Page 152 of Heir

Sirsha hadn’t been able to bind Div, let alone kill her. If Div couldn’t be destroyed or contained, perhaps she could be transformed. Into a toadstool, perhaps. Or a particularly ugly tarantula.

Sometimes, the only way to blunt the violence of twisted magic is to confront it with its opposite.

She didn’t know the source of Div’s malignancy. But she’d learned enough about the types of magic extant in the world to take a guess.

All magic came from the same source. A force who was a legend whispered but unproven.

Mauth—Deathin Old Rei. Mauth’s presence was most strongly felt in the Waiting Place, where the humans and jinn unfortunate enough to be his servants passed traumatized ghosts from this world to a peaceful after, so they didn’t wail everyone’s ears off. Sufiyan’s grandmother, the Bani al-Mauth, was one of these servants. Like the other ghost talkers, she cast the suffering and torment of the spirits into a seething dimension that abutted their own.

The Tribes called that miserable place the Sea of Suffering. Sirsha liked the Jaduna name better: Owa Khel—the Empty. A place of sallow yellow skies and haunted seas. She and J’yan told scary stories about it when they were kids, as D’rudo made them memorize entire texts on the subject.

A line from those texts came back to Sirsha:And though the Sea of Suffering churns, ever restless, verily does Mauth preside, a bulwark against its hunger.

Div wasn’t hungry. She washunger. A desire to consume that defied any sense of the ethical or moral. Pure selfishness.

Yes, the elements whispered.

“Indifference was counteracted with love,” Sirsha muttered. “So, Div, with her greed, her hunger—”

Sacrifice above selfishness and magical gluttony.

Understanding was a knife twisting slowly inside her. Sirsha wanted to shout. Or perhaps slowly applaud the justice of the universe. Her actions had, after all, led to the deaths of more than a thousand innocent villagers. Intentional or not, she’d as good as killed them herself, and that sort of imbalance wouldn’t be left unanswered.

Well, here it was. The answer. If Sirsha wanted to bind Div, she was going to have to sacrifice her own life to do so.

Now, the elements said as one,you begin to understand.

Bleeding hells.Would that she had been born a cat. Or a partridge. Something cute and fluffy that didn’t have to think about things like magical laws and heartbreak.

When she returned to the inn, the dining room was empty—it was too early for the innkeeper, even. But Quil, hair still wet from the bath, leaned against the closed bar, lost in thought. He must be exhausted, but that resolve that formed his core, quiet and unshakable—she could feel it from here.

No more secrets. She needed to tell him that if they wanted Div todie, Sirsha would have to pay with her blood. He’d be a pest about it, of course, try every trick he knew to talk her out of it. But he deserved to know, not least because when she died, the oath coin would amplify his grief terribly.

Ah, the joys of Jaduna magic.

“Sirsha.”

He turned to her, and the sound of her name on his lips echoed through her veins as if spoken by thunder instead of a man. Since she was a little girl, she’d always been S’rsha. That pause from deep in the throat, it was the highest honor of this world, for it meant she was a Jaduna, one of the first users of magic. Her line was long, her ancestors titans of their time. When she lost that pause—when she becameSeer-shah, instead of S’rsha—it felt as if she’d been shoved out of her own body and into another one she cared nothing for.

But from Quil’s mouth, her name felt beautiful again.

“Quil,” she said.Tell him. Tell him that you must die. That you need to say goodbye.

But Sirsha knew he’d mull and dissect her words until he’d convinced himself there was a way out. For once, she didn’t feel like a fight.

Sirsha grabbed his hand, wishing she could articulate the desire suffusing her, something more thanI need you and I wish I didn’t. They stumbled up the stairs, and any words still in Sirsha’s head felt unnecessary when Quil closed the door and swept her up in his arms, lifting her effortlessly. She sighed as he backed her into the wall, kissing her as if some part of him knew they didn’t have much time, as if he had to make up for everything he’d never get again.

She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled away from his mouth to trace her lips along his jaw, his throat, smiling at the curse he uttered. He carried her to the bed, but she flipped him onto his back and caught a flash of dimple. Her heart leaped.

The lamps bathed them both in blue light, so she stripped him slowly, and almost didn’t look at him, almost didn’t appreciate his lean, muscled elegance, but then she made herself because, well, this was it for them, wasn’t it?

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured. She straddled him, and pulled free her hairpins, letting her hair fall in a curtain around them. Her body craved him, craved the fullness she knew he would give her, but she fought against it and kissed him slow, the way she knew he liked.

He eased off her clothing, and slowly, so slowly, they joined, breaths shortening, his fingers almost painfully tight on her waist, golden eyes fixed on her, taking what she gave, giving all that he had in return.

“More,” Sirsha gasped. “Closer.”

He complied, and were these sounds coming from her, or someone else? He bit his full lip so he wouldn’t give them away. These walls were thin, and it was quiet, and this was a family inn, for skies’ sake, but he deserved to be able to shout when he was angry and gasp when he took his pleasure.

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