The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I would very much appreciate it if you could stop trying to kill me,” Sefa said when I woke up. The physician jerked in the chair, then rushed to my side. My palms were wrapped tightly, but the worst sensation was the foul taste in my mouth. I was still in my quarters in the pavilion, so I couldn’t have slept long. A day at most. I curled my toes and stretched, relieved when my muscles complied. I must have bled out the poison faster than my body absorbed it.

“You know, I expressed the same sentiment to Ayume,” I said, slapping aside the physician’s hands and sitting upright. Affronted, the medic stomped to his bag and bustled from the room. “Where’s Marek?”

“He went patrolling with some of the soldiers,” Sefa replied. “For someone who hates the Nizahl army as vigorously as Marek does, he certainly is capable of endearing himself to soldiers.”

I grinned at Sefa until distress crawled across the other girl’s expression.

She probably thought I had suffered some mental affliction.

“You and Marek will not enter Nizahl. I made certain of it,” I said.

“Vaida will be displeased, but I have an idea to make sure she doesn’t retaliate.”

“Made certain of it how?” On cue, her brows pinched, forming Sefa’s six columns of stress in her forehead.

“I did not slaughter any squalling babes, Sefa,” I said. Timur was a fully grown adult when I drowned him. “What matters now is you and Marek can stay in Omal after the second trial without needing to accompany us to Nizahl.”

Sefa, piecing together the Lukub Champion’s death and her newfound freedom from Nizahl, did not share in my excitement. “And how exactly do you plan to keep Vaida from following through on her threat? Forgiveness is not a virtue shared among many royals.”

“Her seal,” I said. Seeing Vaida’s ring open the doors to her disturbing

underground room had planted the seed. My deal with Arin was well and good, but no plan was complete without a contingency. “I will need your and Marek’s help to steal the Sultana’s seal at the Omal palace. We can use it to negotiate our safety.”

A knock at the door interrupted Sefa’s response. She straightened, her

petrified gaze colliding with mine.

“Enter!” I shouted. “Sefa, what is it?”

The door swung open, and my neck pricked. Eerie foreboding arrived seconds before I heard his voice.

“Our Champion wakes at last,” Supreme Rawain said.

The axis of my world ground to a scraping halt. A quiet shatter echoed in my head.

A man with a raven-headed stick sits near a woman drowning in her Nizahlan garb. An older lady with soft brown eyes keeps glancing at me and then away. Teta Palia said she was the Queen of Omal, and I wasn’t to speak to her. At the other end of the oak table, Gedo Niyar hands me a sesame-seed candy. Teta puts her hand onto my knee to stop my restless legs from kicking. I want to go home. Dawoud said he would take me to Har Adiween so I can climb the dancing trees. I glance around the table.

Something important is being discussed, probably. I go back to staring at the raven-headed stick. I wonder if I would be allowed to hold it.

The man in violet and black catches my eye. He winks.

The table explodes.

Dangling from the rope in Ayume was nothing, nothing compared to the war waging inside me. My cuffs became shackles of fire around my wrists, damming the magic baying for violence in my blood. Furious tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. Iron filled my mouth as I bit my bottom lip. I

wasn’t ready.

I turned my head.

Thousands of Jasadis shadowed the Supreme. Their murky outlines warped, mournful, and folded into the scepter at his side.

My memory had done Supreme Rawain a disservice. Age had laid a conservative touch on his handsome features and powerful build. He was shorter than his son, but taller than me. Gray streaked the hair at his temple.

His eyes. The same unnatural shade that met mine the day I lost everything. The day he stole my world. As unblemished by the trappings of

compassion or kindness as they had been at the Summit.

My bedridden state had one advantage; he would not question why I would not kneel, and I didn’t need to explain that I would sever my legs before I knelt to him.

Supreme Rawain strode into the room. Framed in the door, Arin’s indecipherable gaze followed his father.

“Well? How is she doing?” the Supreme asked.

The physician slunk back, clearing his throat. “Superbly, Your Highness.

The venom has passed without ill effects, and the worst damage was to her palms.”

Rawain clapped his hands. “Wonderful. You gave us a fright, Sylvia. I’ll admit, I had reservations about Arin’s choice of a Champion, but you have certainly lived up to his vision.” He laughed, the sound sliding like viscous oil over my skin. “My son has been reluctant to introduce us. Worried I would intimidate you.” He raised his brows at an impassive Arin. “See?

She’s of hardier stock.”

I shook with the effort of crushing my magic back. It struck over and over, lightning charring its fragile vessel. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I needed to speak. My teeth were stuck together, and I had the most terrible notion that they were protecting me from what might fly out of my mouth if I unhinged my jaw.

Rawain did not seem concerned with my silence or inability to lift my gaze from his chest. “Since you’re feeling better, I insist you join Arin and me for supper this evening.”

“We leave for Omal at dawn,” Arin said, speaking at last. “She should rest.”

“And rest she shall,” Supreme Rawain said. “After supper.”

My cuffs seized, tightening desperately against my magic’s assault. In a flash, Arin was between us. “I will have the guards bring her. We should go; King Murib is expecting us.”

I wanted to shove Arin aside and lunge. Rip out the throat spewing poison, crush the head that molded its crown on the scorched remains of my kingdom. How dare he come in here and speak to me? To praise my efforts for him?

Grief. Rage. Fear. A pit of darkness fed my magic, and it chose which hand to help—and which to ignore. It cared for Jasad and for the ones I

loved, but it would happily watch me scream beneath a beast’s gaping maw or Hanim’s whip without once stirring.

No wonder my magic never helped me. It hated me as much as I hated myself.

“Then let us be on our way. I can’t tolerate another tour of his banal little weapons cellar,” the Supreme said. He lifted his chin in disdain. “Who would steal from Orbanian huts and hovels?”

Rawain’s voice moved to the door. I had both hands fisted in the quilt.

“Heal quickly, Sylvia. I look forward to acquainting myself with such a worthy Champion.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, I keeled off the bed. I doubled over, wrapping my arms around my middle. The hurricane of my magic roared. Charring me to ash like the rest of my kingdom.

Isn’t this what you wanted? Niphran’s gentle but stern voice replaced Hanim’s. You wanted to be forgotten. Unknown, unrecognizable. You have succeeded. You are nothing more than Sylvia, Nizahl’s Champion.

“Sylvia?” Sefa laid a tentative hand between my shoulder blades.

“Don’t touch me!” Every inch of my skin pulsed, as though it could shed itself for a new, better me beneath.

Several sets of footsteps approached. The guards’ murmuring washed over me. The physician—or maybe Jeru—reached for me, only to stop short at my shuddering recoil. “I said don’t touch me!”

“Leave her.” Marek.

“Now,” Sefa added.

The noise receded, and the door scraped shut behind them. I tore the wrappings around my hands, revealing perfectly healed palms. I hadn’t needed Arin’s touch to bring my magic to the surface this time.

Good. Rawain likes his property in faultless condition, Hanim sneered.

I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked.

At the root of all chaos is reason. It was a comfort Dawoud would share with me when I was especially afraid or angry. He was raised in Ahr il

Uboor, a wilayah with a population of seven hundred and, according to him, more fanciful stories than sense.

But the error of my existence was a chaos my mind couldn’t reason.

Four kingdoms living in harmony with Jasad for thousands of years had elected to invade and reduce us to rubble. We must have done something to deserve it. We must have earned the fate that befell us. Right?

I quaked in the corner and pressed my forehead to the wall.

For hundreds of years, Jasad has bled its glory from the lives it ruined.

Everyone talked about the fortress, Sylvia. It allowed Jasad to get away with doing whatever it wanted. … it is time for the sun to rise over Jasad, Essiya.

Because if we did not deserve our fate, I could not bear the alternative much longer.

The next time the door opened, I stood in front of a row of gowns. My neck tingled as I adjusted the towel around my body.

“Which dress would the Supreme prefer for his Champion?” My voice sounded as empty as I felt. “I would not want to displease him.”

When the silence lengthened, I glanced over my shoulder. Arin had stalled a mere foot away, staring at my back. I clicked my mouth shut. I had forgotten to cover the evidence of Hanim’s favorite hobby. Until now, Rory and Raya were the only two with the misfortune of seeing my graveyard of

scars.

“Who did this to you?”

I moved to face him. A glove to my shoulder kept me turned.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“These are old,” he murmured. “Layered.”

When his hand ghosted over my skin, I couldn’t stop a shiver. He traced the gnarled path of flesh along my back. Assessing the defective condition of his Champion. I dropped my forehead against the wardrobe, forcing my ragged breathing to stabilize. I was not in a sane enough state to handle the Heir.

“These are from a jalda whip,” he guessed. The pressure moved to my right side. “A switch.”

I eased the towel’s knot enough to reveal my lower back, morbidly curious. Could he put a name to every instrument Hanim had used against me? I couldn’t.

“Is this an arakin?” he gasped, sprawling his palm against the base of

my spine. I jumped.

“A what?”

“These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage.

You might have died.”

I tightened my towel and turned.

“Is an arakin the one with the poisoned metal spikes? Yes, those were quite inspired. Tipped with just enough venom to scream yourself hoarse for a week or so, but not enough to put an end to your misery.”

“What—” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly, gathering the words. The most articulate man in the kingdoms rendered speechless by Hanim’s handiwork. “What happened to you, Sylvia?”

I laughed. It was alarmingly choked.

“You are not the first to use me for your own ends. I have a legacy of disappointing people, you see.”

I kept my attention fixed over Arin’s shoulder as he reached past me. He pressed a black gown with buttoned sleeves and a violet neckline into my

arms.

“I am still waiting,” Arin said.

“Waiting?”

I had learned to defend myself against every version of Arin. Devised strategies to safeguard against his ever-twisting mind and sharp tongue. But no one taught me how to protect myself from the Nizahl Heir when he looked at me like this—gentle, human, with his steadfast gaze pinning my

own. Grounding me.

“To be disappointed.”

Unlike the Ivory Palace, the Orban castle made for a modest sight. Painted an unappealing tan, it rose a mere three stories and stretched from the end of the Champion’s Pavilion to the border of Essam Woods. What it lacked in luster, the castle doubled in protection. Orbanian khawaga were a

deadlier, less disciplined version of the Omalian patrol. They settled disputes by their own exacting standards, and the stories of their abuse in the lower villages had circulated far. Fifty of them surrounded the palace, their curved janbiya daggers hanging from their belted waists.

At the main entrance, a khawaga held a snapping, growling dog by its scruff. I stared at it while Wes walked up to the khawaga. Would Ayume’s dogs have sniffed around the lake’s edge, pawing for Timur’s corpse?

Timur, who had loved his family enough to kill for them.

The sole adornment to the drab castle was on the double doors leading inside. A green-horned bull glowered as we approached, towering over us.

My whole body could fit inside one of its flared nostrils. The bull’s three tails stretched from one door to the other.

Three khawaga hurled their weight against the door, and it reluctantly yawned open to admit us. “The Supreme stays on the second floor,” the khawaga grunted, eyeing the guards. “Do not wander.”

Reed carpets crunched beneath us as we headed to the stairs. King Murib certainly adhered to Orban’s spirit of frugality. Not a single tapestry or jewel decorated the walls. The stairs groaned under our feet.

Jeru and Wes took their stations on either side of the door. Inside the room, twelve chairs circled a rectangular table. The lanterns were shaped into Orban’s bull, half its body coming out of the wall while a candle flickered in its gaping mouth. The servants lit the candles sitting along the table, bathing the room in an orange glow.

“Champion,” a servant called. He pointed at a chair three seats away from the head of the table. “For you.”

I took my seat and stayed still while the servants buzzed around me, laying out platters of rolled grape leaves, seasoned oxtail, and greasy ox hooves. Orbanian culture did not center around creative agriculture like in Omal. They ate what their soil produced, mainly dense grains and spring vegetables. Meat in Orban was a delicacy few could afford.

“Sylvia.” I flicked my gaze from the empty plate. Arin had slid into the seat across from me. The door opened before the Nizahl Heir could speak.

“Excellent. You are both already here,” Supreme Rawain said.

Violet ribbons weaved a complicated pattern on the front of his billowing robes, and each sleeve ended with Nizahl’s royal seal emblazoned across the cuff. His ringed fingers closed around his scepter. The ensemble

did not suit Orban’s humble setting in the least. He took a seat at the head of the table. A servant went to close the door.

“Leave it. I am expecting another guest,” Rawain ordered. “What a day.

Murib speaks far too much for someone with little worth saying. Vaida could sing him off a cliff with two notes.” The servant left a miswak next to each of our plates. Supreme Rawain tapped the tooth-cleaning stick against the table. “In the event a Champion does not escape Ayume during the first trial, Murib usually keeps a khawaga waiting on the cliff through the night.

If the rope is untouched by dawn, the khawaga finds a better use of their time than waiting on a dead Champion. Did you see the Lukub Champion in Ayume at all, Sylvia?”

“No, my liege.” I focused on a point past Supreme Rawain’s shoulder.

My liege, Hanim repeated in disgust.

Rawain shook his head, leaning his scepter against the chair. “Vaida is insisting Murib leave a khawaga at the cliff another day. Murib is bowing to her will. Asinine. Anything crawling over that cliff’s edge will be slain on sight.”

A rapping at the door drew a smile from Rawain. “Ah, the last member of our company has arrived.”

The door opened, and I glimpsed the identical alarm on Wes and Jeru’s faces seconds before Vaun entered the room.

The Nizahl guardsman bowed deeply. “Your Highness. Commander.”

A quick glance at Arin confirmed he was as surprised to see his former guardsman here as Wes and Jeru were.

“Vaun, sit. You and Sylvia are well acquainted already, yes?”

A pronounced limp slowed Vaun’s gait, and he eased himself into a chair between Arin and the Supreme with a wince. “Yes, sire. We are.” The Nizahl guardsman finally looked at me. Instead of the loathing I expected, vindictive glee animated Vaun.

This isn’t right, Hanim said. Rawain does not remember the names of guardsmen. He does not invite them to a private supper two kingdoms away.

“Sylvia was going to tell us how she finished the first trial,” Rawain said. He peered into his chalice, taking an experimental sip. He grimaced. “I am especially curious to hear how you climbed a rope with poisoned sap clotted on your palm.”

Arin’s plate remained untouched. I held his gaze as my cuffs tightened,

my magic chasing the emptiness back to its dark corner. Only one possible piece of information could compel Rawain to invite Vaun against Arin’s wishes.

Rawain suspected I was a Jasadi. Why else ask such a pointed question about the first trial?

Strangely, I found the prospect thrilling. Let him suspect I was his enemy. Let Vaun’s accusation cut a place in his head and carve my name into his skull. I had lived in the maw of discovery almost my entire life, simply waiting for its teeth to close. But now… fear had spent its currency, and a more dangerous power paved the road ahead.

I smiled brightly at Supreme Rawain. “I climbed it the same way I would have without poisoned sap, just with more screaming. Sire.”

Ah, I had missed Vaun’s furious glare. His reliably terrible presence undid some of the damage I had wrought unto myself after Rawain’s visit.

Rawain laughed, causing Arin and Vaun’s heads to whip toward him.

“My apologies for a silly question.” He unrolled a grape leaf, evaluating the seasoned rice inside. He tried to rewrap it. “You were in a distressing state when you reached us. My son reduced several medics to tears.”

“His Highness has been diligent in preparing me for the Alcalah.” I could play at pleasant if it would prove Vaun a liar. “I would have hated to waste his efforts in the very first trial.”

“Yes, he is quite particular about such matters. Too particular, sometimes. But I could not have hoped for a more accomplished Commander.”

Arin inclined his head in acknowledgment. His unease was obvious, at least to me—he’d carved the tip of the miswak into a point.

“How did the sap adhere to you?” Vaun said. “I expressly recall His Highness cautioning you against leaning on the trees.”

I lifted a shoulder. Vaun wanted some incriminating answer he could pounce on.

“Fear renders memory obsolete. I reacted on instinct and suffered for the error.”

“You were the last Champion to emerge, a full hour after the Omal Champion. How is it the air did not send you to sleep?” Vaun pressed.

Arin slowly turned his head to stare at his guard. Vaun quailed, shrinking in his seat like a reprimanded child.

“I tied a cloth around my mouth and nose to slow its progress. I am a chemist’s apprentice,” I informed Rawain. “I recognized the odor.”

“Absolutely astonishing.” Rawain leaned back in his seat. He cupped the scepter, running his thumb over the delicate glass orb at the center. “It reminds me of the Alcalah twelve years ago. The Jasad Champion bewitched the rope into lifting him over the bluff. The other Champions were furious at the injustice, of course. The Alcalah has been vastly more interesting with four competitors, since strength decides the Victor instead of happenstance of birth.”

My cuffs became vises the moment “Jasad” left his lips. I clenched my teeth, barricading against the excess magic.

“I would have shared in the other Champions’ fury,” I said. “The honor of the Alcalah is not found in shortcuts.”

“Precisely,” Rawain said. “There is only treachery in magic.”

If we pulled at this thread for much longer, my leashed magic would surge past the cuffs and send the table careening into Rawain. His scepter shimmered under the candlelight, diamonds of white sparking from the glass orb.

“The glass is impervious to breakage,” Rawain said, following my gaze.

“It cannot crack or splinter. It was a gift from my darling late wife after Arin’s birth.”

Pain pricked my head, and the memory bloomed like a drop of crimson blood. Isra of Nizahl seated beside Rawain at the Blood Summit, her hands knotted together on her lap. She had had the look of a woman always braced for the worst, and I’d met her gaze only briefly before she fixed it on some distant point. Nizahlan women are so shy, I’d thought, and preoccupied myself with the tassels on Teta Palia’s sleeve.

She knew what was coming. She knew he was going to kill her along with everyone else, Hanim said.

“It is lovely.” The scepter exuded malice. Steel claws closed around the glass orb, and a violet raven glared from the iron helm. Why my ten-year- old self had wanted to touch it was beyond me.

Every minute of the meal stretched into a millennium, and by the time the servants cleared away the dessert platters, I felt strung tighter than a lute string. Rawain’s interrogation tactics varied in almost every way from Arin’s. Rawain masked his careful maneuvering with good humor and

charm.

At the meal’s conclusion, Supreme Rawain approached me. My fingers twitched, longing for the dagger in my cloak’s pocket. My cuffs were heated rings around my wrists, and if I released my hold on my boiling magic, I could drive Rawain’s scepter into his throat without budging from my spot.

“I look forward to your success in the second trial, Sylvia,” he said. I went stock still as he gripped my chin, pressing a light kiss to my forehead.

“I have a sense you will be a merit to Nizahl.”

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