The wide door creaks open and swirls of dust rise up around his sandals. Tarik does not need to call out her name to know that she isn’t here—and neither is the beast. The stable is as silent as the tombs in the pyramids. He walks the length of it anyway, staving off his disappointment; he must have just missed her. There are fresh track marks in the sand, one set of human footprints, the other set a long slithering trail leading to the stable door. They have already gone.
It is just as well, he decides as he shuts the door to the stable. Being with the Mistress Sepora gives him a reprieve from the often overwhelming demands of his obligations, of course, but perhaps he doesn’t need a reprieve. Perhaps he should command more focus instead. Perhaps he should employ the mistress in other activities throughout the day, activities that keep her from constantly being at his side.
Then again, perhaps he should think on it more.
As he makes his way to the closest palace entrance, a dark shadow flits across his path and feminine laughter trickles down from the sky. “Highness,” a familiar voice calls from above. He looks up to see Sepora mounted upon the Serpen beast, guiding it into a consistent circle just above his head. “I was not expecting you,” she says, her voice teeming with excitement and pleasure. “Stay right there. I’ll bring him down for your inspection.”
He crosses his arms and grins—though his stomach tightens at the thought of her falling from such a height—as she maneuvers the great creature to a skidding stop before him in the courtyard sand. It’s a vision to behold, a beast such as that with the ability to land as gracefully as Patra parades by his side through the palace. Tarik finds Sepora’s smiling face as the dust cloud clears. Her cheeks are stained red from the wind and her hair likewise is a mess. And of course, she’s stunning, in every sense of the word.
Gingerly, she hops off the beast’s neck, murmuring words of praise to it as she would a child. After the Serpen is sufficiently rewarded with Sepora’s attention, she turns it at last to Tarik, striding to where he stands.
“It seems you’re taking your punishment very seriously,” he says. “What a pleasant surprise.”
She smiles up at him, breathless, as she attempts to pull down her hair and arrange it into something more manageable. It splays across her shoulders in a magnificent deluge of white curls from her previous style, before she gathers it all back up in one hand again and twists it into a bun atop her head. “Come with me,” she says excitedly. “Let me show you what Dody can do.”
“I can see well enough from here, mistress.”
“Surely the Falcon King is not afraid of heights?” But her smirk is playful. “I’ll not take you higher than the great pyramid, I promise. You seem comfortable enough at that height, are you not?”
It is the first time she’s mentioned their shared evening on the pyramid. He’d been wondering if she’d forgotten. What does it mean that she hasn’t? He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not the heights that make me nervous; it’s entrusting my life to a Serubelan beast sent here to spy on me.”
She looks over her shoulder at the Serpen rolling over and over contentedly in the courtyard sand, as though it is attempting to scratch an allover itch. The creature is quite oblivious to present company. Sepora raises a doubtful brow at Tarik.
He sighs. “Say I accompany you on a flight. Where will we go?”
He is surprised and more than a little pleased at her boldness when she takes his hand in hers and begins to lead him toward the beast. “We’ll fly over your kingdom, Highness. For your inspection, of course.”
“Say I get injured. Can you imagine the months and months of scolding from Rashidi?”
“It will be worth it. And you won’t get injured. I’ll harness you to me so that we are both secured by the saddle. The only way we’ll go down is if your brainless guard shoots us to our deaths.”
“Say I—”
She tugs harder on his hand. “Say you come with me and have a marvelous time.”
“That, I think, is a given.”
She doesn’t turn to look at him as she leads him toward the Serpen. She mounts the beast first, in one agile jump, using the low-hanging stirrup of the saddle to hoist herself up. Once settled, she extends her hand down to him, as if he could actually reach it.
“Where will you have me?”
“I must use the saddle to guide it. He knows my basic commands. You’ll need to sit behind me, and I’ll use this belt to strap us together and to the saddle.” She pulls on the leather strap to show how sturdy it is, but Tarik is already pulling himself up by the stirrup and positioning himself behind the saddle. It’s actually not uncomfortable, though his legs are set a bit wider than they are when he rides horses or camels.
Settling behind her, he inches as close to the back of the saddle as possible. She wraps the belt around them both, cinching it tightly so that his chest presses in against her back. “Highness,” she says, “you may want to hold on to me, at least while we take flight.”
Needing no further encouragement, he slides his hands around her waist, even as he feels the shock of doing so rock through his body. Where his body has hard lines, hers is soft, curving underneath her dress. Reveling in the feel of her, he perhaps lets his hands linger a bit too long at her hips before he remembers his manners. He tenses, waiting for her to stiffen at his boldness, but she merely leans down to Dody, whispering something in his ear. In an instant they become one slithering mass circling the courtyard, gaining speed, and Tarik’s hold on Sepora tightens as the beast lifts them from the ground. For a time, they spiral into the air until Dody straightens his course and takes them over the palace walls.
Because of his proximity to her, Tarik can feel when Sepora’s legs apply pressure to Dody’s neck, obviously signaling him to fly north. As the breeze of their speed hits him, he’s overcome with the aroma of orchids and lavender oils and something else he can’t quite name and he must fight the urge to lean in and fully take in the scent of her.
“Where shall we go first, Highness?” she says.
“I’m entirely at your mercy, mistress.”
“Very well.” She seems pleased, almost as if she expected him to say that.
Dody responds to an imperceptible signal from Sepora and turns west. They reach the Bazaar in no time, and Sepora brings the beast lower when she spies a gathering of children on the edge of the marketplace.
“No,” Tarik says quickly. “I’m dressed as king. They cannot see me like this.”
“You think they’d recognize you in all that glittering paint?”
“I don’t want to risk the chance. You know, speaking from a Lingot’s point of view, children are sometimes the most perceptive among us all.”
“Very well, Highness.” She drives them upward again and in the direction of due west, leaving the bustle—and wondering youthful curiosity—of the Bazaar behind. She cuts slightly south and over the Baseborn Quarters. Unlike the tents of the Bazaar, the tents here are light and drab in color, bleached by the sun and tattered at the corners, some with holes peeking down into the dismal households. The blond-headed residents move quickly in and out of the way of each other, trading and bartering for things too mundane, things too ordinary to find at the Bazaar. Frivolity here could mean the difference between eating a meal or going without; children do not play, but rather linger at their parents’ side, waiting to be put to good use.
A few of the young ones do take pause to point and stare into the sky at the spectacle the king of Theoria is making with his servant girl Sepora and her Serpen. Pride of the pyramids, but Rashidi would eat his own headdress were he here to witness such an exhibition. Of course, his adviser does not make a nuisance out of himself where his occasional visits to the Bazaar are concerned, but that is mainly because Tarik is not visiting as king but is dressed in servants’ attire. Now, though, Sepora has picked him up from the palace courtyard, and he is fully painted and adorned as the Falcon King. And the Falcon King goes nowhe
re without ceremony, armed guards, and a thoroughly self-assured expression. To see the king smile is a rare gift.
One that he wishes he could bestow much more often.
Tarik wonders what Sepora sees when she looks at these people. Does she see herself as one of them or consider that she’s risen above them in so many ways? But no, that would not be fair to say. Some of them have proved themselves worthy of earned scholarships to attend the Lyceum. Yet, they always come back to the tent village where their people are. They never make homes for themselves among the Superiors or Middlings. Always here, in the Baseborn Quarters.
Tarik has always wondered why the freed slaves stay, why they choose not to return to their homeland of Serubel when they seem to have such loyalty to one another. Does that loyalty no longer extend to their home? They have nothing in the way of belongings to miss and could easily trek north up the Nefari and follow it all the way to the floating mountains where they are from. Are they happy here, eking out an existence so far from their kingdom? Why else would they stay?
By her expression, Sepora is not enjoying the view below. Her mouth is downturned and her shoulders square as she takes in the sight of her people. Coming from the everyday splendor of life in the palace, this must come as quite the shock to her senses.
“Perhaps the next time we leave the palace we will visit the Baseborn Quarters instead of the Bazaar,” he tells her softly. “We’ll bring two satchels of coins, to make up for lost time.”
If he didn’t know better, he would say she leans back into him slightly when she says, “Yes. Yes, let’s.”
Veering north, she leans forward and whispers something in Dody’s ear. Swiftly, the beast spirals, turning them upside down more times than Tarik cares to count. He gasps, clutching onto Sepora, unsure whether he does so out of need to save her from falling or to lock himself in place, and admits that it’s a little of both. The spiral becomes tighter and his stomach feels tickled to near implosion and he lets out a laugh. Sepora straightens them then and grins back at him. “I call those Daring Dozens,” she says. “The first time I did it was an accident. I confused my directions for my Serpen, Nuna, and we coiled through the air like a spring. You took your first one very well. I vomited.”
“How old were you?”
She laughs. “It was just months ago.”
“You were trying to make me ill, were you?”
“Just curious to see if I could.”
“Disappointed?”
Absently, she pets Dody’s neck in front of her. “No, I don’t think I am.” Without elaborating, she increases their speed until her hair threatens to spill out of the unkempt bun atop her head.
In the distance, Tarik can see the pyramids come into view. In the daylight, their dying purple spectorium shines gray underneath the sun’s scrutiny. As they approach the valley of burial grounds, his gaze cannot help but fall first to his father’s pyramid and next to the pyramid where he and Sepora nearly shared a kiss.
Nearly. But the mistress would not meet him halfway, would not meet him at all, in fact. How can he convince her of his intentions? And are his intentions entirely good? After all, Rashidi could be in Hemut at this very moment, negotiating a marriage contract between himself and the Princess Tulle. Should he just let things be as they are? Is it wise to pursue a woman for himself while the crown pursues another?
“Shall we call on the nefarite quarry, perhaps?” she says. “You’ve not made an official visit, and the Middlings would be proud to see their king himself curious as to their progress.”
“Rashidi would swallow his own headdress if I were to visit without ceremony.”
Sepora laughs. “All the more reason to do so?”
He grins to the back of her head. “Of course.”
It really is a magnificent view, taking in the city of Anyar from the back of a Seer Serpen. The Lyceum, always so large and imposing, now appears to be the size of a single room in the palace—albeit a big room. They leave it behind in no time, and soon are back at the Bazaar. Still abuzz with life, small specks of people migrate through their daily lives as though ants in an aboveground colony.
The large, ornate structures of the Superior class loom in stark contrast to the tiny, dreary tents of the Baseborn Quarters. These quarters are quiet, bereft of life, probably because of hours spent drinking and dancing and whatever else his Superior citizens find to entertain themselves during the cooler hours of the night.
Instantly, an imbalance in his kingdom makes itself known to him. The spectrum from rich to poor is simply too vast. He must take steps to correct this. It will be yet another argument to have with Rashidi. But to Tarik, the healthier all the classes of the kingdom are, the healthier the kingdom itself will be. To his knowledge, his father never bothered to enrich the lives of the Baseborn class. Perhaps this aspect of kingship has been neglected for far too long.
What if Sepora lived there among them? What if she chose to leave the palace and flock to her people? Could he stand for her to live in such striking poverty?
He tries to convince himself that his decision to help the Baseborn class has nothing to do with Sepora—he tries and fails. Perhaps it’s not entirely owing to her, but to say she has nothing to do with his decision to redirect some of the kingdom’s wealth there would be a lie.
When they fly over a particularly lavish building with gold-plated rings circling the four surrounding towers and a colorful center garden worthy of a spot in the palace, Sepora smiles back at him, apparently oblivious to his darkening mood. “Isn’t it lovely?”
He scowls. “It would be lovelier if the Superiors could awaken at a decent hour in order to participate in the goings-on of the kingdom. It seems they only do so when they’ve a mind to come to court and complain.”
She sighs. “Are you Theorians not capable of looking at something and appreciating the beauty of it without having to analyze it to bits?”
This surprises him. His people have keen intellects, but that does not mean they are not capable of appreciating beauty when they see it. “That’s a ridiculous question.”
She nearly turns around in her saddle. “Name one thing!” she says accusingly. “Name one thing of which you can appreciate the beauty without dissecting it into fragments.”
Swiftly, his mind conjures up thoughts of nature, the stars in the sky, and the flowers in his gardens at the palace. He thinks of great man-made structures and natural ones that formed over centuries of exposure to the conditions of weather. He thinks and thinks, but there is nothing that his people have not made a science of in some way or another.
Except one thing. One very beautiful thing.
He leans toward her ear, making sure to touch his cheek against her lobe. “You.”
“What?” she says.
“You, mistress. I do not question your beauty or how you came to be in such great supply of it. I simply allow myself to admire it.”
And so he answers both their questions. He can admire beauty without overanalyzing it.
And he does intend to pursue one woman while the throne pursues another.
35
SEPORA
Today Tarik wishes me to fly him to visit the Baseborn Quarters—which is why I wait rather impatiently in my bedchamber for Anku and Cara to arrive with my breakfast. I’m not interested in the honey cakes and oil they’ll most assuredly bring; I need to speak with Cara in private before we depart this morning. I need to know what to expect once the freed slaves see my silver eyes—and I need to know how to act around them without giving away Bardo’s secret, all while dancing around the king’s inconvenient abilities.
As soon as my door opens, I snatch the tray of breakfast from Anku, catching her off guard so that she stumbles back. “Well,” she huffs, “someone is hungry this morning. Are we late with your meal, mistress?”
“Of course not. You’re never late.”
“I see you’ve already dressed yourself,” she says, leaning against one of the bedposts
. “Perhaps today we could braid your hair and then make intricate swirls—”
My hair is a haphazard mess, in what I hope resembles an attempt at an elegantly folded bun, but more important, what I hope will keep it out of my face as we fly Dody. To arrange it into anything “intricate” would be a horrible waste of time once we leave solid ground. “Actually, Cara was just telling me about a new style she learned. Cara, would you stay behind and show me? Anku, thank you for breakfast. You may go.” Cara told me nothing of the sort, but I must get her alone.
Of course, I did not mean to dismiss Anku so callously, because out of the two she is my favorite, even if only because Cara barely has the enthusiasm or mind-set to say three words to me each morning. The truth is, Cara makes me nervous whereas Anku makes me feel at home—a sad irony, to be sure.
Anku wishes me well for the day and leaves, but shuts the door a bit harder than usual, and I cringe at Cara for it. We wait for the sound of her footsteps to disintegrate down the corridor before speaking.
“You’ve upset Anku,” Cara says, crossing her arms.
“I needed to speak with you in private.”
“So it seems.”
Cara still does not like nor trust me, which makes it difficult to trust her, even if she is Serubelan. But today, I have no choice but to confide in her. After all, we both have the same objective: to keep Forging a secret. “I take the Falcon King to inspect the Baseborn Quarters today. He is particularly drawn to children; I worry we will come across Bardo and the people will try to lie to the king about his silver eyes. If they do that, he’ll come to be even more curious about Bardo than if they had not lied.”
“The king never visits the Baseborn Quarters. Why is it that he’s doing so now that you’ve arrived?”
The question is an accusation, one that I don’t appreciate but one that I feel a tinge of guilt for. After all, I should have known better than to lead Dody to the quarters. I’d been hoping Tarik would see the living conditions there and perhaps do something to improve them. It never occurred to me that he would want to visit them for a closer look. But knowing Tarik, and the way he cares for people, I should have known that would be his inclination.