Some talk to themselves, some bicker with each other over nonsensical things, some sit at the fountain and rock back and forth as though they’ve lost the will to stand. “And where are the aggressive ones being kept?” Tarik asks as they pass a man licking his hands so fiercely that his fingers have become prunish and wrinkled at the tips.
“As much as I hate to say this, Highness,” Cy admits with a grimace, “they are being detained behind locked doors for their own safety and that of the kingdom.”
“The kingdom?” Commander Morg says as he strolls behind them.
Cy nods. “Some of their madness is not born of lunacy, but of conspiracy. They speak openly of overtaking the throne.”
Startled, Tarik places a hand on Cy’s forearm, but Cy seems hesitant to bring his eyes to meet his king’s. “And how seriously should we be taking this threat?”
“Seriously,” Morg answers, a scowl darkening his face. “Madness is one thing; treason is quite the other.”
“But they are one and the same, I’m certain of it,” Cy says. “They must be treated as patients, not criminals.”
Morg snorts. “This is not a decision for a boy Healer to make.”
“Master Healer,” Tarik corrects. “Cy is a Master Healer, and I will take into consideration his opinion in the matter.”
“My apologies, Highness,” Morg says, but he still looks at Cy as though the Healer himself is in need of medical care. “Madness or not, we cannot allow these delusions to leak into the minds of the strong, giving them ideas that perhaps the throne is weak.”
“Which is exactly why these people are being detained,” Cy snaps.
“But how many are not being detained?” Morg presses. “How many roam the roads and pathways wreaking havoc on the reputation of His Highness?”
Tarik cannot help but agree. Ill though they are, their threats are very real. It is the most inconvenient time to be preparing for war with Hemut. Tarik lowers his voice when he says, “Send soldiers throughout Anyar disguised as mere citizens. Find these ones who escape detention, and bring them in to receive treatment.” He turns to Cy. “You do not care to treat ones without consent, I know. But this is a royal command. You will treat every Stray you come across the best you know how.”
Cy is clearly alarmed. “But nothing has truly worked, Highness. All I can do is treat symptoms until the cure is found.”
“Do what you can.” Tarik shakes his head. “Cy, do what you must.”
It is not an unfair thing to ask, Tarik thinks. After all, Tarik is doing what he must, which is to keep up the pretense of being a king sound in mind. Day in and day out, he pretends to pore over scrolls and correspondence all the while withering inside that Sepora has not yet been found and returned safely to him. But returned to me for what? Did I not call off the engagement myself? Will she not be leaving with her parents as soon as Sethos returns with her from Hemut?
Yet his decision to disavow their engagement had not been a hasty one. He’d considered it at length, and decided in the end that he could not, and would not, have a queen nor a wife he could not trust.
It is the worst feeling in the world, he thinks, as they leave the Lyceum and head for the palace.
To be in love with someone you simply cannot have.
23
SEPORA
Bayla insists that if I’m to heal correctly, I must get up and walk immediately after the surgery. The pain will be shooting and fierce, she says, and dizziness will overtake me. The stitches in my stomach will become puffed up and angrily red, but Bayla assures me the salve administered by her Healers will ward off infection and keep the true pain at bay.
That is, of course, if I were truly going to have the procedure done to remove my gallum—or my Forging organ, as it were.
But my days spent with Bayla are now a back and forth with her about whether I’m ready to go through with it (I’m not) and whether she might tell me more about the cure for the Quiet Plague. (She won’t.) I feel like a snake charmer of Theoria playing the flute for a cobra that will not be charmed. Between our combined stubbornness, I’m convinced we could rule all the five.
“Without Forging, how will I ever recover my energy?” I wonder more to myself than to her. It is good to keep up curiosity and a pretense of open-mindedness, lest she force my hand completely. But while I still seem to consider, she still seems to give me time to ponder.
She lets out a small chuckle and pats my hand. “I suppose you’ll have to gain energy like the rest of us, through robust activity to keep the blood moving.”
“Robust activity sounds horrible,” I tell her.
“You’ve not been enjoying the walks about the castle? Perhaps we’ll stay kept in your room once again.” The threat is empty, but it turns my stomach just the same. The newfound freedom of Bayla accompanying me on tours of the grounds and castle has been refreshing to say the least. She is still difficult to read, though. I’m not sure if I’ve gained her trust or if she has guards stationed at every route of escape.
Even now, we bound up a circling stairwell outside a tower wall, and while I could easily fling myself inside the open windows and flee, I pretend as though I don’t even notice they’re there. After all, fleeing now would not secure me the cure for the plague. And I’m not leaving until I have it.
“Once we reach the top,” she says jovially, “I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” I try to sound excited, but it is likely another breathtaking view of the ocean or a tray of delicious scones prepared on the order of Graylin himself especially for my delight. I grow weary and bored of being treated so nicely, now that I comply so easily with the wishes of my captors. I even miss arguing with Rashidi and sharpening my wit through debating on kingdom matters with Tarik.
No. I must not let my thoughts stray to Tarik yet again. What we had has been gone for a long while now. I must work to control my feelings toward him, now more than ever. I’ll have to face him one last time when I deliver the cure to him. And then I’ll have to walk away.
My gut clenches even as Bayla is chirping about, oblivious to my sour turn in mood.
“Yes!” she is saying. “And it’s a shame that it is a surprise at all, truth told.” She scoffs. “Your mother should have taught you of it, if I do say so myself. Did she teach you nothing of the Pelusian way of life?”
Actually, she didn’t. In fact, it seemed a sore subject with her mostly. When I asked questions about her home kingdom, she’d always respond with a distant look in her eyes that Pelusia was a part of her past and not worth discussing. My tutor, Aldon, touched on Pelusia as part of our history and culture lessons, but he never mentioned the capability of their Healers or even that King Graylin’s kitchens were famous for their regular turnout of fine delicacies. On the topic of the other four kingdoms, Aldon had been an endless fountain of knowledge. I’d always just assumed that Aldon did not know much of Pelusia, for if he had, he certainly would have taught me more.
Now, I think it’s worth noting that my mother could have instructed him to neglect teaching me about Pelusia. But why, I couldn’t say. Perhaps she didn’t want me pestering her with questions and making her long for the life she left behind. Which, as a curious child, I certainly would have done.
Realizing I haven’t yet responded to Bayla’s question, I say, “I’m sure Mother preferred to embrace her new way of life rather than dwell on the past. She’s very set on being a good queen.”
Bayla smiles at that. “She’s always been an obvious ruler, even before she was chosen by King Eron to become his wife. She had a superior way of dealing with her peers, even when she was very small.”
I can believe this about my mother. I cannot imagine her crying at all or being bullied by other children. Still, she is not an overpowering wife to my father. She knows when to step down. Or rather, she chooses when to step down—for the time being. I used to think her a waif. Now I think her brilliant.
Brilliant and ruthless.
/> A bit of bitterness stings at my eyes. For all her strength, she did not stop Father from beating me when I wouldn’t Forge. It had been difficult not to resent her for that, for her appearing as a coward ever bending to my father’s will. Still, she did help me escape, even if she hid the fact that she had been my accomplice all along. I wonder what Father will do when he learns of this latest turn of events. When he learns that she stole me away in order to remove my Forging abilities. He may well seek to execute her. No, my mother is not a waif. She simply chooses when to be courageous and when to appear helpless.
My mother is cunning.
When we reach the top of the tower, Bayla serves me breakfast in a stunning courtyard overlooking the northern sea. The beaches below, made up of rocky sands and broken shells, take the first hit of morning tide, each strike of foamy wave pushing forward and receding back into the ocean. Even the breeze seems to cater to our out-of-doors meal, cooling our hot eggs and boiled grains. I pull my cloak around me for added protection against the chill imbued in the wind. It is nice to be outdoors, and even lovelier that my things are being moved from my windowless chamber to another wing where I’ll have a balcony and proper sitting area.
It seems Tarik is right; I have a gift for deception.
I think of my sitting area at home in my bedchamber. At home in Theoria, that is. Eating out of doors in the sunlight would be a stifling experience, even with the servants fanning me with large fronds of palms. I imagine that is why the grand dining room is the innermost chamber of all the palace, the coolest and shadiest place to escape the heat. With its vaulted ceilings to give the hot air a place to go, the dining room is by far the most temperate place in the palace.
Bayla gives me a curious glance. “Daydreaming again, are we?”
“I do miss Theoria,” I say shyly, taking a sip of the pomegranate tea she’d brought along for our meal.
“You must get that thinking out of your head, Princess. You must prepare yourself for the fact that your Falcon King will trade you for the cure.” She does not say it unkindly. She doesn’t have to. The words are daggers in themselves, no matter how they are delivered.
“I know he’ll not choose me over the cure for his people.” Of course, not for all the reasons Bayla must be thinking. “He will have no choice but to accept the terms King Graylin offers,” I say with a sense of finality and acceptance I don’t quite feel yet.
“You care for this Falcon King, don’t you?”
Blushes have a way of answering for you, I find. Mine is profuse. Yes, I’m still in love with Tarik. Yes, I still care for him. But one day, that will not be so. Time will pass. My feelings will subside. I’m sure of that.
She chuckles. “Oh, my dear. Then why have you not told your mother this? Your mother is under the impression you want out of the marriage.”
And why would she think otherwise? I never once gave her the impression I had feelings for Tarik. I never once told her that I had stayed by choice, and not because I could not escape Theoria. “I did, once. Want out of the marriage, I mean. Things have been complicated between Tarik and me. We have had our differences.”
“You think?”
I grin. “Are you a determined spinster, Bayla? Prejudiced against a happy marriage?”
But she ignores my jab. “If you truly care for him, I’m sure your mother will understand. Perhaps she’ll convince Graylin to offer the cure for the plague as a wedding gift, instead of as an exchange. After your procedure, of course.”
A wedding gift. What wedding? is what I want to say. “Perhaps” is all I offer instead.
“Your mother is not unreasonable, you know. But that is enough of this talk. I promised you a surprise today. And now I’ll show it to you.”
At this Bayla nods to one of the servants who had been attending us for our morning meal. The servant leaves for a moment, and then comes back with a large bowl of soapy water. Surely we are not meant to bathe in this crisp morning air! I’m desperately hoping this is not some morning ritual Pelusians have, to catch their death of cold by means of an outside bath.
Bayla instructs the servant to remove our dishes from the table. She then sets the bowl of water in front of me, sloshing a bit of it onto the tablecloth. Bayla smiles down at me, clearly excited about what will come next.
“You see,” she begins, “Pelusia is a mystery to all the other kingdoms, only keeping to itself and not caring to mingle with the rest. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I say. Pelusia has never been one to trade or even visit other nations. The citizens are quite snooty, in the eyes of many. I do not say this to Bayla, for she is quite proud of her kingdom.
“Incorrect,” she says triumphantly. Then she cups her hands together, scooping up the sudsy water and submerging her face in it, scrubbing violently as though she were covered in soot from hairline to chin. She turns away from me then, grabbing a cloth strewn over a chair, and dabbing at her face to dry it.
When she turns back to me, I gasp.
Bayla has scrubbed away her face. That is, Bayla now has a new face. A young face. The face of a girl who could not be older than me.
Before I can say anything, she begins removing her clothing. With wide eyes, I watch as she peels away her dress and apron, and with it rolls of womanly curves to reveal that underneath, she is quite petite and skinny, wearing the same kind of servant’s attire, only this clothing fits her nicely, showing a trim waist and much smaller breasts. Lastly, she pulls her gray-haired bun from atop her head and lets her blond curls fall down the length of her back.
Bayla is no grandmother.
“You see,” Bayla says, her raspy voice not matching her appearance now. “We do mingle with other nations. They simply do not know it.” She clears her throat. “Excuse me, Princess Magar.” From her bodice she retrieves a vial of liquid, and plucking off the cork, downs it in one swallow. “There,” she says, her voice sounding youthful and fresh. “That’s much better.”
I blink up at her in disbelief. “You’re … you’re a young girl.”
“Well,” she says, taking a seat next to me at the table. “I’m not as young as I look.”
“But … why?”
“King Graylin thought you would be more comfortable being attended by an older, more experienced woman.”
“No,” I say. “Not that. Why do you disguise yourself within other kingdoms?” And how? How did she make her face appear decades older than it was? Even now, there are still leftover wrinkles near her ears where the water did not touch. Bayla never existed at all. Is Bayla even her real name? And, of course, she couldn’t have attended to my mother when she was younger. She may not have a connection to my mother at all.
I stand, stepping away from the girl before me. “You speak of how Tarik can lie to me, and all the while that is exactly what you have done.”
“I lied to you about nothing. I just never revealed myself to you in my true form.”
I shake my head. “You couldn’t have attended my mother when she was a child. You lied about that.”
Bayla nods, pursing her lips. “Yes, you’re right. I lied about that. It was my grandmother who attended Queen Hanlyn when she was a child. My grams was very fond of your mother.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen, Highness.”
I can believe that. “Why did you fool me in the first place? Why didn’t you reveal your true self?”
“I thought it would be an amusing way to show you the Pelusian gift of disguise.”
“Amusing for whom?”
She smiles as three servants with stiff, swishing dresses sweep onto the courtyard carrying trays of clay jars and glasses of what appears to be paint. They remove the breakfast fare from the table and place their new load upon it. There are strips of a fine, gauzy cloth beside the jars and a big pot of steaming water emitting a foul smell. I crinkle my nose as the wind catches it and sweeps it toward me.
“Amusing for us both. Tell me, Princess Magar, who wou
ld you most like to poke fun at?”
Rashidi, easily. But I’m not sure I should admit this to young Bayla. Insulting the Falcon King’s highest adviser might be disrespectful. I shouldn’t do it.
“Rashidi,” I say with glee.
She bites her lip. “I’m afraid I don’t know what he looks like.” Then she claps her hands happily. “So then, that means you must drink the bonce potion so that your mind tells your body what to look like!” She gives me an apologetic look. “Oh, but I must warn you. It’s made with the brains of the Façade Fish. It won’t taste very good. One could call it disgusting, in fact.”
So, I’m to sample the steaming pot of Façade Fish brains. Blasted marvelous. “Façade Fish?” I ask, trying not to look at the pot, somehow still hoping it will taste like the shepherd stew Tarik’s kitchens make every few days.
Bayla nods. “Oh yes. The Façade Fish can make itself appear as anything in the ocean. Rocks, sand, even other fish. We use the scales in our paint, but they won’t work unless you ingest the brains, which prompt the scales to act upon your thoughts.”
“You’re jesting.”
She laughs. “I know ingesting brains is not ideal, Princess Magar, but surely you’ve been eating stranger foods in that barbaric Theorian kingdom of yours.”
I’ve never heard Theoria called barbaric before. Even Aldon had taught me that Theoria was the center of higher learning and innovation and that its citizens thought of Serubel as barbaric for teaching their women how to fight. Pelusia was never mentioned as a rival of Theoria in medicine or modernization and I wonder again if that is because Aldon didn’t know it, or my mother required him to hold back in telling me. But why?
Besides that, I wasn’t suggesting Bayla jests about eating brains—camel brain is a delicacy in the palace and one that I nearly drool over when my plate is set before me. It’s the idea that the brains of the fish and its scales still act together, long after the fish itself is dead. I’m intrigued, and I bet Master Cy would be, too.