by Anna Banks
Ha! The moonlight indeed. It is laughable to blame my sleeplessness on the glow of it this night. Not when my mouth is full of salt from tears licked from my lips, my nose runny from uncontrollable sobs, and my pillow soaking with the mess of all of it.
No, tonight the blame lies with myself. Myself, and Tarik.
He toyed with my heart while I toyed with his trust. Who is the worst offender? I cannot be sure. But what I do know is that Father will be inconsolable, Mother will be disappointed, and … really, who else matters at this point?
The entire five kingdoms, I tell myself.
And all because I opened my mouth to appease Lady Gita on behalf of Theoria. To the five kingdoms, I am now a concubine, a tarnished princess with nothing to offer. Mother will be thrilled when I tell her. Father will be murderous.
Oh, Mother. I’d soiled my name for the sake of preventing war earlier, when I’d implied that Tarik had already taken me to his bed. I just could not bring myself to tell her of my shame. Even now, a blush tickles my cheeks, a blush so hot I feel it may evaporate my tears altogether. All the five kingdoms will hear of this. All the five kingdoms will view me as a harlot first, a princess of Serubel second. That is, if Father will have me back. Even if I marry someone else by some miracle someday, my guests will certainly be thinking of it. Perhaps even speaking of it when I turn away. Entertaining foreign kingdoms, their ambassadors, will be a nightmare.
No one has ever said such things of Mother, I’m sure. And what will she say when she learns of it? Surely Mother would have come up with a hundred other reasons why the Falcon King must wed me. Mother would have handled Lady Gita the way a Majai handles a bow and arrow or a sword: with skill and ease and grace. And when she tells me what I could have said—and oh, she will not refrain from putting me in my proper place and listing alternatives as if she were listing chores for a servant—I’ll feel even more embarrassed about what I’ve done today.
And what of Tarik? He had not even thanked me tonight for agreeing to Forge, much less made mention of the sacrifice I made earlier in his day chambers. Of taking responsibility for his impulsive decision to call off the union with Princess Tulle. Doesn’t he realize what it meant for me to say those things? Even Rashidi seemed horrified at what I’d done, yet Tarik held an expressionless face, as if I’d spoken of the weather or the fabric of the tapestries.
Confusion and hurt vie for my attention as I turn over in my bed, away from the taunting moonlight. Never before have I wished more to be a Lingot. Tarik can sense my lies, and if I’m not careful, even my thoughts from body language alone. It is not fair. None of it. I have never felt so broken as I feel now, not even when I had to flee my home in Serubel to a life unknown. At least then I had my self-respect. Now I have nothing. And worse, I probably have no one. No allies to come to my aid. At this moment, I am alone.
Still, I am not the weakling I was when I left Serubel and fled to Theoria. I am brave. I have done brave things. And I will be brave about this. It is my duty, my—
The covers are suddenly snatched from my body and I let out a startled scream. Hovering over me is a Theorian guard, one I’ve never seen before. His broad shoulders block the moonlight shining in from behind him, his face a shadow before me. “You’ll need to come with me, Princess,” he says gruffly.
“Why? What has happened? Is the king all right?”
“Get up.”
Something is not right. A guard would not speak to me so. Not now that I am to be queen. I try to roll away, to the opposite side of the bed, but he grabs my arm. Before I can scream, his fist connects with my mouth, and I immediately taste blood, feeling it trickling down my neck.
“I said get up.”
But standing now is impossible. The room spins, and I feel myself sway upright in the bed. Without warning, I am struck again.
The moonlight fades from my vision.
16
TARIK
Sepora does not show for the morning meal, and Tarik cannot help but feel immersed in guilt. He’d allowed her to leave last night without addressing her very real sacrifice in taking the blow for his own rash behavior the day he’d arranged to marry her. He had not acknowledged or praised her for making such a great effort to keep peace between Theoria and Hemut. And somehow a simple “thank you” had seemed so very impossible for him to give her for her decision to Forge, yet now so necessary.
Still, he refuses to regret his decision to call off the engagement in the end. She has fought it from the beginning. Deemed it a mere duty, if even that. Was he not just doing her a favor by relieving her of her obligation?
He’d been awake all night thinking of her, and how hard it must have been to submit after having put up such a fight to prevent the creation of cratorium. And then he’d chosen to call off their engagement, after such a trying day for both of them. He could have been more careful with her feelings. He could have been more careful period. What must she think of me?
“Highness,” the Queen Hanlyn says gently, “if it suits you, I will be happy to awaken Magar to have her join us. I’m sure she has just overslept. It is a habit of hers, I’m afraid.”
He well knows that. When she was a servant, she was tardy more often than not when it came to her morning duties. But perhaps she has not overslept; perhaps she is still nursing wounds inflicted last night. If that is the case, it wouldn’t do for Hanlyn to interrupt her. He’d told Sepora it would be up to her to inform her parents. He’d meant that.
King Eron snorts, using his spoon to scoop out a portion of citrus cut in half on his plate. “The child has always preferred sleep over breakfast. But then, she always kept late hours. I wonder what she was up to last night.” He looks pointedly at Tarik, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair. It was not proper for her to await him in his bedchamber last night. Has Eron been spying on him, then? He will have to warn Sepora to be more mindful of others who may be watching. That is, if she will ever speak to him again.
All at once, the doors to the dining room burst open and Sepora’s servant, the one called Cara, hurries to Tarik’s side, followed by two guards whose scowls turn Tarik’s stomach for a reason he can’t explain.
“Your Highness,” Cara says, breathless, “I’m sorry for interrupting your meal, but the Princess Magar has gone missing, and we suspect foul play.”
Tarik stands, sending his seat flying backward and toppling over on the marble floor. “Foul play? What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t in her bedchamber this morning, Highness. The covers were strewn about, as though a struggle had taken place. And Highness … there was blood on the pillow.”
Hanlyn gasps, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Eron stands, leaning on the table for support. “Blood?” he roars. “Who would dare to—”
“We’ve initiated a search of the palace, Highness, and of the grounds,” the guard behind Cara informs Tarik. “So far we’ve turned up but a single set of footprints beneath her balcony leading to the wall of the palace, too big to belong to the princess. Beyond that, there is nothing.”
Tarik is both relieved and furious that a search has already begun. He should have been informed the moment she was found missing.
“There is something else you should know, Highness,” the guard says, his face grim.
“Go on.”
“The guards posted at her door have been murdered. Their throats slit.”
Tarik strides toward the door, breaking into a run and calling over his shoulder. “Go to Commander Morg. Inform him of the situation and tell him that no stone is to be left unturned in the city until she is found. No citizen is to enjoy any privacy on this day while the princess is missing. Cara, send for Rashidi. Tell him to meet me in my day chambers at once. King Eron, Queen Hanlyn, you may join us, if it pleases you.”
* * *
It is nightfall before Commander Morg reports to Tarik’s day chambers, his expression somber. Tarik’s heart turns over in his chest. “You didn’t find her.” At th
is, Queen Hanlyn wrings her hands. The action is distracting, as it seems to fuse many different motions into one.
“I’m afraid not, Highness,” Morg says, tucking his hands behind his back. “Unfortunately, we have every reason to believe she has been taken. None of her personal belongings nor clothing are missing. Her Serpen is in her stable.” Morg eyes the pillow on Tarik’s desk; Tarik had it retrieved from Sepora’s room. “And the blood…”
The blood is what worries Tarik the most. And the murdered guards at her door. If the trained guards could not defend themselves, how could Sepora? She would stand no chance against a skilled assassin—especially an assassin who could take down two Majai together without stirring a commotion.
Eron pounds a fist on his armrest. “And how could such a thing happen? Have you no sense of security here? And of course, you know who has taken her.”
Tarik is startled at this. Morg whips his head toward the king as well. “We are working to determine that, Highness,” Morg tells Eron.
Eron snorts. “Is everyone in this room daft? The Hemutians have taken her. Of course they have.” He cuts his glare to Tarik. “Your brother insulted them in every way possible. We assumed they would wage war. I’d venture to say, this is their retaliation instead.”
The truth, or what Eron believes to be the truth. And Tarik is beginning to believe it, too, for it makes sense. King Ankor has quite the temper, but he is a cunning ruler. A war would cost him much, while abducting Sepora, the future queen of Theoria, would deliver an insult on the most personal level to Tarik. If Ankor’s daughter has no husband, Tarik will have no wife.
“Morg,” Tarik says, standing. “Gather every Majai in the kingdom and prepare them for a sunrise departure to Hemut. King Eron, I assume I have the full support of your army as well?”
“Indeed,” Eron says. “And I assume we have full access to the means to make cratorium?”
Cratorium. The word is spoken with obscurity surrounding it. It is a risk, giving Eron the explosive. Sepora would not approve, and by the way Queen Hanlyn’s eyes have grown wide, she does not approve, either. But Sepora is missing, and taken by someone who is not afraid to cause her bodily harm. That is not something he can bear. Releasing cratorium to Eron is a risk he will have to take. “You may have your cratorium,” he says sharply. “Just make sure that it is pointed toward the Hemutians, King Eron.”
Eron scowls. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure that you do,” Tarik counters.
Tarik had not noticed that Rashidi had stood as well, until his adviser places his hand on Tarik’s shoulder. “Highness, may I have a word?”
“If you’re going to suggest that we do not wage war against Hemut for their crime, then no.”
Rashidi sighs, indicating he had been about to suggest that very thing. “Think of Princess Sepora’s safety,” he says quietly. Tarik hates when he says things quietly. His father, King Knosi, always said that it is those times that Rashidi is being his most reasonable self, that if he is quiet, he is brilliant. Against his will, Tarik acknowledges that he would do well to listen to what his adviser has to say now, even if it is not what he wants to hear.
“Yes?” Tarik growls, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Please consider, Highness, that you do not know where they will keep the princess. If you start a full-on war with Hemut, you could injure her with our attacks. It is unlikely that they would do much to protect her, if they mean to deliver an insult. Indeed, they would get the highest of satisfactions if it were your own army that killed her.”
Killed her. Bile rises in his throat, and he swallows several times to push it back down. The idea that Sepora could die makes him dizzy. Disavowing their engagement is one thing. Thinking of her death and losing her forever is quite another. Slowly, he sits back down, unable to meet anyone’s gaze for fear they’ll see his alarm. King Eron would see it as a weakness to be so unsettled at a time when his wit is most needed.
“What’s more,” Rashidi continues, “we do not have proof that the Hemutians have taken her. All we have is that pillow, two dead guards, and footprints in the sand. Our enemy has not made himself known to us just yet.”
“We already have an enemy in Hemut,” Eron says angrily. “Lady Gita made sure to impress that upon us before she left.”
Rashidi nods humbly. “That is a good point, King Eron, yes. But perhaps if we looked at the matter more closely, we might find more than one possible motive behind the abduction. For instance, I find it curious that a Hemutian warrior would know precisely where the Princess Sepora’s bedchamber was. Also, I think it odd that he could slip through the palace without being detected. The Hemutians are not a small people.”
At this, Morg nods, thoughtful. “I’ve spoken with my officers and their men. None of them saw anything amiss last night.”
Oh, why must Rashidi be so reasonable at such an inconvenient time as this? Just moments ago, Tarik had wanted to destroy the room with his bare hands, declare war on Hemut, and secure King Ankor’s head on a pike prominently placed on the palace wall for all to see. An extreme reaction, he knows. And now Rashidi would have him calm down. Blast it all.
Tarik looks at Morg. “Recruit the Master Saen from the Lyceum. Inform her of what’s taken place. You will question each man in your guard again, in her presence. Detain anyone she mistrusts for further questioning by me personally.”
“Of course, Highness.”
“That’s it?” Eron blusters. “You will waste time interrogating your household while my daughter could be moving farther and farther away from us as we speak?”
“It is not a waste of time to investigate further before declaring war on a powerful kingdom without the least bit of proof,” Tarik says. “Rashidi is right to be cautious, and as Sepora’s safety is my utmost concern, I wouldn’t even think of attacking until we have located her.”
“This is outrageous!” Eron spits. “But what more could I expect from a boy king?”
“Eron!” Queen Hanlyn exclaims. “Do forgive him, Highness,” she pleads with Tarik. “He is merely upset at the turn of events.”
This is what she knows is a lie. King Eron had meant to be provoking.
Tarik rises to his feet in a calculated slowness. “You are a guest in my kingdom, King Eron. I trust you will comply with my wishes in this matter by not inciting a war we may have no business fighting as of yet. In the meantime, I must speak with my brother.” Tarik strides to the door without ceremony. “You may all let yourselves out.”
“Sethos?” Rashidi calls after him. “But why?”
Tarik turns back for the briefest of moments. “Sethos owes me an immense favor,” he says. “And I’m going to collect it.”
17
SEPORA
The repugnant smell of fish awakens me.
The white cloth over my face is not so thick that it inhibits the sunlight from shining through in small patches, nor does it block out the scent of the mound of fish lying next to me. My jaw aches incessantly and my teeth feel rattled, but to make a sound now might not be the wisest of choices, as I can make out six looming shadows standing near me in the stifling heat of the sun. Besides, even if I wanted to, I could not make an escape; I’m bound tightly at the feet and my hands are laced together behind my back. And so my only option for learning more about my circumstances lies with my listening as closely as possible.
The consistent sound of water being pushed about is the only noise I hear, which must mean we are moving along the River Nefari, possibly by rowboat. The men who have taken me are not of the conversational sort; no one offers a word to one another. I have no sense of how much time has passed; perhaps since they are quiet, we are still within the boundaries of Anyar. Perhaps I could scream and gain someone’s attention. By now, Tarik will be looking for me. Mother will be looking for me.
Yet I fight against the urge to make a sound; I’m stiff and uncomfortable and I long to stretch. Also, I’m low
on energy, which means too much time has passed since I’ve Forged. Soon it will begin leaking from my palms. Much time has passed.
I’m confronted with the fact that if we’ve been moving along the River Nefari since early morning, we are no longer in Anyar at all. I have no idea if we head north or south, and I’ve no idea why I’ve been taken. Even as I try to contemplate it all, my vision becomes blurry, my thoughts even more obscure.
Just before I lose consciousness, one of the men speaks. “Cover her with more fish. There’s a boat just ahead,” he says gruffly.
Only, he doesn’t speak in the Theorian language.
I’ve been taken by Pelusia.
18
TARIK
Tarik finds it ironic that Sethos’s “prison cell” is nothing more than Sepora’s old bedchamber when she was but a servant in the palace. However, the great wooden door is now kept locked at all times with no fewer than four Majai guarding it. Inside, a great wall of thick needlelike thorns and thistles, plucked from the Valley of the Tenantless, barricades his brother from straying to the balcony outside where he has been known to traverse the palace walls as skillfully as a lizard might.
There is, of course, a true prison outside the city of Anyar where Theorian criminals are kept, either for the duration of their sentence or until the day when they’ll be pitched from the Half Bridge arrives, and that is where everyone save Rashidi thinks Sethos stays. But true prison would only serve to feed Sethos’s ego. He would emerge a hero among his Majai brethren, a true survivor to have stayed among Theoria’s worst, securing admiration instead of shame for his crime.
No, it is better, more insulting, to keep Sethos in the pampered confines of the palace, where he will suffer the humiliation of a soft punishment, for he hates the palace, and what’s more, he will be ashamed to even call his time served “imprisonment” at all, when he sleeps in worse conditions while living at the Lyceum—a mere cot in a room with dozens of others and three tasteless meals a day. A bedchamber in the palace is something his Majai brethren would tease him about, were he to mention it to them. In fact, Tarik thinks to himself, he will make it a point to inform his brother’s friends at the Lyceum just how lavish his “cell” really is.