She hesitates, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. “Yes, they could be. I’m not sure what…” But she trails off. And it’s clear to him she knows exactly “what” she was going to say, yet she doesn’t expound. He wonders if he prods her privately if she’ll tell him. He doubts it. “But there was no need to kill him,” she continues. “His information can be obtained from his eyes. If he were still alive.”
“How do you mean, Mistress Sepora?” the officer asks. By the way he says her name—he caught on rather quickly to her name, Tarik thinks—he’s already quite taken with her. Tarik frowns against his will.
Sepora takes a step closer to the officer, gently touching his hand to get his attention. As if she doesn’t have it fully already. “You see,” she tells him, “Seers have more than just exceptional vision. Their eyes are able to capture what they see. While they’re alive, that is. You can remove their eyes and place them to smoke over a fire. An image of what they saw last will appear in the smoke.”
Tarik had heard of this but never thought such a remarkable thing could be true. He’d never seen a blue Serpen before—except in the rudimentary paintings of the former slaves descended from Serubel. They’d taken to painting the inside of the pyramids they’d built with their own hands and their art was so beautifully executed that no king had had the mind to stop them. Too, he’d seen what was supposed to be blue Serpen scales adorning the headdresses of some in the Superior class—Serpen scales were considered as rare as the rubies of Wachuk’s Death Caves. But after many strolls in the market and hearing the merchants’ cries of the scales ring false in his ears, he’d concluded that there was no such thing as a blue Serpen.
“After a few turns of the sun, their eyes will grow back again as if you’d never harvested them,” Sepora is saying. “Just as the brown lizard will regrow its tail after the cutting off of it.”
“With respect, Mistress Sepora,” the guard says, “the beast is still alive.”
Her eyes light up, and she pushes past both Tarik and the guard and sprints to the downed Serpen, the sheer parts of her dress flowing behind her. No one cares to stop her, Tarik thinks dryly. It’s as if she’s cast a spell upon them all. Even Rashidi has kept quiet throughout the entire affair. No doubt from impatience and horror, if Tarik had to guess.
Tarik follows her, bidding his guards to fall behind him. He listens as Sepora softly coos words of encouragement to the great beast, though it remains unresponsive. Her head barely reaches the top of it, even as it lies limp and unalert on the ground. “Sepora,” he says gently. “You realize we do have to harvest the eyes. I must know who sent it and why. Tell me the best way to do it. Is it very painful for them?”
She frowns up at him. “Not as much as one would imagine. They are bred for this very thing. Still, do you have anything to sedate him with?”
“I’ll call my Healers at once.” He shifts from one foot to the other. Her body language suggests that this beast she’s never even seen before is very important to her. He wonders if it reminds her of her home kingdom. It surprises him to realize that he doesn’t want her to miss her home. What has gotten into me?
“Sepora, do you know how to train such a creature?”
She pulls her focus from the Serpen and fixes it on him. “I had a Defender Serpen in Serubel. I taught her tricks. But this Seer has already been through training. You see, Serpens tend to bond with their person. I’m not sure I could sway him to obey me.”
“I require that you try. Our military could benefit from a Seer.”
She bites her lip. He prepares for the argument he can tell is just at the end of her tongue. He can allow her only so much headway in front of his men—and Rashidi. But her rebuttal does not come. For that, he is endlessly thankful.
“Of course, Highness,” she says, bowing her head in submission. “As you wish.” Her tone carries a hint of excitement, something he’s sure the others surrounding them cannot detect. Another thing about which to be grateful—the fact that Sepora’s submission stems not from her genuine obedience, but from her enthusiasm over the beast. Pride of the pyramids, but what is to be done about her?
“Good. Meet me in the east courtyard in an hour’s time.” He turns to his officer. “Have a fire built there. We shall discover what this Seer beheld.”
21
SEPORA
In Serubel, courtyards are quiet, etched-out places of beauty carved into the mountainside. There are wooden benches and birdbaths and vines full of fragrant blooms crawling up the surrounding bluffs. Here in Theoria, the east courtyard of the young Falcon King’s palace is nothing but a stone wall surrounding highly tread-upon dirt that resembles a battleground rather than a courtyard. I suspect this is where the king’s soldiers train for combat; I can’t think of another reason why the sand would have such an unkempt look compared with the smooth, windswept neatness of the rest of Theoria’s desert.
In the center of the bleak courtyard, a great fire laps at the early evening sky, the burning wood resembling the beams and poles of structures rather than firewood cut for the purpose. I suppose in Theoria they would have to trade for wood with Wachuk, whose forests provide a complex variety of tinder, since forests are nonexistent within this desert kingdom’s borders. In Serubel, we, too, traded for wood from Wachuk but not to heat our hearths; Serubel has enough wooded mountains for keeping fires. We needed the kind of wood used to make quality parchment, and so we traded for that.
Next to the sizable inferno in the courtyard, Rashidi and the boy king stand, talking between themselves, their faces drawn into expressions of solemnity.
I will myself to approach them, though I’m not ready for the questions the smoke will incite. Is my father looking for me? Does he know I live? Or does he search for Bardo, the boy Forger? Or the architect? Or any of the secret Forgers hiding in Theoria?
I cannot shake the feeling that the smoke will reveal that the Seer spied me from above, following me as I wandered behind Cara, who toured me through the outer courtyards and gardens of the palace. Surely the guards would not allow a Serpen to fly so close to the king’s residence. And certainly I would have noticed a Serpen overhead—wouldn’t I? But indeed the guards had said it was flying away when shot down. And they would have shot it down well before it penetrated the sky above the palace. Still, unreasonable fear makes its way through me. What if it slipped past them undetected? What will I say to the king, whose Favor gives him the ability to dissect the lies I so desperately want to tell? Will he return me to my father? Will he hold me and demand a ransom from my kingdom? What will Mother say?
I envision Mother’s lips pressed tight with disappointment, sighing heavily as I’m returned to the castle in this scandalous state of undress. “You’ve failed,” she’ll say. “You’ve failed, and now we have war on our hands.”
Or possibly the Falcon King will keep me, when he sees what value I have to the king. Possibly he’ll ask me all the right questions, and I’ll have to admit that I am—or thought I was—the last Forger. Or worse, he’ll ask if there are others, and my answer will betray them all. Because of me, the youngest Forger will grow up as I did, a slave to producing spectorium, a mere vessel used for his abilities.
My heart twinges at the thought.
I’m so consumed by my fears that I don’t notice the king and his grumpy adviser have approached me. Indeed, I don’t notice until the king places his hand on my shoulder, sending a shiver through me. It’s silly for me to respond this way; he’s never been anything but civil to me. It’s just that in his hands lies the power to send me back to my father. That in itself is enough to cause me to fear him, but it is not lost on me that if he does send me away, he’ll risk his own kingdom, too. A kingdom that, as far as I can tell, doesn’t deserve the atrocities of the war my father has planned for it. Still, I’ve been here for a very short time, I remind myself. Hardly enough time to make such judgments. Hardly enough time to throw my lot in with this peculiar boy king.
&n
bsp; “Sepora, are you well?” the king says, his brow furrowed. If he weren’t the king, and I merely a servant to his servant, I would think him genuinely concerned.
“I worry for the Seer, Highness.” Which is essentially true, just not in the way I mean. Yes, a small part of me worries for its health and fate, but that is just a sliver compared with the worry I have over what it has seen. Of what it will reveal here today.
I’ve no experience in dealing with Lingots—at least not successfully. How much of the truth can he discern? How much does he know is missing from my confession?
The Falcon King scrutinizes my face, and I know he finds conflict in my answer. Yet, he keeps it to himself. “I’m told the surgery went well, and the beast rests peacefully. The Healers found scars where the eyes have been removed before, so I’m hopeful the procedure will be but an inconvenient routine for your beloved beast. Please come to the fire, so we can examine the smoke.”
I try to swallow the dread, but it becomes lodged halfway down, bringing my voice to an uneven pitch. “Of course, Highness.” I follow behind them both, striving not to step on Rashidi’s stiff train as it drags after him in the sand. It’s curious, how Rashidi wears a tunic and robes with his shendyt, all in varying colors of blue, while none of the other Theorians wear this much attire. I wonder if it has to do with his position as adviser, and I grow all the more inquisitive. A gold rope drapes about his neck, and he wears rings on both hands. His sandals are simple leather without any embellishment, though, and his head is shaved all over except for a patch over his right ear, where he binds it with a small gold clasp. I’m not sure why I notice so much about him now, but his attempts at trying to put distance between me and the king could not be more obvious.
What’s more, I’m not sure what the king is expecting of me, especially considering we’re surrounded by dozens of His Majesty’s royal guards. All truth told, the king would not need his guards to come to his aid. He seems perfectly capable in size and strength to render me nothing more than a passing nuisance, even with the training I received in Serubel to protect myself.
Other men and women attired differently from Rashidi have assembled around the fire. They seem to adore wearing as little as possible. The women have small strips of fabric crisscrossed over their chests. The men wear only shendyts, the guards with the added sheathed swords and shields tucked at their backs. Truly, Serubelan dress would be much too stuffy for this weather. Rashidi must have some sort of ailment brought on by the cold, since he wears more than is really bearable in this heat.
It occurs to me then how much the blaze warms my cheeks; the size of this fire is meant to create smoke for all in attendance to see. In Serubel, we did such things without ceremony in any hearth convenient at the time, and of course, large enough to hold the eyes. In the palace, the only hearths I’ve seen are pristine and clean and bereft of any signs of use. I wonder if the winter months here will change that. I wonder if winter exists in Theoria, as it does in Serubel.
After a few moments, the eyes of the Seer are brought, still bloody, on an intricately carved clay platter that takes two men to carry. Carefully, they hoist their load onto the fire, small embers of orange erupting beneath the weight of the tray and disappearing with a sizzle into the night. With apprehension, I watch as the eyes turn cloudy and then glow a brilliant red, signifying their imminent release of smoke. Murmurs begin to circulate in the gathered crowd, and I close my eyes against the anticipation. None of the outcomes I imagine will end well for me. The overwhelming urge to run overtakes me, and I begin to back away from the fire.
But the Falcon King notices immediately and slowly shakes his head at me. Of course he expects me to flee. I’ve told nothing but half-truths in his presence, and after all, I did already take flight from his harem. Becoming attendant to Rashidi had not been my choice, and I’d made that clear. If only the king weren’t so attentive to me at times such as these. But he is wise to keep watch over me. I would do the same, under the circumstances.
The smoke begins to swirl and thicken into a ball of vapor over the platter, and images finally materialize. At first, they are blurry and separate as each of its six eyes comes into clarity, but I know all too well how quickly that will change. The images will converge together, giving us a panorama of what it is like to fly. Watching the smoke will seem as real as being there with the Serpen itself. It is, in a way, stepping back into time.
First, a vision of a man dressed in traditional Serubelan war attire. I recognize him immediately as my father’s highest general. He reaches a hand toward the Seer, affection apparent on his face.
Saints of Serubel, they’ve captured General Halyon’s Seer.
I fight the urge to flee again as we all watch the Serpen take flight, leaving the soldiers beneath it appearing as tiny freckles on the desert sand. Trained to peer down, it absorbs the landscape, crossing over the River Nefari quickly—the war party must have been just north of the tributary that separates the sprawling desert in half. It passes a lone, immense building, then what I assume is the Bazaar. Any second, it will turn east, toward the palace. Any second, it will have me in its sights.
Instead, though, it passes the rough road leading to what I assume, from the scant tents and blond residents below, is the Baseborn Quarters. I hold my breath, just knowing that Father has discovered a blond-haired citizen with silver eyes, a hidden Forger, perhaps even little Bardo. But the Baseborn Quarters come and go. After that, more of the desert. The Seer passes the occasional band of travelers but doesn’t swoop to investigate. It certainly has a destination in mind; I recognize when it begins lifting its nose to smell the air around it. In the distance, structures appear, dark structures that look as though they’ve been burned. As the Seer approaches, it slows its speed, plunging into a downward spiral until it hovers just above the ruins.
“Kyra,” Rashidi hisses to the king.
“Kyra?” I ask, sifting through all of my history lessons with my tutor, Aldon. Kyra had been Theoria’s capital long ago. It had been razed by Scaldlings in the Great War between the kingdoms. Serubelan history teaches it as one of our greatest military achievements, though Theoria’s retribution for the act ultimately won them the war—and all their Serubelan slaves.
The Falcon King tilts his head as he scrutinizes the smoke, as if trying to discern the Seer’s thoughts. For a brief moment of panic, I wonder if a Lingot has the ability to do just that. But then I remember, the king explained that he cannot discern the thoughts of beasts.
“What interest do the Serubelans have in a burned city?” he says, turning to me. “Mistress Sepora, do you recognize the man who dispatched the Serpen?”
I nod, feeling the desperate need to lie cling to my insides. But I am defenseless against the king and his Favor. “It’s General Halyon, Highness. High commander of Serubel’s army.”
This appears to surprise him. “Do you have any idea why he would be so intrigued by a city left in ashes?”
At first I shake my head. Then I realize I do know what Halyon wants. What Father wants. Why a city of ashes and destruction would interest him so.
Scaldling venom.
The king must see the realization strike me; he steps closer to me, the shadows from the fire dancing around his face, his normally brown eyes reflecting the orange of the flames. With the gold paint covering his body, he seems to glow. Again, I want to step away from him, from his knowing eyes. “What of it, Mistress Sepora?”
How can I answer? How can I manage myself around his Favor? I decide omission is my best strategy. He cannot discern a lie in what I do not say. “It’s not that they wish to occupy the city, Highness. It’s the ashes they’re after.”
His mouth falls slightly ajar. “The ashes? Why?”
I sigh. “Because, Your Majesty, the ashes contain Scaldling venom. And it’s highly explosive.” So much for omission.
22
TARIK
The council assembly lasts well into the night, and Tarik
would like nothing more than to leave the throne room and retire to his bed. He’d been quiet but attentive, allowing his company to toss about ideas of what the Serpen’s vision could mean for Theoria. Most were in agreement; it meant the kingdom must prepare for war.
So then, we are to battle a plague and the kingdom of Serubel all at once. So much for having a Silent Reign, as did my father. The only thing silent about his reign so far is the plague itself, sweeping through his citizens as though carried on the wind, and now his entire assembly must contemplate how to prepare for conflict while the plague ravages through the ranks of the Majai. Lucky for them, the Majai army resides at the Lyceum with the other Favored Ones and have Healers to tend to them at the snap of any commander’s fingers. But with Majai weakened with disease, they are unable to keep up with their training. And their training has never been so important as now.
But there are still questions burning within him, questions his assembly cannot answer, questions that he dare not pose to them at all, lest he incite a panic. As his best advisers and scholars exit the throne room at last, all appearing just as exhausted as him, Tarik bids Rashidi to come closer. Once the great doors close behind the last of them, Rashidi allows himself a sizable yawn before approaching.
“Yes, Highness?”
“Summon the Mistress Sepora.”
“At this hour? Highness, she is most assuredly sleeping.”
Tarik shakes his head. “No, she’s not. I could tell by her expression she was disturbed by the Seer visions. She’ll still be awake. And I want to know why.”
It takes the better part of an hour for the Mistress Sepora to appear before him. She appears bedraggled, her eyelids heavy, as if her eyelashes are weighted down. Her glorious hair falls around her loosely like a cape, crinkled from the braids she wore earlier.
“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep, Mistress Sepora.”
She sighs. “I wasn’t sleeping, Highness.”