by Anna Banks
They will think Pelusia has much to pay for.
And they would be right.
Sethos waves off Rashidi when the older man lifts Sethos’s arm and inspects a gash on it. “It’s fine,” Sethos assures him. “But if you’re concerned, friend, please call for as much food and water as can be found at this late hour in the kitchens. We’re starved half to death. And where is Tulle? I wish to see her.”
Tarik does not miss that Sepora’s stomach grumbles. She doesn’t seem to care, though. She sits straight, and without expression. If she is trying to throw off Tarik’s Lingot abilities by not speaking or telling her emotions with body language, she is doing a most excellent job of it.
Tarik seats himself across from them as Rashidi gives instructions to the guards outside the door. When Rashidi has rejoined them, leaning against the wall by the balcony, Tarik looks to his brother. Sethos is easy to read, even in the dimming candlelight. He is tired and irritable and not happy with Tarik. In the corner of the room, Patra flicks her tail. She watches Sethos and Sepora closely. Ever since the incident with Eron, she has been more cautious of Tarik’s visitors. He hopes her affection for his brother and Sepora will return soon. It had taken a few days for her to warm up to Rashidi again.
“You are both unharmed?” Tarik says quietly.
“Of course. Physically, anyway.” With this, Sethos sneers.
“Physically?” Rashidi says. “In what other way could you be harmed?”
Sethos glances up at the adviser then cuts his eyes back to Tarik. “It would seem the Falcon King owes you an explanation as well, Rashidi. Perhaps he would like to enlighten us all on why he is no longer engaged to Princess Magar of Serubel.”
Rashidi pushes away from the wall. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tell him, Tarik. Tell him what has occurred.”
So. Sethos is angry, either with the fact that Tarik called off the engagement, or the fact that he neglected to tell him of it. He does not need to look at Sepora to know her expression has not changed. Still, Tarik is surprised when she speaks up.
“Sethos, I believe I did disclose why he called off the engagement, and why he did not tell you about it. In fact, I believe we discussed it several times, including during the entire journey to the palace from the Nefari.” Her words carry fatigue and a bit of exasperation. “What I would like to know is, why would a king send for a princess to whom he is no longer engaged, and whose parents he no longer entertains as guests in his royal household?”
Tarik leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Sethos knows of the nulled marriage, and Sepora knows of her father and mother. Of course they exchanged information on their voyage. That was to be expected. And Tarik knew he would need to explain things to the both of them, but he did not expect an ambush as soon as they arrived. He had imagined a more private setting for each of them, and one in kind for Rashidi. But it seems his brother is intent on being shifty; his mouth is set in a way Tarik knows well.
It is set in a way that suggests he will expire before he lets the matter lie.
A knock at the door relieves him of an immediate answer, and as the servants set down two trays of cheeses, meats, and breads, and pitchers of water and wine, his mind works doubly hard to come up with answers—answers that do not make him sound, as Sethos calls him, like a lovesick whelp.
He did not actually think when he sent Sethos on his way to Pelusia to retrieve Sepora. It had been reflexive to get her back, like blinking when something is in one’s eye. It wasn’t until his brother was well on his way that he considered the consequences of his actions. All that had occurred to him was that he knew where she was and wanted her returned safely to him, and immediately so. Of course he did, because he loves her. But Sepora is right to question why the Falcon King would be bothered with the task. Why the Falcon King would have any more interest in her at all, since she is no longer to be queen of Theoria.
And he doesn’t have an answer. Not a true one, anyway.
What he does have, though, are questions. And that will have to suffice for all of them for now. He waits for several long moments, watching Sethos and Sepora attack the fare as though they’d never before seen food. Rashidi, for his sake, stares at the floor, careful to hide his own feelings from Tarik as well. It does not sit well with Tarik that everyone in this room feels betrayed by him at the moment.
Finally, Sethos takes a long drag of water from his chalice then slams it on the table. “So then, where were we? Ah, yes. Your unique situation of not being engaged to one Princess Magar.”
“Stop calling me Magar,” Sepora says around a bit of bread. “And stop being so official. You are brothers. You can talk about it in your own time. Don’t lose your temper for my sake. I’ve already told you, it doesn’t matter in the least to me.”
That last bit is a lie, and Tarik feels as though he has been run through with a sword. So, they both must suffer from his decision. But he must stand by it. It was made as king, and not as doting lover. He is relieved that she is dropping, for now, her questions for him about the matter. By her demeanor, he even doubts she will bring it up again. With Sethos, though, he can tell he will not be so lucky.
Amid the hurt, she says, “You need to tell him what my mother is planning. It affects us all far greater than any lost marriage vow.”
Sethos glares at Tarik. “It seems the queen of Serubel was planning to rule all the five, and doing so from the comfort of your own palace. Really, Tarik, I expected much better from your so-called spies.” He glances at Rashidi. “No offense to you, friend.”
Rashidi nods. “Tell us what has happened.”
“Well,” Sethos begins, lacing his fingers behind his head, “while I was gallivanting around Graylin’s castle, I heard the king and Queen Hanlyn—how she beat me to Pelusia I’ll never know—in his throne room speaking quietly to themselves. They were discussing the matter of getting married, and of marrying Sepora off to a Prince Bahrain of Nunsdem, of the northern kingdoms, so as to strengthen an alliance with them. And, of course, the lost opportunity of murdering you and overthrowing Theoria while it is weak with the Quiet Plague and in a state of war with Hemut for abducting Magar.”
“Stop calling me Magar,” Sepora interjects nonchalantly, taking another bite of cheese. “Go on, though.”
“I was just repeating what they said. Anyhow,” Sethos says, as if he were not interrupted, “they figured once Theoria was defeated, the rest of the four would submit to them, seeing as they planned to attack Hemut while Hemut was busy attacking us.”
Tarik shakes his head. “How did Queen Hanlyn hide this from me? I’m a Lingot. I should have detected this undercurrent of animosity.”
Sethos slides a glance at Sepora. “It seems a certain gift for deception runs in the family. And besides, did you ever directly ask her if she intended to overthrow the kingdom? She did a fine job at suggesting Eron was responsible the entire time.”
“Her suggestions were not lies. He did not have good intentions toward Theoria, marriage alliance or no,” Tarik says. “She did use that to her advantage, it would seem.”
Just then, Tulle opens the door and rushes to Sethos, embracing him with all her small frame will allow. He reaches up and pulls her into his lap, giving her a mighty kiss on the lips. Sepora’s eyes nearly pop from her face. Tarik suppresses a grin. She’ll need to get used to this sort of behavior.
Or will she? Will she even stay, after all that has happened? Even as his mind works to find reasons for her to stay, his reason screams that she should not. But where will she go that she should be safe from her mother? And—will he ever reconcile his heart to his mind?
Sepora clears her throat, looking from the infatuated pair to Tarik. It is awkward for them both, he wants to tell her. The affection Sethos and Tulle show for each other is not unlike the affection he and Sepora once shared. “Yes, well,” she says, “you were aware that I confided much in my mother while she was here.”
Tarik nods.
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Sepora lifts her chin. “What I did not say was that she discouraged me from Forging for either you or my father. I can only believe that it was to make your forces weaker from lack of spectorium when the time came for war. While I was in Pelusia, she sought to remove my Forging abilities.”
“Remove your Forging abilities? Is that even possible?”
“According to Graylin’s Healers, it is. According to them, I have a gallum. And when removed, I lose my ability to Forge.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“Of course not.”
“What did they do when you tried to escape?” But he regrets the words as soon as he speaks them. Because if she was tortured, he will travel to Pelusia this very night and strangle King Graylin himself.
Sethos pulls his attention from Tulle just in time to laugh. “Escape? Surely you jest. When I found her, she was playing dress-up with her maidservant.”
Tarik looks back to Sepora. “You didn’t try to escape? You … you stayed there of your own accord?” He cannot help but raise his voice. He had worried this entire time, to near death, when she had not even tried to escape? What’s more, she had apparently been enjoying herself. Had she no regard for his feelings?
“I … I found out my mother was the reason behind the abduction and I … trusted her judgment.”
“You trusted her judgment even while she was trying to remove your Forging abilities? Even as she was trying to change who you are?”
“Forging is not who I am,” she says, standing, and making Patra uneasy. He cuts his feline a look of warning. She yawns in dismissal. But Sepora does not notice Patra. Sepora is on the verge of a rampage, Tarik can tell. “And at the moment, my mother seemed like the only person in all the five who cared for me at all! She never fully disclosed all she had planned. I didn’t even know she was in Pelusia! But that is not why I didn’t try to escape. I needed to stay because—”
But the door is thrown open once more.
27
SEPORA
Ptolem bursts through the door. “Your Highness,” he says, breathless, “Strays have overrun the palace. You must flee now. There is no time to waste!”
My reason for staying, the cure for the Quiet Plague, falls flat. “Strays?” Sethos says, standing, but not releasing Tulle from his grasp. “How did they get by the Majai guards?”
“Some of them are Majai, Prince Sethos,” Ptolem says, the blood draining from his face. “The force that overtakes the palace now is Majai, Healers, Superiors, Middlings, all of them. They have come for the Falcon King’s head. We must get you out of here, both of you!”
Rashidi is the first to spring to action. I am surprised by the new life brought to his bones, the sense of urgency in his normally calm, collected voice. “The hearth,” he says, ushering Tarik and Sethos and Tulle, each royal by one arm and Tulle by extension, since she is still attached to Sethos, toward the hearth at the end of the long room. “There are secret passageways that run through the palace. We must get inside, quickly!”
I watch them all shuffle toward the hearth. Rashidi forces down a hidden lever in the mantel and the entire back wall of it slides to the right with a great grinding sound. I’d always wondered why a palace in the middle of the desert would have need of a hearth. Theoria never gets cold enough for a hearth. But yet there are hearths all over the great palace. Hearths, and obviously, secret passageways connecting them.
Sethos looks back at me, and yells, “Pride of the pyramids, Sepora, now is not the time to dawdle. Come now!”
But as I watch everyone pile into the passageway and disappear, following their Falcon King to an uncertain fate, I stay grounded in place. I do not belong in that tunnel with them. I do not belong in this palace. I do not belong in Serubel, under the cunning hand of my mother, or in Pelusia, under the despicable intentions of King Graylin.
I am now a girl who does not belong anywhere. Why the Falcon King brought me back here I do not know. But going with him now is not the answer to anything.
Yet Sethos is at my side in an instant, throwing me over his shoulder, even as I protest. “Leave me be, Sethos!” I say angrily. “I can make my own way out.”
“I see the look upon your face, Sepora. You’ve no intentions of making your way anywhere. Now stop writhing or I’ll knock you over the head myself!” But we’re already in the passageway, the door sealed behind us before his words are finished.
I’d forgotten how very fast Sethos is.
PART THREE
28
TARIK
Twenty-seven.
This is the third time Tarik has counted that there are twenty-seven fresh spectorium lamps lining the inside chamber of the Great Council’s meeting place. One lamp for each column in the round room. Four good-sized guards at the door. Nine Council members. Two Theorian spies ready to report. The Majai commander Morg, along with Tarik’s ornery younger brother, who grows excessively bored at meetings filled with reason instead of bloodlust and who longs to spend time with his future bride, who sits silently and composed next to him, and an old adviser who is well suited to negotiate and coexist with a Great Council.
And precisely one Princess Sepora.
One Princess Sepora whose eyes are still sharp silver or glistening silver, depending on her state of temper. One Princess Sepora who has adjusted well to living in the Baseborn Quarters during the Stray rebellion, adapting the long braided hair of her Serubelan brethren and the tanned skin of someone who works for their share during the day, much to the chagrin of the Council.
One Princess Sepora who puts forth just as much effort as Tarik not to make eye contact.
Tarik pushes that thought aside as one of the spies steps into the talking circle of the room. Out of respect, this young Lingot spy, Potipher, a friend of Cy’s, should be facing the Council to make his report, but every so often, he glances at Tarik. It is not a secret to the spies that Tarik is the Falcon King, but in case of other spies who favor the Strays, he is never to be addressed as such.
Not while his life, and that of his brother’s, are in danger each day the rebellion thrives.
“I have made contact with Master Lingot Saen,” Potipher is saying. “She is not a Stray, and is happy to be of service to the Falcon King.” Truth, Tarik knows. Not only did Saen pass this young one’s test, but the third-party information also passed his knowing ears.
Tarik gives the Council a slight nod. Not that the Council does not already have a Lingot of their own.
“It is reported as well,” the spy says, “that the Serubelan army left behind so hastily by Queen Hanlyn in her escape after Eron’s death has been freed by the Strays. Her army has joined forces in keeping the palace secure from those who would support the Falcon King. We believe the queen is still in communication with her forces. We do not know if she does so from Pelusia or from Serubel.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tarik notes that Sepora lifts her chin. She does this whenever her mother is mentioned, and each time, regret swirls in his stomach. She’d been loyal to her mother, and he’d been enraged by that, had seen it as yet another betrayal when truly, what else was she to think? He’d disavowed their engagement. She had been right to trust her mother at that point.
But none of it can be helped now. They’ve not been able to steal a moment to speak and even if they had, what more is there to say? Now his duty is to concentrate on taking back Theoria, the way his father would. His father would not allow matters of the heart to rule at this point.
At the moment, they are trying to decide whether they should wait for Hemut’s most assured attack to weaken the Stray forces, or whether they should begin preparation to force their way back into the palace and intercept the attack from Hemut to prevent as much damage as possible. Commander Morg, as always, prefers the latter option, as does Sethos.
But alas, having an opinion, and having the means to execute it, are two very different things. “The Serubelans have also secured the burnt city of Kyra,�
� Potipher says, sealing the truth in Tarik’s thoughts. Of course the Serubelans guard Kyra. Queen Hanlyn knows that Sepora was not responsible for the fresh spectorium on the steps of the Lyceum, for Sepora had already been taken by then. She will have surmised by now that Tarik has other Forgers at his disposal. She knows, too, that the only way to take back Anyar and the palace is with cratorium. That, and more than just a handful of citizens still willing to serve the Falcon King. No, that is not fair. There are more than just a handful. But how many more? That is what he needs to know.
“We simply must take back Kyra,” Morg says, stating everyone’s thoughts aloud.
“We are working to find all those loyal to the Falcon King,” Potipher says. “It is a slow process, I’m afraid.” Tarik takes that to mean that they are few and far in between. If only the Quiet Plague had not been so ravenous among his citizens. Even with fresh spectorium at his Healers’ disposal to stave off the symptoms of the plague, the citizens, in their madness, are refusing treatment. Those who do not lose their minds, lose their lives.
“We need help from those who have not been touched by the Quiet Plague,” Sepora says quietly, stepping into the talking circle. The Great Council is always pleased when she speaks. Sepora has been a reluctant attendant at these meetings. Sethos says it is because she feels she has no place at them anymore. Tarik thinks it is because she does not want to have a place at them anymore.
“Please expound on that thought, Princess Magar,” Olna, the Council leader, says.
“I refer to other kingdoms not at war with Theoria.”