Ptolem enters his chamber carrying the chest of gold with which he’d been sent to Bardo’s family. This could only mean they have refused his offer of riches in exchange for the boy’s Forging. It was something he’d anticipated, but disappointment still ravages his insides. He’d promised Sepora that he would not force the boy to Forge. He had not promised her that he would not bribe him.
“Ptolem, friend, I see that my offers have been declined,” Tarik says, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Ptolem bows ceremoniously, and before he can rise from the gesture, Tarik waves for him to be seated at the table with him. Ptolem places the chest of gold in the middle of it and looks at it for a long time before speaking again. “I inquired after the family of the boy Bardo as you requested,” he says. “I was then sent on a merry chase to find someone who knew of them. It seemed as though no one knew the boy. For most of my time there, I was convinced you’d seen a spirit with silver eyes.”
“They are hiding him,” Tarik surmises. He folds his hands behind his head. Bardo is no spirit. Sepora had already confirmed that for him. “That is not unexpected.”
Ptolem nods. “They are hiding him, yes. Protecting him, as it were. But my visit to the Baseborn Quarters was not in vain, Highness.”
“How so? You’ve brought back my gold and returned without the boy or even a message from his family.” Or perhaps he does have a message and I’ve all but cut him off. Tarik does not mean to sound so bitter. But he’d had high hopes when sending Ptolem to the Baseborn Quarters. More than that, he’d been desperate for spectorium. More desperate than he could possibly let on in front of Sepora.
“You see, Highness, I did not find the boy Bardo with the silver eyes. I found many citizens with silver eyes. Dozens, at the very least.”
Dozens? Impossible. His friend had been on a long journey, having stayed two days in that part of the kingdom. Surely the exhaustion has gotten the better of him. “Perhaps they had gray eyes, Ptolem, but not silver. Serubelans are known for their blue eyes to turn gray at times with old age.”
Ptolem straightens his shoulder. “I’m not mistaken, Highness. Their eyes were silver—and these citizens could not be older than you or I. Eyes the very same silver as Sepora—er, that is, Princess Magar—has in her own eyes.”
“You’re sure, Ptolem? Much depends on your being right about this.”
“I’m sure. What’s more, the Great Council has invited your servant Tarik to speak to them on your behalf.”
“Great Council?”
Ptolem swallows. “It would seem, Highness, that the Great Council is a body of elderly Baseborn citizens who rule as a separate entity within your laws. And they are willing to speak with only Tarik, the high servant of the Falcon King, regarding any questions you may have for them.”
“How do you know this?”
Again, Ptolem swallows. “Because they took me to the Great Council far off in the desert when I began inquiring after the boy, Bardo.”
“They accompanied you to the Great Council without your having to ask?”
Ptolem shakes his head. “They took me, Highness. Blindfolded and my hands bound. I could not tell you where their lair is located even now. The travel there and back was very far.”
The Baseborn Quarters have now, in effect, kidnapped a servant of the Falcon King. He cannot let this go unpunished. Or can he? What do they have to say for themselves? Obviously something important, if they request the presence of the highest servant, Tarik.
“Prepare my chariot, Ptolem. I will go to them tonight.” And I will have answers.
“Tonight? Are you sure that’s the best course of action, Highness? What if they mean you harm?”
“If they mean me harm, they will have the entire kingdom of Theoria to contend with. I’ll make sure my whereabouts are known with Rashidi.” And it will be an unpleasant affair to do so, he’s sure. He waves to his servant. “All will be well, Ptolem. I thank you for this information. You may take your evening meal now and rest peacefully tonight. You’ve been useful to me already, friend.”
Ptolem nods and stands, dismissing himself before Tarik can call for the door to be opened for him.
Rashidi will not like this. He will be set against Tarik going alone, which is not unwise, he knows. Yet, he must speak with the Great Council.
Dozens with silver eyes, Tarik thinks. Ptolem is onto something even bigger than the boy, Bardo.
* * *
Tarik’s chariot pulls past the first few tents of the Baseborn Quarters unnoticed. He doubts he will remain so very much longer, as the night is quiet and his horses are loud. And sure enough, he is right. A line of blond-haired men dressed only in shendyts begins to form in front of him, halting his way ahead.
Certain that he must show humility and goodwill, he steps from the chariot and pushes his hands in the air in a show of peace. “I am Tarik, high servant of the Falcon King. I’ve come at the request of the Great Council.”
The smallest and perhaps youngest man of the group steps forward, his stature and composure signaling that he is clearly their leader. “We’ve been expecting you, Tarik. Before we take you to see to your affairs, we must take certain precautions, you see.” He nods his chin to the man beside him, who steps forward in the moonlight, clearly holding a rope in one hand and a thick sackcloth in the other.
“I understand completely,” Tarik says, turning his back to them and crossing his arms so that they may be tied. Tarik smiles into the darkness as he envisions what Rashidi would do were he to witness such an act of submission from the Falcon King to the lowest class of the kingdom. He makes a note to tell him of it when he returns to the palace.
The men waste no time in binding him and placing the cloth over his head. Suddenly, he is lifted by several of them and carried as though he were a plank of wood over their heads. They travel for a long time in this fashion, and Tarik’s muscles ache where his captor’s hands push into his flesh. He is certain that they take him in circles to confuse him before setting on their true course to meet with the Great Council. He takes note of all the turns and finally decides that they head south, below the boundaries of Anyar.
Then, too, they seem to walk in more circles. It is paramount to them that the Falcon King does not know the location of the Great Council. This does not sit well with Tarik. What sorts of business does the Great Council conduct? Do they coincide with his own laws for Theoria, or do they intentionally hide their undertakings because they do not comply with the law of the land? No matter that tonight, however. He is not there to undermine a council that has apparently been set in place for centuries. He is there to secure spectorium.
And plenty of it.
At long last, he is set upon his own two feet and the sackcloth removed from his head. He faces a round one-story structure clearly made from very old spectorium—no doubt a building they designed and Forged the materials for themselves. There is a single, dark entrance, and he follows the young leader into it, his hands still bound behind his back. He might have been concerned about this, had he sensed any type of deception in Ptolem’s account of his meeting with them or in the body language of the men surrounding him. But there is no malicious intent in their gaits, no tension of any sort emanating through their mannerisms. They are simply there to transport him safely—and possibly to ensure the safety of the council.
Tarik is not surprised to find that the inner chamber of the structure is round and well lit with white, fresh spectorium. The Great Council is a collection of elderly men and women seated on the ground in a half circle before him. He turns to the young leader for guidance.
The man says, “You may sit, High Servant Tarik. The Great Council does not bite, for many do not have the luxury of teeth.”
This earns a chuckle from a few of the council members, and Tarik finds himself relieved at the rather informal atmosphere, despite the trouble taken to secret him here. Tarik does as he’s told, sitting in the sand and crossing his legs in
the same fashion as the council members. There are nine of them, and Tarik wonders if the odd number is to decide matters in case of a tie. That is why he had chosen three Lingots for his own council; in case two were at odds, he’d have a third’s opinion to sway the outcome of the case.
Out of respect, he waits in silence. Finally, one of the two women speaks. “I am Olna, eldest of the Great Council. Please accept our welcome, High Servant Tarik.”
“Please accept my gratitude for your meeting with me on behalf of the Falcon King.”
She nods. “We do not believe in standing upon ceremony here. Please tell us why the king is interested in our Forgers.”
Tarik appreciates the directness of her words. He decides to return the favor, in view of the lateness of the hour. “You’ve no doubt heard of the Quiet Plague, Olna.”
Again, she nods. “We have.”
“The plague has ravaged the kingdom. The king’s Master Healers have found that only spectorium helps ward off death and bring back vitality.”
She considers this. “When you visited our quarters during the royal engagement procession, it became clear to us that Princess Magar is a Forger herself. Are you aware of this fact?”
“I am.”
“And why has she not Forged for His Highness, knowing that it is the only cure?”
Tarik is not sure how much to tell the Great Council. How loyal are they to King Eron? But there is no ulterior motive behind Olna’s questioning. She is simply curious. “She is afraid her father will weaponize the spectorium.”
“Weaponize it how?”
“It would seem that when mixed with Scaldling venom, it creates a rather powerful explosive. Princess Magar is afraid her father will use it to cause war between all the kingdoms.”
Olna glances to a man at her left, who nods. It is then that Tarik notices the man has blond hair, but the dark skin of a Theorian. Could he be a Lingot, then?
Olna returns her gaze to Tarik. “We have been watching King Eron. We’ve heard reports about how he rules his kingdom. He is a selfish king. Princess Magar, however, appears not to have inherited that trait.” She taps her finger against her lip. “You still have not answered why the princess will not Forge for the Falcon King. Does she not trust his ability to keep the spectorium from King Eron?”
“She and the Falcon King have had their differences, I’m afraid. But it is my belief she trusts him in this regard.”
Again Olna looks to the man at her left. Again, he nods.
“It would seem that Princess Magar puts a great deal of trust in the Falcon King, to have even spoken of it to him. Too, she did not see a reason to withhold the fact that there are other Forgers in the Baseborn Quarters.”
So, the Great Council thinks Sepora openly shared this information with him. If only that were so. If only he were here because he could trust his future queen. But that is not the case any longer. Bitterness steals through him as he thinks back to the royal engagement procession. How they’d stayed behind in the desert night, and how she’d lied to his face about keeping other secrets from him. And what of his Lingot abilities? Is he slipping? The Great Council all but said she knew of the other Forgers. He will ask her directly sometime tomorrow, while they steal away to the Bazaar. He will ask her, and if she lies again, he must make a decision.
A decision his heart does not want to consider.
Instead of answering and giving himself away to the Lingot closely watching him now, he says nothing. After all, Olna did not ask him a question, she merely stated an observation.
“In light of that fact, we will consider the king’s need for spectorium.” She nods to her left and to her right. “We must confer on the matter at length, however. We will return an answer to him soon, in view of the dire circumstances of the other classes.”
This catches Tarik’s attention. “Do you mean to say that the Baseborn Quarters have suffered no casualties of the Quiet Plague?”
“We find it interesting as well, High Servant Tarik. We have suffered few casualties, and those who did contract the disease were of mixed blood. Not a single Serubelan has perished from it.” Tarik was not aware that mixed blood existed in the Baseborn Quarters. He’d thought they always kept to themselves, not intermingling with the rest of the classes.
He has been under many wrong assumptions, it would seem.
He wonders what Cy will do with this new bit of information. It cannot be a coincidence. It simply cannot. “When may I tell the king you will give him an answer?”
Olna purses her lips. “Can the king assure us the source of the spectorium will be kept from Eron?”
“I can say with the utmost confidence that the king will do everything in his power to make it so.”
Seeming satisfied, she says, “As I said, we will return an answer soon.”
“Shall he send me again to collect your response?”
“We will send word to him. We thank you for your time, High Servant Tarik. And for your honesty.”
“The king sends his highest regards and gratitude for this meeting. He looks forward to your reply.”
The guards come to collect him then.
He has much to think about on his journey back to the palace. Even if he does secure more spectorium for Cy—will that cure the insanity running rampant in his kingdom? Battling the Quiet Plague is one thing, but what if the cure itself is causing the madness? He must speak with Cy. He must have more solid answers before he infects his entire kingdom with lunacy.
11
SEPORA
It occurs to me that I’m always in a blasted good mood when Tarik takes me into the city. We get to visit some of Tarik’s merchant friends, hear outrageous rumors, and perhaps, if only for a moment, steal a sliver of the life of a normal citizen of Theoria. Each trip, as soon as we leave the palace walls dressed in servants’ attire and armed with only bread and cheese for our journey, I feel as though my body somehow floats over the sand on the way to the Bazaar. In fact, I’m already smiling as I head toward the palace kitchens now to meet Tarik. I will even be outside of Mother’s reach today, and I couldn’t be happier. Her knowing eyes tax my mood at times.
As I turn the corner of the servant kitchens where the entrance leads out into the morning sun and eventually outside of this blasted palace, I’m forced to halt at one of the long wooden bread-making tables a few feet from my destination. I take in the scene, assessing whether it is a display of male idiocy or a true emergency. The one guard posted at this entrance has his arm locked about Tarik’s neck, holding him so tightly that Tarik’s face is a bit red and his eyes a bit bulging. Tarik is in some pain, and not a small amount of it.
I purse my lips in indecision.
On the one hand, this is Ptolem. Ptolem has become more relaxed with Tarik, as he always comes to the kitchens as himself and not the Falcon King when he seeks to exit the palace. Tarik has a sort of rapport with Ptolem, an ease of friendship that almost always comes along with the knowing of Tarik himself. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their banter. But the longer Ptolem holds him in place, I wonder if I can really call this banter.
Because, on the other hand, citizens in this city are going mad. What if Ptolem is one of those touched with delirium? He certainly appears to be enjoying the way Tarik’s face changes from red to blue, his grin getting wider as his king angles a failed sweep at his tree-trunk legs. I steal a glance at Patra, who rests at the entrance door, her tail flitting to and fro, as if she, too, cannot decide whether to put an end to this, or if she’s simply dejected about being left out of it.
Testing whether I should intervene, I clear my throat at the two. “Ahem.”
As that goes unnoticed by the both of them and even by Patra, who keeps a close watch on Tarik, I’m forced to consider my options. The quickest way to undo … whatever this is … is to approach Ptolem myself and disarm him. But since he’s a good foot-length taller than Tarik and wider, even given my training with Sethos, I get the feeling I’d be nothing more th
an a snack to this young man. Still, he is distracted at the moment by one very foolish Falcon King. Perhaps it could work.
Or, I could do it the uninteresting way and simply call for help. I try to remember the last time I did anything the uninteresting way, and deciding that surprising them both would be great fun no matter the circumstances, I spring forward feeling only a little of the disappointment Mother would be wearing on her face right now.
I’ve gained a good sprint by the time I reach the end of the long bread table; avoiding Sethos’s blade has made me quite fast. I pass a bread knife that could have been worth the taking—and imagine Sethos shaking his head at me—but just in case this is truly gameplay, I leave it next to its crumbs.
I jump then, and that is when the pair finally notice me. Time slows to a crawl while I’m in the air. Their struggling ends abruptly as they stiffen in unison, Ptolem releasing his king so quickly he all but shoves him away. Tarik does not appear so concerned about that as he does about the fact that I’m now flying through the air, scheduled to land on Ptolem’s person within the next two breaths. Ptolem turns quickly, showing me his muscled back, and that is where I thump to a halt, breathless almost beyond sense. I try to angle my arm around Ptolem’s neck, to hold him as he had Tarik, and am disappointed to find both that my arm is too short to do so, and also that Ptolem is delighted that I actually tried. He yanks me around by my elbow and sets me gently on the ground in front of him. I bend over, resting my palms on my knees as Sethos always instructs me to do when I need to catch my breath.
Tarik rubs at his throat, peering down at me with his one eyebrow raised in a bit of bewilderment. “And I thought you were so adamantly against violence.”
As the breath is still knocked from my lungs—my ribs had connected with Ptolem’s shoulder—my response is panting that sounds like the nuanced communication of the Wachuks. Finally, I’m able to breathe in a whole breath, and it feels like I’ve been given a second chance at life itself. An exhilarating life where I can play as a boy, too. “And I thought you were strictly against having fun.” Too many words. That was too many words, and my breath is stolen once more.