Still, of all the possibilities, I do not expect the one he actually inquires after.
“How long have you known about the boy Forger, Bardo?”
My mouth falls slightly open as everything clicks into place. We visited the Baseborn Quarters. We were intimately involved with the residents there. He must have seen Bardo. But how could he know that I knew of his existence? Perhaps he doesn’t know. Perhaps this is his way of asking if I did.
And Saints of Serubel, why did Bardo’s parents allow him to greet the king? Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps Bardo is a rebellious child and couldn’t pass on the opportunity to meet his pharaoh. But none of this matters. What matters is that there is no evading the Falcon King now.
He crosses his arms. “You wanted a direct inquiry. You now have one, Princess.”
“Did … did my father see him?” And what about the others? But to ask such a revealing question is not in my best interest. I feel so vulnerable. I’m not sure what I should admit to and what I should hold close to my heart.
My answer—my question—gives him pause. “Your father doesn’t know, then?”
“No.”
In the moonlight, I see his shoulders relax. With not a little relief, he says, “I made sure not to bring attention to him and spent the rest of my time distracting your parents from the crowd.”
I know this to be the truth. He had been waiting for me at the chariot when I had finished dispersing the treasures of Theoria to my side of the Baseborn Quarters. No wonder he’d wanted a private audience with me. And no wonder it would be as soon as possible. Another Forger—many Forgers, according to my servant Cara—within my father’s reach is not a thing to take lightly.
Tarik knows it. I know it.
But what about another Forger within Tarik’s reach? Should I be afraid for the boy?
“Does your mother know of the boy?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t told her yet.”
“But you intend to.”
I nod. There is no use in denying it. I’d intended to take Mother’s counsel on the other Forgers. I’d intended to take Mother’s counsel on everything. But what does he expect? That I will suddenly grow a fondness for Rashidi and invite him over for confections and honey milk and chatter on about how to rule a kingdom? Rashidi would have better luck procuring rain for all of Theoria. And no one else qualifies to advise me on kingdom matters, especially on the matters about which I disagree with Tarik. It must be Mother.
Tarik folds his hands atop his head. “You have kept many secrets from me. I ask that just this once, you keep a secret with me.”
Little tinges of betrayal sting in my belly. “We can trust my mother. She would never tell my father.”
He mulls over this, and I know he’s looking for the truth. “That is what you believe,” he says finally. “I must spend more time with her before I will believe it. Surely you understand that.”
I understand it, but I don’t like it. I have ways of evading Tarik’s questions. Mother has ways of asking inescapable questions. And she has spies. What will she think of me when—not if—she learns I have been keeping this secret from her? Will she decline to help me further? Too, while Tarik and I both agree that we cannot tell my father of Bardo, I’m still not sure what it means for the boy now that Tarik knows of him. “What will you do to Bardo?”
“What will I do to him?”
“Will you force him to Forge?”
Again, he stiffens, squaring his shoulders and shaking his head. I’m thankful the darkness hides his expression at this moment. I know it would be one of scorn. “Will I lock him away in the palace, steal his childhood from him, punish him for having the misfortune of having such a rare gift?” He scoffs. “If you have to ask that, then you do not know me at all.”
He stalks toward the chariot, leaving me in the sand to either follow or be left behind altogether—and for a few moments, I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
10
TARIK
The setting sun streaks fingers of dying light into Tarik’s day chambers as he unravels another scroll sent to him by his Lingot council. There has been a pattern to these reports of late, and he suspects this parchment holds nothing good in the way of news. Crime has always been present in the city of Anyar, even when his father ruled, and it would be unreasonable for Tarik to think he could abolish it in his own reign. Thievery, brawling, and price gouging—those are the things he had witnessed sitting alongside his father at court whilst being groomed to one day take the throne. Those are the issues he knows how to deal with. Those are the things his Lingot council knows how to deal with.
But the stack of scrolls in front of him are those cases to which the Lingot council had no answer, the cases where they deferred to his judgment. The cases where judgment was simply that, where no true answer simply presented itself to him, and so he is forced to have an opinion not backed by a specific written law. And he wants none of it.
As he scans this new scroll, he rubs at his temples, as though that is where the brunt of his frustration gathers, as though his growing concern will ebb away with the tips of his fingers. He reads through the court case again, blinking at the sordid details and wondering what sort of madness has taken over his citizens. A man from the Middling Quarters, a servant to one of the Superiors, stole his master’s fine silk robe and wore it to the Bazaar—an easily punishable offense at court as it is outright thievery, but something that would normally be dealt with inside the household with a proper dismissal and docking of wages. But the theft is not the actual complaint. Oh, if only it were. The actual complaint did not even come from the Superior master himself, but originated with a merchant at the Bazaar who accuses the Middling servant of wearing nothing but the robe in front of his young daughters—apparently he’d forgotten to steal the sash to tie around himself—and insisting on paying for the goods he wished to purchase with plain river pebbles that he called “the finest nuggets of spectorium he’d ever seen.” The servant subsequently offered to lick the merchant’s face in exchange for a good deal on his wares. When asked at court if the merchant was correct in his accusations, the servant had insisted that he had been dressed like the Falcon King himself and that the spectorium he’d offered to pay with was the freshest there was to be had in all the kingdom. Tarik’s Lingot council reports both the merchant’s accusations and the rebuttal of the Middling to be true—or at least, something each believes to be true.
Tarik shakes his head. Clearly this Middling has committed an offense—but a crime? Even his secondhand reading of the events shows that the Middling had no ill intent toward the merchant nor his Superior master. He is simply and clearly out of his mind. Tarik is at a loss at where to even begin. Treating this man as a criminal would be like treating a wounded kitten like a vicious beast if it lashed out against help. This servant needs to be taken care of, tended to, not sentenced to work in the salt mines south of Kyra or worse, thrown from the Half Bridge. There is no place in Anyar for a man such as this; in the rare event where a citizen becomes mad, their family is expected to care for them properly and keep them out of trouble. Yet, this Middling has no living family and his Superior master will surely not obligate himself or his resources to the man’s care, no matter how long he has served him.
Again, Tarik shakes his head. If it were only the one instance in his court scrolls, Tarik would appoint the man a caretaker himself and be done with it. But the scrolls contain more incidents like this, as many as Tarik has fingers. Something more must be done. He must speak with Rashidi. His old friend will not like what Tarik will suggest—that the throne should take on the expense of creating a sanctuary for mad citizens—but after a bit of bluster and diplomatic arguing, Rashidi will concede. The question is, how quickly can such a place be built—and who can he trust to care for these people?
And more important, what is stealing the minds of his citizens in the first place?
Sighing, he stands and makes his way to the balcony,
where he hears the angry clinks of swords down below, a small tinge of jealousy knotting in his stomach. He is careful not to be seen as he peers just outside the archway of the window leading to the balcony, keeping most of his body shielded by a potted shrub stationed at the entrance. Below him, Sethos and Sepora battle out their own frustrations with each other.
Or rather, Sepora grunts and growls, taking every opportunity to strike at his brother, as Sethos parries, deflects, and occasionally laughs. Tarik is surprised at how skilled Sepora has become with a sword; Sethos is breathing heavily, which means that while Sepora’s attacks are amusing, they are still worthy of at least some effort on his brother’s part.
“You hold your sword like a child,” Sethos is saying.
“You babble on like an old woman,” Sepora informs him, sweeping her leg wide as her opponent easily jumps over it. “The least you could do is say something interesting.”
“Very well,” Sethos says, easily deflecting an otherwise deadly blow to his neck. “Rumor has it that the citizens of Theoria are overjoyed that the Falcon King has chosen to marry for love, instead of for duty. What say you to that?”
She rolls her eyes, and out of clear annoyance, stabs directly at Sethos’s heart. He leans right, pushing her sword away with his bare hand and clicking his tongue with not a little condescension.
“Rumor also has it,” she purrs, repeating the move to catch him off guard, “that the citizens of Theoria are slowly going mad. I’d not take the word of lunatics so seriously, my esteemed Majai.”
Tarik grimaces as both rumors ring true to his ears. Apparently he had done his part to show himself a lovesick whelp during the engagement procession a few days ago. And apparently this new lunacy that has overtaken a handful of citizens in the city is a concern for all.
How delighted Rashidi will be.
Tarik eases away from the balcony, unsure if he can handle more alarming truths for the day. There are some who long to have the Lingot abilities, to know a truth or a lie as soon as it falls upon one’s ears, but those ones never consider how inescapable words can be, how utterly useless it can be to know the truth, or how utterly infuriating it can be to hear a lie but not have the power to act upon it.
As Falcon King, he has the power to act upon most lies, but every once in a while there comes along a lie that should not be acted upon, one that should be acknowledged and tucked away for a later time. The morning after had been one of those times.
He, Sepora, and Queen Hanlyn were breaking their fast in the great dining hall—Eron had begged off, sending a messenger who enacted a dramatic rendition of the king’s grave headache (which had been ultimately true, Tarik had surmised). Hanlyn had easily taken her husband’s absence in stride, jumping at the opportunity to confess to what an exhilarating time she had during the royal engagement procession, asking him how he had enjoyed the outing and complimenting him on his kitchens for turning out such exceptional meals. While he found her charming, he had not quite been awake for more than an hour as of yet and had met her with somewhat abbreviated graciousness, giving her no more than one or two words in return for her many. Though he still longed for his bed—even Patra had slept beneath his feet at the grand table, unable to keep her eyes open enough to mind the meat she’d been served—he still found the queen of Serubel refreshing. He wondered what his own mother would have been like, sitting in a foreign dining hall entertaining a foreign king, and only hoped she would have been half as charming as Hanlyn. It was a gift, he knew, for her to be so jovial all the time. A gift that her daughter did not inherit—Sepora’s eyelids had fluttered shut several times during the course of conversation and Tarik had the inflated hope that perhaps she’d been kept up last night, that perhaps she’d thought of nothing else but the kiss they’d shared, as he had. Most likely, though, she’d spent the evening thinking of their argument in the desert after the procession. She tends to cling to their disagreements more than their accords of late.
Just as he was about to suggest he and Sepora join the Lingot council to hear out some court cases, Queen Hanlyn told the most striking lie he’d ever heard. It had jolted him immediately, and he wondered if he’d been paying close enough attention to the queen after all. Sometimes a person can be so honest and forthcoming that his Lingot abilities will relax in their presence. Is that what had happened with Hanlyn this morning? He couldn’t be sure.
Hanlyn had paused from her merriment in retelling the engagement procession from her point of view in the chariots behind them and had said, “My husband will see to it that we have decades upon decades of peace between our kingdoms.”
The lie had resounded between them as if it had been a staccato of trumpet blasts echoing off all of the walls. Sepora nearly missed her mouth with her forkful of fruit. She’d blinked up at her mother, casting Tarik a suspicious glance when the queen had refused to acknowledge her daughter.
Sepora and Tarik had the same question, he could tell.
What was amiss?
“And how will he see to it, Queen Hanlyn?” Tarik said cautiously. Tarik did not doubt that Hanlyn was well aware that he was a Lingot. So then, she knew he would have discerned the ridiculous idea of everlasting peace presented in her words.
She’d folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not sure yet, Highness. He doesn’t speak to me often about his plans, but I know he has some.”
The truth. A game indeed, but with what purpose? Did the queen have knowledge of Eron’s spies in the dining room, as Tarik had already learned? That his own servants had taken a bribe from the leader of Serubel and had sworn to report back to him all that they’d heard? If she knew these things, what else did she know? What else could she tell him?
It had not taken much pressing to find out.
“To be honest, I did not trust Eron when first he came to Theoria,” Tarik had said with a smile. “My suspicions were that he wanted me to marry your daughter so that he could get close enough to me to use my own resources against me to overtake my kingdom. Silly, isn’t it?”
She’d laughed. It was insincere, even though it tinkled around the room innocently enough. “I assure you, Highness, my husband would think of no such thing! Indeed, Eron has no ill will toward you at all. He is very anxious to see our kingdoms united in harmony.”
The lie was as transparent as the breath Sepora had sucked in through her teeth. Queen Hanlyn had wished to warn him that Eron was up to something. Yet, this was not news to Tarik—surely she knew that. He had been discerning deceit from King Eron since the moment the king opened his mouth to greet him. Was this a play on Hanlyn’s part? An attempt to show him that he could trust her? He hoped not. At this point, he didn’t feel he could trust any Serubelan, even, sadly, Sepora. She had kept many secrets from him. Too many to trust her at the moment.
“I am glad to hear it” was all he’d said. Sepora had given him a bewildered look, which had made the impression that, whatever game Hanlyn had played at this morning, Sepora had not been a party to it. He was not sure if he should have been relieved or disappointed that she and her mother had not been allies in this showing of support for Tarik. Only time would tell, he supposed. It had been at that particular moment when he’d been forced to acknowledge what his Lingot abilities had shown him, and had been obligated to tuck the information away for a later time.
And so, the Falcon King had been powerful and powerless all at the same time, in spite of his abilities. Being a Lingot was not easy. Knowing the truth could be difficult, and knowing a lie could be worse.
But ignoring them both would make for bad kingsmanship.
“Uria,” Tarik calls to the door now, summoning one of his messengers. The thin, loose-jointed man came to him at once, sliding through the open door like parchment through a crack, and presented himself, head bowed.
“Deliver a message to the Princess Sepora this evening, Uria. Tell her to meet me at the servants’ entrance at dawn. Tell her we are to have an outing tomorrow.”
Sepora will know what that means—that they will walk the kingdom as Tarik and Sepora, leaving their royalty behind in the palace, as they had done several times before. Only this time, Tarik had an agenda. He would consult with his friends at the Bazaar, with Cy at the Lyceum, with the Middlings and the Superiors. He would get their take on the rumors abounding so broadly in Anyar but never appearing so directly in his court. He would take note of the true needs of his people, and together, he and Sepora would act on their behalf.
At least, that is what he hopes for, as he settles back at his table of scrolls. It is yet another bid for Sepora to show interest in the kingdom that will one day be hers. And if he is truthful with himself, he is not sure how many more of these invitations he can afford to extend.
Uria, clearly confused by the message but willing to please nonetheless, bows farther. “It will be as you wish, Great Falcon King.” With the quiet ease of Patra, the servant exits the room with bare feet padding silently on the stone floor. Just as the door closes, however, it opens again, wide.
Before him stands Ptolem. “Apologies for interrupting your evening, Highness,” he says gravely. The tone of Ptolem’s voice quells the small feeling of excitement Tarik had when he’d thought of visiting the Bazaar with Sepora. This will not be a good report, he can tell.
Ptolem has been newly appointed as a trusted informant to Tarik. But Ptolem, at this hour? Curious. He’d sent Ptolem to officially inquire after Bardo and his family and arrange a meeting with them.