Page 114 of The Jasad Heir

“These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage. You might have died.”

I tightened my towel and turned.

“Is an arakin the one with the poisoned metal spikes? Yes, those were quite inspired. Tipped with just enough venom to scream yourself hoarse for a week or so, but not enough to put an end to your misery.”

“What—” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly, gathering the words. The most articulate man in the kingdoms rendered speechless by Hanim’s handiwork. “What happened to you, Sylvia?”

I laughed. It was alarmingly choked.

“You are not the first to use me for your own ends. I have a legacy of disappointing people, you see.”

I kept my attention fixed over Arin’s shoulder as he reached past me. He pressed a black gown with buttoned sleeves and a violet neckline into my arms.

“I am still waiting,” Arin said.

“Waiting?”

I had learned to defend myself against every version of Arin. Devised strategies to safeguard against his ever-twisting mind and sharp tongue. But no one taught me how to protect myself from the Nizahl Heir when he looked at me like this—gentle, human, with his steadfast gaze pinning my own. Grounding me.

“To be disappointed.”

Unlike the Ivory Palace, the Orban castle made for a modest sight. Painted an unappealing tan, it rose a mere three stories and stretched from the end of the Champion’s Pavilion to the border of Essam Woods. What it lacked in luster, the castle doubled in protection. Orbanian khawaga were a deadlier, less disciplined version of the Omalian patrol. They settled disputes by their own exacting standards, and the stories of their abuse in the lower villages had circulated far. Fifty of them surrounded the palace, their curved janbiya daggers hanging from their belted waists.

At the main entrance, a khawaga held a snapping, growling dog by its scruff. I stared at it while Wes walked up to the khawaga. Would Ayume’s dogs have sniffed around the lake’s edge, pawing for Timur’s corpse? Timur, who had loved his family enough to kill for them.

The sole adornment to the drab castle was on the double doors leading inside. A green-horned bull glowered as we approached, towering over us. My whole body could fit inside one of its flared nostrils. The bull’s three tails stretched from one door to the other.

Three khawaga hurled their weight against the door, and it reluctantly yawned open to admit us. “The Supreme stays on the second floor,” the khawaga grunted, eyeing the guards. “Do not wander.”

Reed carpets crunched beneath us as we headed to the stairs. King Murib certainly adhered to Orban’s spirit of frugality. Not a single tapestry or jewel decorated the walls. The stairs groaned under our feet.

Jeru and Wes took their stations on either side of the door. Inside the room, twelve chairs circled a rectangular table. The lanterns were shaped into Orban’s bull, half its body coming out of the wall while a candle flickered in its gaping mouth. The servants lit the candles sitting along the table, bathing the room in an orange glow.

“Champion,” a servant called. He pointed at a chair three seats away from the head of the table. “For you.”

I took my seat and stayed still while the servants buzzed around me, laying out platters of rolled grape leaves, seasoned oxtail, and greasy ox hooves. Orbanian culture did not center around creative agriculture like in Omal. They ate what their soil produced, mainly dense grains and spring vegetables. Meat in Orban was a delicacy few could afford.

“Sylvia.” I flicked my gaze from the empty plate. Arin had slid into the seat across from me. The door opened before the Nizahl Heir could speak.

“Excellent. You are both already here,” Supreme Rawain said.

Violet ribbons weaved a complicated pattern on the front of his billowing robes, and each sleeve ended with Nizahl’s royal seal emblazoned across the cuff. His ringed fingers closed around his scepter. The ensemble did not suit Orban’s humble setting in the least. He took a seat at the head of the table. A servant went to close the door.

“Leave it. I am expecting another guest,” Rawain ordered. “What a day. Murib speaks far too much for someone with little worth saying. Vaida could sing him off a cliff with two notes.” The servant left a miswak next to each of our plates. Supreme Rawain tapped the tooth-cleaning stick against the table. “In the event a Champion does not escape Ayume during the first trial, Murib usually keeps a khawaga waiting on the cliff through the night. If the rope is untouched by dawn, the khawaga finds a better use of their time than waiting on a dead Champion. Did you see the Lukub Champion in Ayume at all, Sylvia?”

“No, my liege.” I focused on a point past Supreme Rawain’s shoulder.

My liege, Hanim repeated in disgust.

Rawain shook his head, leaning his scepter against the chair. “Vaida is insisting Murib leave a khawaga at the cliff another day. Murib is bowing to her will. Asinine. Anything crawling over that cliff’s edge will be slain on sight.”

A rapping at the door drew a smile from Rawain. “Ah, the last member of our company has arrived.”

The door opened, and I glimpsed the identical alarm on Wes and Jeru’s faces seconds before Vaun entered the room.

The Nizahl guardsman bowed deeply. “Your Highness. Commander.”

A quick glance at Arin confirmed he was as surprised to see his former guardsman here as Wes and Jeru were.

---