“That would leave only Wachuk,” Morg says with distaste.
Sepora does not look at him. “We need warriors to overtake Kyra for the cratorium. Wachuk has those in abundance.”
Olna nods. “Yes, they do, Princess Magar. But it is not my belief that we need to overtake the old city of Kyra.”
Morg is already set to argue. “We need cratorium, Mistress Olna. To make cratorium, we need Scaldling venom.”
“Then you will certainly need to speak your piece with Wachuk, Commander Morg,” Olna says, squaring her shoulders. “For they have Scaldlings. I believe that is more important than old venom dust in an ancient city.”
“Did you say Scaldlings?” Sepora says. “Live Scaldlings?”
Olna nods. “Indeed. Centuries ago when we were first captured and set upon building the great pyramids of Theoria, we brought with us Scaldlings from the great war. Our ancestors were permitted to keep them, as their fire-breathing abilities had been removed. As our people came to adjust to the desert way of life, we realized that we had no need for Scaldlings, that feeding them was a burden when we could hardly feed ourselves. We began to breed them, and to sell them to the royals of Wachuk. Since that kingdom worships fire, they were very willing to trade with us for food. While we no longer have Scaldlings here, I’m positive that the Wachuks have kept them. They would not let a breed of fire-breathers die out as we did.”
Tarik steps into the circle, his mind reeling. “This was many, many years ago. Does the Great Council still have a standing relationship with Wachuk?”
“We do. But you must consider, we have nothing to trade them at the moment. Nothing that would be of value to them. You have no control over Theoria’s goods, and they do not have need of spectorium. You cannot simply ask to borrow their Scaldlings. They are partners in trade, not friends.”
Sethos steps into the talking circle then, and Tarik nearly rolls his eyes. No doubt his brother means to suggest they attack Wachuk and simply take the Scaldlings. To Sethos, overtaking a nation of women warriors must be like overtaking a kingdom run by infants. But Sethos surprises them all. “I have an idea who could help with that.” He strides over to Tulle and pulls her into the dirt circle. Quite unwillingly, she nods to the Council, all the while staring daggers at his brother. It’s the first time Tarik has ever seen her upset with Sethos, which is a miracle in and of itself. “The Princess Tulle is whom we should send to negotiate our terms,” Sethos says proudly.
“Why is that, Prince Sethos?” Olna says, doubtful. Truth told, Tarik is doubtful himself. Tulle has always presented herself as shy and unassuming—traits that struck true to Tarik. Satisfactorily negotiating with the fierce Warrior Queen Emula of Wachuk does not seem a likely feat for Tulle. In fact, it seems quite impossible.
“What I haven’t told you, because frankly I didn’t see it was any of your business, and by your business I mean my brother’s, is that Princess Tulle is actually a Warm Blood.”
Tarik blinks. Should he know what a Warm Blood is? He glances at Rashidi, who shrugs, clearly mystified. Even Olna seems perplexed. Sethos rolls his eyes, clearly enjoying the fact that he has confounded everyone in attendance. “You see—”
But he is cut off by Princess Tulle herself. “I am perfectly capable of explaining myself, thank you, Sethos.”
Tarik suppresses a grin. Perhaps Tulle is not as shy and unassuming as he’d thought. Tulle looks at Olna. “I assume I am permitted to speak on my own behalf?”
Olna nods, curious. “Indeed, Princess. You are the only representative present at the moment on behalf of the kingdom of Hemut. We will certainly hear you out.”
“Thank you,” Tulle says, a bit too graciously, and Tarik is almost certain Sethos has his hands full with this one. Sethos would not find her so interesting if he did not have his hands full. “The reason Sethos did not mention sooner that I am a Warm Blood is that Warm Bloods are generally outcasts back home in Hemut. We are rare, and when we do crop up, we are kept hidden at all costs. I, however, could not be hidden. And so Father kept me out of court for as long as he could and still does to this day.”
“Yes, sweetling,” Sethos says, “but tell them the part where you single-handedly whipped the entire Hemutian army in the forest.”
But Tulle is not as proud of this feat as Sethos is. “I was forced to subdue them, I’m afraid. To use my powers against them.”
“Powers?” Tarik asks, sizing her up thoroughly and still finding her lacking in where the word “powerful” might be applied. She is, after all, a dainty little thing.
“Yes,” she says, holding her open palm out for all to see. In an instant, a flame erupts from her hand. “The power I have is to create fire.”
29
SEPORA
I knew there had to be more to Tulle than what meets the eye. Over these last two weeks in the Baseborn Quarters, I’d grown quite fond of her modest personality and her innocent kindness. But I’d known all along that there was something else Sethos found endearing, something else that would hold his interest the way only Tulle does. After all, simple modesty and kindness are not the sorts of things Sethos is attracted to.
And as Tulle casts long flames about the room in a display of her abilities, I’ve figured out Sethos’s infatuation: Tulle is deadly. No, not with a sword, and not with her tongue, but she is deadly with her flames. More deadly than even Sethos can be, if she subdued an entire army with her ability. I wonder how Warm Bloods can be outcasts at all, rather than rule the blasted kingdom of Hemut themselves.
But as Tulle put it, they do not fit in there. Their bodies are too warm to even sit on the thrones made of ice. And what’s more, they do not want to fit in. Not among an ice nation, anyway. No, Tulle has been quite happy to be in Theoria and with Sethos.
Even now she is saying, “I would be honored to speak to Queen Emula of Wachuk on Theoria’s behalf.”
“Still,” Olna says, “what can you offer them?”
“At this point, nothing,” Tarik interjects, “but she will certainly have their ear.”
Sethos nods. “There’s no doubt she’ll command their respect, if nothing else. I think it’s worth the shot.”
“If we have Wachuk as an ally, certainly we could take back the palace,” I say before thinking. I keep forgetting I have nothing to gain in taking back the palace. Nothing to gain, but nothing to lose, either, I remind myself. I am no longer to be queen of Theoria. I will no longer reside in the palace. Perhaps I’ll stay here, in the Baseborn Quarters. Still, I feel a responsibility for what has happened. The citizens would not have gone mad at all if I had Forged to treat them in the first place—or at least I don’t think they would have. I think back to my time in Pelusia and to Bayla insisting then that King Graylin had the cure and was simply using it as a negotiating tool. If only there were some way we could get our hands on it. Even if I could return to Pelusia, I wouldn’t know where to look.
That’s when my gaze falls upon Cy. Cy, who is so unsuspecting, sitting outside of the circle taking it all in stride. Cy would know where to look, what questions to ask, how to act like a student of healing in Pelusia.
Poor Cy.
“I think we should send Cy to Pelusia,” I say abruptly.
Tarik and Sethos had been going back and forth about Tulle, but her role has already been decided, so I don’t mind interrupting. The chamber falls quiet, the echo of their words dying off after my own.
Tarik regards me with a scowl. Of course, Tarik always regards me with a scowl or a glare, but mostly an indifferent expression these days. I’ve become so accustomed to it, his look hardly registers. Hardly. “Cy? What does Cy have to do with this?”
“Everything,” I say, turning away from him and addressing Olna. “When I was held there, the servant Bayla told me King Graylin had the cure for the Quiet Plague. If that’s true, we could try to secure it from them. Taking back the palace is not our only concern. The Strays themselves pose the bigger problem if they continue to
behave this way. We need to put a stop to their behavior and regain control of the kingdom.” There I go, using the word “we” when I know very well Tarik doesn’t hold a place for me in his kingdom anymore.
And if I don’t have a place in his kingdom, he’s hardly likely to consider my opinion in his plans for it.
“If the Strays refuse the fresh spectorium, why would they accept whatever cure the kingdom of Pelusia holds?” Tarik says. “Why did you not bring this up before?”
I square my shoulders. “I was about to tell you this at the palace, but the Strays interrupted me.”
Tarik’s glare softens. I hate when he softens. It reminds me of how things used to be. How they could still be. “How can we trust that they even have a cure?” he says. “We would be fools to risk our best Healer for such a dangerous mission.” His voice is full of reason—which irritates me beyond sense.
“Your Healer has been rendered useless at the moment,” I counter. “He certainly has an abundance of time on his hands sitting around the Baseborn Quarters tending to cuts and scrapes. What better use of his time than to send him after the cure?”
“He’s thirteen years old,” Tarik says. “And clearly Theorian. He wouldn’t stand a chance in Pelusia by himself. They’re surely on alert for any citizen of ours coming and going from their boundaries.”
“Perhaps we can use their arrogance against them.” Truth told, I continue to push and offer help because this is the most the Falcon King has deigned to speak to me since he called off our engagement. I’ve missed parrying with him. And I can see that my arguments are forcing him to reconsider his position. “If you’re worried for his safety, send Sethos with him. Sethos knows how to find Bayla. She’ll Cloak them.”
Sethos crosses his arms. “That could actually work. If we’re disguised, we’d have run of the kingdom, and I’m nothing if not thorough. What say you, Cy?”
Cy keeps his gaze leveled at Tarik. “I’m fourteen now,” he says, a bit perturbed, “and we need that cure.”
Olna sighs heavily, drawing our attention to her. “But you’re forgetting that even if you have a cure, the Strays aren’t likely to take it.”
“We’ll force them to,” Tarik says. “After we take back the palace.”
I nod. “It’s the only way.”
“It’s settled, then,” Sethos says, slapping me on the back. I clench my teeth; the boy prince doesn’t know his own strength sometimes. “We leave at dawn.”
Tulle steps forward again, gently reaching for Sethos’s hand. I wonder if hers are hot to the touch, after her fiery display. Even if they are, I know Sethos would never draw back from her. He’s both too masculine and too smitten to ever do that.
“If we’re dividing up, as it were, I think we would do well to send Rashidi to Hemut,” Tulle says. “I think my father’s adviser, Lady Gita, would listen to him.”
“Lady Gita?” Sethos says, incredulous. “She’d sooner gut him with that icicle of hers than listen to him now that I’ve stolen you away!”
But Tulle shakes her head. “I’ll send him with a message. She’ll listen to him, I swear it.”
“What message would Rashidi tell her?” Tarik says, the tension from his face abated. I try to ignore the envy stabbing between my ribs, making it difficult to breathe. It was not so long ago that he treated me with such gentleness.
“She has always respected Rashidi,” Tulle says, “and she’s looked after me since my mother died. If there is a way she can help, she will.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Tarik says. “I cannot have my closest adviser run through with an icicle.”
“It is my duty to try,” Rashidi interjects. “I have served Theoria all my life. I won’t abandon that service now.”
Tarik rubs a hand down his face. “And what am I to do while you’re away? Twiddle my thumbs and hope for the best?”
“You’re to trust your most loyal ensemble of servants,” Rashidi says gently. “And let them serve you. Keep yourself abreast of kingdom news.”
“I serve the people, the same as you do, Rashidi,” Tarik says. But his face is complacent. He will stay behind.
And so will I.
30
TARIK
It has been only a day since Tarik saw the remainder of his loyal staff off to their respective missions and he is almost driven mad by the silence as the light of morning breaks into his tent. His hope for Tulle’s success, his worry for Cy and Sethos, his fear for Rashidi’s life—all of them have kept him awake this night.
That, and the fact that he is now alone with Sepora with few distractions to keep him occupied. Before, he would take turns consulting with Rashidi, quarreling with Sethos, and watching along as Cy tended to the few injuries and illnesses sustained by the residents of the Baseborn Quarters. Before, he could forget that Sepora labored along with the descendants of her people, learning to weave baskets and blankets, and sew tents. If he were sensible, he would keep his distance from her. He would let her labor in the day, and he would find something else to do.
But pride of the pyramids, his sense seems to vanish each time he interacts with her. It seemed a good idea, the best idea, in fact, to renounce their engagement. After all, she had kept vital secrets from him, as it were. Not only that, but she dallied in Pelusia while he risked his brother to find her.
Idiot, he tells himself. She stayed behind in Pelusia to find the cure for the Quiet Plague. She admitted only a night ago, when she’d confessed that Pelusia had harbored a cure for it. He remembered that she almost told him so the evening Sethos brought her back to Theoria. She’d been on the verge of saying it, he is sure of it. She’d shown a loyalty to the people of Theoria in doing it. If anything, he owes her an apology for assuming the worst.
If anything, he must give credit where credit is due.
Does it mean something that she showed loyalty even at risk to her person? Of course it does. Does it mean he made the wrong decision in calling off their engagement? He’s not sure. He does love her yet, but trusting her seems impossible, given how deceptive she can be. How deceptive she has been. And isn’t trust more important in a royal marriage than love? That’s what his father would say. It’s what Rashidi would say.
But what do I say?
All he knows is that he must steer clear of her, or the tension between them will drive him mad. If she’s upset about his calling off their engagement, she hasn’t said as much, not even to Sethos. Yet her own words betray her at times, even when her body language speaks differently. What does that mean? Is she as indifferent as she acts?
He shakes his head at the mess of it all. He simply must occupy his time somehow. He’s been longing to go into Anyar and see for himself what has occurred. Now that his obstacles—Sethos and Rashidi—are gone, he will do just that.
He springs from the cot and runs a hand through his hair. He’ll pack a satchel with food and water and make a day of it. He’ll scout for Sed of the Parani and finally make his acquaintance, and then he’ll visit Cantor at the Bazaar. He’ll inspect the state of his kingdom firsthand. Maybe that will help him to solve the problem of how to take it back. Too, it will take him all day and into the night to return, and by then Sepora will have retired to her tent—which is, unfortunately, right next to his. There will be no reasonable need to seek out her company, though. No need to bother her after her long day of work.
At least, he hopes not.
Olna will not like it, he knows, for it’s a dangerous endeavor for anyone to venture into the city, especially since they have not truly determined how many Strays there are roaming about the place. But Olna is not the Falcon King. It is not Olna’s responsibility to help the innocent citizens of Theoria. And so Olna does not have a say in the matter. Besides, Cantor had said that some of the Strays are harmless. Some are given to tendencies of quiet madness, while others lean toward violence. But how many are afflicted with violence? The reports cannot confirm anything with certainty, which is why he must go himself.
He is not helpless, either, of course. In past years, Sethos needed someone to practice with at home before he’d moved to the Lyceum, and Tarik had been his partner more times than not. While not a Majai, Tarik can certainly defend himself. Too, he has Patra for protection.
Tarik glances at his giant cat sleeping in the dirt next to his cot. “Patra,” he says. She opens her eyes, lifting only her head to peer up at him. He can tell she’s gauging whether to get up. “Let’s go to the Bazaar.” She well knows the word Bazaar and that it means an outing for her. Slowly she picks herself up from the ground and stretches enormously, yawning wide enough to encompass his whole head. Though she’s adjusted well to the new scents and people and surroundings in the Baseborn Quarters, he senses a restlessness in her that sometimes goes along with too much time spent lounging around the palace. She hasn’t been exercised in quite some time; today will be good for her, too.
He collects his things and opens the tent flap—and comes face-to-face with Sepora.
Well, not exactly face-to-face. She was passing by right at that moment, her hair pulled up into an unkempt bun and carrying a satchel of her own. He doesn’t recall her ever carrying a satchel to report to her duties before.
Curious.
“Oh,” she says, stopping abruptly. She licks her lips and toes the dirt in front of her, not meeting his eyes. She is, of course, hoping that he won’t ask her any questions.
She’ll be sadly disappointed.
“I was under the impression food was brought to you each day,” he says, making a point to nod at the stringed bag thrown over her shoulder. Of course, he doesn’t really know what’s in the satchel, but his guess must have been close because she scowls.
“What are you doing?” she says, eyeing his own load.
“I asked first.”
“Not directly.”
“I’m asking now.”
A huff, followed by the crossing of her arms. “Your interest in my affairs ended the day you called off our engagement.”