Ally

by Anna Banks

  Tarik approaches the four guards at the door. “Unlock the prisoner’s cell,” he tells them, and one of the Majai actually has the audacity to smile at the command. “Yes, Highness,” this Majai says, pulling the necklace with the key from around his neck and turning it in the door. “The ‘cell’ is now unlocked, Highness.”

  Tarik smirks as he enters the bedchamber. Sethos will never live this down. Tarik need not even start the rumor itself. He’s quite sure that by the end of these guards’ shift, it will be widely circulated just how horrible a sentence the prince has served.

  When Tarik enters, the chamber is dark and needlessly rank. He finds he must step around piles of excrement, the smell of ammonia almost overtaking him. It seems his brother prefers to live in squalor rather than use the perfectly intact lavatory in the far right of the room. It is born of a two-year-old’s tantrum, Tarik knows, and it is evidence of his supreme stubbornness. No doubt their father would be proud.

  Tarik, however, is not amused.

  He finds Sethos sitting in a chair beside his canopied bed, knees drawn to his chest. “Highness,” Sethos says in a mocking tone, “to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to personally serve me my evening meal? How thoughtful.”

  Tarik stands against the wooden pole of the canopy and crosses his arms. “I’ve no time for banter, brother. Sepora has been taken, and by an unknown enemy.”

  Immediately, Sethos jumps to his feet. He is shirtless, which reveals several deep scrapes and cuts along his torso. He had attempted to squeeze through the thorn barricade after all, and his efforts had left him a bloody mess. Tarik could not be happier.

  “Taken?” Sethos utters an oath under his breath. “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night? And you come to me only now?”

  Tarik recognizes this is a blow to his brother’s pride. Sethos cares for Sepora and her safety, and had once been entrusted with it—before his outburst in front of the Lady Gita. “Generally I do not confer with prisoners who’ve committed treason against Theoria.”

  Sethos rolls his eyes. “You have not come here to speak of mundane politics, Tarik. Tell me what has taken place.”

  Sethos is right, of course. Now is not the time to reopen discussions of his brother’s misdeeds, not with Sepora missing and in danger.

  Tarik sits on the bed—first ensuring that Sethos had not soiled that too out of spite—and sighs. He tells his brother of the details of her abduction, of the blood on the pillow and of the slain Majai, of the footprints leading to the palace walls, then disappearing on the other side of it. It does not take Sethos very long to think on it before he says, “Ankor.”

  “That is what we thought at first as well. But we have no proof, and—”

  “Declaring war might endanger Sepora.”

  Tarik is surprised, and impressed, at his brother’s insightfulness. He has always been clever, Sethos, but has never really been inclined to use that talent for much good—except where his Majai training is concerned. “Yes.”

  “When do I leave?” By this time he is pacing the room, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. His voice does not mock. His eyes are sharp, his stature tense.

  “I want you to handpick a small party to take to Hemut and locate Sepora if she’s there. The idea is discretion. In and out, without detection. Bring her back safely to me, brother, so that I may officially declare war on King Ankor. Go tonight to the seamstress and have her fashion your men something warm.” Tarik is quite sure it is not a good idea to mention he had broken the engagement with Sepora, lest Sethos attack him on the spot. Besides, it is best for all to believe that they are still engaged—he had, after all, left it up to Sepora’s discretion in disclosing it.

  “All we need is our weapons.”

  “You’ll freeze, Sethos. The snow is deeper than a man is tall.”

  “The Hemutians think it a secret that they keep archers in the woods along their southern border. I’ll borrow something cozy from them before it gets too much colder on the other side.”

  Tarik sniffs. “Attacking their archers does not sound discreet.”

  “Dead men are always discreet.”

  “If you cannot find Sepora, Sethos, we cannot declare war on Hemut.”

  “If I cannot find Sepora, brother, it’s because she isn’t there.”

  The truth. Sethos will not return without Sepora. He will infiltrate every part of Hemut until she is found. There will not be a nook or crevice in which he doesn’t investigate. And when he finds her, and she is safely in Tarik’s arms again, he will see to it that Hemut is nothing more than a memory to the rest of the kingdoms.

  19

  SEPORA

  My eyes will not fully open, but only flutter occasionally, revealing bits and pieces of the room I’m in. The ceiling is all wood and of a grain I do not recognize. Beneath me is a bed that is not uncomfortable, but irritatingly soaked through with warm water. There is a fireplace at the edge of the room, whose heat I do not feel. My jaw hurts, and I know from my experience with Chut and Rolan in the Dismals that not only are my lips dry, but the bottom one is split open. And for all the energy I have, I cannot move; I am tethered hand and foot to the bed, spread-eagle on my back.

  But, Saints of Serubel, why can’t I open my eyes?

  Instead of dwelling on it, though, I focus on my other senses. There is someone or something shuffling about the room. After a few moments, I realize it is a woman, and she is humming a song I’ve never heard. She tinkers around with metal of some sort, making an awful noise that echoes through a room that must be mostly empty, for nothing seems to absorb the sound. “Who are you?” I demand, yet my voice is too shaky to be anything but pitiful.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” she says amiably. She speaks to me in Serubelan, but her accent tells me that she is not from there and at the moment, I can’t sort out where I’ve heard it before. “I’ve come to administer your treatment,” she says. “And of course, to clean you up before it settles in.”

  “Settles in? Clean me up? What’s the matter with me?”

  “Why, you’ve wet the bed, Princess.”

  “I’ve wet the bed?”

  “Indeed, Princess. With spectorium. It has leaked from your hands and ruined the linens.”

  Spectorium. I’ve lain in this bed long enough that my body expelled spectorium on its own. That will be at least three days’ time. “Where am I?”

  Yes, where am I that someone knows what happens when I prolong Forging—and more important, that I am a Forger in the first place? Why does this woman treat me as though she knows me personally, not just that I am a Forger? I’m vulnerable now, yes, but I’m also feeling very handled at the moment.

  I do not like to be handled.

  “All in due time, Princess,” she says. I hear her rustle around some more, and then the sound of liquid pouring into a pot. “I’ve a sponge here and soap, with boiling water that needs to cool. When it does, I’ll give you a good scrubbing. You’ll feel much better then.”

  “Whoever you are, you need to release me at once. I am a princess of Serubel, and future queen of Theoria. If you return me now, the Falcon King may exercise leniency on you.” Of course, I’m not a future queen of Theoria anymore, but if Tarik has kept his word, no one knows that quite yet. And if I’m being honest, I can’t be certain that he would come after me, under the circumstances. Still, I’m proud that I sound more authoritative than I feel, what with being tied to a bed and having messed myself with spectorium—something I haven’t done since I was a child. I wonder what I look like, lying here in a glowing pool and giving orders in such a condition.

  The woman chuckles in a way that suggests she knows exactly who I am, and exactly what the penalty will be by keeping me here, but is not concerned in the least about any of it—and is not impressed by the power I’d hoped to infuse into my tone. “You must calm down, child,” she says soothingly. “No harm will come to you here.”

&nb
sp; “Then why am I tied up?” Not that being tied up actually hurts, but it does make one feel particularly defenseless against any such harm. And it does make one feel like a prisoner.

  “The bonds are for our safety, not yours, Princess.” She tinkers around closer to me now, almost at the bedside. Her movements sweep the scent of roses into my nose. Roses, and food. She is cooking something in here. Something that smells delicious. My stomach growls in want, and the woman chuckles again. “I’m making lamb stew. It’s a special recipe handed down through generations of my family. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  While the idea of eating sounds glorious, I ignore her attempts at being kind. “You’re protecting yourself from me? Whatever for?”

  She is close now. I hear her set something down upon perhaps a table next to my bed. “We understand you’ve had the benefit of training with the Majai and your ability to Forge weapons from nothing is well known. Aside from that, you tend to thrash about when you receive treatment.”

  My ability to Forge weapons is not well known. Only those closest to me are privy to that information, and I do not recognize this woman’s voice from a stranger’s at the Bazaar. I feel bare and vulnerable, as though all my secrets have been uncovered. I might as well be lying here naked. I must have been at one point; the clothes I wear now cover the lengths of my legs and arms, cinching at my ankles and wrists. This is not what I wore to bed however many nights ago. Someone has changed me while I was unconscious.

  “Why can’t I open my eyes?” And did she just say treatment? Have I been mortally injured? I test my jaw and find that it has mended well since I first found myself on the boat in the River Nefari. Oh yes, the boat. I’ve been taken by the Pelusians. That is where this woman’s slight accent comes from. If I put up such a fight as to be wounded, I don’t remember at all. There are no bandages on my face, no cloths wrapped tightly against my skin anywhere. Still, my eyes will not open. Somehow, though, this doesn’t seem as important as before.

  The woman clicks her tongue in what she must think sounds like a comforting noise. “That’s it. Nice and relaxed you’ll be soon.”

  “Why? I do not want to relax.” I’m aware that my arguments are abrupt and even childish, yet I can’t quite get my bearings enough to offer more resistance.

  “Ah, but the calming serum we gave you will ensure that you are. It will help you rest during your treatments.”

  Calming serum. I’ve been kidnapped, re-dressed, and drugged. This is sounding all too familiar. “I do not need to be treated. I feel fine.” If arguing is the only way I have of being difficult, so be it. Surely I should be difficult, for the principle of the thing. With or without the calming serum.

  I can almost hear her smile when she says, “That’s a silly thing to say. Everyone wants to be relaxed.” She is even closer now; I feel her leaning over me. She tugs at the leather strap at my left hand, and does the same to my other limbs, ensuring they are all secure. “Now, be very still, Princess. I’m going to administer a needle to your right arm.” She touches the crook of my arm then, tapping it with the pad of one finger. “This vein here is your best, I think. You’ll feel a small pinch, I’m afraid. Oh, I do wish you were still sleeping. You wouldn’t feel the pain of the cure if you were sleeping.”

  Pain. The way she says it makes me wish I were sleeping, too. “Cure? What cure? Have I fallen ill? Am I wounded?” Saints of Serubel, but why won’t she answer my questions? I remember the giant man hovering over my bed in Theoria, the way his fist connected with my mouth. I don’t remember any more harm done to me during my bouts of consciousness. “If I’ve been injured, I’ve a right to know!” Not that this woman cares about my rights, obviously. But perhaps if I can appeal to her apparent caregiving nature …

  “No!” she says, gently brushing a bit of hair out of my face and tucking it behind my ear. “You’re in perfectly good health, child. That lip of yours will heal in no time. You’ll see.”

  “Then what cure do you speak of?” I’ve never heard of curing someone who wasn’t ill, and it’s at this point that I begin to doubt I’m awake at all. This must be some sort of vivid dream, which is why my eyes won’t open. I’m simply not ready to wake up yet.

  I’m ready to believe this, that it’s a dream, until I feel her hand at my arm and the needle when it pushes into my vein, startling me. After that I feel a liquid oozing into my bloodstream. And the burn. It makes a scalding trail through my body, and I imagine the gleaming molten liquid the silversmith in Serubel uses to shape swords, and I cry out as the intensity increases and spreads everywhere. “I do not need a cure,” I tell her, my stomach tightening with agony, “if I am not ill!”

  “This is not for any ailment, child,” she says mildly. “This is the cure for Forging.”

  It is then that I vomit all over myself.

  PART TWO

  20

  TARIK

  Tarik pushes the food around his plate, unable to bring a morsel of it to his mouth. It has been ten days since Sepora’s disappearance and his nerves are frayed beyond repair. He’d thought that perhaps taking his evening meal in his chambers would solve the issue of his not eating of late, as he cannot stomach the company of King Eron for another moment, and Queen Hanlyn has grown so quiet that she’s barely a comfort to either Tarik or her own outraged husband. But it is not the quality of the food nor the exhausting task of entertaining Sepora’s parents that keeps him from his meals.

  It is that Sepora herself is in danger, perhaps hurt, and he can do nothing about it until Sethos returns with a report from Hemut. He has such mixed feelings about Sethos’s absence. On the one hand, his brother’s prolonged visit to Hemut means he truly is searching every part of that kingdom for Sepora. On the other hand, pride of the pyramids, but what could be taking his brother so long? He is normally fast and cunning and shouldn’t he be home by now with a report, which would be worst-case scenario, or with Sepora, which would be the best possible outcome? Is he deliberately taking his time to punish Tarik for imprisoning him in the first place?

  Tarik can only hope that if his brother is taking his time in returning, it’s because Sepora is safe in his keep and not because he himself has been captured by Hemut.

  21

  SEPORA

  Bayla opens the door to my chamber and slides in with a tray of food that smells wonderful. She saunters to the small table set with two chairs opposite the room and eases the tray down as if it were filled with porcelain dining ware instead of plainly carved wooden bowls and spoons. They do not trust me with anything but spoons, with anything but wood.

  And they shouldn’t.

  Anything sharp and I would secure my release from this place—at least that’s what I want to think. They discovered that the first day three men untethered me from the bed and I Forged a blade faster than they could close their open-hanging mouths. It must have been shocking that a girl who was supposed to have been cured of Forging by then had wielded a sword of spectorium against them.

  Fools.

  That’s when I learned I was in a castle. As I had bounded down the hallway like an untamed Theorian cat, I took in my surroundings as best I could. I passed windows that peered out onto a vast sea. I turned corners made of salt stone. I toppled servants dressed plainly but with clearly embroidered emblems on their collars.

  Royal emblems of the kingdom of Pelusia.

  Bayla confirmed this once I was captured again and dragged back to this wretched room without windows.

  Bayla. I cannot get a grasp on the woman. She’s friendly enough, when she’s not “treating” me for Forging. Even now, while she’s sweeping the chamber, she chatters on about her grandson, about how much I’d enjoy the weather outside if I’d simply behave long enough to be escorted to the gardens, and how delicious I’ll find the soup she’s brought from King Graylin’s famous kitchens.

  I glance about the room, my mood growing all the more sour as she dusts the mantel over the fireplace. It’s the only rea
l source of light in the room, and they keep it going day and night, for the northern ocean breeze seems to breathe in between the cracks of the salt stone. The chamber is clean and simple, but it is not meant for esteemed guests, which Bayla keeps insisting I am to King Graylin.

  Until they unbound me just this morning, I’d insisted any “guest” would take exception to being secured to a bed—and an uncomfortable bed at that. And so I sit on the disagreeable bed, unbound but well guarded nonetheless, for three heavily armed guards stand just beyond the door. If Bayla so much as raises her voice, I’ll be overrun with swords and daggers and whatever else Pelusians use as weapons.

  Guest, indeed.

  The last time I saw King Graylin, I was a girl of twelve and he was a real guest at our royal table on a rare visit from Pelusia. Aldon had told me Graylin had been a foreign prince who’d married the Pelusian queen to secure an alliance between Pelusia and Brezland, a kingdom far north of the five, and when the queen died, he was so saddened that he never took another wife—and never returned home, wishing to stay behind in Pelusia to ensure his beloved’s kingdom did not go to ruin at the hands of her next of kin, a greedy cousin or something of the sort. He’d fathered a daughter with the queen, a girl of my age at the time, and talked lovingly of her, telling me she and I would be great friends had he brought her along.

  In any case, King Graylin had seemed kind and gentle during his visit, and ultimately boring to a twelve-year-old girl, but certainly not of the nature to kidnap a princess right before she would wed perhaps the most powerful king in all the five. Surely he knows retribution is coming. As soon as Tarik discovers where I am.

  If Tarik discovers where I am.