The Jasad Heir — Chapter no 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Four days went by without anyone calling for my execution. The pair of Nizahl soldiers patrolling Mahair continued their route, visitors for the waleema kept pouring in, and I continued terrorizing frogs for Rory. If I didn’t have bruises and a missing clump of hair, I might wonder if I hallucinated the entire night.

Worry shadowed me relentlessly. I didn’t trust the peace. Nizahl soldiers would not simply forget the disappearance of one of their own.

Two days before the waleema, Raya pounded on our doors, descending into a rare fervor of agitation. None of us could fathom why. Her fabrics sold with stunning success at regular market, never mind a waleema that only took place every three years. Noblewomen from the farthest towns in the four kingdoms sent their servants to bid for Raya’s extravagant gowns.

With everyone eager to dress their best for their kingdom’s Alcalah festivities, the gowns would sell for more than enough money for Raya to bring in another orphan or two from the streets.

At the bottom of the hill, Marek loaded the wagon. The canvas usually covering the back had been peeled away, giving him room to stack the crates.

“You’re late. Rory has probably reduced the patrons to tears already.”

Marek hopped into the driver’s seat.

“As long as he hasn’t thrown his cane at anyone, I would call that a good morning. Where’s Fairel?”

Marek pointed at the figure of the tiny girl running full tilt down the hill, her back bent under the weight of a wooden chair. I hid a smile. Raya gave every girl in her keep a choice: work or learn. Most chose learning, but nine-year-old Fairel had stuck her little chin forward and said, “I would rather be the best at one thing than know a little about a lot of things.” In the three years since, she had taken her role as watcher of Nadia’s chairs with a seriousness reserved for those handling the instruments of battle.

Fairel hurled herself into the back of the cart, chair in tow. “Here! I’m here!”

Marek chuckled, clicking his tongue at the horses. Six girls climbed into the back, arranging themselves in the cart. I jiggled my leg as we lurched into motion, fingers dancing on my knee. Dread filled my chest the closer we rumbled toward the main square. Another reason to hate the busy Alcalah season was the threat of recognition.

I always kept my ears open for any rumors about the Heir of Jasad. Not a single whisper suggested the world thought Essiya was any less dead than the rest of her family. Most of those at the Blood Summit had perished during the attack—including Isra, Supreme Rawain’s wife. Only the Queen of Omal, Supreme Rawain, and Sultana Bisai had lived. Sultana Bisai was dead now, the Lukub crown passed to her daughter, and the other two royals wouldn’t cross paths with a lowly orphan. It didn’t stop me from checking for the reassuring weight of the knife tucked in my boot whenever Mahair had visitors.

The blue cottage rose on our right. Its owners were old and childless.

Not many were interested in buying property here, not with a keep full of orphans to the left and the vagrant road to the right. It would be an excellent home. There would be space for Sefa and Marek. Perhaps a small garden for my fig plant.

I directed my gaze forward. Sefa’s fanciful musings had clearly seeped into my common sense. Longing for the impossible was a task best left for fools.

The cart jerked as the path grew rockier. The children chasing the cart fell back, scuttling in the opposite direction. Heeding their parents’ warnings against venturing into the vagrant road.

“How do you feel?” Marek asked quietly.

I knew what he was really asking, but I did not have an answer suitable for his ears. “Hungry. Maya shouldn’t be allowed to prepare breakfast for anyone but her enemies. I still have eggshell in my teeth.”

Marek was silent for a long moment. I hoped we’d seen the end of the conversation.

“Five years. Five years of friendship, Sylvia. And we are friends, despite your many efforts to distance yourself from us. Yes, I noticed. I am a talent at understanding people, but you… you baffle me. Five years of friendship,

and do you know the only word I would use to describe you?” He glanced at me. “Mild. Just… mild. Which might have been the end of the story until two nights ago, when I watched you singlehandedly sever a man’s backbone without flinching.”

Mild. I examined the word, testing the fit. It amused me. Perhaps Hanim’s whip was reserved for mild-mannered girls, and the scars on my back a generous reward for my tepid temper. My first week in Hanim’s tiny cabin, I threw my food at the wall and promptly burst into tears. I was still a rebellious thing, full of spite and the indignations of slighted royalty.

Though I’d seen my grandparents burn with my own two eyes, had heard the messenger declare Niphran’s death with my own ears, reality had yet to sink its claws into my chest. Jasad’s disgraced war captain had stood silent as the grave as she waited for me to wipe the last of my tears.

“Go to the corner,” she said, “and lift your arms.”

Frightened of her blank eyes, I’d kept my arms raised until the scream in my shoulders dulled into a whimper. I counted the cracks in the wall, memorized the writing on my cuffs. The pain eventually settled, becoming as constant and forgettable as the pulse in my neck. I found a way to think

through it.

Mild, indeed.

Undeterred by my silence, Marek continued, “Have you heard the news?

They say the Nizahl Heir was spotted near the border to Gahre.”

The spike of fear his words drove into my chest irritated me. Gahre was another Omalian lower village sitting a mere hour away. The news of his arrival would have ridden in long before the Commander’s horses. I unclenched my fists. “Chatter of idle merchants, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” Marek agreed, glancing askance at my twitching fingers. “It’s Omal’s turn to represent Nizahl in the Alcalah this year. The Heir is probably gracing our humble villages to find his Champion.” Marek’s derisive tone communicated exactly what he thought of such an idea.

Hosted once every three years, the Alcalah invigorated every kingdom from the highest crown to the wildest vagrant. The tournament consisted of three grueling trials meant to celebrate the sacrifice of the progenitors of our kingdoms. The location of each trial rotated between the four kingdoms and culminated in a Victor’s Ball. If Mahair’s obsession with the Alcalah was any indication, the kingdoms built their lives around this event. I

couldn’t count the number of times I had listened to Rory’s patrons walk around the shop and fantasize about dancing at the Victor’s Ball or cheering in the audience of one of the Alcalah’s trials.

Nizahl was the only kingdom not to choose a Champion from among its own people. Shortly after burning Jasad to the ground, Supreme Rawain had generously announced Nizahl’s plan to foster peace by choosing a Champion from a different kingdom every Alcalah. Besides, Nizahl possessed an unfair advantage. They conscripted their youth into the army from adolescence, and their most incompetent soldier could easily match another kingdom’s best.

“He wouldn’t choose a Champion from a lower village,” I said. “I’m sure he has some arrangement with the Omal Heir. A preselected Champion the royal family favors, perhaps.”

“Felix can’t pick the snot from his nose. The Nizahl Heir certainly will not be asking him his thoughts on picking a Champion.”

I made a disgusted sound at the image. “Every Champion he’s chosen has won the Alcalah. I doubt he would agree to train an incompetent just to curry political favor. Even if the Nizahl Heir did decide to choose a lower villager, he would find it a challenge to convince them to accept such a fatal role.” For all they loved to speculate about the Alcalah, lower villagers had too much sense to willingly compete in a tournament that left more than half its Champions dead. At least, I hoped they did.

Marek shrugged, navigating the wagon around a stretch of foul-smelling ponds dotting the road. “It might be worth the risk. If they become Victor, they win a retinue of guards, an upper-town home in every kingdom, riches to last their lifetime.”

“It’s not worth the risk unless you’re an oat-brained noble whose sole purpose for competing is to prance around and claim you’re celebrating the sacrifice of the Awaleen.”

The myths behind the Alcalah were utter nonsense. The four original siblings were beings of pure magic—the first magic. The Awaleen had created the kingdoms and ruled over them for millennia before Rovial, Jasad’s Awal, went insane and killed thousands. Magic-madness, the storytellers claimed. The inevitable consequence of powerful magic. To contain their brother and protect their kingdoms, the Awaleen consigned themselves to an eternal slumber beneath Sirauk Bridge. What exactly did

the Alcalah seek to celebrate? The bloodshed or the burial?

Aware of my rising frustration, I fell quiet, smoothing my skirt down around my knees. The pale sunlight reflected brightly from my cuffs. It was a blessing to be the one person capable of seeing or feeling them. Their shine would have seared holes into Marek’s periphery.

“The Commander’s last two Champions were a Lukubi stonemason and an Orbanian beggar. Both became Victor.”

“Marek, enough.” I didn’t wish to talk about Nizahl or the Alcalah anymore. Anger was far slower to fade than it was to kindle, and I didn’t have the energy to spare.

“They say meeting his eyes can freeze a Jasadi’s magic in their veins,”

Marek continued. “Supposedly, he can sense it by touch alone.”

The very thought threatened a reappearance of my eggshell breakfast.

Most days, I excelled at willfully forgetting Jasadis were hunted like rabid animals. There was nothing I could do for them. There was barely anything I could do for me.

“What you describe is impossible. Do you mean to say the Commander has magic himself?” My tone went harsh, roughened by the tableau Marek’s

words painted.

“Of course not. I am just saying—”

“What you are saying is treason. We have committed more than our fair share of that lately, don’t you agree?”

The crowd thickened as we neared the main square. People weaved around Marek’s wagon as it moved through a crowd clad in blue and white.

As soon as he stopped, I took a deep breath and jumped down. I kept my cloak wrapped tight and my head low. Every accidental shoulder-bump or arm-brush sent a thousand pinpricks of revulsion throbbing through me. I couldn’t walk to Rory’s shop fast enough.

The bell over the door jingled. I waited for Rory to poke his head from the back room. When a minute passed without the click of Rory’s cane, I rounded the counter and pushed the curtain aside.

“Go away,” he said without turning around. Rory sat perched on two upturned crates, three bowls on the table and the bucket of frogs at his feet.

I wrinkled my nose at the odor. Dania’s dusty bones, I was too late. He never worked with the frogs during the day, when the stench of blood and sour alcohol wafted through the rest of the shop. Not unless his distaste for

humanity overwhelmed his common sense.

“Now, Rory,” I began, infusing my voice with patience I didn’t have. Of all the weeks for him to throw a fit, he had to choose the week of the waleema? “I think you should—” Before I could continue, a basket hit my chest. Rory didn’t look up from the bowls.

“I need more ingredients,” he barked. “Not your opinion.”

I glared at the side of his head. “The last time I went into Essam in a skirt, the rash on my thigh took a week to fade.” I would prefer cleaning my teeth with a lizard’s tail over selling to dozens of strangers, but unlike Rory, I did not have the luxury of pitching expensive tantrums. “I’ll mind the shop myself. You can stay back here.”

Rory ignored me, flipping a limp frog onto its back. Unbelievable. I snatched the basket. There was no piercing his thick skull when he fell into these moods. Outside, the main road bustled as those who’d arrived ahead of the waleema explored Mahair’s limited offerings. So many visitors with pockets begging to be emptied. Cursing Rory under my breath, I picked up

my skirt and turned toward the woods.

“Stop! Jasadi!”

The scream knifed through the din of the main road.

I froze. My legs tensed, preparing for a hard and brutal run. I bent my elbows at the crook, bunching the muscles at my shoulders. A second more, and I would have been a blur of fabric disappearing into the woods. A second more, and I wouldn’t have seen the baker’s father thrown into the dirt.

The crowd surged behind me. Arms pressed against mine, bumping and elbowing for a view of the Nizahl soldiers standing over the flour-dusted man in his seventies. It wasn’t me they had caught. It was him.

A Nizahl soldier with a chest shaped like an ale barrel loomed over the scrawny old man. Adel, I thought. His name was Adel. He always put extra sesame on my bread rolls.

“You are accused of the possession and active use of magic. You will be taken to Nizahl, where your kingdom of origin will be confirmed. If the investigation brands you a Jasadi, you will stand trial in our Supreme’s fair and just courts.”

“Please, I—I have lived here for forty years. I’ve lived in Omal almost my entire life. I raised my family here. My magic is nothing, barely a

drop!”

“You admit you have magic. You admit you are a Jasadi.”

“I was only born in Jasad,” he wept. “Decades before the war.”

“I saw him use his magic!” the woman who’d screamed shouted. I didn’t recognize her. She must be one of the visitors. “He touched a burned loaf of bread, and it repaired itself.”

My cuffs tightened around my wrists. Fool—why would he use his magic within sight of others? Careless, so needlessly careless!

“He un-burned bread? That was his crime?” a furious, gruff voice said.

Yuli. He must have known Adel for years. Maybe even hired his sons to work on his farms. “Adel is one of us.”

He is not one of them. He is one of yours, Hanim hissed. Do something, Essiya. Save him!

I remained motionless. Interfering would only result in two deaths instead of one. I couldn’t help him. I did not owe him my life simply because he was born a Jasadi and I was born the Jasad Heir. He should have been more careful.

“Come with us.” The shorter Nizahl soldier hoisted Adel to his feet, ignoring his cries at the crushing grip on his arm. “You can state your claims to the tribunal.”

“Stop! You’re hurting him!” Yuli’s shout mixed with others. A strange thought crossed my mind, threatening to tilt the ground beneath me.

What if they had all already known?

If Adel had lived here before the war, he might have told people he was a Jasadi. Easily, without fear, in the halcyon days before his identity and birthplace could summon the bells of death. In a village as small as this, someone must have noticed his magic. Adel’s family owned the bakery.

They operated it for decades. Could it be possible Mahair had collectively decided not to report Adel despite the severe penalties of knowingly harboring a Jasadi?

Panic filled Adel’s blanching face. He shook, forcing the soldier’s grip tighter. I saw it coming before it happened.

Be smart, I wanted to beg him. Hold steady, Adel. Do not let the panic win.

“No!” Adel screamed. The air tightened, flowing toward the quaking Jasadi. Like the band of a slingshot, Adel’s magic pulled itself taut. Silver

and gold swirled in his eyes. In the quivering moment where Adel’s magic was pointed and poised, I glanced at the soldiers. They knew it was coming.

They were eager for it.

Adel’s magic exploded.

The crowd shrieked as the soldiers were flung to the ground. Adel heaved, staring at them with uncertain eyes.

Had I not been fixed to the spot, I might have yanked at my hair. Why wasn’t he running?!

Adel sprinted toward the woods. If he made it past the wall and beyond the raven-marked trees before the soldiers could catch him, he might have the slightest chance of escaping.

He is a soft man. He will not survive in the woods. If the soldiers do not catch him, a different predator will, Hanim said. I could feel her disappointment as if she stood right beside me.

The question of Adel’s survival skills would never be answered. The barrel-chested Nizahl soldier drew to his feet and pulled a short blade from his hip. Adel was running in a straight line. The soldier reared his arm back.

I closed my eyes.

Look! Hanim shouted. At the very least, they are owed the right to be seen.

I looked. I looked as the knife buried itself between Adel’s shoulder blades. I looked as the old baker crashed forward, mere feet from the wall.

And I looked while the shorter Nizahl soldier caught up to Adel and buried the Jasadi beneath a storm of vicious blows and kicks. The wet, fleshy thumps were harder for some onlookers to bear than the snapping bones.

When again the soldier stood, an empty-eyed pulp lay where Adel once had.

A sob broke out. The visitor who had pointed the finger at Adel avoided the sight of his carcass, maintaining her defiance.

At the edge of the crowd, I saw Rory. He was staring at Adel. White- knuckled hands gripped his cane. Was Rory’s shock because of disgust?

Was it grief?

“We will load his body into the wagon,” the barrel-chested soldier said.

Blood soaked his upper right thigh. Adel had thrown him hard. “When we return, we expect full cooperation in locating his children. Any resistance will earn you a trip to Nizahl.”

The shorter soldier glanced dubiously at the other man’s leg. It could

barely support its owner’s weight. They murmured briefly to one another before turning back to us. “I will remain here to ensure none of you attempt to protect the Jasadi’s children. We need a volunteer to help carry the body to the wagon.”

No one spoke. Only someone of astoundingly poor intelligence would volunteer to walk into the woods with a Nizahl soldier and the brutalized

body of his victim.

“I can carry him.”

Heads swiveled toward me. My mouth closed with a snap. What had I just done?

The uninjured soldier took in my build and height. He pressed his lips together, and I almost laughed. He didn’t want to choose me. I was taller than him and broad-shouldered. If a conflict ensued, I would make a fiercer opponent than an elderly baker.

As reliable as the rising and setting of the sun, the hubris of men was a winning bet. “Fine. Take his head.”

For once, moving away from the crowd failed to bring relief. I wondered if Sefa and Marek were watching, silently screaming at me for my foolhardiness. They didn’t understand. They thought I belonged in the crowd of onlookers.

Hanim wanted me to feel guilty for Adel’s death, to shake with righteous rage and a thirst for revenge, but all I felt was despair. More than anything, I wanted to belong in the crowd of onlookers. I didn’t want to be here, sliding my hands under Adel’s shoulders and lifting him from the pool of his own blood. His head rolled onto my shoulder, leaving slick trails of red along my neck. The soldier faced the woods, holding Adel’s legs under one curled arm. We walked. I barely noticed when we passed the raven-marked trees. I carried Adel’s fragile body and tried to see nothing but the path ahead. The river babbled to our right, splashing gently against the boulders studding the small riverbank.

“Here,” the soldier said. I startled; I’d been staring at the back of his head and vividly imagining caving his skull in. We lowered Adel to the ground. “I’ll bring the horses. Stay by the body.” He shot me a warning glance before vanishing into the trees.

I crouched by Adel’s body and pressed two fingers against his eyelids, drawing them down. Sefa would cry. She was good with emotions. She

welcomed them as they came, without allowing them to linger or deepen.

Anger did not settle inside her like shards of glass, cutting her open on the way down. I wished I had her tears. Adel deserved them.

But Rovial’s tainted tomb, how had he been so stupid? He’d confessed his magic in seconds, used his precious little stores of it to seal his fate. At least if he’d let them capture him, he could have tried to escape during the trip to Nizahl.

I should just leave. I hadn’t known this man. His blood was not on my hands.

Of course you want to hide. That’s what you do best, Hanim sneered.

My teeth ground together. I needed her out of my head. What would satisfy her? What could I do for this Jasadi that would rid me of Hanim’s voice?

An idea struck. An idea twice as idiotic as volunteering to carry Adel’s body into the woods. But if it meant purging myself of Hanim… I hurried to the riverbank. Kicking my sandals off, I picked my footing between the boulders. Hirun was a moody river. I had to trust it not to undercut my balance and pull me into its currents.

I debated how to carry water back. Any I scooped into my hands would slosh out while I climbed from the riverbank. Time was not on my side. The soldier could return at any minute.

Finally, I dipped the bottom of my skirt in the water, drenching an inch of the fabric thoroughly. I hurried to Adel’s side, lifting my skirt to keep the bottom from absorbing dirt.

My lessons with Hanim had covered Jasad’s funereal rituals. She had been so convinced she could mold me to rule a kingdom Nizahl had already wiped from existence. What a waste of her time and mine.

I wrung a length of the skirt. The water trickled over Adel’s hand. I moved to his other hand, then his feet. They had beaten him raw. Every drop slid away red.

I reached his face. I did not recoil from touching him. My aversion to physical contact was reserved exclusively for the living.

They’d ruptured his eyes; blood still trickled from under his eyelashes.

His magic had barely supported pushing the soldier a single time. I had once sat in Essam, much like I did now, listening to Hanim rant about how Jasad’s magic was already weakening when Nizahl attacked. How in a few

generations, our lands would be as barren as the other kingdoms, and Jasadi children would be born without any magic in their veins.

I dabbed water onto his cheeks and forehead. I had stomped out Hanim’s lies as soon as I was free of her, casting them to a dark corner of my mind.

But looking at Adel’s thin face, the bones of his forehead crushed into his hair, it was hard not to believe her words held some measure of truth.

I squeezed the last drops from my skirt and used them to wipe the blood from Adel’s chin. “Min dam Rovial, min ra’ad al Awaleen,” I began in Resar. If we were in Jasad, someone would have placed a date pit on his tongue. A farewell to his finished body, and a sign of gratitude for all it had given. I dusted a pebble against my vest and pressed it into his mouth.

“Irja’a ila makan al mawt wal haya, ila awal al Awaleen.” Return to the place of death and life. To the first of the Firsts.

I hoped Adel wouldn’t mind my performing a Jasadi ritual. He had spent his life largely in Omal. Jasad might not have meant anything to him.

Hanim had not taught me the Omalian death rites, but I hoped they were somewhat similar.

“Ila al mawt niwada’ak, wa na’eesh haya bakya fi fikrak. Yikun ma’ak —” I paused. To death we leave you, and we shall live our remaining life in remembrance. Be with you… what? I closed my eyes, reciting the sentence again in search of the missing pieces.

“A’malak we ahbabak,” came the smooth, measured voice above me. “I believe those are the words you seek.”

I went still. I had forgotten to listen for approaching footsteps.

I opened my eyes to boots standing a few inches from Adel’s head. My gaze crawled higher. Over the violet ravens embroidered on the bottom of a long black coat. Over a lean, broad-shouldered body shrouded in a Nizahlan uniform finer than any I’d seen before. The infamous black gloves encased his hands. A thin scar reached from the bottom of his throat to his jaw. If all this still did not sway my recognition, his eyes would have rung the final bell: pale blue and wintry. I had seen their likeness only once before.

Arin of Nizahl stood above me, watching me administer Jasadi death

rites to a slain man.

I am found.

The world flipped, leaving me spinning through emptiness. Nausea surged in my gut. I leapt to my feet, forgetting the heaviness of my skirt.

How was he here? When did he arrive?

I opened my mouth. To explain, to lie, to scream. A puff of air passed my lips, and nothing else.

Steady, Essiya. Remember the first rule, Hanim murmured.

It was too late. The panic had already spread. I was numb with it.

When I died, would anyone perform the Jasadi rites over my body?

A soft neigh accompanied the appearance of two horses led by the other soldier. His eyes flew comically wide at the sight of his Commander. He hadn’t known he was coming. If the Nizahl patrol hadn’t anticipated the Heir’s arrival, then why was he here?

A pulse of pure terror shot through my bones. The dead soldier. What if they’d found his body?

The soldier dropped to a knee instantly, visibly nervous. “My liege.”

“I assume he is yours.” The Nizahl Heir gestured to Adel’s body.

The soldier swallowed. “He used magic to attack us. We had no choice.”

“Did you tie him down? Blindfold him?”

“N-no.”

“Did he use magic a second time?”

The soldier shook his head. A tremor ran through him.

“I see.” The Nizahl Heir’s stare was cold. “Bury the body and meet me at your post.”

While they spoke, my instincts had sluggishly recovered. The Nizahl Heir wouldn’t be in Mahair over the death of a single soldier. He couldn’t know my true identity, either, unless the dead had learned to speak in the last few days. Marek said the Heir was spotted in Gahre, so Mahair wasn’t the first Omalian village on his route. He had seen me speaking Resar and performing the Jasadi death rites, but not using magic.

I could salvage this.

The soldier collected Adel’s body and staggered past the trees, leaving me alone with the Nizahl Heir.

When he turned to me again, I bowed my head. “I ask Your Highness’s leave to explain what you witnessed.”

The Heir tipped his head, causing a lock of silver hair to come loose from the tie at the nape of his neck. “You have it.”

“I am not a Jasadi.” I took a slow breath. Truth was perception. I couldn’t change my actions, but I could alter how he interpreted them. “I

have no magic and no ties to the scorched kingdom. Though I have known Adel for years, the truth of his nature remained hidden to Mahair. To me.

The savagery of his death… upset me. I only wanted to pay him a kindness by performing the death rites of his people.”

“Is it common to learn Jasadi death rites in your village?” He sounded curious. Conversational.

“No.” I pretended to hesitate. “I learned them in Ganub il Kul, before the war. My tutors placed a high premium on speaking the old languages and understanding the practices of every kingdom.”

A year or two before the siege, Nizahl had tried to foster a comradery between the kingdoms by creating a camp in the middle of Essam called Ganub il Kul. The camp would heal divisions between the kingdoms by unifying hundreds of their children in a shared education. No one in the royal families sent their children, of course. My grandparents had scoffed at the idea and discarded Supreme Rawain’s flowery invitation.

My favorite attendant, Soraya, had not been so dismissive. “Be wary of evil men’s kindnesses, Essiya. They always grow from poisonous roots.”

The second week of the war, every child still in Ganub il Kul was slaughtered. The murders were brutal, inhuman. And Supreme Rawain blamed it on Jasad. Any kingdom hesitant to point its sword at Jasad changed its tune quickly after Ganub il Kul.

“Your accent is perfect. Your tutors must have been proud.”

I studied the Heir. I could not puzzle out whether he believed me or was merely playing along. His features remained smooth and perfectly polite. I could have been describing the best scrubbing technique to remove a stain from cotton, for all he had reacted.

“Truthfully, I caused them great distress. As you can see, I rarely put my skills to good use.”

“Ah,” the Heir said, with a slight quirk of his lips. “Your first piece of honesty.”

I struggled to control my breathing. He didn’t believe me. Four Nizahl soldiers broke through the bracket of trees. Two were astride mounts, and the others pulled theirs along. They glanced at me, promptly disregarding my presence.

“Sire,” panted the first to arrive, bowing. “We’ve been searching for Your Highness.”

“You’ve found me,” he said. “Do you bring news?”

“No, my liege. It was as the blacksmith said. The boy has been released.”

Sire. Your Highness. My liege. How many more? Jasad had one or two honorifics for its royalty at most.

The Commander’s expression didn’t change. “Excellent. Hand me my reins, Jeru. We will accompany the lady to Mahair.”

I had succeeded in retreating several steps. The Commander’s announcement halted me in my tracks. “I can assure you that’s not necessary.”

The soldiers were irritated with my response. “Accept His Highness’s kindness, girl,” the brawny one snapped.

The curly-haired one—Jeru—handed the Heir the reins to a black horse.

The Heir studied me with his unsettling eyes. I wanted to stab them out of his head.

Bowing stiffly, I pasted on a gracious smile. There was only one right answer. I wouldn’t be like Adel, reacting first and thinking second.

“Of course. Thank you, my liege. I humbly accept your offer.”

“Wonderful. Do you ride?”

I dug my empty fingers in my cloak. What was his angle?

“I’ve had little occasion, but I can make do. Sire.”

He took a second set of reins from Jeru. I assumed he would mount, but he lifted his right hand and began to pluck the fingers of his glove loose.

The soldiers stilled.

The Commander extended his bare hand in my direction. “Allow me.”

There was no mistaking his intention.

Marek’s voice. He can sense it by touch alone.

It wasn’t possible. Nobody but Jasadis possessed magic anymore. But why else would he remove his glove?

I counted my breath in time with my steps and gritted my teeth. The choice was a simple one. I pull my magic from the surface and pray the cuffs do as they were designed, or I reveal myself as a Jasadi and live long enough to scream.

I thought about Supreme Rawain’s wink at the Blood Summit, moments before the screams began. Gedo Niyar shoving me from the table. Molten gold sliding over Teta Palia’s eyes as her magic wrapped around the table.

The roar when the table exploded, killing Teta and Gedo and engulfing anyone nearby in flames.

It was only later that I understood why the Malik and Malika chose such a gruesome fate for themselves. Accounting for the bodies of the dead when they lay in charred, unrecognizable pieces is a tricky task indeed. The record was taken, and ten-year-old Essiya’s name was listed among the deceased.

His father had spilled enough of my family’s blood. I would not grant the son the same privilege. Drift by drift, my magic ebbed back, the heat fading from my cuffs. My chest burned, as if I’d swallowed the sun.

I took the final step forward and folded my hand over the Commander’s.

He was unexpectedly warm to the touch. If I hadn’t been watching as keenly as I was, I might have missed the flicker of bemusement rippling across his stoic features. It was there and gone, but the meaning was unmistakable.

The Nizahl Heir was not a man who often found himself in error.

I raised my brows in a mockery of concern. “Is anything the matter, my liege? You’ve grown pale.”

I meant to land a barb, though it seemed only the growling soldiers felt the weight of my insolence. It would be in my best interest to keep far from the brawny one if I didn’t wish to suffer a fatal fall from my horse.

The Commander remained infuriatingly unruffled. “My natural complexion, I assure you.”

To my horror, he held his horse’s reins to the east. “You can’t mean to come to Mahair yourself,” I blurted.

“Sire!” the guard exploded. “If you would allow me to answer this insult —”

“Vaun.” The Commander aimed a quelling glance at his guard. “I’ve long meant to pay Mahair a visit. I have heard it is an honest and hardworking village. Have I been misled in this belief?”

I stared at him. Marek was wrong. They were all wrong. Arin of Nizahl’s greatest power did not lie in any supernatural ability. If I offered any resistance, I would raise their suspicions. If I agreed, he would say his visit to Mahair was on my invitation. He was three steps ahead in every direction I turned.

I pictured his mind as a thousand tiny serpents, moving in a rhythmic,

seething coil. A snare within a snare, and I was caught fast within it.

“Not at all, my liege,” I said. “Mahair welcomes you.”

We rode into the village, outlined against the setting sun. The crowd from earlier had thinned. A hush fell over the remaining stragglers. If the silver hair and crest on his horse did not declare the Nizahl Heir, the unequivocal air of authority did. His soldiers flanked him in the colors of their kingdom, cutting space through the street.

I was the outlier. An Omalian commoner riding in the Heir’s cavalry. I shrank into myself as we moved, wishing my hair was not braided back from my face. Between this and my offer to carry Adel into the woods, my anonymity had been compromised more effectively than if I’d danced naked through the main road.

I brought my horse to a stop when we reached Rory’s shop front.

“I am expected here,” I said. “Thank you for the honor of your escort.” I hitched my leg to the side of the mount and dropped to the ground. “I do hope you enjoy your time in Mahair.”

When the Commander dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men, my budding optimism that this nightmare was over died.

“Allow me to explain your extended absence to your employer.”

Did he expect I’d lead him into a room riddled with evidence of magic?

I strangled the basket’s arm and tipped my chin. “Your thoroughness is a merit to Nizahl.”

I hoped Rory had left his eviscerated frog experiments scattered over the counter. I wanted something to assault the Heir, even if just his sense of smell. I passed ahead of him, giving Vaun a wide berth. The bell above the door jangled with each entering guard. A cavalcade of uniformed doom.

Rory sat on a bedraggled cushion, sorting salves and scribbling in his tattered record book. At my entrance, relief slackened his thin frame.

“There you are, Sylv—my liege!”

“Your name is Sylv?”

“Only twice a month,” I said. Rovial’s tainted tomb, what hare-brained

specter had possessed me?

“Sylvia!” Rory balked. “Forgive her, Your Highness, she is young and foolish. Hand me my cane, Sylvia, I can’t—” He leaned over, toppling the book from his lap.

With an unpleasant jolt, I saw why Rory was adamant to reach his cane.

He’d cast it aside after lowering himself onto the cushion, and he could not kneel to the Heir without its support.

The Nizahl Heir seemed to draw the same conclusion. “Be at ease,” he told Rory. I was briefly surprised he’d dismiss Rory from his duty to kneel.

But then, what was one more supplicant when you had thousands? “Your apprentice has not failed in her duties. We delayed her.”

“Certainly, it is forgotten,” Rory said, clutching his cane against his chest. The chemist quaked like a newborn foal. “Please, it would be my honor to prepare a tea for Your Highness and your men.”

“His Highness wished to see me returned safely,” I said hurriedly. “We mustn’t impose on any more of his time.”

The Commander’s mouth twitched. My efforts to see the back of him seemed to be as entertaining as they were transparent. I was relieved when Vaun turned his head to speak quietly in the Commander’s ear. When he stepped back, the Commander tipped his chin and said, “Another time.

Enjoy your evening.

“Sylvia.” A chill crept along my spine. It was the wrong name in his mouth, but it perturbed me no less. When he met my gaze, the anger fled from my bones, replaced with pounding terror. His eyes were flinty, colder than rain on my skin. I forgot Rory, Adel, the dead soldier. I forgot Mahair in its entirety.

I was a ten-year-old Heir sitting at an ancient oak table as the sky erupted in fire, as black lightning bolts struck the earth. I was shivering, starving, covered in ash and blood in Essam Woods. Reaching for the woman who bent over me, the sun pouring through her like she was little more than a netted shroud on its glorious surface.

I had encountered death in every incarnation of my life, but I had never

looked it in the eye until now.

“Your Highness.” I averted my eyes.

The Commander and his guards withdrew. I waited until the thunder of beating hooves disappeared to turn to Rory. He’d climbed to his feet, but I

doubted it was the exertion leaving him ashen.

A heavy silence remained in the Heir’s wake. When Rory finally spoke, it was low and racked with horror. “You led them into Mahair.”

I blinked. “I did not lead them here. I was helping with Adel, and they happened upon me. He insisted on escorting me to the shop. What would you have had me do, Rory? Shove the Commander into Hirun and steal his horse?”

A storm waged inside the old man. My worry deepened. The sight of the Nizahl Heir would surely send Mahair into unmitigated hysteria, but I had not expected Rory to fall among them.

Despite his tantrums, Rory held ground as a man of medicine and fact, subservient to the callings of higher reason. Though the Supreme was no friend of science, I doubted he would send his son to mete out justice against a small village chemist.

“Rory,” I said slowly. “What are you hiding?”

Resignation weighed down the proud line of his shoulders. “I am not the one hiding, Essiya.”

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