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For Maia, my most beloved person in the whole world, and my favorite manuscript thief.
1
SEPORA
If I were not such a coward, I would hurl myself from Nuna’s back and plummet to the Underneath below. I would fall with purpose, headfirst on the rockiest part of the land. From this height, it would be painless. It would be swift.
It would prevent war.
But I am spineless, and so I urge my Serpen, Nuna, to fly higher and higher above the morning fog and mountaintops, which float against the sunrise and cast shadows like dark clouds onto the Underneath. Ah, the Underneath, that forbidden bit of land perched just beneath our mountains—mountains that are claimed by individual families or larger clans of families related in some way. Rope ladders sway in the wind all the way down, disappearing into the tall grass in places. If I weren’t fleeing my home kingdom of Serubel, I’d be caught up in the beauty of it all, so high, scraping at what feels like the ceiling of the sky and looking down upon the monotony of the life I used to live, running through the grasses, throwing rocks into the River Nefari from the safety of Nuna’s back, trampling over the undulating rope bridges connecting each of our mountains.
Yes, any other day, this would be a precious outing, a reprieve from Forging spectorium. Any other day, I would enjoy the freedom of flight, the time with Nuna, the endless possibilities of the morning.
But today will be the last of many things, and I mourn the loss of them already.
My thoughts wander again to far below us, far beneath the early mist and the waterfalls cascading into the River Nefari, to where my body should be sprawled, bloodied and lifeless and mauled. Yet, I tighten my hold on Nuna.
Saints of Serubel, but I am gutless.
Mother would have me believe otherwise: that it takes far more courage to hide, to live a life among the Baseborn class, who live in the poorest corner of our enemy kingdom Theoria. That the living conditions are rough, and the general mood of its residents even rougher. Those Serubelans who live there are not slaves anymore; stark poverty is what keeps them under Theorian control. If they could afford to, they would return to their homeland. If they could afford to, they would become citizens of Serubel again.
But I do not have that freedom. I can never return.
Not as long as Father wants to conquer the kingdoms. Not as long as I have what he needs to do so.
Nuna squirms beneath me as tears slip down my cheeks; she knows my feelings as well as I’ve come to know hers. She’s beautiful, Nuna, even if she is a Defender. Most Defender Serpens are ugly, and not only because of their rugged training scars, but also because they are the color of the green mucus that seeps from noses when someone catches cold. Their spiked tails and thick underbellies resemble calluses instead of the glistening, pearly scales of other Serpens of different uses, and their facial features seem naturally arranged to be fierce, all arched brows and mouths set in an almost humanlike scowl.
But to me, Nuna could never be ugly, perhaps because I’ve handled her for ten years already, since a time before the weight of my body entrenched a natural saddle along her neck, just behind her head. Grandfather always said that time grew things, like trees and children and affection. Perhaps because of the time I’ve spent with her, my affection covers over Nuna’s flaws. Oh, but it wasn’t always so. When I was barely waist-high to my father, he announced that the entire royal family would ride Defenders henceforth to ensure our protection. I remember that day well, even though my understanding of the way of things was only proportionate to my age. I knew the people of Serubel were upset, and I knew it had been Father’s doing. Father’s decree had come as a shock—a king who felt he needed the protection of a Defender was concerning, especially after a fragile Trade Treaty between Serubel and Theoria had just been penned. It was a cold treaty, but one promising peace—and so why would His Majesty need a Defender Serpen all of a sudden? It put our people at unease, to say the least. But no one in the kingdom could have been more shocked than me, a quiet six-year-old princess, scared of Serpens in general and morbidly terrified of Defenders in particular. Politics were matters for the adults, but riding Defender Serpens was a most pressing concern for a child.
Still, Nuna struck me as different almost from the beginning. Her green coloring runs a bit deeper than the other Defenders’, like fern leaves darkened by morning mist, and though she has the necessary scars from training to protect her royal rider, I had seen to it that the wounds were cared for and healed properly, so they are not as pronounced as the other Defenders’.
And when she sees me, I’d swear on the snowy caps of Serubel that she smiles.
Absently, I pet her head now as I spy the edge of the kingdom on the horizon. Where the grassy, rolling fields of Serubel end, that is where the Theorian desert begins. No, that is not entirely true. The kingdoms technically do not border each other; there is the Valley of the Tenantless that sweeps between the kingdoms, a vast, desolate dust bowl full of thickets and thorns and nothing of value and so uninviting and void that neither kingdom will lay claim to it. No one knows why this phenomenon occurs, where the bowl comes from, or what keeps it so bereft of life. Why the lush green grass of Serubel gives way to sand, then shriveling plants and prickly thorn bushes. Even the most intelligent of the Theorian scholars cannot solve the puzzle. And so the phenomenon is subject to rumors of a curse. Looking down upon the Tenantless from the safety of Nuna’s back, I could convince myself of a true curse. But curse or no, I have to cross the valley to get to the Theorian desert—which, in my opinion, might be considered cursed itself.
Who would choose to live in such a dry, desolate place, I wouldn’t know.
Perhaps it’s fitting that I should flee to an afflicted, bleak kingdom. That if I should live, it will be among the Baseborn class of Theoria. That each day I should break my back for my portion of food and shelter and that I should become a slave to my own hunger and thirst.
Yes, it’s fitting, and I want that for myself. I want that for myself more than I want an eternity in the cold recesses of the prison cell my father reserved for me. I want it more than the worry that he will soon grow tired of my resistance and perhaps trade my cell in favor of torturing me into Forging precious spectorium. I would rather hide in desolation and poverty, whether it be in the Baseborn Quarters or the Tenantless, than be the cause of thousands of deaths in all the five kingdoms.
And saints forgive me, I would rather hide than end my own life.
Nuna recognizes the boundary ahead of us—all Serpens are trained to halt at the sight of it—and she begins to slow, her three pairs of wings catching the wind instead of moving it. I coo into the small orifice that is her ear and bid her to land just before the grass fades into outstretched sand, the first of the overgrown thorn bushes standing guard in front of the rest of the valley.
Nuna cannot come any farther than this. If my father were to search for me, Nuna would be easily spotted, as I’d have to travel
by air rather than by foot; she is much too big to navigate the thistles on the ground. Alone, though, I could hide among the thistles themselves, carefully of course, and from above be indiscernible and by ground be imperceptible.
It is the worst way to travel the valley, yet the best possible chance for escape. And so I dismount Nuna at the edge of the bushes.
According to my map, the kingdom of Theoria dwarfs the other kingdoms in size, though it’s mostly desert and the population tends to accumulate in Anyar, where the River Nefari widens and cuts straight through. I’ll follow the river to this capital city. I’ll do as my mother says and I’ll embrace this new life. She wants the best for me, Mother. But she also wants the best for Serubel.
And what is best for Serubel is that I never return.
I come around to face Nuna and rub her nose, which causes her tail to whip about in pleasure. Serpens have only wings, no hands or feet or hooves or claws. No limbs to scratch an itch or to self-groom—which makes them especially grateful for a good rubbing down. They enjoy being petted, bathed, touched. Serpens may look formidable, especially Defenders, but with their riders—their bonded riders, that is—they are as gentle as butterflies on a breeze.
And I will miss my Nuna.
I nuzzle the tip of her scaly nose with mine, which would be a ridiculous sight to see, I’m sure. Father would not approve. Even Mother might roll her eyes. And Aldon, my tutor, would sigh and mutter to himself, “Princess Sepora, a lost cause of a princess who treats her Defender as a pet.” A pet that is longer than fifteen lengths of me, her head alone three times the size of my body—and so nuzzling really is a delicate matter indeed. But I need this one last comfort, this one last gift of affection from her, before I begin my journey.
She holds very still, careful not to open her mouth and expose her sickle-sharp teeth. I’ve had many stitches because of her accidental overexcitement, and while I usually do stay away from her mouth, this is a special occasion. “This is good-bye, my lovely friend,” I whisper.
The words feel like a bite to my tongue, sharp and painful. Nuna nuzzles back, squirming to get as close to me as possible, slipping on the velvety sleekness of the undisturbed soft sand and losing traction. I step away from her. This is not good-bye for Nuna. She has no idea this will be the last time we see each other. She knows something is amiss, for I’ve never taken her this close to the border before. But she probably assumes I’ll mount her soon, and we’ll fly away together.
With my hands, I give her the signal to return to her holding on the far end of the mountains where all the Serpens are corralled. No one must know she’s been out this morning. No one must know Mother flew her to my cell to aid me in my escape.
Nuna is not happy with my command and protests with a high-pitched squeal. She’s leery of the boundary still, as she should be. I shake my head at her, firmly, and make the signal again. Another tear streaks all the way down to my throat when she slithers backward, away from me. She watches me then, blinking once, as if to give me time to change my mind.
I gesture again for her to go.
I watch after her for a long time as she glissades through the air, leaving me behind. I watch until I can’t see her any longer. Then I turn toward the Tenantless. Toward my new life. And I take the first step.
2
TARIK
Tarik makes his way to his father’s bedchamber in the farthest wing of the palace, the tension building with each barefoot step. Behind him, Patra pads along quietly, stealthily, the way only a feline could, pausing to stretch and let out an enormous, soundless yawn that brings the muscles in her back taut, the golden sheen of her coat glistening in the candlelight. Despite Patra’s great size, Tarik suspects if his giant cat had the notion, she could sneak up on the wind. He waits for her yawn to subside, his lips curling up in a grin.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” he tells her, and she responds by nudging his palm with her nose, leaning down to do so as it were, since her head nearly reaches the height of his shoulder. Even though it’s late in the evening and Rashidi’s messenger had put her on alert, she purrs at his side, recognizing that they are going to visit Tarik’s father—something they’ve done together since he was a boy.
They walk past the towering marble columns and the layered stone fountains illuminated with small pyramids of spectorium and, finally, the rows of guards on either side of them leading up to his father’s door, swords and shields at the ready. They can protect my father from any outside intruder, Tarik thinks bitterly. But they cannot protect him from the thing inside him, asking him for his life day after day. Not even the Healers at the Lyceum can figure out what is killing the king of Theoria. Even they, of the Favored Ones, are powerless against this new illness.
The two soldiers standing at the great wooden barrier pull the ornate handles and open it wide for their prince and his feline companion, the hinges creaking loud enough to wake the statues in the massive garden outside.
His father’s magnificent bed is at the end of the cavernous room, and it takes Tarik and Patra several more moments to reach it. Taking the steps up to the bed quietly, Tarik motions for Patra to stay behind. She obeys, spilling out onto the floor and resting lazily on her side as she watches him. Rashidi, his father’s most trusted adviser, sits on the edge of the bed holding the king’s hand. Tarik does not like this rare show of affection from Rashidi, does not want to consider what it must mean for his father’s health.
“The Falcon Prince has arrived, my king,” Rashidi whispers.
Tarik shakes his head, taking a place next to Rashidi. He cannot recall a single time his father has ever actually called him the Falcon Prince, not since he gave him the title when Tarik was but seven years. “You see into matters with the eyes of a falcon,” he’d said. “Knowing discernment when others allow room for ignorance.” The name had caught on in the palace and then throughout Theoria, and though he doesn’t feel deserving, he could never admit such a thing to a father who had been so proud.
“Let him sleep,” Tarik says, absorbing that the great King Knosi, in his weakened state, now takes up so little of the bed.
“I would, my prince, but he has summoned you for a reason,” Rashidi says softly.
“The reason can wait until morning,” Tarik says, already knowing what the old adviser will say. He doubts his father summoned him at all but rather it was Rashidi’s need for tradition, for formalities that brings him to the bedchamber this night. Tarik cannot imagine, though, that his father will even wake, much less speak the decree making his firstborn son the new king of Theoria.
“I’m afraid it cannot, Highness.”
“Please, Rashidi. I will never get used to you calling me Highness and meaning it.” As the royal family’s closest friend, Rashidi had had the displeasure of knowing Tarik when he was a boy. A very rambunctious boy.
The old man laughs. “Perhaps you are not a Lingot after all, my prince. Surely you would know my insincerity.”
Tarik snorts. Rashidi wants to convince him that he doesn’t mean Highness, that he is not officially acknowledging him as a ruler of Theoria. But as Rashidi said, Tarik is a Lingot. He can distinguish a truth from a lie, and right now, Rashidi is telling the truth. He is indeed calling him Highness. And he does indeed mean it.
“My father will recover from this,” Tarik says, recognizing the lie in his own voice. Rashidi does not have to be a Lingot to notice.
“No,” Rashidi says. “The Healers do not think him to live through the night.”
“The Healers have been wrong before.” Haven’t they? Tarik is not sure.
Rashidi sighs. It is full of pity, Tarik can tell. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have the ability to deduce so much—even from body language. Rashidi is always composed, but tonight, there is an almost imperceptible slump to his shoulders. Rashidi feels defeated. Tarik swallows hard.
“Your father has requested that if he ceases to breathe this night, we will not summon the Healers. You u
nderstand what this means, Highness.”
“I’m not ready, Rashidi.” Not ready to lose his father. Not ready to rule as king of Theoria. At eighteen years old, he has been groomed all his life for kingship. But that was supposed to be in an official ceremony whereby his father would relinquish power to his firstborn heir—an heir that would be at least thirty years old by then, if circumstances permitted. Eighteen years or thirty years makes no difference to Tarik. A lifetime of preparation is not enough to make one ready to oversee an entire kingdom of living, breathing people who depend on the decisions he makes. The risks he takes.
The risks he doesn’t take.
“What your mind does not yet know, your heart will make up for,” Rashidi insists. “You prove you have the wisdom to rule by admitting that you are not ready to do so. The people love you. Let them support you.”
Tarik mulls over Rashidi’s words and finds them to be true. The adviser believes the people of Theoria do love their prince, and Rashidi is confident in his ability to act as king. It’s reassuring, if only a little, that Rashidi is so steadfast. He is, after all, an advocate of the people first and foremost and adviser to his king second.
“The people do not know me,” Tarik feels obligated to say. The people know a boy who takes after his mother. A skilled Lingot. A dutiful son. But they do not know his ability to rule as king. How could they?
Rashidi waves in dismissal. “I well know you, boy. I speak for the people. You’ll not disappoint.” The truth, or at least what Rashidi sincerely believes to be true.
Tarik places a hand on the linen next to his father’s legs and leans on it for support. The king’s breaths come in shallow, wheezing whispers, and Tarik is sure it does not help that the air is so hot and so very dry. A trickle of blood seeps from his nose, and Rashidi dabs at it with a damp cloth. The bleeding from his ears and mouth has lessened, but Tarik suspects it’s because his father doesn’t have much blood left to give.