The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The night before the second trial, I slipped away from the palace town’s festival, Sefa and Marek at my heels. The royals had their own section of the festival, surrounded by guards on the ground and observed by ones on the roofs. I maintained a wide berth from Supreme Rawain and Vaun, who watched the boisterous celebration with matching distaste. The merchants setting up booths around the large wooden platform painted what they were selling on the front of their booths. None of the royals ate from them, of course, but I spotted Mehti thrusting a bag of coins at a merchant standing behind a booth with a painted chicken.

Sparring matches like the one Mahair hosted took place on the raised platform, interspersed with groups of dancers and actors. They reenacted the Awaleen’s conversation around the oak table as our predecessors debated whether to entomb themselves with Rovial. They played out the final battle between the siblings, their fall from Sirauk into the waiting tombs below. Kapastra shone as the hero, the courageous sibling in the Omalians’ performance.

Since the festival took place over the entire town, different music played the farther along one wandered. I had already heard the sweet tones of a zither and a fast-paced Omalian lullaby on the lute, watched men wave sticks around as they danced to the beat of a drumming tubluh. The Omalian merchants coming from middle towns were relegated to the outskirts of the festival. I sipped my sugarcane juice, dodging the spinning rainbow skirt of a man dancing the tannoura. An old merchant waved from the ground, his knobby knees folded beneath his slim frame. He’d laid out his wares on a quilt, and the bright colors drew me.

“Do you have any money?” I asked Wes. When he nodded, I knelt to inspect the items closer.

Beaded bracelets and woven anklets mixed with rings of every size and design. At the corner of the quilt, dusty from where it hung into the dirt, a

braided rope necklace caught my attention. Dyed a patchy black, the thin rope supported a dangling pendant. I turned the pendant over, revealing the inside of a halved fig. The seeds were tiny gold beads, the veins connecting them embroidered violet and pink. The outside of the fig was violet and outlined in gold. I ran my thumb across the fuzzy front.

“How much for this?”

I gave him twice what he requested. I wasn’t stingy with Nizahlan money, and Arin would compensate Wes. I slipped the necklace into my

pocket.

“Your taste is terrible,” Jeru said.

The road curved downhill suddenly, sending pebbles skidding to the sides. My heart pounded as a woman with curly black hair disappeared into the crowd. Everywhere I looked, flashes of Soraya stole across the exuberant town. Any of the Urabi or Mufsids could be at the festival. They circled me, predators around a bleeding stag, waiting to see who would be closest when my legs collapsed.

I tried to ease my restlessness by focusing on the task at hand. We returned to the main stage and its crush of revelers. The dancers taking the stage wore gossamer gowns shaped to resemble rochelyas. A strap of fabric wound around their breasts and their hips, representing the rochelya’s long neck. A short skirt flared out at the waist. They kept their hair pinned up to expose the rochelya’s teeth clasped behind their necks, holding up the salacious ensemble. Bare except for the parts the rochelyas covered, the dancers’ appearance on the stage distracted the royals and guards equally.

Sefa, Marek, and I took our leave as they began their sinuous belly dance. The Omalian guards at the palace recognized me, allowing us free entry. If we had attempted this venture in Orban, I had a feeling the khawaga would have rendered our mission obsolete.

“Do you know where Vaida’s room is?” I asked Marek.

Servants streamed up and down the stairs, preparing the rooms for the drunken royals and nobles who would be stumbling into them.

“Third floor, east wing. I will recognize her door by the guard in front of it.”

Marek and Sefa had woken up in the morning with a headache, but none the worse for wear. They refused to speak of what the ghaiba had shown them, and they’d relished my description of Arin’s retaliation at the dinner.

While I had wasted the day walking the gardens with the other Champions and dressing for the festival, they had prepared for tonight.

So far, the plan was moving forward with shocking success. Sefa had asked an Omalian guard where she could deliver the Sultana’s gown for the evening, and he pointed her in the right direction. Marek would be charged with distracting the single guard on duty while Sefa and I rifled through Vaida’s room.

As for what would be done with the ring after we stole it, Sefa offered an unanticipated resolution. It seemed she and Marek had not been idly waiting in Orban while I completed the first trial. They had returned from their trip into Orban’s villages with a scribbled spell from a small apothecary. Three slashes marked the spell, which Sefa explained as the amount of magic a Jasadi would expend using it. I had asked, “Three out of what?” and received a dumbfounded silence in response.

Once we stole the seal and used it to barter for our protection, the spell should theoretically prevent Vaida from reneging on her promise. She would not know it had been cast unless she sought to harm us, in which case she would find herself losing track of the thought.

The servants paid us little attention as we approached, and only a few guards remained in Vaida’s wing, peering enviously from the window at the end of the hall. When we reached the hall with the Sultana’s room, Sefa and I hid around the corner. A Lukubi guard leaned against Vaida’s door, idly adjusting the strings on her vest. Marek rumpled his hair, undid the top laces of his tunic, and swaggered past us.

Her face brightened at Marek’s approach. She recognized him from the Ivory Palace. He aimed a mischievous grin at her, bracing an arm above the guard’s head as he murmured in her ear. She trilled a laugh. Watching Marek wield the appeal that came so naturally to him, I couldn’t help my swell of envy. My personality did not lend itself to romantic musings, even the fleeting kind. Or so I had thought. Recent events seemed to indicate otherwise. But where Marek could be dying from six stab wounds and still find the energy to charm the nearest living creature, I had nearly broken my ankle trying to avoid Arin this morning. I didn’t understand the reactions I was experiencing, so I did what I do best in times of inner turmoil: I ignored it.

A gleeful shriek snapped me back to attention. The guard was swatting

at Marek’s chest with her free hand while he kissed her fingers one by one.

From Sefa’s exasperated sigh, this was far from her first encounter with Marek’s weaponized allure.

The guard hooked her fingers into Marek’s waistband, yanking his hips flush to hers. He captured her lips in a filthy kiss. Broad hands lifted her against the wall. The guard wrapped her legs around Marek’s waist, mussing his golden hair and nibbling at his ear. Marek gripped her thick thighs and carried her backward, sparing a wink in our direction before kicking a random door open and disappearing inside.

I straightened, following Sefa to Vaida’s abandoned door. “Should we… interfere?”

Sefa closed the door behind us. “Seducing beautiful women is not a hardship for Marek. Let them have their fun.”

Vaida’s quarters were twice as large as mine, and I suppressed my groan.

There were countless places she could have hidden a ring. The breeze from her open window carried a faint note of the festival’s music.

“I will take the right side, you take the left.” I yanked the drawer of her dressing bureau. A mountain of red undergarments burst free. “Did Marek do this often while you two were bouncing between villages?”

Sefa rummaged through Vaida’s bedside table, sweeping each drawer.

“Constantly. He couldn’t seem to help drawing attention everywhere we went.”

“Does it bother you?” I threw open the wardrobe doors, searching for any hidden jewelry chests.

“Why would it?” Sefa moved to the opposite bedside table. “Just because I have no interest in such affairs does not mean I expect the same from Marek.”

My curiosity chose this inopportune moment to demand satisfaction. I flipped the cushions on Vaida’s chairs, digging into the corners of the divan.

“Was there ever a time when Marek wanted more than friendship?”

Sefa pursed her lips before groping under the pillows piled on Vaida’s cavern of a bed. “Yes, and then that time passed. I have encouraged him to find someone in Mahair, to build a life with a partner who welcomes his passion and devotion.” She crawled under the bed, and I went through the washroom. When we emerged, she continued. “He refuses.”

“Where you go, he will follow. A relationship with another person will

falter under his commitment to you,” I pointed out.

Sefa heaved a sigh, opening the doors to the second wardrobe adjacent to the bed. A dozen ivory gowns hung inside.

“We have depended on each other for too long. He thinks letting himself love someone will break his attachment to me. I don’t know how to prove to him he doesn’t owe me his life.” Sefa admired the stitching on the hem of a delicate silk gown. She glanced over as I slit open a cushion and stuffed my arm inside. “Are these questions new to you?”

I flipped the cushion to its good side and shoved it back to the seat. “It was not my place to ask before.”

“But it is now?” Sefa asked, smiling. She parsed the items on Vaida’s beauty table, knocking perfumes and powders together. “If it means anything, it has always been your place to ask.”

I stopped slashing Vaida’s cushions. Sefa always did this. Casually offered her heart to me. I had thought it was a personal failing, the ease with which she gave it away. But Sefa—Sefa was stingy with her confidences.

She simply chose to trust me, in particular, over and over again.

“Sylvia? What is it?” Sefa abandoned the table, perching on the divan

beside me.

Essiya, Hanim warned.

I swallowed past my dry throat. “You were right.”

“Right about what?” Sefa frowned. She scrutinized my downcast gaze.

Understanding flashed across her features, and her jaw dropped. “Oh, Sylvia, no.”

The words spilled with the force of blood bursting from a severed artery.

“The Heir—he enrages me, Sefa. I have never encountered a more paranoid man in my life. He lives from one theory to the next, manipulating people with utter detachment, and I can never guess what horrors his mind will concoct. Did you know he eats with his right hand when he is in a good mood and his left when he isn’t? Why do I even remember that? And if he touches me, it does not—I don’t—” I shoved the dagger into the cushion, tearing a diagonal line across the velvet surface. I could not bear to look at Sefa. “He is Nizahl’s Commander. I should burn with hatred every second spent in his presence.”

“Do not tell me what you should feel,” Sefa said. Brown eyes met mine without a trace of judgment. “Tell me what is true.”

How could I tell her I did not have the words? Words… those were the least of my troubles. They were not my eyes, fastening to him as soon as he entered a room. My heart, beating in double at his nearness. But worst of all, I could not admit to Sefa that the Nizahl Heir made me feel most like myself—and myself was not someone I had the luxury of learning.

Vaida’s voice echoed from outside. “She’s coming!” Sefa panicked.

“Into the red wardrobe. Go!” I shoved her from the divan, waiting until she pulled the doors shut over herself to catapult over the bed. I closed the doors of the white wardrobe, immersing myself in darkness just as the door rattled.

I peered through the narrow slats in the wardrobe. The door burst open, and I had a surprisingly clear view of Vaida reeling into the room.

“This beggarly kingdom may lack in every other respect, but Omalian festivals”—she hiccupped—“do not disappoint.”

By her unsteady gait, the Sultana had not been conservative in her consumption of Omal’s wines. A second figure stepped forward, and I recognized the line of his broad shoulders before he spoke. “Watch your step,” Arin said.

Vaida tripped over a chair leg, careening into the Heir. She caught herself on Arin’s chest and seemed baffled to find her wrists clasped in a gloved grip and held away. Vaida frowned.

“Is this about yesterday? It was a misunderstanding. Don’t you believe me?” She arched up on her toes. I squinted, balanced precariously against the wardrobe doors.

“Have you never wondered what we would be like, Arin?” she murmured. “Don’t you ever do anything for the pure pleasure of it? You must; no control is so perfect.”

I could only see Arin’s profile, and I caught a glimpse of his implacable features. Unmoved by the most beautiful woman in all the kingdoms, the descendent of Baira herself.

“My control is far from perfect,” he said. “But it is better than yours.”

In a single motion, Arin pressed his fingers to a point on the Sultana’s neck and jerked her head to the side. Vaida’s eyes rolled back. I covered my mouth with both hands as he caught the Sultana’s limp body, depositing her on the bed. I let myself breathe when Vaida’s chest moved. He had only put her to sleep.

Arin drew Vaida’s bedside dresser forward. He swept his hand over the back, pausing halfway down. Angled out of my sight, I saw him straighten and extract a small box from his pocket.

He accomplished in a moment what you and your useless companion could not do in twenty, Hanim said.

He found the seal. What was he doing to it?

I mentioned the seal passingly the day I described Vaida’s offer to him.

It should not have shocked me that even a brief mention served as a catalyst for Arin’s next plan.

He tucked the box into his pocket again, returning the seal to the back of the dresser. Arin paused on his way to the door, tilting his chin.

His hearing, you fool! Hanim reprimanded.

I smothered Vaida’s gown over my nose and mouth. Arin skimmed over the wardrobe, lingering for a beat that sent panic coursing through me. I exhaled when he turned away and opened the chamber’s doors.

“The Sultana took a tumble while removing her shoes and hit her head on the descent,” he said.

“Oh no! Shall I fetch the palace physician?” the guard gasped.

“The damage will only be a headache and a distorted memory of the evening,” Arin said. “I recommend you fetch ice. Immediately.”

“Of course,” the guard fretted. The door slammed shut behind them. I counted to ten before bursting through the wardrobe doors. Sefa followed suit, slapping aside the clinging gowns.

“Did you see what he did to the seal?”

“He rolled it in some sort of molding material,” Sefa answered. “How did he know where Vaida hid it?” She yanked the table forward. I glanced at Vaida, checking that she slumbered deeply.

“They have known one other since childhood,” I grunted, crouching behind the dresser. “It appears Vaida maintains her routines.”

The ring dangled from a nail Vaida had driven into the back of the dresser. Victorious, I picked it up—only to drop the ring as blistering heat scalded my fingers.

“What is it?” Sefa reached for the ring, and no sooner had she made contact with the metal object than she was withdrawing with a squeal. “It is

warded against us.”

“How did he press it into the mold?”

Sefa tried to pick it up with the bottom of her gown. The fabric singed and blackened. “Perhaps his gloves afforded a measure of protection?”

I ground my teeth, the irrepressible urge to strangle him taking hold. “Or he did exactly what he did with the ghaiba. Magic passes him like a sieve, and he must have guessed he could tolerate the agony long enough to mold the seal and return it.”

“Quite a guess.” Sefa scowled at where the ring lay on the thick rug.

“Not a guess,” I growled. “A theory. Well, he is not the only one who can have them.” The doll’s compulsion over me broke when it fell onto my cuffs. If Soraya was to be believed, and my cuffs resisted the strongest tracking spells, it was possible they would negate the seal’s magic long enough for us to carry it to our wing.

“Hurry, the guard will not be long in the kitchens,” Sefa said.

Getting the ring to balance on my wrists without touching it proved a trickier feat than expected. Sefa clearly thought I had forsaken my wits, if her wary frown was any indication. Sefa could only see the ring sitting on the inside of my wrist, with no explanation as to why it did not char my flesh. With my hand facing upward and fingers pointed to the ground, I precariously balanced the ring on my right cuff.

“Good, good,” Sefa breathed. “I will go ahead and clear the path to our wing. Marek is probably waiting around the corner.” Checking again to reassure herself the ring hadn’t seared open my wrist, Sefa slipped outside the door, leaving it cracked for my foot to kick open.

I took a careful step toward the door, then another. The ring wobbled. I tried to keep my wrist as flat as possible. I had almost reached the door when I heard the voice.

“I would advise you against taking another step,” it said.

I nearly dropped the ring. Turning around without sliding it off the cuff took agonizing seconds.

The Sultana sat up, and twin white orbs stared at me in place of her eyes.

Not a singular doubt existed in my rebelling stomach that the thing upright

and smiling in bed was not the Sultana.

“Are you… Baira?” I choked.

The thing laughed, tossing Vaida’s head back. “Oh dear, no. But it was she who fused me to her seal, and I am afraid I must insist you return it to its rightful inheritor.”

I had not endured this venture only to be thwarted by a formless ghoul.

Keeping my gaze trained on it, I shuffled back.

Between one breath and the next, the thing wearing Vaida materialized in front of me. The ring clattered from my wrist, falling somewhere between our bodies. It lingered too close, sharing my air. Its milky eyes brightened.

“Nearly there,” it sang. “They tried again and again, but your choices never changed. Who knew this one would meet with success?”

Its childish curiosity vanished, and I shrank from the ruthless threat in Vaida’s manipulated face. The rich Omalian quarters disappeared around us, and the thing’s voice echoed in a dark, ravenous cavern. Ancient magic pressed in against my sides, raking nails over my skin. With the certainty of the damned at the executioner’s axe, I knew this was not a magic mere mortals were meant to see. This was the cry of the first bird ever pushed from its nest, tentative wings stretching for flight. The first thunder of a restless sky. The waters moving under the Awaleen as they rested on their thrones beneath Sirauk, kept alive by their magic and trapped by it, too. I was a gnat fluttering toward the surface of the sun, burning from the mere flight.

“Baira’s seal is for her Sultanas alone. Do not breach her commandment again.”

The thing primly returned to its former position, and with a last smile at me, its eyes rolled forward. Vaida collapsed into the same position from which she had risen.

There were footsteps at the door, and I heard Marek’s teasing voice trying to cajole the guard away. At a loss, I kicked the ring under the dresser and prayed Vaida would think she knocked it from its nail during her drunken stupor.

I squeezed outside. Marek framed the guard’s face in his hands, blocking her periphery as I snuck down the hall.

“Where is it?” Sefa exclaimed when I rounded the corner. “Did it start to burn?”

I massaged my wrists, rattled by the echo of power waiting to devour me in the cavernous empty. “Yes, it did.”

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