Page 116 of The Jasad Heir

“I look forward to your success in the second trial, Sylvia,” he said. I went stock still as he gripped my chin, pressing a light kiss to my forehead. “I have a sense you will be a merit to Nizahl.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the five years I spent in Omal, I never once ventured into the palace town. Omal’s palace was built in the center of the kingdom, a solid presence around which the coursing life in Omal flowed. Sefa and I craned our necks from the carriage window, ignoring Marek’s teasing. Painted in the light blue of a spring sky, the palace dazzled at the heart of the upper town. Gates constructed from white agate circled the palace, opaque in the sunlight. The gates swung open for our procession. Compared to the khawaga and their mutts, the Omalian patrol was a welcome sight.

Four long pillars rose in the corners of the palace, capped with a sparkling sapphire cone. Glimmering domes separated each story of the palace. Seven rounded archways composed of alternating blue and white glossy tiles led past a gushing fountain to the front steps. The limestone above the arches was decorated with interlocking geometric patterns.

“No wonder the villages are starving,” Marek muttered.

“I just want to sit somewhere and stare at it,” Sefa said dreamily.

Stunning ceramic tiles composed the path to the entrance. I momentarily forgot we were entering the home of a man who had expressed interest in mounting my head in his garden.

The entrance to the palace nearly sent Sefa to the floor. Stretching higher than the archway, a rochelya composed of shimmering blue and white glass peered down at us. Kapastra’s prized pet and Omal’s symbol. The lizard-like creature’s scaled tail curled around clawed feet. Sefa tapped the flat curve of its ear. “For good luck,” she explained.

The doors were already open, a set of servants in Omalian livery waiting to receive us. We had arrived later than anticipated, and neither Felix nor the Queen was present to welcome us.

“Queen Hanan and her Heir look forward to your presence at dinner tonight,” the head servant said, bowing. Arin’s soldiers streamed around us, taking our belongings before the servants could.

Our footsteps echoed in the entrance hall. Sefa’s elbow dug into my side, and she pointed above our heads.

Winding circles and diagonal lines rippled in tapering tiers from the peak of the palace over the decorated banisters and ornate walls below. The light refracted from each triangle was an opulence rivaling the open skies. “It looks like a honeycomb,” Sefa said.

“They are called muqarnas,” Arin said. “Omal is not their original place of conception.”

“Jasad is,” I said. Half the Omal palace possessed aspects of Jasad’s architecture. “The only part that originates from Omal is the audacity. Muqarnas date back to Jasad’s Awal. Rovial designed them for his kingdom. Each muqarna is meant to hold a small focal point of magic shining down on Jasad’s vulnerable. The dying came to heal under muqarnas, and the heartsick found peace.”

At Arin’s narrowed gaze, I innocently added, “There was one in my villa at Ahr il Uboor.” Mervat Rayan’s villa could have been full of them, for all I knew. I still wasn’t sure if Arin believed the Mervat story, but his attention seemed to have been temporarily rerouted thanks to Soraya and Vaun.

The sprawling halls were reminiscent of the twisting tapestries weaving through Lukub’s Ivory Palace. Personally, I found Orban’s economy of space more suited for safety, but at least here the Nizahl assembly had an entire floor to themselves. Chairs were placed next to doors, a thoughtful nod to the guards stationed outside our quarters. Sefa and Marek had shared a room in each kingdom we visited, and Omal was no exception. The head servant motioned at a door to the right, and Sefa bounded inside with glee, Marek following with their luggage. Jeru drew their door shut and set himself in front of it, ignoring the chair.

Arin’s chambers opened in the very center of the hall, where an assailant would have to pass a sea of guards, but not so far that a shout couldn’t be heard from the stairwell. Arin did not enter, but walked with me to the very last room.

“These will be the quarters for the Nizahl Champion,” the head servant said. His stern civility reminded me of Dawoud. “There are attendants available to assist with preparations for tonight’s meal or guide you through the palace. Please do not hesitate to call upon Omal’s servants, and I thank you again for the honor of your stay.”

Arin gestured at Wes. “Her door needs supervision every minute she is inside. Two soldiers may serve as a replacement for you or Jeru, but I prefer one of you be present at all times.”

Wes moved in front of my door. He did not mention that this setup left Arin without a single guardsman at his own door. Apparently, it was more likely Felix had designs against me or my companions than the Nizahl Heir.

“We cannot leave any window for her or the others to move on you, not without losing the opportunity to capture them,” Arin had said.

One benefit of having innumerable people trying to trap or murder me? No more attendants.

Arin strode down the hall, a retinue of soldiers falling into step behind him. He went past his quarters, and several soldiers broke off to stand outside the door. They shooed away attendants offering to unpack the Heir’s belongings.

“I guess Felix is not as familiar with Arin’s ‘eccentricities’ as Vaida is.” At Wes’s frown, I raised my hands in surrender. “His phrase. If you want to come inside and rest your feet, you are welcome. I do not see how Felix could attack me in a hall teeming with Nizahl soldiers.”

“You do not see it,” Wes said. “I don’t. But the Commander does, and we will minimize the risk accordingly.”

I rolled my eyes, kicking the door shut behind me. After the sparseness of the Champion’s Pavilion in Orban, these rooms dripped with extravagance. Light streamed in from open windows shaped like crescents and triangles. A tiered chandelier held dozens of candles above a round table. A sculpted rochelya’s long neck wrapped around the table, its stone tail winding up the table’s leg. The bed could fit every girl in the keep, piled with frilled pillows and fitted with a patterned white headboard. I stood on the plush blue divan and peered out the window, leaning my elbows on the vaulted pane. The sky opened in a light rain.

We were in my father’s home. Had he read his books by the fountain? Charmed a girl to round the gardens with him under the stars?

Queen Hanan was my grandmother, Felix her nephew. Rumor said Queen Hanan rarely left her wing of the palace anymore, not since losing her son in Jasad and her husband at the Blood Summit. Felix controlled Omal in all but name, and the evidence of his incompetence was everywhere.

The Omal palace had leeched its kingdom’s wealth for its own. Lukub was the wealthiest kingdom because every citizen had a home to call their own, food in their bellies, and a trade to practice. Orban rejected the concept of hierarchical villages and towns, and one could only gain a title or a noble status from earning distinction in Orban’s army. Their southern villages still fared worse than the rest, and I wondered if Orban’s determination to claim equality in their kingdom kept them from seeing all the places where it crumbled. Meanwhile, Omal had the largest population, the wealthiest nobles, the most profitable markets, and yet its lower villages slipped closer to starvation each winter.

I flopped onto the bed, pitching the unnecessary pillows to the side. One of them sailed past the bedside table, sending an object clattering to the ground.

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