Just as he thought. “I’ve more questions for you.”
She nods. So, she’d been anticipating more inquiries. Could that mean she’d held back something in the courtyard? And would it be such a surprise if she did, with so many onlookers in attendance?
“May I sit, Highness?” she says. “I’m afraid the day’s events are taking their toll.”
“Of course.” He’d forgotten she’d spent the day exploring the palace, in addition to all that had taken place with the capture of the Serpen. She’s so weary that before he can have a seat fetched for her, she ascends the stairs two at a time and sits on the top one, closest to his throne. Careful to keep her legs tucked beneath her, she folds her arms about her, as if chilled, looking up at him expectantly. “How can I be of service?” she asks.
A certain radiance has left the girl who escaped the harem, and he can’t help but mourn the loss of it. Perhaps she really is tired and not defeated, which is the impression she unknowingly gives now. Still, he must tread carefully around her sudden willingness to cooperate. He well knows being overly helpful is not a dominant characteristic of hers. At the same time, she could be eager to have be done with this inquisition. And he can’t blame her in the least. “As you know, my assembly has just convened. The majority of my advisers are under the impression that Serubel is seeking to start a war. What are your thoughts on that?”
She hunches over, resting her elbows on her knees. For a moment, she seems to consider what she’ll say, then appears to abandon it in favor of saying the closest thing to nothing. “What does it matter what I think?”
“I didn’t say that it does.”
“Then certainly you’ll not mind if I do not answer.”
“I didn’t say that it doesn’t matter, either.”
She huffs. “I’m but a servant. I do not have such lofty thoughts as a king and his adviser.”
Oh, but she lies. Sepora does have an opinion on the matter, a very strong one, which makes Tarik want to know it all the more. Before he can persuade her, Rashidi ends their game.
“Have out with it at once,” he barks. “The king is not to be trifled with, and at this late hour. Pride of the pyramids, but you could test the nerves of a priestess.”
Her shoulders fall, her lips forming what is a considerable pout. “I’m afraid I agree with your advisers,” she tells Tarik, careful not to grace Rashidi with an acknowledgment.
“Why would they want a war with us?” Rashidi asks. “Surely they’ve kept the records of such follies in their histories.”
Sepora casts him a glare, her previous sparkle shining through once more. Tarik suppresses a grin. “Perhaps they’re seeking to make new histories,” she snaps.
“Tell me,” Tarik says. “Tell me why they would start a war.”
The Mistress Sepora sighs, fixing her stare on the marble steps below her. “It is no secret that King Eron thinks Theoria is condescending and deserving of a reckoning.” She agrees with “condescending” but has a disdain for the word “reckoning.” Curious.
“He would risk the lives of his citizens because of this narrow-minded view?” Rashidi says, contempt unhidden in his features.
Tarik holds up his hand. Calling Sepora’s king narrow-minded is not the way to lure the truth from her. “Please, friend. Let her speak.”
“Apologies” is what he’s hoping Rashidi grumbles under his breath.
“You’re asking me to betray my kingdom.” The angst in her eyes tells him she’s fighting her own war deep within. She still has loyalties to her old home. He can understand that. But her loyalties cannot take priority over the safety of his kingdom.
“Perhaps if I know his reasons, I can prevent deaths in both our kingdoms.”
“If Theoria is so superior, why do you wish to prevent another victory for your histories?” There is a bitterness in her voice, telling of hurt pride and long-entrenched prejudices. The Serubelans did not take kindly to their defeat many years ago. Perhaps with time, Sepora will come to see that her enmity is unfounded.
Perhaps, that is, if they are not forced into another war with her homeland.
“There are no victories in war, Mistress Sepora. There are only kingdoms that suffer fewer casualties.”
She runs a hand through her thick blond hair and pulls it around, absently braiding a small piece of it. A few long moments pass before she speaks again. “He wishes to control Theoria. To rule it, as he does Serubel.”
Rashidi barks laughter. “Is he mad? He actually thinks he would win against us?”
Tarik holds Sepora’s gaze. Her eyes tell him that she believes it possible. “How could you know his intentions?” he asks softly. “The king would not share that with just anyone, especially a servant.”
She nods, as if she’d been waiting for that question. “I lived in the castle, Highness. I worked very closely with the king.” Tarik is taken aback by the truth in her words. She lived in the castle and worked closely with the king? He glances at the guards standing at the door of the throne room. They’ve heard the entire conversation, yet he trusts their discretion. It is possible that a servant such as Sepora overheard things not meant for her ears, just as these guards have.
But it is also possible that she did not.
“Are you a spy, Mistress Sepora? Sent here by King Eron himself?”
At this she smiles. He tries to recall seeing anything so beautiful and he cannot. Feeling a bit rattled, he shifts in his seat. Rashidi steals a curious glance at him, at which he scowls.
“No, Highness. I am most certainly not a spy. Do you ask if I would try to warn Serubel of an impending attack? Of course I would.” Another truth.
“Why did you come here?”
“I was being mistreated by the king. He demanded too much of me, gave me more duty than I could handle. I was not happy there.” Again, an honest answer. He doesn’t know what to make of it. How could one so young be such a trusted asset to a king?
“And are you happy here?” He nearly groans at his bluntness, not daring to look at Rashidi. His friend is most likely very amused by the direction in which this interrogation has taken. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s never shown interest in any female before, save for Patra.
“Happier than I was in the harem,” she says.
Rashidi rolls his eyes. “Splendid,” he says superficially. “Highness, if the Serubelans want a war, I suggest we prepare for one. In fact, I suggest we attack first. By now they’ll have realized their Serpen is not returning to them. They’ll have surmised what happened to it.”
Tarik shakes his head. “We cannot attack based on assumptions, Rashidi. The Mistress Sepora has been helpful in deciphering King Eron’s intentions, but we cannot know for certain what they truly are until he makes another move.” He drums his fingers on the armrest of the throne. “Before your departure for Hemut in the morning, send a messenger to the Lyceum. Tell the Master of the Majai to prepare for war. Double the guards at all the walls and set up vigil at Kyra. Keep the archers ready and watching the air for more Serpens.”
“If this venom is so explosive as the Mistress Sepora says, should we not keep our structures wet? I could send a messenger to the chief engineer, have him construct something to increase the water flow to the cities. Cease the public fountains and baths.”
Tarik wrinkles his nose. “Keep the baths, but do everything else. And dispatch messages and soldiers to the outer cities. They’ll be the first victims of this idiocy but also our first line of defense.” He leans back, searching his mind for more ways to prepare for an attack. One lingers at the edge of his thoughts, yet he’s hesitant to give it consideration. It is a long shot, after all, and so unviable that Rashidi would possibly laugh him out of the room. But all possibilities must be put forth. And if the responsibility of protecting the citizens falls on his shoulders, he should do everything in his power to do so. Only, this is not something that necessarily falls within his power. “You know, it’s a shame we cannot harvest th
e nefarite,” he says hesitantly. “With enough of it, we could fortify our weapons. They would be impenetrable, even to firepower.”
At this, Sepora sits a little straighter. “Nefarite?”
He nods at her. “Yes, mistress. Nefarite is an element found in the River Nefari. It is protected by the Parani. It can withstand a blow from all other elements, even spectorium.” There was a time when the River Nefari was bereft of Parani, when they preferred the waters of the southern kingdom of Wachuk, and when nefarite was abundant and widely used in Theoria. He’d even inherited a sword forged from nefarite, an heirloom passed down through generations of pharaohs. The day his father presented it to him, he’d taken him into the courtyard to demonstrate its strength. King Knosi had a block of spectorium placed before them and with one heaving slice through the air, he’d cleaved the block in two. It had made an impression on Tarik, one that he carried until this day. His father had told him that once the Parani arrived upon the scene, they made the river too dangerous. Sending laborers into the river among them had caused dire results. Nefarite was all but lost to them.
“Protected how?”
“By the fact that they’ll eat any sort of flesh unfortunate enough to cross paths with them.”
Rashidi shakes his head. “We’ve no one to spare in order to excavate it. It would be risking more lives than it could potentially save. Our histories prove that.”
“We could divert the river, dry them out,” Tarik says, though the consequences of taking that sort of action would reach far and wide. By diverting the river, he would also be lowering the levels needed to sustain the crops of the Middling class. The crops needed for their survival and for Theoria’s food supply.
“How much nefarite is in the river?” Sepora is asking. “Enough to protect everyone? Enough to spare Theoria?”
Tarik sighs. “We’re not sure. Rashidi is right; it’s too risky. There are enough Parani within Anyar’s limits alone to consume the flesh of the entire city.”
She tilts her head. “They cannot be made to see the necessity of harvesting the nefarite? Perhaps peace could be reached—”
“Ha!” Rashidi slaps his knee. “Peace! The Parani understand peace the same way a cow understands the scrolls of the dead. Impossible! Do they not even provide a basic education in Serubel, then?”
She arches a brow. “Even the crudest of educations include good manners, which you—”
“Oh, enough,” Rashidi says, waving his hand. “This is getting tiresome.” He looks at Tarik. “If you ever want to gift me with something, her tongue would be what I want most.”
Sepora sniffs but says nothing more.
“I’m afraid Rashidi is right,” Tarik says, ignoring her sudden ire at the words. “The Parani cannot be bargained with. It was just something I felt obligated to mention out of duty, really. To explore every avenue of possibility.”
But the words seem to fall on deaf ears. Sepora stands abruptly, energized anew, tucking her hands behind her back. Something has struck her, he can tell, an idea or an inspiration, and he’s far too curious about it for his liking. “May I be excused, Highness?”
She’s tired. He’s tired. Rashidi is tired. All good reasons to want to excuse her. Still, he searches for a justification to keep her here. And he finds none.
Perhaps agreeing to train her was not such a good idea after all. Not if his mind is occupied by little else—especially since she cannot be trusted, having worked so closely with the king. After all, she’d admitted she would warn Serubel of an attack, and that had been the truth. No, he must keep his guard up where this one is concerned. He must keep his wits about him. “Good night, Mistress Sepora.”
23
SEPORA
I Am far beyond exhaustion when I reach my bedchamber, but my mind still whirs with the conversation I had with the king and Rashidi. Theorians believe war is imminent. I’m not sure what my father hopes to accomplish with the Scaldling venom now that his supply of spectorium is finite and the power from that supply is swiftly ebbing. What I do know is that if my father still wants the venom, enough to take the risk of reaping it from the burned city of Kyra well within Theorian borders, then he still feels he has enough spectorium to start a war with Theoria. It’s possible he thinks his victory will be swift, that his cache of spectorium will be enough for his purposes.
What he doesn’t know is that I’ve just advised his nemesis to prepare for war. And that I’ll do anything in my power to stop the violence.
My mother thought my leaving Serubel would prevent a cold war from becoming inflamed. She was wrong. But now that I’m in Theoria, out of Father’s reach, I’m still not helpless to prevent unnecessary violence and inevitable death. Part of me wants to believe I’ve done my part by warning the Falcon King of the possibility of an attack, to believe that I’ve done all I can. The other part, the bigger part, knows that I haven’t.
And I am afraid.
The pressing question, though, the one spiraling my thoughts and coiling my stomach, is how much am I willing to sacrifice? Shouldn’t I be willing to sacrifice everything to save many lives, even if those lives belong to Theorians? The words of the king resound in my head, making me clench my teeth with certainty. There are no victories in war, Mistress Sepora. Only kingdoms that suffer fewer casualties.
Which means there will inevitably be Serubelan casualties as well. Rashidi had been right; the Theorians had shown their mightiness in the past. At this point, the Falcon King is not considering making an offensive attack. At least, he’s not willing to discuss such an attack in front of me, as Rashidi is. In fact, all the king does speak of is defense and, given the generosity I’ve observed of his nature so far, I’m inclined to believe his claims of wanting peace. Of deflecting outside invasion. And if he’s to be trusted, if he’s more of a ruler than my father has proved to be, then I must help him.
No, not him, not exactly. I simply must prevent war. There is a difference between aligning myself with my father’s enemy and with preventing a devastating conflict between two powerful kingdoms.
Still, I can’t supply the boy king with spectorium, not with the quantities of Scaldling venom he has at the tips of his fingers in Kyra. And not with Rashidi so eager to attack. I could never risk Serubel in that way. And I could never risk becoming enslaved as a Forger again.
So, I must not give him a means to attack. But that doesn’t mean I cannot try to give him a means to defend his people—and for at least long enough for Father to run short of Scaldling venom, spectorium, or both.
* * *
The spectorium I Forged and released in the lavatory in my bedchamber gives me scads of nervous energy that my body almost cannot bear. Still, this mission will require all the energy I can muster, and though I’m nearly shaking with the power surging through me, I make do as I meander through the darkened corridors of the palace.
This late in the evening, the servants’ entrance on the west wing is guarded by only one soldier to monitor the comings and goings of the king’s fleet of laborers. The man wears a helmet and a sheathed sword around his light blue shendyt—the color of the royal guard, I’ve surmised—and does not hide his surprise as I approach. “Mistress Sepora,” he says. “You’ll not be slipping between my fingers.”
That I recall, I’ve never met this particular guard. He could have been one of the many who gave chase in the palace after my escape from the harem, or perhaps he’d heard the tales of that afternoon from his cohorts. I fight the urge to cringe. This may be more difficult than I’d anticipated. I hadn’t expected to walk out of the palace without an explanation, but I also didn’t expect to be greeted by a guard assuming that I’m attempting to escape.
I lift my chin. “I’m sent on order of His Majesty.”
He raises a brow. “Sent where?”
“To the Lyceum. I must fetch a Lingot there.”
“The Falcon King is a Lingot. For what would he need the services of another, and at this hour of the early
morning?”
Wrath is what I would display were my story true. Wrath is what I must display now. “You dare to question the king’s request? Is the king’s private business subject to your approval, then?”
He licks his lips, letting a breath out through his nose. “You’re the one I question, Mistress Sepora. Not His Majesty.”
“And what is the penalty for hindering a servant of the king from accomplishing his bidding?”
His shoulders hunch slightly, and I know I’m close. “I’m attending to His Highness in the absence of the adviser Rashidi, who left hours ago for Hemut,” I continue. “I’m to report directly to the king if I happen upon problems and other such nuisances as this, and now, of course, I’ll have to wake him. A pity to be sure, since he’s most likely just fallen asleep after yesterday’s alarming and taxing occurrence.” By the look of horror in this guard’s eyes, I’ve just secured my freedom. The true pity here is that I cannot lie convincingly to the king himself; I’m apparently highly skilled at it with unFavored ones.
“No, Mistress Sepora, there’s no need to wake our good king. Please, though, allow me to procure a chariot and an escort for you. The Bazaar is rife with troublesome sorts this time of morning, and a chariot would spare you much time.”
I dare not smile, though the triumph stirs up feelings of giddiness. A chariot and an escort is more than I could have hoped for. Instead, I act as though I’ve been inconveniently delayed. “Very well, then,” I say, inspecting my nails out of boredom. “But do hurry. I’m to report back to the king at sunrise.”
“Right away, Mistress Sepora.”
The chariot ride to the Lyceum is shorter than I had expected. I’d hoped for more time to construct what I will say to the unfortunate Lingot I select for my journey. I need an experienced one, which means I must be careful what I say. Persuading a guard is one thing. Lying to a Lingot is quite another.
The Lyceum is a monstrosity even in the shadows cast by the moonlight, with stone walls and magnificent archways and torches of fire lighting each domed entrance. As we approach, it becomes bigger and bigger until I feel a bit overwhelmed by it. It’s as impressive as the palace, even if not as sizable.