempt to ruin her banquet.”

The dining hall took my breath away. Lanterns hung from white chains attached to the vaulted glass ceiling. They illuminated white petals flowering along the eastern wall and ivory vines weaving through the six Ruby Hounds. The Hounds circled in painted states of motion around the room. A more extravagant table could not exist in all the kingdoms. The servants pulled out high-backed chairs as we entered.

“Your kingdom’s seal marks your seat,” Vaida announced. She took her place at the head of the table, dangling her chalice over the clawed armrest.

“My Lukubi guests, you may sit wherever is free.”

I looked at Arin in a panic. I hadn’t prepared for the possibility of sitting apart. I lacked his agility of speech and his even-keeled constitution. His gloved hand squeezed mine, once, before he went to the opposite side of the table. A servant led me farther down, where the Nizahl seal was embossed on the candle flickering in front of my plate.

I glanced around and swallowed a groan. The Orban Champion and the Lukub Champion took the seats on either side of me, leaving the Omal Champion across from us.

The arrangement could have been worse, I supposed. I could be Arin, stuck between Vaida and Felix. The Champions were seated at one end of the table, the royals at the other. The twelve or so nobles Vaida had invited took their places in the center, their excited chatter echoing in the hall.

A few servants bustled around, filling our chalices with a floral wine. At the end of the table, Felix curled his lip in my direction. I lifted the dull knife from my plate and met his gaze as I slapped the flat of the knife against my palm. He flinched, and I hid a laugh against my wrist. The prospect of no longer needing to pretend was heady. Pretending to struggle to carry crates, because I needed to look weak. Pretending to smile when I wanted to scream, because a village girl should be grateful for any fate beyond a husband and six children.

Vaida’s offer of freedom could never have given me this. Myself.

And who are you? Hanim asked, disparaging. Do you think you can pluck yourself like a flower away from the garden that raised you, the roots that built you? The past is our sun, Essiya. Only by allowing it to shine can you bloom.

“Hello,” a deep voice said to my right, startling me back to my surroundings. The Lukub Champion smiled. He was an attractive man, his skin a few shades darker than Sefa’s, with a twinkle in his eyes that dazzled several servants into overpouring his drink. He was tall, likely close to Arin’s height, boasting a hard body familiar with years of labor. “Sylvia, is it?”

“Yes! Timur? Or was it Mehti? Forgive me, I have abstained from meals all day in preparation for the Banquet. I can hardly think,” I reached for his arm, swallowing down my shudder at the contact. It was easier to bear a touch I had initiated. As predicted, the wariness smoothed from around Timur’s eyes. I beamed, squeezing his arm once more before releasing it. “I loved your introduction! The red fire was just…” I gestured wildly, as though plucking the proper words from the storm of my appreciation proved too difficult.

Timur laughed. Good. The Champions would not be comfortable around the Nizahl Champion if they thought I was anything like my host Heir. I

needed them relaxed.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet another Champion from the lower villages.”

The Orban Champion, Diya, glanced over. I had fixed her in my periphery as soon as she sat. About her, Arin had had little to offer. A fact that bothered him to no end, I was sure. Diya of Orban possessed no distinguishing talents. She was short and curvaceous, holding her drink like someone might try to poison it. Arin told me Sorn’s decision to choose her as his Champion had mystified Orban, and at first impression, I echoed their confusion.

“I believe the Orban Champion is also a lower villager in her kingdom,”

I said magnanimously.

“Interesting that you should recall such a detail but forget Timur’s name,” Diya said without looking at me. She scowled at the servant who tried to pour red wine into her chalice. Her hair was shorn to her scalp on both sides, the long strands in the center smoothed to the nape of her neck.

She pushed her fingers into the wavy brown locks, sweeping them to the left.

Timur tapped his spoon against my plate. “Ignore her. She intends to win the Alcalah through sheer unpleasantness.”

Sultana Vaida tapped her chalice, silencing the conversation. White lined her eyes, bright beneath her crown. Rubies sparkled on the tight bodice of her ivory gown. A cape of white flowers flowed behind her, the scent pungently sweet, on the cusp of cloying. Another two hours, and she would need to replace it. The Lukubi dignitaries gazed at their Sultana with a reverence I’d seen reserved for the Awaleen alone.

“Thousands of years ago, our Awaleen made the heartbreaking decision to save the kingdoms they had founded by purging the world of their magic.

Baira, Kapastra, and Dania gathered at Sirauk to plan how they would stop their brother. The Awal of Jasad could not be imprisoned, nor could he be killed. The magic in his blood had eaten at his humanity, and what was left cared little for the wreckage he wrought. Our brave Awalas, fearing their magic might lead them down a similar path, resolved to lay themselves in the same trap that would contain Rovial. Rovial followed Dania to Sirauk, plotting to attack the Awala of Orban. But she had secret intentions. You see, the other sisters were lying in wait. Lukub’s beloved Baira approached

from behind and encircled Rovial in her unbreakable embrace. Dania drew the runes on his forehead that would guarantee an eternal slumber. Kapastra of Omal raised her hands and activated the magic they had woven around the bridge. Scholars believe Rovial screamed so loudly, he brought the skies themselves crashing to earth. Clouds and thunder enveloped the siblings as they plunged from the bridge, sealing themselves in the waiting tombs below.”

Vaida raised her chalice. Around me, everyone lifted their glasses.

Paying homage to the sordid little tale. Rovial’s magic, Rovial’s madness.

Synonyms in their minds. The fate of Jasad began on that bridge, and I revolted at clicking a chalice in celebration of it.

My neck prickled. Arin was watching. I had a part to play, and dignity wasn’t included in my performance. I raised the chalice. My cuffs glinted under the red lamplight.

This is the freedom you seek, Hanim said. Not to taunt stupid Omalian Heirs or scream or be strong, but to be silent. Freedom is truth, and you have not the bravery to speak it.

“To our Champions. The Alcalah will make foes of you all, but you must remember: the Awaleen whom you honor in these trials were once family, and it was by working hand in hand that they saved us all.”

“To our Champions!” came the cries around the table. Timur clicked his chalice against mine. My smile strained like a branch beneath a knee, liable to snap at any moment.

“Your Sultana is an eloquent orator,” I said.

“Oh, you should hear her speeches during Sedain. She need but point her finger, and the crowd would follow her anywhere.”

Sedain was Lukub’s annual realignment of the mind, body, and blood.

They fasted for three days. The first spent in scholarly study, the second in physical pursuits, and the last day in bloodletting. Leeches, thorns, or animal teeth would drain the “bad blood,” leaving them cleaner and clearer.

The bad blood, of course, being any trace of magic. Ha! Vaida would probably prepare a broth of babies’ heads if it meant her kingdom could have the ultimate advantage over Nizahl—magic and readiness for war. One of which Jasad had lacked.

When they brought out steaming soups, buttered breads, and platters overflowing with roast duck and lamb, I forgot my ire and heaped my plate

full.

The Omal Champion glutted himself on duck and gossip. To the regret of everyone seated within spraying distance, Mehti enjoyed doing both simultaneously. Heavyset and tan, the Omal Champion resembled the workers on Yuli’s farm.

I worried that perhaps Felix had instructed him to commit mischief toward me. As the meal progressed, it became readily apparent I needn’t have worried. The sum of Mehti’s intelligence could fit into Sefa’s thimble.

The fourth time he slapped the rear of a passing servant, I could hold my tongue no longer. “Mehti, is it?” I asked. I made a show of glancing over at Vaida. “I would be careful if I were you. I heard the Sultana took the arm of the last man who touched one of her palace girls without permission.”

Mehti wiped his mouth on his sleeve, thick brows drawing together distrustfully. “True?” he asked Timur.

Timur was a model of sincerity. “Very true. She would have taken his head were he not a noble.”

The greasy duck wing in Mehti’s grip hit the plate. “She took the arm of a noble?”

I pressed my lips together, suppressing a snort. Even Diya paused her chewing to listen.

Timur snapped a carrot in half. “To the shoulder.”

The Omal Champion did not bother hiding his dismay. “Aren’t Lukubi women meant to be…” He gestured, a half-hearted attempt at propriety.

“More adventurous?”

“Certainly, but they have this peculiar need to choose who they go on the adventure with.” Timur shrugged. “I simply hope they do not feel the need to complain to Vaida.”

Mehti’s hands did not stray for the rest of the meal. Timur winked at me, eliciting a genuine smile.

Dania’s bloody axe. I wasn’t going to enjoy killing him.

Full bellies fostered a geniality among the group. After obliterating the shredded fiteer dipped in jam and honey, everyone ambled to the courtyard.

I leaned against the doorframe, surveying the festivities. Felix appeared at my shoulder, a chalice in hand and a false smile at the ready. We both stared

straight ahead.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” I returned. “Push any little girls in front of horses lately?”

His grip on the chalice’s stem tightened, though his tone remained light.

“The night is young.”

If Niyar and Palia had not assassinated my father, it would be Emre attending the Banquet as the Omal Heir. Felix, Emre’s nephew, would be another forgotten royal in the palace.

“When you lose the Alcalah, do you have a preference for your method of execution? I find myself partial to dismemberment, although I am open to suggestions,” my cousin said, leering at a passing serving girl.

“When I become the Victor, how lavish will the festival in my honor be?

Perhaps a festival after Mehti’s loss would be too embarrassing. The Nizahl Heir came to Omal and chose a worthy Champion, while the Omal Heir himself failed to do the same. Do not think of my success as your humiliation, but as a sorely needed gift to Omal.”

Felix drained the contents of the chalice and smacked his lips together.

“I think mounting your head in my private garden will be the best part of the year.”

My hand fluttered to my heart. Enraging the Omal Heir while the amnesty laws forbade him from laying a single finger on me was entirely too diverting.

“Oh, how sad. I hope the next year is more rewarding for you.”

Sorn motioned Felix over. The Omal Heir’s hate singed the night air, and too many teeth gleamed in his smile. “I hope you last the first trial. I cannot wait to host you and your village rats in the Omal palace.” Ominous promise delivered, he threw the chalice at a servant’s feet and joined Sorn on the other side.

The courtyard danced with song and light. The musician strummed his lute, the sweet sounds drifting in the nighttime breeze. A gorgeous woman sprawled in Sorn’s lap, pressing his chalice to his lips and giggling.

“Courtesans,” a voice said near my shoulder. Diya watched Mehti lounge in the grass, balancing a bowl of grapes and strawberries on his chest. “Do you know what they call a whorehouse in Lukub?”

The Orban Champion didn’t pause for my reply. “A house.”

I eyed her. “They have different customs. We should withhold judgment.”

Diya snickered. She represented Orban’s colors in her simple calf-length

moss-green gown, belted at her waist by a brown leather buckskin. Dania’s battle bracelets jangled around Diya’s bronze wrists. “How diplomatic.”

Arin would want me to politely engage with her, gather what I could on the mysterious Champion. “Orban has its fair share of odd traditions.”

Information gathering could wait. Felix left me in the mood to incite.

She lifted her chin. “We are an honor culture founded on long-held traditions. Lukub is the place disobedient adolescents run off to for a taste of debauchery. Don’t seek to compare the two.”

Sorn’s girl appeared to be excavating his mouth with her tongue while another pressed kisses along his shoulder. I wanted to ask whether she considered exhibitionism particularly honorable. On her Heir, she’d likely

celebrate it as a display of virility.

“Your Heir is not immune,” Diya said.

Arin and Vaida shared a bench, heads bent together. A clearly private conversation, and the way Vaida leaned toward him signaled intimacy. I knew Vaida wanted to destroy his kingdom, as surely as I knew Arin would snap her neck without a thought. And yet, a lump formed in my throat.

I tried to quell the unfamiliar anger brewing in my gut. “How did you come to be chosen as Champion?”

A servant extended a tray of diamond-shaped makroudh toward us. I lifted one of the date-filled sweets and nodded my thanks to him. Diya waved the tray away. Happiness bloomed on my tongue at the first buttery bite. After nearly two months of Nizahlan meals, I was ready to bury myself in good food.

“I stabbed my mother and father forty-three times each,” Diya said conversationally. I choked on the second bite, sending crumbs flying. She continued, “His Highness Sorn saved me from hanging. I possessed a quality he wanted in Orban’s Champion. There is date paste on your dress.”

I patted my dress, assessing the diminutive Champion anew. “Eighty-six stabbings, and not a single wrist cramp? The Alcalah will be no trouble for you.”

Diya sniffed, and her haughty aloofness reminded me strongly of Rory.

“It was not a heavy knife.”

Before I could fathom a response to such a statement, Timur loped over, blowing on the steaming surface of his mint tea. “This seems like the best corner of the Banquet,” he said. “Mainly because it’s missing Mehti.”

The Omal Champion delighted a few courtesans by demonstrating how quickly he could crawl backward on his elbows.

“Crawling on one’s elbows is a critical skill for a Champion,” I said. “As well as a crab.”

Diya seemingly reached her capacity for companionship. She darted to the swan pond without a goodbye. Timur leaned on the wall next to me, dipping the mint leaf in and out of his tea. “Did she tell you how she was chosen? You have the same expression I did when I found out.”

“Should I be alarmed that I’m more intrigued than anything else?”

I popped the rest of the makroudh into my mouth. Conversation with Timur came too easily. Marek and Sefa would probably like the Lukub

Champion.

“Absolutely.”

“Damn.” I clapped the traces of the dessert from my gown, slackening my muscles in fake disinterest. “How about yourself, Timur? Why did Sultana Vaida choose a lower villager as her Champion?”

“Ah, I fear my tale is not so compelling. I frequented festivals across Lukub for years and won all the sparring matches our towns hosted. Sultana Vaida’s army general invited me to the Ivory Palace to meet with the Sultana. She asked me to be her Champion, and I said no.”

I glanced at him askance, waiting for the guffaw and the knee-slapping.

“Pardon?”

Timur drained the rest of his mint tea. “I said no the first time. My mother and two sisters are entirely dependent on my wages, and I did not have the luxury of working alongside the necessary training. The Sultana said she would pay them my wages herself. She offered more, but I did not want rumors to spread about the Lukub crown needing to buy its own Champion, not after Sultana Vaida’s kindness. Once I am Victor, my family will have much more than what I made as a stonemason.”

“Bit of an ego problem in Lukub, I see.”

Timur slapped the wall behind his head as he pushed off. He bounced on his heels. “Are you saying you worry about losing the Alcalah?”

I matched his smile. His death would be gentle. An apology as much as a mercy. “Of course not.”

The full weight of Mehti barreled into Timur, taking him to the ground.

The Omal Champion straddled the Lukub Champion and lifted his arms to a

swell of applause. “The key to a surprise attack—” Mehti began.

Timur planted a foot on Mehti’s chest and shot the other Champion halfway across the courtyard. Mehti rolled down the slope, coming to a stop at Diya’s feet. She stepped on his chest and kept walking.

“What is he like?” Timur asked, sitting cross-legged on the grass. I did not need to follow his gaze to know who he meant. There were not many men a Champion might revere.

“Efficient.” I glanced over to see Vaida shifting closer to Arin, sealing their bodies together from shoulder to hip. She spoke to Sorn as her hand drifted toward Arin’s knee. Arin reached for a chalice from a servant, subtly knocking her wandering hand aside.

Timur groaned. “You trained with Arin of Nizahl for months, and the best word you have is efficient?”

“What do you want to know, Timur?” I said, caught on Vaida’s second attempt to reach Arin’s knee. She was relishing his resistance. “He is brilliant. Cold, cunning. He eats too slowly, has an unnatural fixation with maps, and if you leave him near clutter long enough, he’ll either kill you and organize it or organize it and kill you.”

“Much better,” Timur said. “I cannot comprehend how you managed to train with the Nizahl Commander. I can’t hold a conversation with him without dissolving into a puddle of sweat.” A servant circled with cups of muhallabia, snagging Timur’s attention. The Lukub Champion rushed after him, sparing me a wave.

I didn’t notice how long I’d been watching Arin and Vaida until Jeru appeared.

“Don’t worry. She cannot play games with His Highness,” he reassured me. “Stronger wills than hers have tried.”

Arin posed an impossible challenge, and the Sultana savored nothing more than doomed effort. “Is it too early to go to my room, do you think?”

“I believe His Highness wanted you to—”

I swept past Jeru, lifting my skirts as I climbed the steps. “His Highness is preoccupied.” Jeru made to follow. I twisted around, thrusting my hand between us. “I can find my room myself. The moment I shed this gown, I’ll be asleep. We have a long journey ahead of us, and I am weary. Come guard my door only when the revelry has ended. Your disappearance would alert the others.”

Though clearly conflicted, Jeru stayed behind. I weaved past the servants clearing the banquet hall. My boots clicked loudly up the staircase, empty of the bustling crowds. Closing the door between myself and the rest of the palace allowed the tension to drain from my shoulders.

Why should it bother me if Arin and Vaida chatted the night away? If she decided to touch his knee and whisper in his ear, was it any business of mine? The audacity of her, to keep making overtures and delighting in his careful ways of rejecting them.

A knock at the door interrupted my internal war. “Who is it?” I called.

“Ava, milady. They said you might require some assistance removing your gown.” The young attendant’s voice trembled, likely nervous to be caring for a Champion alone.

I’d forgotten the sheer volume of ties on this gown. Hooks crisscrossed in the back, covered by a panel of delicate lace. Bless Jeru, he must have realized I wouldn’t be able to reach the hooks on my own. To be fair, I could just as easily cut myself out of the dress, since I never planned to wear it again.

I opened the door, ushering Ava inside. Her hair fell in long curtains over her face, and she kept her head down. The demurest Lukubi I had met yet.

“Shut the door, please. I won’t need help with anything else tonight,” I said. I gave her my back and tossed my gloves onto the bed. “Tell Zizi and Mirna not to trouble themselves.”

At least I would be rested for tomorrow’s journey. If Arin asked after my abrupt departure from the courtyard, I could fabricate an illness.

I held still, but Ava didn’t reach for the ties. I glanced over. She had her back to me as she rifled through her bag. Calming herself before fumbling with my hooks?

Sighing, I turned to her. “I can do it my—”

A dagger plunged into my chest.

Time crawled to a stop. It took a deep breath, gathering itself, before everything exploded into chaos.

I acted without thought, instinct racing faster than sensation, and grabbed the hilt before Ava could withdraw it.

In the split second when she and I stood close enough to share our breath, I spotted the shifting contours of a glamor. I blinked, tugging at the

corners, and the glamor shattered.

“Hello, amari,” Soraya whispered.

No. No, no, no. It wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be real.

I stumbled away, holding the hilt steady. The world spun, and the dagger spearing my chest did not compare to the pandemonium breaking loose

inside my heart.

“You’re dead,” I gasped.

Soraya’s long curls were gone, replaced with a short, straight cut. The black waves framed a young face aged beyond its time. She would be twenty-seven years old now, maybe? Tiny scars littered my former attendant’s fingers.

“Does it hurt? It shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I had to do it quickly,” Soraya said, staring at the dagger with concern, as though it appeared in my chest during a casual conversation. “If I hesitated, I would have lost my nerve.”

She dropped heavily onto the bed. “Killing you is the hardest task I have ever accomplished, and the worst.”

This was too much. I couldn’t set this aside. I couldn’t think through it.

Soraya was here. She was alive.

And she had come here to kill me.

I rapidly ran through my options. Soraya’s position intercepted my path to the door. Assuming the other attendants were innocent of this scheme, they wouldn’t know to check for me this early in the evening.

“Your glamor must be excellent.” I slapped my palm against the wall, resisting my knees’ determination to crumple. Red-hot pain seared through my chest. “To sneak into the Sultana’s personal staff.”

Soraya’s honeyed eyes gentled. How dare she? She had no right to look at me like she cared after—after— “Not really. I kept out of sight, and the glamor distorted any flashes someone spotted.”

We stared at each other, and the stinging betrayal won over the anger.

My voice trembled. “Why did you do this to me?”

Immediately, Soraya’s eyes filled with tears. “I did not want to, Essiya. I prayed you had died quickly at the Blood Summit. I never wanted you to know this.” Soraya’s face hardened, a terrifying rage flashing across her features. I had never seen her look anything other than patient or quietly amused. “I should have known Qayida Hanim would ruin everything.”

“Ruin everything by not murdering me?” I choked out a laugh. “All these years I thought fate could not curse me with anyone worse than Hanim, and all along, you—”

Indignation yanked Soraya to her feet. “If she had done what she was meant to, none of this would be happening! Our entire effort would not be at risk because Jasad’s rightful Queen still lived!” Soraya paced my chambers. “I should have suspected. She had already ruined our plans once.”

The pain in my chest flared, maturing into an agony I could hardly think past. My stubborn mind raced, struggling to make sense of what Soraya said.

“It’s you,” I gasped. “You are the rogue Mufsid. You attacked me in the woods with Hanim’s specter.”

I coughed, spattering the bedsheets red. Blood soaked through the front of my dress, staining my fingers. Roughly guessing, ten minutes remained before the damage she had done became irreversible.

“Yes, and if Arin ever bothered to sleep, we could have avoided this entire Champion farce. The others are desperate to catch you before the Urabi and bring you into our fold. They have forgotten why we were founded in the first place. I have not.” The woman staring at me was pitiless. Worse than Hanim, because at least the former Qayida wore her hatred on the outside. “There is no place for royals in the Jasad we plan to revive. Your grandparents brought destruction to our people, and I will not resurrect the system that failed us over and over. The Mufsids were forged to carve change, to reclaim Jasad’s power and grind our boot on all kingdoms that sought to destroy us.”

Her lips trembled, and she picked up Rory’s gloves. “No matter how much I love you.”

I groped behind me, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. My fingers slid along, bumping into a curved protrusion. The windowpane.

“Love?” I whispered. I thought of Sefa and Marek following me into Essam in the dead of night to bury a Nizahl soldier. Risking death to find me after the waleema, throwing aside their lives in Mahair to become fugitives once more. “I know now what love should feel like, and it is not this.”

Soraya pressed the gloves to her chest. “Do you know why I called you

amari? It doesn’t just mean ‘my beauty.’ Amari means ‘my moon.’ That is what you were to me. Constant and true. All I wanted was to make you happy.”

Tossing my gloves aside, Soraya blew out a determined breath. “But it is time for the sun to rise over Jasad, Essiya. We have dwelled in the night too long.”

“You’re killing Jasadis, yet I am the system bringing destruction to our people?”

A frustrated Soraya did not watch me as thoroughly as a woeful one. She kicked my chair into the wardrobe, and I took the opportunity to press my palm to the window. I angled my body over the glass. I would need my magic for only a split second, but faltering would doom me.

Grief. Rage. Fear.

So much of each whirled through me, but which would I need to rile my magic?

“We kill only the Jasadis too weak to join the movement for our recovered land. It is a blessing that they should die at our sword than at a Nizahl soldier’s.” Feverish energy entered Soraya as she spoke. “Think of it, Essiya. A Jasad built on equality, without royals or nobles. No lower villages. Jasad’s rich resources made available to any citizen who seeks them. This is what the Mufsids will build. The Urabi couldn’t care less about the kind of kingdom they renew, so long as it is theirs.”

This made the third time someone maligned the honor of my grandparents’ regime. A Jasad built on equality sounded eerily reminiscent of corrupt walls of Usr Jasad and no two more insidious royals have existed since them. Hanim had loathed the Malik and Malika with every fiber of her foul being, but I had always assumed her tales were just that—tales. If half the stories she told me about my grandparents or the Jasad throne were true… Hanim told me the wilayahs tried to overthrow my grandparents. She recounted rebellions and uprisings from Janub Aya all the way to Laf il Rud. The upper wilayahs rallying behind the crown while the lower ones burned crops in protest. But the Mufsids belonged to the upper wilayahs, and the Mufsid woman I’d met had made it quite clear they wanted me for my magic and my name. Who had they lied to—me or Soraya?

“My grandparents employed you. They trusted you with their daughter’s

Heir. Why would you accept if you hated them?” My voice wobbled. Why would she pretend to care about me if she didn’t?

Soraya took a step toward me. Her eyes were wet. I did not believe the softness for a second. She had already proven herself a phenomenal performer.

“I had my reasons. Essiya, I never planned to care about you. I tried so hard to hate you, to see the rot of royalty in your sweet face. But you would wrap your arms around my waist and plant your little feet on top of my own and ask to keep me company during errands. You were the most affectionate, clever thing.”

I could barely conceive of a time when I could embrace someone without panic raking nails into my skin. And affectionate?

The words struggled through the ring of agony burning in my chest. I did not have long. “Stop distracting me. Why do the Mufsids think Jasad was corrupt when it benefited them most? Why do you hate the throne?”

Soraya’s eyes hardened. “You know why.”

“I don’t.”

Soraya grabbed the sides of my head before I could react. Her nails dug into my curls as she brought my face close to hers. “Why was the Summit called? Before it was the impetus for the Jasad War, before it was the Blood Summit—why did the kingdoms assemble? What were they discussing?”

I tried to shake her hands loose without moving my torso. “I was a child!

I don’t remember.”

Her fingers tightened painfully. “Amari, do you know why I let the Urabi find out you existed, though I despise those spineless brats? Why I broke from the Mufsids, a group I have led for half my life, when they elected to recruit you instead of bury you?” The rings of Soraya’s eyes were flecked with gold. They burned into mine. “You have the potential and power to be worse than any who have come before you. You can reshape yourself to survive any conditions you are placed in. Who we are is where we were. Where we come from. The generations of our blood and our roots.

But you… you broke a girl’s arm for not climbing a tree with you and forgot about it the next day. You set Dawoud’s most precious quilt on fire because he would not allow you to play with it in the courtyard, and then you asked him about the quilt not two hours later. Your mind is a maze of mirrors, reflecting only the memories you choose to save. The best thing

Malik Niyar and Malika Palia did for Jasad was putting you in those cuffs.”

My breath shuddered onto her forehead. What was she talking about?

They put the cuffs on me at six years old. Before Soraya. How did she know about them?

“I asked her twice. If she was not going to use her arms to climb with me, then she didn’t need both of them to work.” The empty words came from somewhere far away, and oh, oh, I remembered, Mervat Rayan and her red face, her grating screams, the bone peeking out of her sleeve.

But no, Essiya was good. Wasn’t she? Essiya was kind and compassionate, nothing like the girl Hanim made. How could she do such a thing?

Soraya released me with a dry laugh. “You will remember what your grandparents did when your mind reflects on the correct mirror.”

She sighed, playing with the jewelry left out on the table. “I’m sorry it took so long to find you. You were extremely well warded after the Blood Summit, and no one searched very hard. We thought you were dead until a new recruit suggested we try searching for Hanim again. That time, the spell led us right to her grave. As soon as I saw it, I knew you were alive. I believed. We searched for you, even when the others called us fools. Your cuffs resisted the strongest tracking spells, and it took years before I found that ugly Omalian village.”

How many Jasadis did she slaughter in her pursuit of me? How much more of our people’s blood had her hands spilled?

My cuffs tightened. How many had mine spilled?

“You led the Commander to Mahair.”

“Oh, yes. We were so concerned he’d kill you first. But of course, Arin can’t turn away an opportunity.” She said his name with familiarity, an exasperated fondness. “Is he still angry, I wonder?”

Before she turns around, Essiya, Hanim said. Now!

I still had so many questions, but Soraya would not kill another Jasadi tonight.

“Who are you to decide which Jasadis should live or die?” I snarled.

“You are no better than the Supreme.”

My magic pulsed lazily. I yanked at the thread, spreading my fingers wider against the thick glass.

Soraya’s head whipped toward me, but it was too late. The glass

exploded, raining shards around us.

I hurled myself from the window.

The fall didn’t take long. A whistle of air, and I landed hard in a bed of flowers. The impact left me vibrating, limbs feeling drawn and quartered.

My slippery hold on the knife’s hilt went slack. Blood trickled leisurely toward my throat from the shifted position.

Distantly, I became aware of the shrill screams ringing around me.

I fixed on Soraya. She sneered from my window, framed in broken glass. She turned, vanishing into the room.

She’ll escape. She’s going to escape.

I’d landed in the patch of poppies from this afternoon. To my distress, blood dripped onto the crushed petals. Black spots danced across my vision, mingling with the stars overhead. If I died, at least the Ivory Palace was an enchanting last sight.

A crowd formed around me. Why were they milling about? They needed to find Soraya!

At last, Arin shoved past them. Relief washed over me. Arin would find her. He wouldn’t let Soraya escape. At the sight of me, Arin went ashen and rounded on the crowd. “Get a medic!” he roared. Jeru and Wes ushered the onlookers away.

He dropped to his knees next to me. “Stay with me, Sylvia. Help is coming.”

“She’s escaping,” I whispered. Arin pushed my hair from my face, bending closer. I turned my face into his hand, temporarily trading thought for comfort.

“What?” His worry bothered me. Why should he be upset? The Mufsid rogue lurked nearby. A person he had hunted almost every other day of our

trainings.

“She’s near. The Mufsids—Soraya. Go.”

My meaning was unmistakable. Arin reeled back, shaking his head. “No.

No, I’ll help you myself,” he growled. He started yanking at his glove. Jeru and Wes balked behind him. I sent them an invisible signal to intervene, to stop him.

“Arin!” With the last vestige of my strength, I snatched his sleeve. The action sent more blood spurting down my front.

I mouthed it over and over. She’s escaping.

If he healed me in the vicinity of all these witnesses, we were finished.

My secret exposed, and his plans ruined. But if he caught her, if I held on long enough for his return. If, if, if. It might be over.

A rough sound tore from Arin’s mouth, a look of singular devastation

shattering his lovely features.

I relaxed. He had decided.

With a low oath, the Nizahl Heir leapt to his feet. “Keep her alive,” he snarled, with such blistering menace that Jeru and Wes shrank back.

He disappeared, several arms reached for me, and I gratefully relinquished my hold on consciousness.

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