Ally

  Could she?

  Right when he would ask her that very thing, another person bursts through the door—Cy, his Master Healer. It takes both the young boy’s hands to hold the pyramid made of fresh spectorium, a pyramid so large, it sheds a pale light on the entire room, drowning out the yellow of the candles.

  “Your Highness, look!” Cy exclaims. “Fresh spectorium. It was on the steps of the Lyceum, more than I’ve seen in months and months!”

  Tarik groans. The Great Council could not have chosen a worse time to show their extreme generosity and loyalty to the Falcon King. Now Eron and Hanlyn will know there are more Forgers. If the outcome of their trial—and there must be a trial to show the other kingdoms he does not simply murder his guests on theory alone—does not result in imprisonment, and they are set free, the citizens of the Baseborn Quarters will be in danger from them. He must now take additional steps to protect them.

  Sepora will not be happy when he secures her release. She’ll view it as a betrayal. After all his talk of trust, and now this, the accusations he flings at not only her father but especially her beloved mother as well. But did Sepora not betray him in the first place, keeping the other Forgers a secret from him all this time?

  Pride of the pyramids, why must things always be so complicated?

  It was a foolish thing, to take his attention away from King Eron, for somehow the man has freed himself from his guards and lunges at Tarik with one of their swords. Even Sethos cannot save him now. Time seems to stand still as the blade slides closer and closer to his heart, and his reflexes, he knows, are not fast enough to dodge the blow.

  But Patra’s are. She meets the king’s lunge, catching his forearm in her jaws and snapping the very bone. Eron screams in anguish—until Patra springs at his face, her guttural growls ferocious as she mauls him.

  “Patra, disengage,” Tarik commands, but his cat has gone wild. Sethos draws his sword, but hesitates, clearly at a loss for what to do, no doubt warring with his dislike for Eron and his love for Patra. Tarik shakes his head at his brother; taking his sword to Patra would be useless at this point, for the king’s lifeless body slumps to the floor.

  Patra backs away from him then, putting herself between Tarik and the rest of the guards, even Sethos. Cy crouches in the corner covering his head with his hands, his pyramid of spectorium all but abandoned. Actually, where is the pyramid of spectorium?

  And where is Queen Hanlyn?

  Tarik and Sethos seem to realize her absence at the same time. “Find the queen,” Sethos barks, sheathing his sword behind his back and stepping over Eron’s body. “And someone clean up this mess.”

  Five of the guards dispatch, and five stay to do Sethos’s bidding. Tarik strides to Cy, picking him up from the floor and brushing off the imagined dust from his small body. “It will be okay,” he tells the boy Healer. “Patra was just protecting me.”

  “I’ve never seen a cat do that before,” he says. “I mean, I know they’re trained to … to…”

  “Yes, well, I’ve never had the occasion to need her for that. Now, let’s go to my bedchamber and discuss your findings, shall we?”

  “Y-y-yes, Highness. Of course.”

  Patra follows behind them, her tongue smacking the blood from her face as she walks. Over his shoulder, Tarik calls to his brother. “Sethos, set out for Pelusia at once.”

  25

  SEPORA

  Perhaps I couldn’t quite recall Rashidi’s every detail when I’d Cloaked as him a few days before, because my result had been mixed. His scowl I perfected, though, and Bayla and I had such great amusement poking fun at his expressions and my perceptions of what they all meant. Since then, I’ve had scads and scads of practice.

  Perhaps I should feel guilty in not putting up a fight to escape anymore. But there is something salutary in my staying here. Of course, I’ve had to consistently deter Bayla from forcing me to have my gallum removed, but for now, she seems determined to talk me into it with gentle suggestions, and as long as I keep up the appearance of considering it a little more each day, she seems content to let the matter wait. And each morning after breakfast and our serious discussion of the surgery, I’m allowed to play with the Cloaking paint.

  Today, since Bayla left to attend to some castle matter, I’ve already impersonated two servants and a seller of wares I saw from the castle wall far below us. Him, I probably did not perfect, because I couldn’t take in all of his features. I’d wondered what a Beholder might have noticed from so far ahigh. The pores of the seller’s chin? Each eyelash pointing this way or that? Nose hairs, even? Still, I imagined what I thought he looked like, and that is how he appeared when I had finished my work.

  As I admire my reflection in the full-length mirror before me now, I’m thoroughly impressed with myself. It’s by far the best execution of my efforts. My eyes appear hollowed out, as though bags had deflated beneath them, my lips appear thin and testy, and my eyebrows are bushy white, with the help of some added hound hairs and a touch of candle wax to keep them in place. Growing up, I remember our servant Testra allowing me to sneak into my mother’s wardrobe to dress up in her clothes, but in retrospect, those times were not nearly as fun as this banquet of paint and costumes and bonce potion, even the smelly aroma of Façade Fish brains lingering about the veranda.

  Next, I’ve decided to impersonate Bayla herself. When she brings me my evening meal, she’ll be shocked to find that she’s bringing it to herself. I’ll use the colored oil to soften the white in my hair, making it the golden blond her tresses are. And if I squat ever so slightly, I’ll be just as short as she. She should be proud. Skilled at Cloaking, that girl is. And ever the skilled teacher, if I do say so myself.

  Still, as easy as I thought it would be, it takes me the better part of the remainder of the day to perfect Bayla. And, as the hours pass, and my food arrives by a different servant altogether—who doesn’t even care to look up at who she’s serving—I begin to worry about what is keeping my jovial companion. Is this one of her many games? Does she want me to look for her? The thought excites me, to run amok in the castle without a chaperone. On the days we tour the place, I’ve taken in many details and hidden them away in my memory, in the case that I do need to actually escape. But I’ve also come to admire the expanse of the thing, the history here, and the fact that Pelusia trades very much—just not with the other four kingdoms. They prefer the goods and services of the mysterious northern kingdoms, who reside across the enormous ocean that separates us all. And they’ve built ships large enough to stock for the months-long journey it takes to reach them—that I learned when Bayla took me to the docks on the shoreline.

  Perhaps my search for Bayla will take me back to the docks and to the briny air and the chilled wind and the odor of dead fish being sold at market. I pull on my own slippers—the only giveaway that I’m not, in fact, Bayla, and head for the door.

  For the past three days, she has tested my skill in spotting Cloakers. I’ve not quite gotten the hang of it yet, but she can spot every one in the castle and outside as we walk along, to the point where I’ve wondered if she herself is a Beholder. Some Cloak themselves to appear more attractive. Others, beautiful women, Cloak themselves to appear plain so as not to garner so much attention for themselves. Still others Cloak themselves just for the fun of Cloaking, and it is these that we search the castle grounds for, and they for us. It is a childish game, I know, but one that keeps me busy until I hear word from Mother. The last correspondence I received told me that the king is worried for me, but that is to be expected, and not to be anxious, but to remember who I am, a Serubelan princess, and to stay strong—and of course, to keep considering the matter of surgery.

  To say the least, I feel guilty that I am having fun while Tarik must handle the conundrum he’s in, but I’m comforted in knowing that Mother has it all in her capable hands, even if Tarik does not know it. Mother will not let the kingdoms go to war any more than I would allow it.

 
Still, if Tarik were missing, I would be worried sick, and inconsolable, even though he called off our wedding. Is it wretched of me to be wasting the day at play while he wonders what has happened to me? But I can’t allow the hope that he still cares to nag at me too much. I must get over this hope of mine, that there will ever be anything between us again. He might be worried, but he’ll have other matters to attend to that will keep him distracted, I’m sure. He cannot be too worried for a princess he no longer intends to wed.

  I push those thoughts aside as I wander the castle Cloaked as Bayla, looking at each servant I pass but, most important, smelling them. I receive many odd glances, of course, but I’ve come to realize that Bayla always smells of roses, and while she may be Cloaked as someone else, she most definitely will still smell like Bayla. Well, Bayla and bonce potion.

  I pass a door closed almost shut, but stop in my tracks. There is candlelight coming from inside—and while I don’t smell roses, I hear the unmistakable voice-song of Bayla. I crack open the door just a bit and find my mark, arms wrapped around a much taller boy with dark hair and features. A handsome boy, who, by the intimacy of their embrace, could be none other than Pontiadi. I begin to ease back out of the doorway, fully meaning to let these two finish their private moment together. But something Pontiadi says halts me cold.

  “You mustn’t tell the Princess Magar.”

  That is when I lean in closer, until I’m sure they’ll glance my way and catch me.

  Bayla shakes her head. “I cannot keep that from her. It isn’t fair, Ponti!”

  He strokes her golden tresses, obviously troubled by her frustration. “Sweet, who are we to decide what is fair? We are but servants in this castle. It’s the king’s decision. We cannot interfere here.”

  “And what if it were us, Ponti? What if someone were trying to separate us? What if someone were trying to marry me off to another? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  Marry her off to another? Saints of Serubel, what is happening?

  “I would not allow any man to touch you.”

  “She loves him, Ponti. She told me so herself. She loves the Falcon King. She doesn’t want to marry a northern prince. She cannot go from being a pawn of her father’s to a pawn of her mother’s. I won’t let that happen!” She stomps on his foot, but he holds her tightly, only grunting with the pain.

  “If you tell her, she’ll flee. We’ll both be in trouble then,” Ponti reasons, but Bayla’s tears are affecting him, I can tell.

  “She is my friend. I won’t betray her loyalty.”

  “And what of us? The king will send me off in his army, and I’ll ne’er see the likes of you again.”

  “Did he say why she’s to marry Prince Bahrain?”

  Prince Bahrain? I’ve never even heard of this person. Mother certainly never mentioned him in her letters. Does she know that Tarik has broken our engagement, then? Is that why she’s arranging another marriage for me? I feel a small betrayal at that; Tarik had promised I could tell my parents on my own time. Perhaps he figured my disappearance had changed that, especially if he thought I had run away.

  Bayla pushes Ponti away, her head lifted high. “The Falcon King won’t stand for it, the same way you wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “The Falcon King will stand for it, because he’ll be gaining the cure for the Quiet Plague. He’ll let her go, and gladly. He’ll call off the engagement, once tempted with it. Any good king would.”

  So Mother doesn’t know?

  “Then come with me,” I say, stepping fully into the doorway and out of the shadows of the hall. Ponti gasps, looking from Bayla to me. I’ve done a superb job of Cloaking her; even he can appreciate that. “Come back with me to Theoria and make things right. The Falcon King will not turn you away. I will not turn you away. You’ll be punished for nothing.”

  Ponti pushes Bayla behind him. “You do not know what is happening here, Princess Magar.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. Explain it to me, then,” I say evenly.

  Bayla pinches him in the side and he groans. “Stop that, Bayla. You know I must take her to the king at once. The king will know what to do with her.”

  “Do you know how to fight, Ponti? Because she does. She’s been trained by a Majai.”

  Ponti looks up and down the length of me, considering. “She could have lied about that.”

  My instant smile has him reconsidering. Finally, he says, “I should call for the guards. I should call for them right now and end this—”

  “I’m afraid the guards will not be able to help you at this moment,” a familiar voice calls from the door behind me. Sethos steps in, a sword in each hand, and a tired expression on his face. I don’t miss the fact that there is blood on both the blades. “They are … indisposed.”

  He looks at me and then to Bayla. “Which one of you is Sepora? I don’t have all day, so I’ll just start slicing the both of you.”

  “You’re a dolt,” I spit. “And you won’t harm them, or I’ll harvest your eyes from your head.”

  Sethos smirks. “Good, I’ve found you. Let’s get a move on, then.”

  He grabs my arm and hauls me toward the door. I dig my heels into the floor, but his strength is too great and we are heading down the hall within seconds.

  “Stop!” I plead. “Graylin will kill them if he finds out they let me escape.”

  Sethos sighs. “You’re not escaping. Obviously, you would have done that already, had you any sense. You’re being kidnapped, and to my great amusement, against your will. Now let’s hurry before I have to actually kill someone. And if you make me knock you unconscious, you’ll be deliberately starting a fight between my brother and me, and you know how I’d love that.”

  “Trust me when I say your brother couldn’t care less.” Finally I snatch my arm from his grasp.

  He narrows his eyes to near slits. “My brother has been worried sick about you for almost two weeks. Much has happened, Sepora. Do not try my patience. I’m tired and hungry. Also, I’m hungry.”

  “Your brother has no business worrying for my safety any longer. He called off our engagement before I was taken.”

  Sethos stiffens. “You lie.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Guards! We have an intruder!” Ponti calls from the doorway.

  Sethos sighs and stalks toward Ponti, knocking him on the head with the hilt of his sword. Ponti slumps to the stone floor in a heap. Bayla is about to scream, but Sethos is at her side, holding his hand over her mouth. “I heard everything. The Falcon King will exact vengeance from Graylin the minute he hears about this nonsense of marrying his bride off to another. I suggest you both flee Pelusia before that happens.” He nods to Ponti’s figure on the ground. “If you scream now, though, I’ll slit his throat. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But I’ll come back and find him no matter where you go. And I always get my mark.”

  Bayla is sobbing beneath his hand, but she nods vigorously in understanding. “Good.”

  He strides back to me and and snatches my hand, dragging me forward again. “See? Everyone can be reasoned with. Except perhaps you, I think.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “All the same, it’s good to see you. I can’t wait to tell you all of the news.” He climbs up into an open window that barely fits his large frame. Looking down, he nods. “The haystacks are still there. We’re jumping, I’m afraid. They’ll have found the other guards by now and be looking for us.”

  “I’m not jumping.”

  “You’re sure? Because throwing you out would greatly amuse me.” He reaches out his hand for me.

  I look at it, sucking in a breath through my teeth. “I can’t do it.”

  “Pride of the pyramids, take my hand and let’s go.”

  “Can you knock me out, the way you did Ponti?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Give yourself something to tell your grandchildren and jump, Sepora. You jumped from the Half Bridge, why not from a steep castle tower?
Besides, we really must be on our way. My future wife awaits my return in Theoria, and I’m dying to get back to her.”

  “Your future wife?” My eyes must be the size of saucers.

  “I’ll tell you everything. As soon as you jump.”

  There is a commotion coming from down the hall, and the sound of men’s voices echoing toward us. I’m in the window before I know it, looking down at the wagon with hay in it. “You’re sure we won’t die?”

  “Of course,” Sethos says, grinning.

  And then he picks me up and tosses me out.

  26

  TARIK

  Rashidi waits with Tarik as he paces the floor of his day chambers. It had been announced to them both an hour ago that Sethos had returned with Sepora, and they would arrive at any moment to report to him. The entire palace seemed frenzied as a swatted bee at the excitement of the princess returning. Tarik is not sure if it is out of happiness or out of curiosity that the servants bruit about at the return of Magar, the future Theorian queen, but as Ptolem reports it to him, everyone wonders what her reaction will be to her father’s death. It is a good question.

  Tarik closes his eyes at the thought of having to tell Sepora of her father. Perhaps Sethos has already told her. It is a long journey on foot to Pelusia, but Ptolem said they’d disembarked from a skiff on the Nefari just before the Half Bridge. Sethos has had time to make Sepora aware of all that has happened. Whether he did or not, Tarik couldn’t say. Sethos is not very good at serious talk. And he is not very good at comforting.

  The door opens then and a very tired-looking Sethos and a very passive-looking Sepora enter the day chambers. To Tarik’s surprise, Rashidi pulls out a chair for Sepora and urges her to sit. He chides himself for not doing the same. Both Sepora and Sethos look as though they’ve endured much. Sethos is covered in blood and dirt, and Sepora, after Tarik’s closest scrutiny and relief, merely dirt. She is clearly dressed in servant’s attire and he wonders what his own servants must have thought about their future queen being brought to them in near rags and dragged around the palace in such a state.