A lump knots in my throat. Perhaps he is upset with me somehow that he shot down and killed his own Serpen—the Serpen I rode to escape Theoria. Perhaps he thought I should have surrendered before that happened. And I would have certainly, if I had been paying better attention to what sprawled before us instead of focusing on the kingdom I was leaving behind. On the king I had abandoned.
But, perhaps Halyon should have given me the chance before lobbing cratorium into the sky against us. The idea of him mourning Dody is unlikely, however, since I am the only Serubelan who seems to dote on my Serpen and treat her as a pet. A great commander such as Halyon would never stoop to grief over a mere beast. Not even a beast as special and loyal as Dody.
Then it occurs to me: Halyon is so shifty because he’s uncomfortable with my state of dress—or the lack thereof. I’ve grown so used to the scanty attire of the Theorians that I’m not even embarrassed by how far my clothing falls short according to Serubelan standards—even though part of the landing had torn a rip in my skirt extending quite a bit up my right thigh. I recall the memory of traipsing around the desert in servants’ attire on my initial way to Anyar, sweaty and with heavy breath, and how relieved my body had felt—after the initial shock had waned, of course—upon discovering that Rolan and Chut had changed me into the attire that would ultimately sell me into the king’s harem.
A small smile curls on my lips when I think of what Father’s expression will be when he sees me. Will he be thankful that I’m alive? Will he tell me how devastated he was when he thought me dead? I shake my head with the unlikeliness of that. Father will be surprised, naturally, but that will not last long. He will see where I’ve been. He will ask what I’ve done. He will demand an explanation.
As if I’d thought him into our midst, the tent flap is thrown back and Father enters. Compared with Halyon, my father is a short man, thin in flesh and hair, the gray intermixed in the natural white atop his head. I’m unsure why, but I’m pleased that he appears to have grown more wrinkles in my time away from him. They all but frame his scowl now as he scrutinizes me as though he’s never seen me before. I watch as his expression changes from disbelief to anger, to confusion, and finally settles on relief. Relief is not what I was expecting.
“Halyon, you are dismissed,” he says without looking at his commander. Halyon does as he’s told, exiting the tent without sparing me a glance.
I am now alone with my father. The last time this happened, I’d made a decision that would lead him to imprison me. And then I had fled.
“Saints of Serubel, is it really you, Magar? Can you really be here in front of me?” he says, his voice cracking just a bit.
No, not what I expected at all. I expected yelling. I expected his temper to reach new heights at the way I’m dressed. I expected wrath. “I … it is me, Father.”
He devours the distance between us in quick, lengthy strides and just when I think he will strike me, he pulls me to him, embracing me sharply. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought Serubel had lost you. Our champion has returned to us! Tell me, child, who took you? Was it the Falcon King?”
Our champion?
He thinks someone took me?
Of course he does. Now that he finds me alive and well, he assumes I was taken. And, of course, he’s not overcome with such touching emotion because his daughter has returned. He’s overwhelmed with such relief because the last Forger has returned to him. To Serubel. His champion, to conquer the Theorians and their Falcon King.
I shake my head into his chest. “You mistake me, Father,” I tell him, pulling away and taking a step back. “I was merely passing through.”
“Passing through?” His arms drop to his sides. “How do you mean?”
“I was just leaving Theoria, on my way to Pelusia. I’d had the notion to visit elsewhere.”
The words strike him as though a physical blow and he winces. Then his face tightens, and his hands fist. “Pelusia. Visit?” He spits the word at me. “I see.” I want to take a step back, to retreat under the back wall of the tent and run away. But Father has brought an army with him, an army that would subdue me at his command. And Father is beginning to realize what happened.
I show him the spectorium pooling in my palm, illuminating the dark tent around us. His eyes are closed to near slits and his nostrils flare with rage. Slowly, he rolls up his sleeves.
“Do not take another step closer,” I tell him.
He laughs, a laugh without whimsy. “Now you mistake me, child,” he says, amused. “I merely meant to relieve myself of this stifling Theorian heat.”
“All the same, stay back.”
“Are you not glad to see me, Magar? Are you not glad to be home?” His voice drips with false innocence.
“We are in the Theorian desert, Father. This is not home. This is an army marching to its death.”
He smiles. “You are fortunate that we intercepted you, then, daughter. You can now be witness to the battle that will conquer Theoria and bring its kingdom under our rule.”
It is my turn to laugh. “You’ve a mind to conquer Theoria? With merely a few hundred men and a small supply of cratorium?”
“Cratorium?”
“Oh yes. That’s what the Theorians are calling it. Didn’t you know? Theoria knows just exactly what happens when you mix spectorium and venom dust. They have a supply of their own, you see, a supply of cratorium. More than that, they have the means to protect themselves from your attack, and a union with the Hemutians to use their army.” I hope I do not show how deeply these particular words cut through me. “Yes, indeed, Father, you are marching to your death. If I were you, I would turn back immediately.” Perhaps I’ve revealed too much to him. But revealing his disadvantages may change his mind on the matter. Perhaps counting his many disadvantages will prevent a war.
And perhaps I am not useless after all.
His eyes grow flinty. “And how is it that they came to know of such things?”
I take a deep breath. “Because I have been helping them.”
46
TARIK
The door to Tarik’s bedchamber bursts open, and Sethos strides in, fully armed.
Tarik is already sitting up in bed, open scrolls scattered among the linens where Patra does not take up the immediate space about him. He arches a brow at his brother. “Is this to be another lecture about visiting Cy at the Lyceum instead of you?” It is a tease, Tarik knows; now that Sepora has gone, Sethos does not show nearly as much interest in a midday visit at the Lyceum.
But Sethos ignores the bait. “An army of Serubelans has been spotted in the close Dismals, Tarik,” he says. “Our riders say they number in the high hundreds. Surely they did not expect to defeat us with a handful of farmers?”
Tarik frowns. “Farmers armed with explosives, brother.” And so far only half of Theoria’s structures have been coated with the nefarite. The Baseborn and Middling Quarters are still completely vulnerable, something which bothers him to the core.
They are not fully prepared for war with the Serubelans. Not by far.
“Morg requests your presence in your day chambers,” Sethos says. “The Serubelans flew a Seer Serpen close to us, just out of range of our archers. It carried a garment in its mouth, which it dropped and which we retrieved. Morg says you will know what it means.”
“What kind of garment is it?”
“One of our own.”
“What do you mean ‘one of our own’? They could have obtained that garment through trade or purchase or even stolen it. What am I to glean from a Theorian garment?”
“It is the garment of a royal servant, brother,” Sethos says grimly. “And there is a scroll with it that you will want to see.”
* * *
Rashidi and Morg are already waiting for them when Tarik and Sethos arrive at the day chambers. The blue dress lies on his table, and Tarik snatches it up immediately. It is Sepora’s. It was the dress she wore the day she left Theoria on the back of Dody. It was the
dress she wore the day he first kissed her, atop the great pyramid.
“They have Sepora,” he says, more to himself than to the others present.
Morg stands and bows. “My king, they’ve also sent a message and … what appears to be a gift.”
Tarik tears his eyes from the garment draped on the table to the offering Morg holds out for him. It’s a figurine of fresh white spectorium, and it looks remarkably like Patra. New spectorium. Something even Serubel should be out of. Have they found another Forger, then? “And the message?” Tarik says.
Morg hands that over as well. Tarik unrolls the scroll and immediately recognizes Sepora’s handwriting and broken Theorian. He received enough correspondence from her during her stay in the harem so that he could choose hers from among a stack of parchments.
Greetings, Great Falcon King.
It is the wish of King Eron of Serubel to meet with you at a time and place of your choosing to discuss terms of peace and goodwill. Please send a response at your earliest convenience. His Majesty will guarantee the safety of any messenger.
Highest Regards,
Sepora
Tarik tosses the scroll on his desk and leans against it for support. There is no deception in the letter, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a trap. Sepora could have written it truly believing that Eron wants peace. If that is the case, Tarik may not detect any duplicity. Did she flee Theoria with the intention of speaking with Eron all along? After all, she has been adamant against a war between the kingdoms from the beginning. She said before that she knew the king well and it had been the truth; does she have enough sway with him to convince him to pursue peace?
There are so many questions and so many risks. But the chance of a resolution between the kingdoms is too great a temptation not to at least hear out the king.
“Send three hundred soldiers to Kyra in case they mean to distract us with this visit while harvesting the Scaldling venom,” he tells Morg. “Double the guards at the walls and have archers at the ready. Send King Eron a messenger. He may break his fast with us in the morning, but he’ll bring no more than a small personal guard with him. And the Mistress Sepora must accompany him.”
“Highness, what if she was a spy for him all along?” Rashidi says. “What if this is a ploy to—”
“You underestimate me, Rashidi. I would have discerned if she was a spy. She happened upon us quite accidentally, of that I’m sure.”
Rashidi lowers his eyes. “Of course, Highness. My apologies.”
“You are right to be suspicious, my friend. We all must keep our wits about us. If peace is not his true desire, we must determine what is.”
47
SEPORA
Sunlight pours into my sleeping tent as Father himself opens the flap. “It is time, Sepora. I trust you’re ready? You’ve Forged as we spoke of, child?”
I nod. I Forged early this morning and buried the evidence in a hole I dug inside my tent. Father wants me fully prepared, energized, my wits about me; for what I’m not sure. He is the king. He will be doing the negotiating.
As it were, I’ve been dressed and ready for several hours; my stuffy Serubelan attire nearly smothers me in the Theorian heat. I’d grown used to the scant clothing of this place and now I appreciate the necessity of it. But this soldier’s attire? These pants and long-sleeved shirt embroidered with gold and red Serubelan colors, cinched at the waist with a length of rope—the only belt they could find? It borders on stifling now.
I’ve only been away for days, but the idea of returning to Theoria, of seeing Tarik again, wreaks mayhem on my insides, and I’ve nothing to do but ponder everything that has happened.
There is Father’s new willingness to pursue peace instead of war, his willingness to speak with Tarik and negotiate a treaty. He’s even spoken of opening up trade between Theoria and Serubel, of offering them fresh spectorium for their Quiet Plague. And what kind of person would I be to deny them that? I’d be preventing war and helping to ease the ravages of illness. It would be true peace. Surely Mother would approve of that.
He threw a banquet welcoming me home and honored my presence with a toast to peace. Indeed, Father is almost giddy with his new plans, as though a child with a new plaything.
Which makes me distrust him all the more. Never before have I so wished to be a Lingot.
But what more I can give for the sake of harmony, I do not know.
“We mustn’t keep the Falcon King waiting, Sepora,” Father is saying, pulling me by the wrist toward the entrance of my tent. This, and of course the secret Forgers of the freed slaves, are the only things I left out of my declaration to my father; that Tarik is kind and just, and not prone to violence or impatience. It would do my father well to think just the opposite, since nothing but fear seems to motivate him to do good. Let him think that Tarik would just as soon crush Serubel beneath his sandaled feet than to make peace with it. Let him wonder if Tarik will accept his offers of spectorium and open trade, or if he’ll take what he wants, just as Father fears he will. Just as Tarik has the power to do.
Let my father think Tarik is just as greedy and power hungry as he is.
I also withheld the fact that Tarik is a Lingot. If I mistrust my father, Tarik must also; but he has the ability to discern his true intentions where I do not. I cannot take that advantage away from him now, not when it matters the most.
As we make our way to our Serpens, I spy Nuna, and my heart swells. Father must have sent for her. I’ve missed my precious, ferocious-looking Defender. She greets me now by leaning her head into me for a caress, an action that earns me a disapproving look from Father. Still, he doesn’t chastise me. I mount her and follow him as we glide smoothly into the sky. His indulgence makes me shiver. There was a time when I would have faltered under his glare. That time has far passed. But there is a gleam in his eye that speaks of false patience; I’ve seen that gleam before. It preceded many beatings, when he spoke of how I had fallen short of his expectations and of how long-suffering he was to deal with me so gently, when really, I should have been flogged.
Together, we fall in behind several soldier riders, with General Halyon at the head, mounted on a new Serpen, in case Tarik makes the unlikely move of attacking us in the air. I’ve learned that no matter if traveling by foot or by Serpen, the vast desert goes by slowly. Our tents disappear and the wall of Anyar makes a thin line on the horizon. The River Nefari flows as an unsubstantial thread to our right. Despite how I squint, I cannot see the shadows of any Parani lurking under the surface.
I wonder what Tarik is doing at this moment. What he is thinking, what he expects from me. If he’ll even acknowledge my presence. But then again, his correspondence required my presence. Perhaps by now, he has discerned my deception. Perhaps by now, the Falcon King hates me for what I’ve withheld from him.
Soon we lower to the ground, just skimming over the wall protecting Anyar, and Halyon leads us in the direction of the palace. We maneuver through the Theorian sky as with familiarity; Halyon must have consulted his map a dozen times before we left.
Below, the people of the Bazaar stare up at us in wonder, gathering in crowds to watch us, a spectacle in the sky. From there, the palace comes into view, and it looks much grander from above. The care taken in the architecture of even the highest points is worthy of awe, an awe I had been too busy to enjoy before.
My nerves are on the edge of withering. I do not want to see Tarik again; yet, the very thought of him quickens my heartbeat as though I’d been running along the rope bridges back home or climbing the steep stairs of the great pyramid.
It stands to reason that if we indeed do make peace today, I may see much more of him than I ever had before fleeing Serubel. No doubt he’ll bring his new wife for diplomatic visits out of his precious sense of duty. No doubt I’ll be expected to entertain them as though nothing ever happened between us. No doubt I’ll cry myself to sleep in my bedchamber after each dinner.
It seems I cannot have Tarik
, yet I cannot escape him. I know what he meant when he said it was impossible to keep me, yet impossible to let me go. I’ve lived those words every day since I left. They are the words I think of when taking in a meal, when falling asleep, when waking to the morning sun. They are the words I dream. One moment I’m in his arms, and the next I’m taking flight away from him on the back of Dody while he calls after me to stop.
I square my shoulders. I will put that behind me. What happened between us cannot matter now. What we were is not what we are.
I am a princess of Serubel again. And I am here on terms of peace.
48
TARIK
The king of Serubel seems more at ease break-fasting in the grand dining room than Tarik would like. He is exactly as Sepora had described to him before; his words are slippery and full of false sincerity, yet they carry a forced respect that is not counterfeit. He is afraid of the consequences of war with Theoria.
Yet Sepora says nothing. She drinks from her goblet and pushes food around her plate, never making eye contact with him. He owes her much, he knows; she is the reason he is having this discussion with the king of Serubel at all. She is the reason there may not be a need for war in the first place.
And she is the reason he can concentrate on very little King Eron has to say. Do the Serubelans always make a habit of wearing so much clothing, which covers up all the delicious curves he’d taken for granted all these months?
“My daughter tells me you’ve found a delightful new element. Nefarite, is it?” the king is saying.
Tarik cuts his eyes to Eron. “Your daughter? Have you more than one?” Or had the rumors that the Princess Magar had fallen to her death been false? It could be that the second- or perhaps third-hand information he received on the matter had been faulty. He remembers his conversation about the princess, that perhaps she had been too dense to present to company. That had rung false in his ears. Perhaps all the mystery surrounding Magar had been contrived.