Sepora is not unaffected by the sight, Tarik can tell. Her rigid posture, her squared shoulders, her slightly upturned chin. All of it practically announces to him that she is very affected—and that instead of softening to the man’s plight, she’s attempting to steel herself against it. He’s not sure if bringing her here was the right thing after all. He knows the Mistress Sepora to be very stubborn indeed, and if she sets her mind against helping him she will follow through.
Something more is needed.
“Children,” Tarik tells Cy. “Show us some children.”
Sepora gasps. “No, please. I don’t want to see any children.”
But Tarik is already leading her across the room behind Cy, where a small girl lies on a blanketless cot. Her long black hair is damp with sweat and dark circles shadow her eyes. “We are about to administer the spectorium,” Cy says softly. “Soon you will be feeling much better, child.”
He gestures for one of the lesser Healers to come forth. “Heat the spectorium and inject her.” He turns back to Tarik and Sepora. “I invite you to come back within two days’ time. We’ll not be able to contain her, so abundant with energy she’ll be.”
“And if there were no spectorium, Cy?” Tarik asks, hating himself for it. It is cruel of him, especially after all the mistress has done to help Theoria. But if Sepora knows where they can find more spectorium and still refuses to share that knowledge, she must come to a full realization of the consequences of withholding it. She must know that withholding spectorium means tolerating death—and death does not discriminate. “Or if the spectorium had been given time to dwindle into blue, its last and final stage?”
Cy’s expression falls grim. “We can only use purple spectorium, or white would be best if it were available. Blue does little but prolong the suffering. If there were none at all, though…” He shakes his head.
Sepora wraps her arms around herself, staring down at the child half-alive in the cot. At this, Cy offers her a kind smile, one full of more wisdom than should be possible at thirteen years old. “Bravery comes in all forms, mistress. You are very brave in your own right, jumping from the Half Bridge as you did. But sometimes facing the death of a child makes us all cowards. And perhaps it should.”
With that, Cy excuses himself.
33
SEPORA
By the time we reach the greatest of all the pyramids, night descends upon us as the sun drizzles below the horizon, as though sinking into the River Nefari ahead of us. As we make our way to the entrance of the great structure, I can’t help but reach out and touch the wall made of spectorium, which glows purple into the lavender evening. I’ve never seen anything so immense constructed by spectorium before; no wonder Father had me working so diligently day and night. It had to have been constructed within a short time indeed; that it still glows purple means that it was Forged just months earlier.
“You have enough spectorium here to cure all of Theoria,” I tell Tarik, not a little irritable. “Why keep monuments to the dead when the living needs them more?”
He brings the small fire torch in his hand closer to my face. I step back, not because I’m afraid he’ll burn me with it, but because I’m afraid he’ll burn me with him. Every time he touches me I feel melted in place. The way he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me in a certain direction. The way he grasps my hand when he wishes to emphasize a statement. The way our arms brush together when we’re in close quarters at the Bazaar. I swear by Serubel I’ve not blushed so much in my entire existence.
He seems to take a small satisfaction in the fact that I lean away from him slightly. “These are not just monuments to the dead,” he says, amused. “This is where we store our dead. And there is an even greater purpose than that here.” He turns and points in the direction of the Bazaar. “You see, the people of Anyar wish to see their loved ones again. Our Healers work to find the cure for death. The spectorium pyramids protect the bodies from the desert elements in a way that no other resource does. Our engineers have found that building spectorium upon itself, in this shape, creates a preserving power. It’s fascinating really, but very boring if you’ve no mind for the workings of things.”
I’m not sure if I should take offense at such a statement. Theorians, after all, believe they are the only among the five kingdoms to ponder over “the workings of things.” Still, I’m curious. “Which of the two are you? Fascinated or bored?”
He shrugs. “It depends on the ‘things.’”
He sets his torch down next to the wall, digging a hole for the handle to keep it standing up and ready for later use. I follow him inside a long hallway illuminated purple. Both of us seem to blend in with the walls, and I must focus on his muscular silhouette ahead of me in order not to lose him in the brightness. He reaches a hand and traces it along the wall as though we are in the dark instead of stark light.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“There is a small lever here somewhere. Ah.” His hand disappears into the wall and when it reemerges, the wall beside me begins sliding to the right. The sickening sound of stone scraping stone saturates the air and even in the iridescence I see Tarik grinning at me. “Does Serubel not have anything like this?”
I raise a brow. “Of course not. We’re sensible. We bury our dead and are done with it.”
He snorts. “There are many things about our society you do not know, and I’m afraid once you learn them, you’ll have to find something else to do with that pretty little nose of yours besides keeping it upturned.”
“Do enlighten me, Great Majesty Tarik.”
He laughs. “I try all day to get you to call me Tarik, and you somehow manage to mock me while doing it. Well played.” He extends his hand to me, and I don’t want to take it. He must see this for he nods upward. “We’ve many stairs to climb, and the last thing I need is for you to tumble down them. Take my hand for support. Please.”
“Where are we going?” I can’t imagine more steps than required to navigate the Lyceum. Though, before the spectorium shortage, they were working on creating spectorium-powered “lifts” to get them to each floor.
“I am going to show you,” he says, taking the first step up the narrow stairwell, “the most breathtaking view of Anyar. Now, if you could withhold your questions until we reach the top—”
I snatch his hand into mine and pull him upward myself, ignoring the heat lacing up my arm. His laughter trails us as we climb and climb and climb. Even climbing the stairs and rope bridges back home could not have prepared me for this steep ascent. My thighs and calves burn, and for once it has nothing to do with the Falcon King. “You’re right,” I tell him grouchily. “It is breathtaking indeed.”
“Nothing worthy is ever easy, Mistress Sepora.” Though he sounds a bit winded himself.
“So noted, Highness.”
At the top of the stairwell, in between the blur of the walls and stairs, a black hole begins to appear and the closer we get the more stars I see freckling the night sky, their whiteness just barely contrasting against the purple gleaming in my face. The hole materializes into an open, arched doorway, and as we reach it, a small balcony spreads before us, one I couldn’t see from the bottom of the structure. It is just enough room for perhaps five people to stand.
One cannot help but notice the intimacy of the space, and one cannot help but blush all the more for it. I’m only glad the glow from the pyramid shields my stained cheeks, hopefully the only visible indication of my distress.
Ahead of us—and far below us—is the truly magnificent city of Anyar, recognizable by chunks of lights spread across patches of desert darkness. In the middle is the Bazaar, all dotted with the lights of fire lamps and spectorium torches lined with the shadows of tents and booths. If I squint hard enough, I can see the palace just beyond that, a glowing blue silhouette against the night sky, though not because it’s constructed of dying spectorium—somehow the engineers have found a way to make the fire from the torches
burn blue and green. It really is a magnificent sight.
The Superiors’ Quarters glow brightly beside the palace, and although most of the structures glow blue, some do not glow at all, but are rather lined with plain firelight. And though I know it is there, I cannot see the Middling Square north of there. Hard workers that they are, the Middlings do not waste fire or spectorium or for that matter sleep in these hours of the night.
I’ve been to all these places today, as Tarik had promised to show me, but none of them by far match the beauty of all of them bunched together yet separate under the night sky and in the stillness of the evening from atop this pyramid.
Tarik nudges my leg, and I see that he has already taken a seat along the edge. He gestures for me to sit beside him, something I was afraid would happen. It is one thing to do the bidding of the king. To follow his orders and treat him as others do day in and day out. But without his gold body paint and face paint and ornate attire and the immense headdress he’s required to wear at court? Without his kingly posture and formal, commanding voice and his unwieldy indifference? Then he becomes Tarik. A boy with a humble smile and readiness to bow his head toward a stranger. Tarik, with his easy laugh and mannerisms, and playful scolding. His beautiful brown eyes and disobedient hair and melting touch.
He looks at me now as though he can read what I’m thinking. Hoping that Lingots do not have this unfair hidden ability, I do as he says and sit, taking care to keep my eyes on the city instead of on his face.
“Sepora,” he says softly.
“Yes?”
“What do you think of our ambitions to cure the dead?”
The question is unexpected. I turn to him. His eyes meet mine and hold my gaze, and I feel pressured to keep steady, to not look away. I feel it’s a sort of challenge he’s presenting me, and if I pass … I’m not sure what happens if I pass, but I’ll not fail, that’s all I know. “I think that it’s absurd. Dying is a part of living.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says gently. “You say it so boldly now, but tell that to a mother who has just lost the newborn she’s carried in her stomach for months on end. Could you do it? Could you say it to her just as you said it to me?”
I shouldn’t have said it to begin with. Not when Tarik has only just lost his own father. “No.”
Tarik sighs. “Neither could I.” He is quiet for a long time then. “But what you said below is right. Though it’s not a monument to the dead in itself, it is a sanctuary of sorts for them. And we need to focus our attention on the living for now. I think I shall give the order to disassemble the pyramids tomorrow.”
“No!” I grab his hand without thinking. It surprises us both. “Tarik, please. If you believe your Healers can bring the dead to life, then … then … I mean, what of your father, Tarik?”
He stiffens, lifting his chin just a bit as the king in him spills out. “That is exactly why they must be disassembled. My father would want that, if he knew his people were facing such a future and they needed spectorium. He would be angry that I held out this long.”
And that’s when I see the whole picture, every last painted swoop of the brush. I drop his hand. “Are you … are you toying with me?” I scoot away from him.
“How do you mean?”
“Did you bring me here just to woo me into telling you where you can find your precious spectorium? Did you bring me here to push me over my edge, to soften me up?” I feel so betrayed. So foolish. This entire day has been dedicated to soliciting my knowledge, of plundering my secrets. He wanted me to meet his people, to feel sorry for them, to see them dying in the Lyceum and want to help them. He brought me here to see the beauty of a city that could die if I don’t help them. He brought me here to place the responsibility of it all on my shoulders.
Just as my father would have done.
I see the exact moment realization strikes him. His face changes from confusion to rage and then, to my surprise, softens into laughter. “Spectorium,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I could see, of course, why you would think that.”
“Well?” I demand, unamused. I’m not even sure what I’m asking, just an explanation perhaps, or better yet, a confession.
He slides to me then, closing the distance I’d put between us. I have nowhere left to move. Does he mean to push me from the top of the pyramid if I refuse to help him save his people?
“Yes,” he says, leaning toward me. I feel panic and something else I cannot name ricochet throughout me. “And no.” His eyes fall on my lips, and I know my cheeks will certainly explode with the warmth filling them. Fears of our lips brushing together replace fears of falling to my death.
“Yes, I did bring you here to woo you,” he says softly. “But no, not for the spectorium.” And he lowers his mouth to mine.
Tarik waits for me then, our lips barely touching, as if asking a question without words. He waits for me, letting me know that my answer will determine if this will be our first kiss or his last effort at one. He waits for me, tiny me who is about to tremble from the ledge under the scorching heat of his touch.
And I make him wait too long. He pulls away, sliding back a few inches, a small rush of cooling desert air filling the space between us. And that is when I decide that kissing the king would have been a foolish idea. That kissing a pharaoh, the enemy of my father, a man in the position to destroy my home and everything in it would have been a very brainless thing to do. That kissing a man who keeps a harem would have been nonsensical.
I ease away gently, so as not to insult him, but I take care to make my movements precise, delivering with them my decision. I shall not kiss the Falcon King.
He gives me a self-deprecating grin, his eyes full of a sentiment I can’t quite place. He scratches the back of his neck, the muscles in his arm bulging with the action. “Wise, brave Sepora,” he says softly. “You were brave enough to flee from tyranny in Serubel and brave enough to jump from the Half Bridge and brave enough to withstand the pitiable advances of a foolish boy king. I have faith that you will find the wisdom to this conundrum you have unfurling inside you.”
“Conundrum?”
He nods. “The conundrum that keeps you from saving us from the Quiet Plague.”
He stands then, and extends his hand down to me and pulls me to my feet. I allow him to lead me into the pyramid, but that is where his ability to compel me stops. I cannot—will not—allow him to coerce me into Forging for him.
Not when this very pyramid could be disassembled. He is wrong; I have no conundrum. Not one that has anything to do with saving lives, anyway.
* * *
For a spying Seer Serpen that once belonged to the highest general in Serubel, the beast is much more tame than I’d expected it to be. I can’t remember what General Halyon called him, if I ever knew at all, and so I’ve decided to name him Dody, because after days and days of feeding him and caring for his newly developed eyes, he seems to have developed at least some sort of affection for me. Even now, when he sees me approaching his stall in the makeshift stable built for him, he becomes restless, his tail whipping about just as Nuna’s had when I came to get her for an outing.
He gives off a litany of snorts of what sounds like excitement. Perhaps it’s the rudimentary saddle I carry with me, the harness I’d been fashioning for him as he healed. Nuna and I had bonded so thoroughly that we had no need of saddles or harnesses; she would respond to pressure from my legs against her neck and verbal commands we’d developed over our time together. But Dody must go back to the basics of preliminary training—or rather, he must become accustomed to a new handler. The basics, I’m sure, he knows well, since a harness and a saddle are standard military accessories for Serpens in the king’s army. But he definitely recognizes the possibility that today he may fly again. Dody is not quite as big as Nuna—none of the Seers have ever compared in size to the Defenders—but he is just as beautiful and just as capable of flight.
And I truly hope that is the case, as his eyes
have healed quite nicely, along with the arrow wound he took to the underbelly. That had been minor, just enough to fell him; the rough, calloused skin of his belly had protected him from deep penetration.
Today we shall see what Dody is capable of, if he will respond to my basic commands. Tarik had shown me around the city of Anyar by foot; if I can get Dody in the air, I can experience it all by flight, and I’m curious to know if the view will be as breathtaking as the one from the great pyramid a few nights ago.
Ah, that night. A night ending a wonderful day. A night ending my only chance to see what the Falcon King might have tasted like. Relief and regret vie for my consideration over the matter, each of them presenting reasons why I should or should not have kissed Tarik.
But it is no matter. The moment has passed, and it will not present itself again. The king all but said so himself. In the days since our visit to the city, he has been nothing but polite, and, of course, kingly when required to be at court and during visits with his closest council members. In those few moments of privacy we share together between our duties, he mentions nothing of that night, nor do I, though it seems to hover in the air around us as if something remains unresolved from our outing that day.
But it is not unresolved. We did not kiss. We will not kiss. And that is how it should be.
34
TARIK
Tarik would like to think he does not know why his steps take him toward the new Serpen stable on the far side of the west courtyard. But lying to himself is not a habit he wants to cultivate. And so, he admits the reason he approaches the stable now has long blond hair, silver eyes, and a maddening pair of sensual lips.
The reason he’ll tell her, however, is that he merely wishes to check on the progress she’s making with the Serpen beast. After all, the creature could be a valuable asset to Theoria if war were indeed to erupt, and for the past few days, she’s been able to take it to flight. It is a reasonable excuse to come to the stables, he thinks as he pulls open the door of the wooden structure. A reasonable excuse to ensure that his new attendant is taking her punishment seriously—and enjoying it.