Ally

by Anna Banks

  She is too high above, yet she leaps from the back of the beast, landing beside him and rolling several feet before coming to a halt at the edge of the building. Already she is being reckless.

  “You’re supposed to be hiding,” he says, grasping her arm. An arrow narrowly misses them both, infuriating him even more. “Go back, Sepora.”

  “I will not,” she says, and blast it all, it’s the truth. He can send her away from him now, but she’ll not obey his command to retreat to the palace. She’ll simply join the fray and get herself killed.

  “Go back, or I swear to you I’ll have you thrown from the Half Bridge after this is all over with!”

  “I can help. My spectorium—”

  “I cannot concentrate knowing you are in danger. Sepora, how can you not know this? I need you safe. It is not a question of whether you can help.” Another arrow zings by his head. Sepora would have taken that shot if she had chosen to stand two feet to the right. He cannot stomach this now.

  “You can endanger yourself and I cannot? Tulle can use her powers, but you would ask me not to use mine?”

  He closes his eyes against her logic. Logic has no place where his heart is concerned and this girl who stands before him has become his heart.

  She places a hand on his forearm. “Let me help. I’ll stay close to you. I’ll fight only when attacked. But do not shut me away. Not now. Not like this. Not when I can be useful.”

  “Very well. Be at the ready at all times.” It’s the most difficult thing he’s ever said in his life. He wonders how much more he can take.

  “I have to find Commander Morg,” he yells over the commotion around them. “Your mother has sent foreigners with the ability to control the weather. We must target them first if we are to infiltrate the ships and make any headway.” He points to one of the silken-robed men, showing her how he summons lightning from the air.

  Sepora gasps as another Scaldling is struck and plummets into the water. “We are losing,” she says. It isn’t a question. But Tarik does not hesitate with his answer.

  “Yes, we are.” Sepora must understand the odds, the risk she’s taking in deciding to stay outside the palace.

  “What about Tulle?”

  “The wind summoner deflects her.”

  “We must move her to the lightning summoner, then. Distract him from the other side so she can have the opening she needs. The more Scaldlings we lose, the worse our chances of survival.”

  Survival. Tarik’s stomach clenches. Many of his men have already fallen, and Sepora is of a mind to die herself if need be. Why could she not stay in the palace as he requested? Why must she always do the exact opposite of what he wants? What if he loses her this day?

  The thought is unbearable and beyond distracting. But there is no time to fret over things he cannot change. The only thing he can do is protect her as much as possible. He slings his bow over his shoulder and cups her face in his hands, willing her to focus on his eyes. “I need you to find Morg,” he tells her. “Do not fight unless you have to defend yourself. Tell Morg of the summoners. Tell him to target them at all costs, if he has not already. Then we will be on level fighting grounds, I think.”

  She nods. “I will. Where did you last see him?”

  “I haven’t seen him since the battle began.”

  She turns to leave but whirls on her heel to face him again. She swiftly plants a kiss to his lips and steps back. “Stay safe, Highness.”

  “A hypocritical request, don’t you think?” he calls after her, but she is already gone.

  Not wasting any time, Tarik makes his way toward Sethos and Tulle. He tells Sethos of the summoners, and asks Tulle to focus on scorching as many fighters as she can and to steer clear of the wind summoners who can send her flames back to her in an instant.

  “Send word to your Majai to aim the Slingers at the summoners. Surely they cannot deflect dozens of arrows at a time,” he tells Sethos. “And if they can, those closest to them will suffer the consequences.” If the wind summoner protects himself, he’ll be diverting the arrows in the direction of his own protectors. At least, that is what Tarik is hoping for.

  He turns to leave, to find the best vantage point for his bow and arrow, but Sethos grabs his arm. “Tarik, look,” he says, pointing toward the ocean that used to be the Dismals. The horizon is full of ships, at least thirty more.

  This is not good. Theoria cannot stand a second wave of attack.

  “No,” Sethos says, as if reading his thoughts. “Those ships are from Hemut. I would recognize them anywhere. I searched through their ports while I was looking for Sepora.”

  “You’re sure?” Tarik says, hope swelling inside him.

  “Positive. If you look closely, you can see the images of the whales on their sails. They are definitely from Hemut.”

  “Yes,” Tulle shouts over the thunder. “My father has sent his help!”

  As if that weren’t good enough news already, the downpour from the sky suddenly stops as quickly as it had started all those weeks ago. Sepora must have found Morg. And Morg must have found a way to incapacitate the rain summoner.

  With Hemut attacking from behind, and with the Majai taking out the summoners, surely they will defeat Hanlyn’s forces. Perhaps that was the one thing Hanlyn did not account for: Theoria’s ability to form allies.

  But the battle is not over yet. Tarik takes aim at a man on the closest ship to him. He targets the man’s leg; rendering him useless is better than rendering him dead. In the end, he will want to seek peace with Serubel and Pelusia, and perhaps even this new foreign kingdom. In the end, peace is always the answer.

  Before he dispatches the arrow, he receives a tap on the shoulder. He turns to find Rashidi standing there. Does no one follow my commands anymore? He’d ordered Rashidi to watch out for Sepora—obviously she’d outsmarted him. Has he now come to collect her? Does he really think the task will be so easy?

  “Sepora is with Commander Morg,” Tarik tells his friend. “You may go back to the palace.” This is no place for an old man such as Rashidi. He is not swift on his feet and does not have the skill of warfare. His gift is his tongue, and that will do little this day.

  “I think not,” Rashidi says, but his voice sounds different. With a swift motion, he lunges at Tarik, faster than Rashidi has ever moved. Tarik never saw the dagger in his hand. He only felt the pain of it thrusting into his gut, Rashidi twisting it for good measure.

  Tarik slumps to his knees, pulling the dagger from his belly, his hand covered in blood. He peers up at his oldest friend. “But why?”

  The old adviser takes the sleeve of his wet robe and wipes it down his face. Queen Hanlyn’s features appear. She laughs softly. “Because even if your kingdom survives this day, you will not. And I will come for your people again and again, until there is nothing left of Theoria.”

  Tarik leans forward, placing his weight on his hands. The wound is deep, and he feels the warmth of the blood oozing from the gash. She is right. He will not survive.

  She removes another dagger from her belt and grabs a handful of his hair, pulling his head up, no doubt so that she can deliver a swipe to his throat. Just as the blade touches the skin of his neck, the point of a sword slams through her chest. She screams in agony as Sethos kicks her from behind, sending her plummeting to the ground next to Tarik. He wastes no time in finishing her off, raking his sword across her throat.

  Sethos sinks beside his brother and examines his wound. “We need to get you to Cy. Now.”

  It is the last thing Tarik remembers.

  39

  SEPORA

  Wake up.

  It is all I can think, sitting here in the chair I’ve dragged over to the bed from Tarik’s seating area. The war has ended with a victory for Theoria. But is it really a victory if it loses its Falcon King?

  Wake up, Tarik.

  But the Falcon King doesn’t stir, even at the loudest of noises. For days, the servants have come in and out with trays o
f food for me, have cleaned the chamber, have implored me to get some rest of my own. For days, Cy has changed Tarik’s dressing around his wound, cleaning it thoroughly and administering some salve, giving his body nourishment through injections of something that smells awful.

  And for days, I have conducted the business of Theoria from Tarik’s bedside.

  Officially, the duty belongs to Sethos, next in line for the throne. But the kingdom still doesn’t know of Tarik’s renouncement of our engagement, and Sethos is not the ruling type, not to mention he has been busy keeping his new father-in-law occupied, so he has unceremoniously left me in charge. He tries to help at times, advising me of kingdom intricacies that I’m unfamiliar with, but otherwise, he steps aside and enforces my decisions.

  It is a time for rebuilding in Theoria. It is a time of change. And the kingdom needs its king.

  I peer down at the scrolls in my lap, at the correspondence from Commander Morg, at the instructions for Tarik’s care from Cy, at an invitation from Olna to meet with the Great Council. I’ve also dragged a marble table to the bedside, and it is now burdened with scrolls of my own penmanship. They are messages of peace to Pelusia tempered with the threat of attack, news to Serubel of my mother’s death and orders to await my command, and requests for a meeting with King Hujio of Clima, the kingdom of the foreign weather summoners. The latter is the one I am most concerned about. I know Tarik would once again seek peace with King Graylin if at all possible, because sending his army so far north would not be ideal. But I also know that if Graylin doesn’t accept the terms of the treaty, I will order the Majai to move accordingly—and with no regret. In fact, it would be best and most efficient if the Majai deliver the terms of the treaty themselves, I think.

  But whether I should pursue peace with the weather summoners, I’m not sure. Tarik would no doubt want to meet with their King Hujio, so that his discerning ears could sort out the extent of his involvement in the battle. I’ve had Lingots interrogate what was left of the summoners themselves, and the verdict has come back that they acted of their own volition, having been made grand promises by my mother and King Graylin.

  Still, if an entire kingdom of weather summoners exists north of the ocean, both Theoria and Serubel would do well to secure it as an ally. And so I’ve invited King Hujio to the desert kingdom to meet with me, hoping against the odds that Tarik will wake up.

  Cy says the Falcon King has little chance of survival, that I should prepare myself. Even now, his breathing is shallow and not nearly as frequent as it should be. He has simply lost too much blood. Even the Healer Esmelda has examined him and come to the same conclusion.

  Tarik is not likely to live.

  And that is why I stay at his side. I will not abandon him in his last hours. I will not leave him to die as I did Nuna. I’ll not let him die alone.

  The door to the chambers opens and Sethos enters, his expression grim. He is not taking his brother’s condition well. His way of dealing with it has been to avoid the subject altogether. He wasn’t there when his father, King Knosi, died. He’d just missed his passing when he’d arrived from the Lyceum. But Sethos is having a difficult time staying away from Tarik’s bedchamber. He doesn’t talk of Tarik, or the state of his health, but he visits every few hours to tell me news, though none of it is really news. He tends to repeat himself, talking absently as he stares at his brother’s lifeless body on the bed.

  “You look malnourished,” Sethos tells me as he sits on the bed next to Tarik. “You’re not eating enough.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “My brother wouldn’t like that.”

  “I will fight with him about it when he awakens.”

  Sethos’s lips curl up into a grin. “See that you do.”

  “How are things with King Ankor? Give him my apologies for my absence at dinner.”

  Sethos shrugs. “If he’s offended, he hasn’t said as much. All he wants to speak of is my commanding his army, teaching them the way of the Majai. The Lady Gita is set to arrive soon. Tulle says she will be angry that we’ve already wed.”

  “You could always stage a public wedding ceremony to appease the people.”

  He grimaces. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  I cannot help but giggle. A public ceremony would involve body paint, headdresses, and hours of parading about like the royalty he would rather not be. “Tulle does not want a lavish ceremony?”

  “Of course not. She’s entirely too practical for that.”

  “Every princess secretly wants a lavish ceremony, Sethos.”

  “Do you?” Only, the question does not come from Sethos, but a raspy voice on the bed behind him.

  Tarik’s eyes are open, though his lids are heavy. He looks at me and nods his head. Hope floods my insides like the Nefari had flooded Theoria. It is not healthy to feel hope, I know. But mourning the loss of someone who is staring me in the eyes is not something I will do. Not yet.

  “Well, how could you expect me to sleep when the two of you are making so much noise?” Tarik says.

  Sethos scoots closer to him on the bed, his face flush with excitement. A litany of emotions attack me at once, and I almost cry out from the intensity of it. His eyes are open. His eyes are open and he’s speaking!

  “You’ve slept through the rest of the battle, idiot,” Sethos says. “And if you’re going to complain, it should be about how ridiculous your hair looks at this moment.”

  Tarik feigns a scalding glare. “Why were you born with a mouth?”

  I stand, taking a few apprehensive steps toward the bed, afraid that if I get too close, I’ll smother him—I stay my instincts to throw myself at him and weep. Tarik frowns up at me. I am trembling on the inside; I’m careful to keep my hands folded in front of me lest he sees me shiver with every emotion slamming against me at the moment.

  “Sethos is right. You look thin,” Tarik admonishes.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A bit like death.”

  “You look it,” Sethos says cheerily. “I’m going to fetch Cy.”

  “Fetch some water while you’re at it,” Tarik says, licking his lips. “My lips are more parched than the Dismals. Well, before the rain came.”

  “Things are already drying up,” I tell him, taking Sethos’s spot on the bed after he leaves. “The people are returning to their homes and many are rebuilding.”

  Tarik reaches a hand for me, and I take it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For your mother.”

  It’s not something I’ve had time to think about, what with managing the kingdom affairs and restoring order to Theoria. And truth told, it’s something I will have to grieve in my own time. My mother betrayed me, yes. But I didn’t want her dead. Sethos had acted out of love for his brother. I can’t fault him for that. But somehow I’d envisioned a reconciling with my mother. A chance to get answers. That will never happen now. “Thank you” is all I can say.

  “Tell me all that has happened,” he says. “What have I missed?”

  I take a deep breath.

  And I start with Rashidi’s death.

  40

  TARIK

  Tarik is sitting in the garden with Patra, sharpening a new set of arrows, when Sepora seeks him out. It is a rare occasion that she wears her hair down anymore, and he appreciates the beauty of it cascading about her shoulders.

  But of course, he appreciates the beauty of her in general. She has gained her weight back, and now stands before him, full-figured and solemn. “You asked for me?” she says.

  “You didn’t have to come so soon.” He pats the seat on the stone bench next to him, urging her to sit. Yet, he realizes now that he summoned her too soon. He doesn’t quite know how to begin. An apology would be a mere start, he thinks. But how to ask her to wed him again after calling off their engagement so callously? How can he make up for his actions with simple words?

  It had been easy to negotiate with her father for her, easy to navigate the arrangement as a k
ingdom matter. But this is a matter of the heart. This has nothing to do with the kingdom and everything to do with the fact that he loves her and wants her to be his wife. This is between two people, not two kingdoms. And the thought of exposing himself to that kind of vulnerability has him terrified.

  But not so terrified that he won’t actually do it. Because the sooner she is his, the better. He simply must get on with the asking of it.

  In the days that he’s been healing, she has taken on much responsibility. She has proven that she cares for the people and that she is capable of leading them. His mind no longer wars with his heart. She is fit to be queen.

  And he’s ready to act as king again. Yes, he has already reclaimed some of his obligations while he heals, but it is time he returns to his proper position. Perhaps that is where he should begin. “I cannot begin to tell you how appreciative I am of all you’ve done for Theoria. But each day I get stronger and stronger. In fact, I grow bored of laying about. It is time for me to resume my duties.”

  She nods, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I agree.”

  “King Hujio arrives in a few weeks. I’d like for you to meet him as well.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Highness,” she says.

  “I don’t follow.”

  She sucks in a breath. “You know I’ve been spending a great deal of time in the Baseborn Quarters. I’ve been meeting with the Great Council. We have decided that it’s time to go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes, to Serubel. With Mother and Father gone, I’m heir to the throne. I cannot leave Serubel without a ruler. I’m taking the Great Council with me as my advisers, with your permission, of course.”

  It is the last thing he was expecting to hear. She’s shown much concern for the Serubelans that have stayed behind in Theoria after the war. She’s set up tents for them and seen to their needs, helping them to return home little by little. He’d thought it natural, for her to see them home. They were her people once.

  As it turns out, they still are.

  And why shouldn’t they be? She is right; she has a responsibility toward her home kingdom now that it is left without a ruler. She is the heir, the rightful queen of Serubel now. With the Great Council at her disposal, she will most certainly shine.