Eron laughs. “More than one? Saints of Serubel forbid! One is quite enough, thank you.”
“Forgive me,” Tarik says. “I was under the assumption that your daughter had passed away.”
Tarik is not unaware that Sepora takes a large and very undainty gulp from her goblet.
“Why, you do not know, then? Surely that is not possible.”
“What is not possible?” Sethos says, his plate of food untouched in front of him. He’d been brooding this entire time, and of course he would perk up at the mention of a woman.
Eron looks sincerely astonished. “Magar is my daughter. The Princess Magar Sepora. Yes, we did think she fell to her death, but as it turns out, she had the adolescent inclination to run away. Magar merely fled, and I must say, I’m glad she did so, now that we have a chance to speak so openly with each other.”
Magar Sepora. Impossible. Yet, Tarik finds nothing misleading in the words. Sepora is indeed the princess of Serubel. He takes a sip from his own chalice, and then another, as pieces from their past together fall into place.
She’d said that the Princess Magar was a Forger and that they’d been close. There had been truth in her words. Underneath his skin, his anger catches fire and threatens to issue forth from him. Sethos cuts him a warning look, but why should he withhold his words? Has not enough damage been done from withholding words?
She could have Forged spectorium at any moment for him, given Cy a fresh supply to work with when combating the Quiet Plague. She could have prevented him from dismantling his father’s final resting place, the last pyramid built of spectorium. Now his father rests in a dead pyramid, unfit for the great Warrior King.
It is her fault, all of it. She did not trust him enough to Forge. Clearly, she never believed in him, the way he had believed in her. He had acted a fool, had chosen to overlook her unwillingness to aid him, all in the name of love. He had been blinded. Even now, he wants so desperately to overlook all she has done—or not done, as it were.
Because he loves her. Yes, he’s sure of it, as sure as he is that the sun will set over the Bazaar and that the moon will rise in its place. Against his will, he loves her.
At Tarik’s continued silence, Rashidi clears his throat. “Well,” Rashidi says, “this does come as a surprise to us all. Mistress—that is, Princess—Sepora did not mention that she was Serubelan royalty during her stay with us. But I suppose we can let bygones be bygones, don’t you think, Highness?”
No, he wants to tell Rashidi. They cannot. But this meeting has nothing to do with his relationship with Sepora. This meeting is imperative to prevent a war. Imperative to prevent death among his people. This meeting is greater than he is at the moment. He must deal with his personal feelings later. He must put them aside and act as a king.
“Tell me,” Tarik says, placing his hands on either side of his plate. “What can we do to open up trade between us again? We are in dire need of spectorium at the moment, as we have a plague ravaging our people, and spectorium is an important part of the cure for it. No doubt you’ve heard of it.” Tarik is not sure which appears to please Eron more: the prospect of Theoria having a plague or the fact that they need spectorium to cure it.
Beside him, Rashidi gives him a disapproving look for disclosing such a weakness, but Tarik suspects that if he shows a small amount of vulnerability to King Eron, the king will feel he’s being generous in striking a deal—and will be more willing to do so.
Eron wipes at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and sets it back in his lap. He regards Tarik for several long moments before he says, “Our kingdoms have been at odds long enough, young Falcon King. It is my intent to end the animosity between us, here and now.”
Tarik mulls the words over and over in his head, taking care to hide his reaction to them. “And how do you propose to do that?”
Eron smiles. “You will unite us by taking my daughter as your wife.”
49
SEPORA
Wife?
It takes all my effort not to choke on the fig I’d only just put in my mouth. I work to chew it into bites small enough to swallow and sip frantically at my water until the pieces slither down my throat, catching along the way so that I’m forced to cough. My cheeks burn hot as I feel all eyes on me. A servant behind me pours more water into my chalice but I wave him off.
Wife. This was supposed to be a meeting for peace and unity, an exchange of words, not an exchange of people. How dare Father put me in this position. After all I’ve done to save him, his kingdom, his rulership!
“That’s an interesting proposal,” Rashidi says neutrally. “But I’m afraid we’ve already negotiated a marriage with the princess of Hemut.”
“Yes, Magar has informed me of this,” Father says. “But I think you’ll find a union between our kingdoms much more advantageous. Think of it, before you turn me away. You’ll have a constant supply of spectorium, right at your fingertips. This Quiet Plague of yours will all but slip away from whence it came. We’ll have a combined and virtually endless supply of Scaldling venom—or rather, cratorium, I believe you call it?—to use in case of war with other kingdoms. Together, we could be the most powerful force in all the Five.”
Ambitious yet nebulous intentions, I can tell. Father may not be lying, but rather hides meaning in his words. He selects his phrases with a careful, fluid manner, as a soldier who would direct his blows with swiftness and precision. If I notice this, then Tarik surely will. And he will discern the truth from the deception. Which is why I did not warn Father of the Falcon King’s Favor.
For his part, Tarik stares at me, and I at him, but neither of us will be the first to bend, to show an emotion regarding Father’s inappropriate proposal of marriage. This is not the union with Tarik I had wanted. I had no idea Father would offer me up as a sacrifice, as collateral for a partnership, but of course he would. I should have anticipated his game. I should have known he would have a game to begin with. All his indulgences, the dinner banquet on my behalf, the patience he’d shown to what he’d considered impertinence. He’d been planning this all along. And he’d wanted to make sure I was in an agreeable mood when the time presented itself.
Tarik rests his gaze on Father. “Your offer is very generous, King Eron. Suppose I do accept this gift from you. The princess would be required to reside here in the palace. She would be my wife in every sense of the word. If she Forges, she will do it here.”
If she Forges. And so the matter of business has begun. Who was I to think I actually mattered as a person to Tarik? He was going to marry another woman for the sake of his kingdom; to him, this would merely be an exchange, or rather an improvement, because of my ability to Forge. It is clear that is his utmost concern.
And it hurts worse than I care to admit.
Father nods. “I would agree to that, if, of course, distribution of the spectorium is split evenly between the kingdoms. And the nefarite?”
“If a union such as this were agreed upon, the nefarite would be made readily available to you, of course,” Tarik is saying. “There would be the matter of supplying your own men to harvest it, though.”
“Forgive me, Highness,” Rashidi says, his face fallen pallid. After all, this turn of events threatens all the hard work he’d done in Hemut. “But we speak as though this is an actual possibility. Do not forget, we’ve an arrangement with the kingdom of Hemut. Theoria is only as good as its word. Tradition dictates that we stand by it.”
Tarik takes a generous draught from his chalice. Setting it down, he looks at his adviser. “You’re mistaken, my friend. Theoria is as good as its strength—as is any kingdom. And strength is what we will be securing in this arrangement.”
“Highness—”
“The matter is settled,” Tarik says sharply. “The princess and I will marry immediately. We will send word to Hemut along with the most lavish gifts to soothe the sting of rejection.”
“And if they cannot be placated?” Rashidi says, glancing at m
e with a look of desperation. If he expects me to say something, he will be sadly disappointed. My ability to speak ended with the word wife.
Tarik smiles a smile that imparts a sort of cruelty I’ve never seen from him. “Perhaps the Princess Tulle will be content to marry my brother. He is a Theorian prince, after all.”
Sethos bristles beside me. He’d made his dislike of Tulle very clear in front of me in Tarik’s day chambers before departing for the Lyceum one day. I’d been surprised, as Tulle is reportedly the most beautiful woman in the five kingdoms—one of Sethos’s weaknesses, if such a thing existed. But apparently the two of them had a squabble as children and he has not cared for her since.
“I’ll not suffer through a marriage with that ostentatious half-wit, thank you,” Sethos says.
Tarik pounds his fist on the table, something I’ve never seen before. Has everyone in this room gone mad? “You’ll do as I command.” This is not the Tarik I cared for. This is not Tarik at all.
“Excellent idea,” Father says, slapping the table with a laugh. “Is it settled, then?”
“Yes,” Tarik says, “I believe it is.”
But Rashidi cringes—as do I. Hemut will not stand for this, I am sure of it. Sethos shakes his head; I can see that he is mentally washing his hands of his own brother. This does not bode well. Tarik needs Sethos and Sethos needs Tarik. He cannot dissolve the bond between himself and his older brother over this. I cannot allow that. I must speak to Sethos in private. We have both been wronged here; surely he will listen to me.
And that is when I decide that these two kings will not bully their way through the lives of all the rest of us. For I will marry the Falcon King and become his wife. I will do what it takes to stop the war between these two kingdoms, no matter the cost.
But I will not Forge for either of them.
50
TARIK
Tarik finds Sepora in the makeshift stable built for her Defender Serpen Nuna while much grander accommodations are under way. For a time, he watches her as she pets the great beast and coos her affection into its ear. With this Serpen, she is gentle and kind. With Tarik, she has been venomous these past days.
He did not come here for an argument. Indeed, he wants to make peace with his future bride. But as she so clearly ignores his presence now, he thinks perhaps she needs reminding that she is the one who betrayed him. The one who had the cure for the Quiet Plague quite literally at her fingertips and yet she did not Forge an ounce of spectorium for that cause. If it had not been for Cy the Healer, the situation could have been much worse.
Had she stayed, would she have been able to watch people die? Would she still have kept her secret so close to her heart? And were she here in Theoria at the time, would she have allowed him to dismantle his father’s pyramid? He dares not ask, for no matter what her answer, he will hear only the truth. And some truths he cannot bear the weight of. Only recently did he learn this about himself.
“Say your peace then leave me be,” Sepora says finally without looking at him.
“I would have your full attention, Princess.”
“Believe me when I say that you do.”
He sighs, leaning against the wooden threshold. Sunlight spills in from behind him, casting a long shadow across Sepora and her Serpen. “I’ve come to inquire if your new quarters are satisfactory.” She had been moved into the set of chambers reserved for the queen of Theoria, so she could become accustomed to the space that would be her own. The servants who had helped to settle her in said that she merely stated the rooms were “adequate.” The entire east wing is dedicated to the queen and richly appointed more than any other set of chambers, including his own—“adequate” had been an insult to her attendants. One that he’d had to handle delicately, a balance between not reproving the future queen nor reproving the attendants for their sensitivity.
“They are adequate,” she says.
“I’d hoped you’d find them luxurious. My mother took great delight in arranging them before she died.”
At this, she turns to face him, her mouth drawn into a frown. “I did not know your mother had designed the chambers. She saw to every comfort imaginable. They are quite lovely. Thank you.”
He detects remorse in her words; the last thing he wants is her pity. “Are you finding your servants agreeable?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve not spoken much at dinner these past three nights.”
“I’ve not been required to.”
“Have I not been engaging enough to lure you into conversation?” He means to tease, but she gives him a dire look.
“I think we both know just how engaging you’ve been.”
She is still sore with him about his intention to fulfill his obligation to marry Princess Tulle. And he’s well aware that the manner in which their own marriage was arranged was quite distasteful. Perhaps one day, he’ll make it up to her. Perhaps one day, they’ll not be at such odds. But until then, until things are resolved between them, he must tread carefully with his future queen. For her sake, and for his. He thought he knew her nature. He thought he knew her. But there were many things Sepora was able to hide from him. He must take care that it doesn’t happen again.
He takes a step forward. Nuna stirs, apparently uneasy with the chill of the atmosphere between them. “You did not make any objections to our union when it was being arranged. I assumed you were in agreement.” He assumed nothing of the sort. Plainly she was shocked to silence. And sometimes silence is louder than words.
“Of course I wouldn’t make any objections. You know I have always wanted peace between our kingdoms.”
This hurts him more than he thought possible because there is no deception in her words. Of course the union had been advantageous from a ruler’s perspective, and yes, he knew she’d wanted peace, but pride of the pyramids, he’d wanted her. More than anything else. And her father had made it so simple to have her. But he should have known, nothing with Sepora could be simple. Nothing with Sepora could be easy. She’d proven that time and again.
She agreed to marry him to keep the peace. To prevent what appeared to be inevitable war. She agreed to marry him out of duty. How very fitting his punishment. That he would marry another out of duty and expect Sepora to understand, and now she will marry him out of mere duty and expect him to understand. To accept that he will be in love with his wife, yet she will face him each and every day with the coldness of obligation and responsibility.
He’ll not have it.
With little more than three strides, he consumes the distance between them. She seems startled at first, but then her eyelids seem to grow heavy and he does not miss when she glances at his lips. A blush sweeps across her cheeks and she steps back, but he will not relent; he eases forward. This all could not have been for nothing. Surely losing her and gaining her is not the same thing.
“Your father speaks riddles at me,” he says. “He tells the truth with words and hides lies behind them. Tell me what you know.”
She glares at him, her jaw clenched. “If you knew he was lying, why have you not said anything? Does he even mean for us to marry?” Her tone and manner suggest she asks these questions out of an honest need to know. That she suspected her father of lying as well. So then, she is not her father’s accomplice in whatever his plans may be.
A sense of relief overwhelms him. He’d been afraid of just how much she could deceive him. That is, of just how much he’d been prepared to overlook. But what he came here for is answers. And with her questions, she has given him many.
“He does.” Which is precisely why he hasn’t called Eron on his deceptions. He will marry Sepora and deal with the king later. Rashidi is not in favor of this strategy. But Rashidi is not hopelessly in love with the princess of Serubel.
“Then what lies does he tell?”
“He means to have peace for now. There is deception in the word ‘peace’ but truth in the words ‘for now.’ I believe he has ill intentions after we
marry.”
“Why wait for him to act? Why not stop him now? He’ll find out you’re a Lingot soon. He’ll learn to dance around the truth just as…”
“Just as you did?”
She lowers her gaze. “Your Favor is an unfair advantage. Sometimes deception is necessary.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I’m glad for it. You made your motives clear. Truly, you have an impeccable sense of duty, Highness. It is much to be admired.”
“I might say the same of you.”
“Why, thank you, Highness.”
He grinds his teeth. “I’ve tired of this absolute politeness between us,” he whispers.
“Would you rather I be rude?” But her bluster falls flat. She won’t quite meet his eyes.
“I would rather you be mine.”
Her brows knit together, and she bites her lip. She does not want to have this conversation, he can tell. But he’ll not let her out of it, either. Their wedding is just weeks away; this must be resolved. Something other than niceties must be exchanged between them, even if it is only understanding for now. She must know that she will be his, in more than just words. In more than just vows. Duty can rot in The Dismals for all he cares at this moment; he will no longer settle for a marriage of convenience. He will no longer settle for less than all of her.
Perhaps she never intends to return to him; perhaps she thinks things will never be as they were between them. But can she truly live with that? For the rest of her life, can she submit to mere polite exchanges and grace him with her presence only when etiquette requires it?
“I am yours, Highness,” she says, bowing deeply, insincerity reeking from the action. “I’m completely at your disposal.”