“I will speak to him,” Tulle says. “Whether or not he weds me, I must return to Hemut—but not before my work here is done. I cannot have the blood of your kingdom on my hands. We will send word immediately that my father’s terms will be met one way or the other. That should stave off an attack.”
I’m beginning to like Tulle more and more. She is capable but gentle, determined but kind. And we share the same hope for peace.
I wonder what Sethos will do when he learns that she will return to her home with or without him. Probably a tantrum is in our near future. I only hope he takes Tulle’s thoughts and feelings into consideration before acting out of temper.
“How soon can Ankor assemble his forces?” Tarik asks Rashidi. “If Sethos agrees to this … proposal?”
“As soon as we send him word of our compliance.”
So then, we must wait for Sethos to return with Cy. I bite my lip. The room is silent. There is not one of us who thinks waiting is a good idea. Yet we need Hemut.
“The Strays must be stopped,” Tarik counters. “We cannot wait for Sethos’s return. I’ll send word to Cantor to collect the Majai together. With our loyal Majai and Queen Emula’s army, we should have no problem overtaking the Strays.”
I step into the circle uninvited. “I wish to speak,” I say, addressing Olna instead of Tarik. Olna still recognizes me as a princess of Serubel, even if Tarik does not want my opinion in his own kingdom’s matters.
Olna nods to me.
“We must remember that the Strays are not evil, they are just ill,” I say. “If we kill them, we will be killing citizens of Theoria. Capturing them and holding them until Cy returns would, in my opinion, be the wisest course.”
“You and I share the same opinion,” Tarik says. “Efforts will be made to subdue, not to kill. The Majai are trained in such ways. I’ll make sure Queen Emula understands our purpose.” He turns back to Olna. “Please send for your fastest messenger. It is time I took my kingdom back.”
34
TARIK
It takes the better part of a day to secure and clear the palace once more.
More than seven hundred Strays and Serubelans were captured and imprisoned, transported, and guarded heavily at the Lyceum by loyal Majai and Wachuk warriors. The palace is in disarray, from crude and insulting paintings on the walls to spoiled food in each hallway, in addition to dried blood and the stench of death infused throughout. It will take a solid month to restore everything to its proper order, but Tarik is more than happy to take on the endeavor.
He finds his day chambers have been ransacked, scrolls torn to pieces and strewn about the floor, his desk overturned, and most of the sheers overlooking the balcony ripped down and trampled upon. His bedchamber fares no better. The mattress has been ripped to shreds, his sheets cut into strips and hung about the room, and his seating area burned on the stone it once stood upon. The ornate carvings of his bed, his father’s bed, have been sliced through and ruined beyond repair. The latrine is full of excrement where the Strays had not bothered to use the running water meant for that purpose.
He wonders how Sepora’s chambers fare and is certain they are no better. He’d sent word through Morg to allow her into the palace now that everything has settled down and it was cleared of all miscreants. She’d been angry that he ordered her to stay behind with Olna until the task had been completed, insisting her swordsmanship could help. But Tarik had seen the way she fought with Sethos in the courtyard below his balcony.
And she is certainly not ready to face a Stray Majai.
She’d already informed him that she would collect her things from her chambers and move herself to the Baseborn Quarters forthwith. He’d been at a loss for words at her decision, though he’d known it was only a matter of time until she decided what her own fate would be. He has tried to conjure up reasons for her to stay in the palace, particularly as his guest, but she would have none of it. She is no longer to wed him. She could not stay as an adviser to him, since he no longer trusts her judgment. Other than a guest of Theoria, as the misplaced princess of Serubel, he could not offer her an alternative. And she is set against “imposing on an offer made out of pity,” she’d said.
How had she come to be so stubborn?
And of course, he cannot consider her stubbornness without first examining his own. Throughout the ordeal in the Baseborn Quarters, ever since her return to Theoria from Pelusia, she has acted time and time again on behalf of his citizens. When she openly pleaded that the Strays be treated and not killed, it had deeply moved him. His reasons for not taking her as his queen are becoming weaker and weaker. He senses that even Rashidi disapproves of his decision; the old man may not care for Sepora, but he carries a tone of admiration in his voice when he speaks of her nowadays. If Rashidi is convinced she would make a good queen, why should Tarik not be?
And—what if she will no longer have him anyway?
Perhaps that is what keeps his tongue silent. Perhaps that is why he does not reapproach her about the matter. He is afraid of rejection. What could I say to make things right between us now? There is nothing, he thinks.
And pride of the pyramids, but where is she? She should have arrived by now. Surely she wouldn’t move her things without the courtesy of an official farewell. Of course, she certainly is angry enough to—
The realization strikes him so hard it nearly steals his breath. Sepora is no doubt here.
And she no doubt went straight to the stables for Nuna.
35
SEPORA
I sink to my knees beside her. She has been gone for some time now, as flies have gathered around her, maggots breed in her mouth, and the blood from where they skinned her of scales has dried and crisped in the Theorian heat. Spears poke out from everywhere. She suffered.
Not Nuna.
Not my Nuna.
There are a few dead men scattered about the stable where she’s housed, men who were probably victims of her sharp teeth, if their gashes are any indication. I wish those men alive, so I could kill them all over again. After she’d shown her power, they obviously came at her in numbers. That is the only way to take a Defender down.
I bury my face in my hands and let out a scream. The tears come in an instant deluge that I can’t stop even if I wanted to. But why should I not cry? Nuna deserves my tears, my anguish. She deserves it, because I abandoned her to this fate. Did she wonder why I did not come for her? Do Serpens think on that level? Was she hungry when she died? Thirsty?
It is good that I wonder those things, that I torture myself with them. That I suffer from not knowing, that I suffer at all, because she suffered. She died alone and without help.
There is so much loss within me. Father. Mother. My queenship. Tarik himself. And now Nuna. How much loss can people handle before they become Strays themselves? It is unbearable, this. It’s unthinkable. I could handle all the rest. Tears at night, sorrow at my losses, but a show of strength during the day. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s gotten me by. Now I have no strength left to give.
Not Nuna.
“Sepora,” Tarik says softly. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I’d told him to never touch me again. At the time, I had meant it. He’s hurt me in so many ways. Humiliated me, betrayed me. But now, at this moment, I want to bury myself in his arms and let him comfort me. I want to use him, the way he used me that night in Cantor’s tent. I want warmth and affection and something more than loss.
I look up at him, too weak in the knees to stand. “I should have come for her. But you were too blasted vigilant for me to leave Cantor’s tent. This is your fault.”
“Yes,” he agrees, to my surprise, “it is my fault. Not yours.”
I know what he is doing. He’s trying to relieve me of the burden of guilt. And as much as I want to give it to him, as much as I truly want to blame him, I cannot. Nuna was my responsibility. I should have found a way. Tarik is not all-knowing. He is just a boy king. I could have come.
I should ha
ve come.
“There is a burial ground in the back of the palace for generations upon generations of royal cats,” he says, crouching down on his haunches next to me. “We will see that she receives a proper Theorian burial and honors, if you wish it.”
“She’s not a Theorian cat,” I say, even as I decide in my head that I’ll allow it. Nuna deserves what she can get. What I can get for her.
“No. She’s more fearsome that any Theorian cat. And she served a Serubelan princess. She deserves a proper farewell.”
My bottom lip quivers as more tears slide down my face. “I should have come for her.”
He doesn’t answer, just scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the door of the stable. His strength is unimaginable. He carries me as the wind carries dust, or as the Serubelan breeze carries leaves from a vine. I don’t have the energy, the will to fight against him. I don’t have the desire. I lean my cheek upon his bare chest and cry into it. He brings me this way back to the palace, me sobbing like a small child, and him cooing words of comfort for my ears only. Many people come to aid him. Rashidi, Morg, servants.
But he nods them all away, carrying me through the palace as I cling to him and weep. I recognize where he is taking me and as we enter his bedchamber I suck in a breath at the state of it. Everything is strewn about as if a riot had happened here. Servants hurry about the room, cleaning up what they can. Tarik’s enormous bed has been ruined, torn at the mattress with vulgar scenes carved into the once beautiful wood. The usual smell of lavender is replaced by a lingering stench of feces mixed with the familiar scent of a cleaning solution as servants work in the lavatory.
“Leave us, please,” Tarik says loudly, and one by one the men and women stop what they are doing and leave the chamber. Tarik is still holding me when the last one shuts the door behind him.
“The Strays are nothing but beasts,” I say.
“They are ill,” he reminds me as he gently lays me upon the bed. He slides next to me, and pulls me to him, tucking my face back against his chest. “I want you to cry, Sepora. Cry until you’ve nothing left in you. Cry for all you’ve lost.”
“I don’t want to.”
“For once in your life, don’t fight me. You need to mourn your losses. Please, Sepora.”
The gesture is so tender that the last bit of bitterness I have toward him is stamped out. I fold myself into his arms and give in to the grief. I cry mostly for Nuna, but I cry for other things, too. I cry for the loss of my kingdom, for the loss of my future with Tarik, for the loss of my trust for my mother. I even cry for the loss of my father, though not for his death, but for the way he chose to live his life. For causing all of this to happen in the first place.
I weep and sob and scream into the shelter of Tarik, and he holds me tightly, saying nothing at all. I’m aware of the last few moments before I fall asleep. Tarik must think I’ve already succumbed, because he kisses the top of my head and relaxes against me.
I slip into oblivion, completely spent.
* * *
When I awaken, I’m surprised to find that the sun has not yet risen. There is a tray of breakfast food and drink beside me on the bed, with a note from Tarik:
Gather your strength and seek me out when you’re ready.
I take the chalice of water and drink it dry, grabbing the chalice of juice as well and downing it just the same. I could use more, as the dehydration from hours of crying has set in, but I’m not ready to call for a servant. I’m not ready to face Tarik yet. Or anyone, for that matter. Almost everyone in the palace saw me broken and defeated yesterday. Those who didn’t witness it for themselves will have heard about it by now. About the Serubelan princess who could not keep her composure the way royalty should.
I take a piece of bread from the tray and make my way to Tarik’s grand balcony, intending to watch the sun rise. But as I pull aside a sheer shredded into thin strips, I nearly drop my bread. The balcony is sopping wet.
Because it is raining in Theoria.
PART FOUR
36
TARIK
When Sethos and Cy return from Pelusia, it is still raining. They enter Tarik’s day chambers soaked through, and with another person in tow, a stranger to Tarik—and clearly Pelusian. She is much older than Rashidi; wrinkles crease her skin, which hangs from her bones like fleshly cloth. Her head of hair is solidly white, and she is skinny enough for Tarik to assume she has not eaten properly in a very long time.
Why is it that when I send Sethos for something, he always returns with an extra person?
Sethos greets his brother with, “The courtyard is flooded to my ankles. What’s the meaning of this?” He shakes his head to relieve himself of the excess water the way Patra does when she’s finished with a bath. “Rain is insufferable.”
Tarik could not agree more. The first day, it was a novelty, something not seen in Theoria for centuries. Young and old alike went outside to experience the storm, reveling in the downpour and the absence of the sun, peering up at the lightning in wonder and awe.
Now that a week has passed, it’s nothing more than a nuisance. His kingdom is not outfitted for days upon days of rain. The streets of the Bazaar are flooded, the courtyard is inaccessible, and the River Nefari continues to rise. As of this morning, it was reported to him that it is halfway up the hills of the bank. And, he has learned, Patra is afraid of the thunder.
“We are taking measures to drain the courtyard,” Tarik says, “but my first priority is the Majai training yard. Cy, welcome back. Whom do I have the pleasure of welcoming into my chambers today?”
Cy grimaces. “I don’t know if you’ll have much pleasure in meeting her, but this is Esmelda. She is the best Healer in all of King Graylin’s kingdom.”
Tarik raises a brow. Sethos has really outdone himself this time. First a princess, now a Master Healer of an enemy kingdom. Perhaps he’s more than just a mouth to feed after all. “Why would I not want to make her acquaintance? We need all the help we can attain.”
“She created the Quiet Plague to begin with,” Sethos spits, pulling up a chair for himself. He laces his hands behind his head. “So do keep your pleasure at a minimum.”
Tarik levels his gaze at Esmelda. For what it’s worth, she seems remorseful.
“You created the Quiet Plague?” he says, incredulous.
She nods. “It was a request of my king’s, Highness.”
“Whatever for?”
“I do not question my king, Highness.” She folds her hands in front of her with finality. “But I suspected it was for the demise of Theoria.”
At this, Cy clears his throat and pulls out the chair next to Sethos, gesturing for Esmelda to sit. Sethos rolls his eyes. Esmelda shakes like a chariot with one wheel as she lowers herself into the seat. “Thank you, young Cy.”
“You see, Esmelda was tasked with creating a disease only Theorians could catch,” Cy explains. “One day, King Graylin and Queen Hanlyn came to her and asked her if such a thing were possible, bringing with them Theorians whom they’d captured in the Dismals. She performed her tests on them and found a method to isolate only Theorians for the plague.”
Tarik feels his gut twisting. Hanlyn and Graylin have been planning this for longer than he expected. “That’s why my father was the first to die,” he says, his voice tight. “As king, he was the obvious choice. How did they infiltrate the palace?” Many emotions threaten to surface, but Tarik stamps them down as best he can. This woman is essentially his father’s murderer. He cannot come unraveled now. He simply cannot, not when Sepora herself is so delicately mourning the loss of Nuna. She needs him. He has failed her too many times to fail her now.
Too, he must be strong as a king and as a son.
Esmelda shakes her head. “I do not know the details, Your Majesty. And I’m sorry to have been involved in your father’s death.”
The truth.
But it is not good enough. Too many of his people have suffered and even perished because of
this wisp of a woman. “Why did you bring her here?” he barks at Sethos, letting a bit of his ire slip. He must do better. “Why would we want such a woman among us?”
“She has the cure,” Sethos drawls, unconcerned with his brother’s anger. “As we were in a bit of a hurry, Cy couldn’t learn the steps quickly enough. So we brought her with us as a consolation prize. Put her to work, put her to death. I couldn’t care less.”
“She’s really quite brilliant,” Cy says before catching himself. “I mean, for being a murderer and all.”
Esmelda doesn’t deny the accusations. She also does not seem concerned for her own well-being—when Sethos mentioned putting her to death, her expression remained solemn. She has probably seen much in her many years of service to Graylin. Death, to her, is probably a part of life. Too, the woman is ancient. Death would probably be a relief to her.
So then, putting her to work it is.
“We’ve been treating the prisoners with spectorium,” he tells Cy. He leaves out the part where they are doing so by force. Cy has always been an advocate of voluntary treatment. Still, it is time the young Healer becomes savvy in the ways of how to rule a kingdom. If Tarik must learn, so must Cy. “It has done much to calm them down. There are some who are still afflicted with madness. The spectorium seems to have no effect on them.”
Esmelda nods. “That would be because spectorium was never intended as the cure. Though it’s interesting that it helps with treatment.”
“Bore someone else with your interest,” Sethos says. “Tell the king what he needs to know.”
Esmelda cuts him a vicious look but addresses Tarik with respect. “The cure is derived from the root of the Acutus plant. The root is ground up and boiled, and with a few more ingredients, administered by mouth. The afflicted will recover within two days.”
A plant. The Quiet Plague can be conquered by a mere plant. If Tarik were not covered in gold paint, he would run a hand down his face. That is one thing he misses about living in the Baseborn Quarters, the glorious relief from his royal body paint. He looks at Cy. “I’ve never heard of the Acutus plant.”