Page 47 of The Jasad Heir

I did not try to hide the horror written on my face. He could drain magic with a touch?

My cuffs tightened around the sudden force of my magic. How many Jasadis had he robbed of the very advantage for which they were hunted? How many had felt their magic stripped from them in the moment they needed it most?

“I don’t understand.”

He watched me coolly. “You don’t need to.”

“Explain what you mean by ‘draining magic,’ and I will answer your query.”

Surprise darted in the Heir’s eyes, gone before I could chase it. He had expected me to ask how his touch came to be its own weapon. And indeed, I should have asked that. The mechanics of how he drained magic did not affect me; my cuffs prevented him from doing more than pulling my magic to the surface. Damn it to the tombs. The stupid moving wall had thrown me off-balance. Affected my judgment.

“Jasadi magic is not a bottomless well. Every Jasadi has a finite supply from which to draw. Imagine one uses their magic sparingly, easing the drudgeries of daily chores. Another spends their allotment on some spectacular display. For the first Jasadi, replenishing their magic is not an issue, because they never reached the bottom of the well. The one who drained their magic by commanding a horse to fly or rain to fall must wait, helpless, until time renews their supply.” He raised his gloved hand to his temple, brushing it with a featherlight touch. “I possess the ability to drain the well temporarily. Time will still replenish their magic, but by then—”

“You will have already caught or killed them.” My cuffs throttled my wrists, so urgently did my magic beat against my veins. Was it reacting to Arin or to Arin’s words?

“Yes.” He remained composed in the face of my loathing. Had I not heard the hatred in his voice last night, I might have believed his indifference. But at least now I had an answer for why my magic reacted so strongly to his touch. He couldn’t drain my magic, but he could bring it surging to my cuffs.

He removed a handkerchief from his coat and brushed it over the spiderweb. “Your turn.”

I wanted him to choke on his intestines as I fed them to him in pieces. He did not deserve my secrets.

Then do not give them to him, Hanim urged. She seemed buoyed I had chosen to ask a question on the Jasadis’ behalf instead of my own.Escape again and join the Jasadis he is hunting.

Cold water splashed over my rage at the very notion. No, I had made my decision. My best route to freedom was through the Nizahl Heir. I hadn’t forgotten what Arin said yesterday. The Mufsids and Urabi chased the same Jasadi only if they had held an important post in Jasad. They either suspected who I was… or they somehow already knew.

“I do not remember a time when my magic flowed free.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Can it be fixed?”

I shook my head. If he pressed, I did not know if I could devise a lie capable of withstanding his scrutiny.

“It is an unusual cruelty. Your magic feels strong.”

I almost laughed. If only he knew. My grandparents would not have cuffed an average magic, nor would Hanim have been so desperate to unleash it. Abnormal magic defined my life. “You would know. Unusual cruelty is your specialty.”

Arin moved on without comment, though I was sure the matter of what suppressed my magic would be revisited. He seemed to tuck new information into the frightful web of his mind until he had collected all its threads. “The Champions’ Banquet will be held in Lukub in six weeks’ time. From there, we will depart for the first trial in Orban. We have until then to make you fit for this role.”

He walked to the corner of the room, crouching in front of the weapons chest I’d pilfered yesterday.

Clouds moved leisurely in the facsimile sky above us. “I still don’t understand why I must compete as Champion to lure the groups you seek. If they are the same ones who attacked me in the woods, they already know where I am.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, resisting the urge to shudder. The rotted corpse howling with Hanim’s voice would haunt me forever.

Arin froze. He straightened, turning toward me, and only bewilderment prevented me from stumbling back. “What attack?”

The severity of his tone surprised me. I recounted the confrontation with the mirage of Hanim’s corpse. Arin paced, and I could almost see him weaving this latest revelation into his web. “You did not recognize the corpse or see its summoner?”

“Correct.” A half lie. “It disappeared at the sound of your horse. Do you think the attacker belonged to the Mufsids?”

Arin shook his head. “They would not kill you unless you had already refused their offer to join. Have you spoken to anyone unfamiliar?”

“Only the Nizahl Heir and four of his unfriendliest guardsmen.”

Arin tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling. Reminding himself of all the reasons he needed to keep me alive?

He pivoted on his heel, striding to the weapons chest again. I followed, pretending to view the weapons for the first time. I lifted a shield clearly crafted for someone born from giants and staggered under its weight. Painted on the front, the kitmer’s wings stretched high as it soared into a mighty blaze. Its beak opened in a bellow. The pride of Jasad. Rovial’s first companion.

Arin chose a curved dagger from the chest, weighing it in his palm. I lowered the shield to rest against my leg. Arin and knives were not—

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