Ally

by Anna Banks

  Speaking of boys, a crowd of the braver ones approaches Tarik, hands out—hands more bony than Tarik would like to see—each bowing before him. “My Falcon King,” one boy says, “if you could spare bread for us, we’ve six to feed.”

  Tarik smiles. “Then you shall require at least a dozen loaves.” He nods to the guard holding the basket of bread, who loads the boy so full with it that he can barely see over the stack of loaves. He giggles in delight, peering up at Tarik. A loaf drops to the ground and the young one swoops to pick it up again. And when he does, Tarik’s smile halts in place.

  Toward the back of the crowd, clutching the thin skin of his mother, is a boy too shy to approach him. Too shy, or too wary. For the boy at his mother’s side has silver eyes. Silver, not gray or blue, as is the normal Serubelan trait. And not a mirage playing tricks on Tarik in the heat. Those eyes shine like coins at the bottom of a fountain, glistening in the sun.

  The boy is dirty, but through the grime, he has all the obvious Serubelan features. The pale skin, the white hair, the straight nose. Barely within earshot, Tarik can tell he carries the stubborn accent, though they’ve lived here for centuries, of a Serubelan speaking Theorian. But this boy is different from the rest. This boy has one distinguishing feature—the one feature no one should have, save Sepora.

  And his mother has just caught on to the fact that Tarik is staring. She turns then, whisking him away and disappearing into the crowd behind her. Tarik wants to follow, to assure himself of what he saw. But doing so would make a scene. A scene that he cannot afford to make in the company of King Eron and Queen Hanlyn.

  Could it truly be possible? Serubelans usually possess blue eyes, but Tarik has seen some today with brown, green, even lavender or hazel eyes.

  But not silver.

  Never silver.

  King Eron had once told Tarik about the history of Forgers. That they always pass over a generation at a time. That Sepora’s grandfather, Eron’s own father, had been a Forger, and that the ability had been passed down from him to her. Did not King Eron also say that only Forgers have those glinty silver eyes? Yes. Yes, he did.

  Tarik glances behind him to seek out Sepora and Sethos. They are quite a bit ahead of him on the other side and not paying the least bit of attention to him. But King Eron and Queen Hanlyn both watch Tarik closely from their chariot just horse lengths away. Instinctively, he moves his body away from the procession, crouching down to speak to the boy in front of him with all the loaves of bread.

  “The boy with the silver eyes. Who is he?” he says, trying to keep his tone friendly.

  But the young one bites his lip, his cheer turning swiftly into trepidation.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Tarik assures him. “I’m merely curious. What’s your name?”

  “Trykan.” He says it proudly, as if Tarik should already be familiar.

  Tarik grins. “Well, Trykan, if you must protect the boy with the silver eyes, I understand. But know this: I’ll find out who he is eventually, and the person who tells me will be rewarded. It would be a shame if that person were not you.”

  Tarik hates himself for bribing a child and for the lightness in his tone. It’s unfair to the boy, this position that Tarik is putting him in. He may get in trouble if he tells. He may be punished. But a boy serving extra chores as penance is nothing when compared with the need to know if there is another Forger in Tarik’s midst.

  Trykan considers for a long time. Then his shoulders slump. “His name is Bardo, Highness.”

  Tarik smiles widely, even as he commits the name to his eternal memory. “Thank you, Trykan. Tell me, are you having a good time today?”

  The abrupt change in subject has the boy smiling again, his transgression all but forgotten. “Oh yes, Highness. When they told us you’d be visiting our quarters today, our teachers canceled our lessons for the whole day!”

  Tarik smiles. This boy has no inkling of the importance of the parade or the fact that it came to the Baseborn Quarters in honor of Sepora. He merely cares that his lessons were canceled for the day. Still, Tarik can’t help but wonder how the boy Bardo spends his time away from lessons.

  Does he Forge?

  Certainly he must. Eron had said that Sepora must Forge, else she’ll feel ill and weak. Does this boy suffer the same effects if he does not release the energy? How has his gift been hidden for so long? And why?

  The questions tug Tarik’s mouth into a frown.

  “Take these to your family as well,” Tarik says quietly, handing him as many gold and silver Serpens as the boy can manage. “And tell them the King and his future queen wish them well. Especially them.”

  “Yes, Highness!” the boy says with glee, then turns and disappears into the masses. He may not understand the importance of the message he carries with him. But his parents will understand perfectly. They will know that the Falcon King has uncovered Bardo’s secret. Either they will flee, they will tell Bardo’s family of what has taken place, or they will await his next communication with them. He will not force them to come to him. He will give them the choice, just as he has given Sepora.

  Sepora. Does she know?

  The crowd presses in on him, but Tarik is now too distracted for the task at hand. He instructs the guards to continue in their distribution.

  Quietly, he turns in the direction of the chariot.

  9

  SEPORA

  I watch as the rest of the royal engagement procession pulls away from us and into the night. We stand by our own chariot in the crisp moonlight just outside the Baseborn Quarters, where the festivities of the evening seem to be just beginning. Tarik had requested a private ride home with his future queen, and since everyone—even Rashidi—had been too exhausted to put up an argument, it had happened as the king requested.

  I had a thought that I should be nervous, that whatever the king wanted, whether it was a more thorough seduction of me or perhaps even a confrontation over our last kiss, I should at least try to mentally prepare to parry with him. Still, my mind is so weary of having survived this day that I don’t think I could utter anything coherent in the way of argument.

  When the sounds of the caravans cannot be heard and only vaguely seen, Tarik offers his hand to me to climb into the chariot. I take it, not even caring that I use his shoulder to steady myself as I step up. He takes his place beside me and picks up the reins, gently urging the horses forward and even the smallest movement jars me out of my state of near collapse.

  For a time we ride in silence, and I take in the view of the inky sky with its pinpoints of white stars that sparkle like tiny morsels of daylight. While I hadn’t thought I’d have the energy to think of anything at all, I do remember now that Serubel rarely offers a view such as this; though the mountains are high, they are mostly covered with clouds in the evenings. At home, a starry night is something one must be constantly on the lookout for.

  At home. How odd to think of Serubel as my home again. In the beginning, when I had fled Serubel, I had accepted the fact that I would live out the rest of my days in Theoria, had come to acknowledge Theoria as my new home. Perhaps it was when I left this place on the back of Dody that I began to view Theoria as a foreign kingdom again. Or perhaps the arrival of my mother made me long for Serubel—after all, Mother represents everything that is Serubel, in my eyes. Even after the engagement procession today, after the citizens of Theoria were so vocal in accepting me as their new queen, it did not feel as though they were my people. I suppose only after I’m settled into marriage with Tarik will I begin to feel at ease here again. I wonder how many years it will take for the tension between us to dissolve. How much time must pass before my feelings for him wane and I can hold conversation with him without emotion lurking behind my words.

  “Sepora, we must talk, you and I,” Tarik says softly, and it reminds me that I have much further to go until time dilutes my reactions to him.

  Still, I know this is what he had wanted when he’d requested
a private ride home and am again reminded that perhaps I should have prepared in some way to anticipate what this could be about. Perhaps he’ll simply want an explanation for our kiss, and I have none to give him. It simply won’t do to confess that his kiss drives me beyond sense—he might be so incorrigible as to kiss me again. Nor will it be fitting to tell him that I accepted his challenge and made the decision to reciprocate—he might find another challenge hidden somewhere in my admission.

  I think of all the direct questions he could ask me and all the indirect ways I could answer without lying. There are woefully few paths I can take to evade his gift of discernment. And his gentle tone does not hide the tension hidden just beneath his voice. “Must we talk?” I ask, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “It would ruin the perfect evening, I think.” I sweep a heavy hand upward to the sky, as if he possibly could have missed its brilliance before.

  “We must. The desert is the only place I know that does not have ears.”

  I cannot help but stare at him in the moonlight as he stops the chariot to remove his headdress and run a hand through his hair, which is matted against his head and set in place by a day of sweat. He combs his fingers through the mess, scratching in places where the headdress must have been tightest. He looks at me for a long time.

  “Tarik?”

  He leans forward then, resting his forearms on the front of the chariot and staring ahead of us as if he can see something in the stretching desert that somehow the darkness does not swallow. “Soon, I will not be the only person making decisions for the kingdom,” he begins. “My hope is that you’ll take an interest in being Theoria’s queen, despite all that has happened between us.”

  Take an interest in being queen? Perhaps I don’t think of Theoria as my home, but I certainly cannot be accused of neglecting my new duties. “You’ll have to elaborate, Highness. Have I not already taken an interest in the affairs of the queen? Do I not stand with you at court, and hear the people—”

  “You perform the burdens of a queen well enough, Princess. But I must know your motivations. A queen puts her needs—her innermost feelings and longings—aside to become what her people need her to be. Is it in your heart to do this, Sepora? Have you grown fond enough of Theorians to place more import on their needs than on your own?”

  Can he discern my thoughts as well? But never mind that. What he’s suggesting is absurd. Duty and obligation are not enough to please him anymore? Now I must rule with my heart—the same heart he sliced through with word and deed alike? Nonsense. “A queen does not rule with her heart, but with her mind. The heart is fickle. The mind is strong.” It’s almost word for word what my mother once told me. I know when I say it that Tarik cannot find fault in Mother’s wisdom.

  Yet, he regards me with a neutral expression. I despise the fact that he can read me like one of his many scrolls, but I, however, cannot tell in this moment whether he heard me at all.

  “I agree that the heart should not be used to rule, but it should be used to determine what motivates you to do so.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more direct, Highness. What more do you require of me than to perform my duties?”

  He sighs. “I need to know that my people are safe in your hands. That our people are safe in your keeping.”

  “Are you asking if I mean to hurt the citizens of Theoria?” The question makes me breathless—because his answer is more important to me than I expect it to be. Does he truly think me capable of hurting his people—of hurting anyone? What’s more, I still can’t comprehend why we’re having this roundabout conversation in the first place. What does he hope to gain by speaking riddles at me?

  It occurs to me then that he wants to ask me a direct question—but he’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer. That Tarik is unsure, and perhaps even afraid, of what I will have to say causes a feeling of unease to settle over me.

  This conversation will be about my Forging.

  “I don’t think you would purposely hurt them. But I’m not sure if you would choose to help them, either.”

  “Help them in what way? Must I beg you for candor?” Though with each word, I know his meaning. How could I not? Still, I feel the need to taunt him, because I’m in no mood to make anything easy for him. Perhaps this morning I was. Perhaps this morning I could easily have seen myself loyal and doting on the Falcon King. But somehow I’ve recovered some of my sense.

  One simply does not dote on the person who has broken one’s heart.

  He stands straight and crosses his arms. I see the moment when Tarik disappears and the Falcon King materializes before me. And the Falcon King can be difficult to sway. It means I must step aside as Sepora and reason as a queen. Reason as my mother would reason.

  “I speak of the past, Sepora. When you had spectorium at your fingertips, quite literally, and not once did you Forge to save Theoria from the Quiet Plague. I speak of this very moment, when you still refuse to Forge, knowing we have an impending war.”

  So then. I’ve prepared for this very conversation. Truthfully I’d thought it would come much sooner than this, with all the pressures he faces from his commander and my father. Yet, I cannot deny that it stings, the very real disappointment in his voice when he accuses me of withholding spectorium now. He has never betrayed any emotion about it until now. No. Emotion does not belong in this conversation.

  “That is hardly fair. You know my reasons for all of it. And you yourself tell my father daily that spectorium is not needed.” All along, he has made it clear to my father that it is my decision whether to Forge. And all along, he has hidden his own bitterness about the fact that I choose not to. A tinge of guilt overcomes me as I acknowledge that, although spectorium has proven to be the cure, we have not yet tried fresh spectorium. Because Tarik is right. On principle, I’ve refused to Forge it. In refusing to be an obedient pawn between two kings, I’ve been very stubborn. And I do not like the way it makes me feel. I wonder if Mother would feel so culpable or if she would allow a bit of remorse to soften her, as I am now.

  But for what? Tarik has voiced his belief, his confidence that Master Cy will conquer the illness soon. Why, then, must we talk of spectorium? And so once again, I get the sense that he dances around the true question. It feels odd, for me to be the one insisting on directness and for Tarik to be the one evading me with his words.

  He waves at me in dismissal, his irritation showing through his face paint. “Yes, yes, I know your reasons. Truth told, it’s not the spectorium at all. It’s the fact that you’ve kept secrets from me. It takes skill to deceive me, Sepora, and I know you’re more than capable of the feat.”

  I would argue that simply being around Tarik takes skill and is exhausting at times. His abilities make it so, and yet, I can’t resist the challenge. “Ask me a direct question before I go mad!”

  “Are you keeping secrets from me?” he bellows just as quickly. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhales sharply. “Apologies, Princess. I did not mean to yell. It’s just that I know that you’re keeping something from me. I even know what you’re keeping from me. Perhaps I even know why. But the point is, you’re keeping something from me in the first place, and I won’t have it.”

  “Saints of Serubel, if you know so much about my secret, why are we even speaking of it, then?” I turn and jump down from the chariot, aware that part of my ensemble stays behind, caught between some cracks in the wood. Not a graceful exit, to be sure, and Anku will be angry that I’ve torn her creation, but having such a ridiculous conversation in such a state of exhaustion in such close proximity to the instigator is beyond what I can bear this night. Forcing my tired bare feet to make tracks in the still-warm sand, I head in the general direction of the caravan and, hopefully, the palace. Aware that I’m in the throes of a tantrum—of which Mother would never approve—I call over my shoulder, “To think you’ve kept me from my bed just to say you know my secrets! Of all the childish—”

  But a hand catches my
arm and whirls me around. I didn’t even hear him disengage from the chariot. Yet here he is, towering over me, blocking out the moon behind him so that darkness covers his face and his expression is once again unreadable. “Unhand me at once!”

  To my surprise, he does. “As you wish. But move from that spot, Princess, and I’ll secure you to the chariot with your own attire.”

  I believe him. There’s a desperate anger in his voice that paints a clear picture of him throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me back to the chariot. My hands settle on my hips. I won’t be hauled back to the chariot but feel obligated to be difficult all the same because of the threat. “Be quick with this, Highness. Ask me a question or forever wonder the answer.”

  He shakes his head. “That is not how trust works. You are keeping a secret from me. I’m placing the burden upon you to tell me.”

  “Has the desert heat drained you of sense? Of course I have secrets. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, Tarik. I’ll not lay bare all mine just to sort out the one you want most to hear.”

  At this, he stiffens. “You have more than one secret?”

  “Everyone does!” It takes all my restraint not to stomp in the sand.

  “I do not.”

  “No? You’re the only person, then.”

  “Rashidi does not. I would know.”

  “Has Rashidi ever been in love?”

  “What? How could I know that?”

  “Have you ever asked him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then that is a secret Rashidi keeps from you. He doesn’t openly offer the information, and you don’t directly ask about it. So, it’s a secret.”

  “Why must you be the most unaccommodating person in all the five kingdoms?”

  “Is that truly the question you want to ask me? If not, you’re wasting my time and squandering my patience.”

  He is quiet for several moments. My gaze swivels from my left to my right, anyplace other than his shadowed face. I don’t want to hear the question; I know it as surely as I know my name. For what could it be? What if he asks how I truly feel about him? What if he asks how I enjoyed our kiss last night? What if he asks, now that we’ve visited the entire kingdom, if I’m excited to rule as their queen? He could ask any number of questions that I would not be comfortable with answering. And if he asks them directly enough, I will not manage to hide my sentiments.