by Anna Banks
“Cara,” I say, using my sweetest tone. “Have you many duties today? I’d much prefer to tour the palace and wondered if you’d care to accompany me.”
But Cara frowns. “I’m afraid I’ve too many chores to attend to, mistress. Perhaps one of the guards—”
Anku nudges her in disapproval. “Of course Cara may accompany you today, mistress. It would be my pleasure to assign her duties elsewhere. As I said, we are at your service.”
* * *
Cara, as it turns out, is a terrible guide. She rushes us through corridor after corridor of the palace, spouting off the least information possible before moving along to the next hall. She emanates a sort of staunch discontent with me, and by midday, I pull her aside.
“Cara, do tell me what the matter is,” I say. “You’ve hardly spoken to me, and I’d hoped we could be friends.”
She casts her glare toward the floor, but I do not get the sense that the action springs from shame, but rather from dislike of me. “What are you doing here, mistress?” she says finally. “Are you here to bring an end to Serubel?”
I gasp. “Why would you say such a thing?”
She meets my eyes then, her mouth set in a straight line. “You’re a Forger. I know it by your eyes. If you Forge for the king, he’ll have no need to trade with Serubel. Our homeland will go to ruin.”
“How … how do you know what I am?” No one knows what I am, save for Father, Mother, and Grandfather while he lived. Not even the people of Serubel know exactly where the spectorium comes from; they are all told there is a mine deep within the mountain of the palace that yields the kingdom’s most precious element.
She looks over her shoulder and pulls me farther to the side, behind a tall marble column. “My uncle was a Forger, mistress. And he kept it a secret, for he knew the Warrior King would demand him to Forge day and night for Theoria. They all keep it a secret.”
All? Saints of Serubel. “How is that possible?” I breathe. “Forgers come only from the line of royals.”
Cara nods gravely. “The Good King of Serubel visited long ago. He fell in love with my uncle’s grandmother, a servant in the palace. Together they birthed a child.” She sighs. “My uncle kept it a secret all his life. He could have been rich, you know. Traded all that spectorium for a better life. But the Good King warned him to keep it a secret. He said spectorium, if fallen into the wrong hands, could lead to harm to Serubel.”
The Good King. My great-great-grandfather. My throat has suddenly gone as dry as The Dismals. Could it be? “Your uncle. He’s passed on now?” I ask, noting that she had said “kept” instead of “keeps.”
She nods, lowering her eyes. “Indeed he has, mistress. Just recently, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Truth told, I’m not sure if I’m sorry. I still don’t know what to make of all this. My grandfather fathered an illegitimate child—a Forger, nonetheless. Does Mother know? Is that really why she told me to seek out the Baseborn Quarters? Surely not. Surely she would have told me to look for my relatives.
Relatives. If the Good King was her uncle’s grandfather, then does that not make Cara my cousin somehow? I swallow hard.
“Are you also the bastard of a royal?” she asks knowingly, oblivious to my internal turmoil.
And what shall I say? Mother instructed me to keep my identity a secret. While Cara discloses much to me now, I cannot risk opening up to her. Perhaps the Falcon King already knows what I am. Perhaps he has appointed Cara as my servant to glean information from me, knowing I would trust another Serubelan. Knowing I would trust my own supposed cousin. After all, he is a Lingot. He discerns much. Too much.
I cannot take such a risk, I decide. “I think … I think I must sit down,” I say, breathless.
She leads me to one of the many resting benches we’ve passed in our journey through the palace. We sit, and she pats my hand sympathetically. “Forgers are scarce,” she informs me. “To see another one is very unusual.”
“Are there more of them here in Theoria?”
She pinches her brows together. “My cousin Bardo, my uncle’s grandson, is but a boy. Eight years old, he is. But he was born with those silver eyes. I’ve heard of others, too. It’s rumored that the king’s architect is a Forger. That’s why she’s so gifted in constructing the pyramids of spectorium. I’ve never met her to confirm it, though. And I rarely see my family, being as I work in the palace. Traveling to the Baseborn Quarters would take an entire day, and I’ve only one day off every so often.”
“Does … does Bardo know to keep his Forging abilities a secret, then?”
Cara nods solemnly. “Of course, mistress. They all do. My question is: Do you?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. But I’m not willing to discuss it further. After all, there is a chance that none of this could be true. There is a chance that the Falcon King has recognized me for what I am and has chosen to draw me out in this way, knowing I would never admit to such a thing to him directly.
“The young king appears to be wise, but even if he weren’t, he’s still a Lingot. You must take care, Mistress Sepora. Serubel depends upon it.”
If she only knew. “I … I am not feeling well after all,” I say. “Perhaps you could take me back to my chambers to lie down?”
“Of course, mistress.” I do not miss how relieved she sounds to rid herself of my company.
20
TARIK
Tarik and Patra find solace together on the terrace of the grand garden of the palace, his oasis in the desert that is Theoria. The palace boasts other smaller gardens in each corner, and an indoor courtyard that flourishes with plant life and is used for entertaining, but the grand garden is by far Tarik’s favorite. It is the most private of them all, but perhaps is most endearing to him because he had helped his father oversee the construction of it not long before King Knosi’s last trip to Wachuk. Together they watched the gardeners install the greenery, mixing the dry sand with rich fertile soil, and witnessed the sun and water—diverted to the garden in the form of a small stream—coax unlikely life from the land. It had been a peaceful, slow process, and it makes Tarik feel as though he’d accomplished at least this small feat, despite the mountains of responsibilities he’d inherited in the days since.
The setting sun seems to extract the heady fragrance of the lotus flowers, the sweetness of the plant wrapping itself around him, reminding him that the lotus had been the main flower at his father’s funeral, and that in a way, it symbolizes a great change in his life. The calming, earthy scent of chamomile keeps his panic at bay, and the scents are some of the many reasons he chose to visit the garden this evening.
That, and his servants keep falling ill with the Quiet Plague. The illness runs rampantly throughout the palace, and in a way, Tarik feels it is safer to be among the silence of the flowers and shrubs than the silence of the plague. Just this afternoon, his messenger Dolis fell faint, only to encounter a nose bleed soon after and need the aid of one of the three Healers that Tarik now keeps in the palace at all times. Though resting and being treated with the utmost care, Dolis is having a difficult sickness. It is a trying circumstance for Tarik to hear the reports of his palace Healers, especially when etiquette stops him from personally visiting Dolis, whom he secretly considers a friend.
With these heavy thoughts, Tarik is sitting on a bench sharpening his handmade arrows, Patra contentedly grooming herself at his feet, when Rashidi seeks him out. He’d intended on watching the sunset alone with his feline companion but knows he must make an exception for his best adviser. Pushing the intoxicating aroma of the garden—and the new meaning it carries for him—out of his foremost senses, he focuses his attention on his old friend’s tired movements.
“Has your attendant returned from her outing?” Tarik asks without looking up. He hadn’t meant to ask about Sepora first thing, and is surprised with himself that of all the problems and pressing matters he could have opened with, he chose to ask after a recently disc
harged concubine.
“Indeed she has not.”
Tarik smiles at hearing relief in the older man’s voice. “You know, it was a compromise, Rashidi. I’ll take a wife. You’ll take an attendant. Do you see how that works?” Again, he pushes the subject of Sepora. Why?
“Unfortunately, I do, Highness.”
Tarik chuckles, setting his newly sharpened arrow into his quiver and retrieving a dull one from the pile next to him on the bench. It had been a while since he’d practiced his archery. It was his one fighting skill he’d mastered over Sethos, and if he intends to keep hold on that claim, he needs to practice on occasion. Not that he’d intended to practice this evening. The mood of the garden didn’t lend itself to violence but rather the keen concentration of producing arrows worthy of flight. “What brings you to see me, Rashidi?”
“Forgive me, sire, I do know you like your evenings in silence.”
That is true. Silence has become his most treasured jewel, even above meals. It seems that every other part of the day he has someone speaking to him or, in some cases, at him. Anyway, he’s desperate for a few stolen moments to himself, even if they must be stolen away from Rashidi at times. But for the most part, he knows those are the small luxuries he has left in life. “You are always the exception, friend.”
From the corner of his eye, he can see Rashidi fidgeting his hands. Rashidi never fidgets. He remembers a time when Rashidi had to inform his father that his favorite cat had died—and Rashidi had been the one to kill the beast, as he had turned on a guard. Rashidi did not even blink when delivering the news. For him to be fraught with anxiety now makes Tarik very uneasy. “The caravan is all set to depart for Hemut in the morning,” Rashidi announces, his voice more galvanized than his manner.
“Excellent.” When Rashidi says nothing more, Tarik looks up at him. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me?” Have I become such an ornery tyrant, then, that my most trusted adviser cannot inform me of the goings-on anymore?
“No, Highness. I’ve come to make a request.”
Tarik braces for an argument. Nothing like bickering with your highest adviser to ruin a good sunset. By the Great Pyramid, if this is about taking on Sepora as an attendant …
He glances up and past the garden wall, attempting to gear up for the worst from his adviser. The large heavenly orb has already made it halfway down in its journey; Tarik’s eyes feel heavy. He allows his shoulders to hunch a little, since only Rashidi is here to see it. Still, he has much correspondence to attend to before he retires to his chambers. A king does not resign with the sun. And apparently he does not find solace in the garden anymore. “You need an attendant, Rashidi, and Mistress Sepora’s as good as any.”
“That’s not my request, sire. Well, not exactly.”
“What do you require of me, then?” His voice is sharper than he’d intended. But Rashidi has a gift of presenting matters in a way in which Tarik cannot refuse. And exhausted as he is, he’s in no mood to be mentally bested at the moment.
“If I may, Highness, I’d like to accompany the caravan to Hemut tomorrow.”
This is unexpected. “Why?”
“This is one of the most important decisions of your lifetime, Highness. It doesn’t feel appropriate to entrust this sort of measure to anyone beneath me. I’d like to act as ambassador on your behalf. King Ankor is known for being disagreeable.”
“Our ambassadors are quite capable of handling such situations.”
“He’s also known to hide his true intentions.”
“You wouldn’t rather send a Lingot, to discern any kind of deception?”
Rashidi nods, folding his hands behind his back. Absently, he begins to pace back and forth in front of Tarik, the rustling of his long robes the only sound in the garden. “I’ll be happy to take one with me, sire. But I feel it’s something I should do myself. Your father would send me, were he here. He sent me to negotiate for your mother.”
That was different. His mother was a Middling here in Anyar, and negotiating with her family to become the next queen of Theoria had been an easy task. Still, there is something distant and nostalgic in Rashidi’s eyes. “Are you being sentimental, Rashidi? Or are you trying to get out of training your new attendant?”
“A little of both, I’m afraid.”
Tarik laughs at the truth in the words. “And what shall I do with her while you’re away?”
“Since you’re so set on my acquiring an attendant in the first place, you could see to her training yourself. Er, that is, of course, if you wish, sire.”
“You want me to train your attendant?” The idea brings mixed feelings. Sepora is vastly amusing to him, and he’d welcome the distraction from the more mundane aspects of his duties. Yet, the mundane aspects of his duties require his full attention—something Rashidi well knows.
“It’s just that I cannot fathom what you would have her do for me, Highness. Only you could know that. And if only you could know, who better to train her than yourself?” If Rashidi were trying to make excuses, that would be one thing. But everything he says is true. Everything he says he sincerely believes. Including the fact that he’s being sentimental.
“I hardly have the time.”
“I’m aware of that. But I’m afraid having an attendant underfoot while I’m negotiating with Ankor would be cumbersome, to say the least. I know she claims to have served a high-class household in Serubel, but she’s unschooled in our ways. What if she does something to offend the king or his daughter? I could not withstand the embarrassment on behalf of Theoria. I’m afraid my patience for such things has worn thin in my old age.”
The idea of Rashidi embarrassed would be exceedingly entertaining is Tarik’s first thought. But if Sepora accompanies him, Tarik will not get to witness her unpredictable antics. What could a girl who escaped his harem—and sent half the palace on a merry chase—be capable of doing in a foreign royal court? The endless possibilities almost make him smile.
Almost. But Rashidi is far too serious at the moment to insult him with a grin.
“Very well, then,” Tarik says. “She’ll attend to me while you’re gone. Of course, when I have time to devote to the task.”
“Many thanks, Your High—”
But before he can extend the rest of his gratitude, the great double doors of the west wooden gate to the garden open, exposing a view of the outside palace wall for a fraction of a moment before guards begin filing in two by two, weapons at the ready. Patra is on her feet, the hair bristling on the back of her neck. “Easy,” Tarik tells her, even though he feels the same way.
The guards form a line with Tarik at the end and center, none coming forward to explain the reason for the interruption. He sighs. His evening was apparently destined to be ruined anyway, even if Rashidi had not come to him. He sets down his arrow and stands. Patra leans in closer to him, allowing her side to brush against his hip. If he were to give off even an inkling of unease, she would put herself between him and his own guard.
One of the soldiers approaches, an officer as indicated by the decorative sword he carries. The man takes a knee before him, nearly tucking his chin into his chest in reverence. “Your Highness, permission to speak, sire.”
“Of course,” Tarik says.
“Sire, we’ve shot down a Serpen north of the Nefari tributary. It was leaving for The Dismals.”
“A Serubelan Serpen?” Tarik says. “Why would one be so close to Anyar’s border? Was there a party with it?” Did King Eron want to speak with him after all? Had he sent a party out to meet with him just as he had sent a caravan to him for the same reason? Tarik sucks in a breath through his teeth. Now we’ve shot down one of his Serpens as a welcoming act. This won’t go over very well.
The gates open to their maximum capacity, and a dozen or so guards grunt and groan as they pull the dead Serpen into the garden for his inspection. The long blue body is limp and makes a track across the green grass his gardeners have worked so hard to cultivate. But
Tarik is in no position to mourn over grass. His military, acting under his general command, has just shot down a Serpen.
They settle the beast between two great fountains, off to the side. “Why would you shoot it down?” Tarik says, trying to mask his irritation. “Could you not have followed it to its conclusion?”
“Sire, it’s a Seer Serpen. It can be used for spying, among other things.” The officer appears apprehensive now under the weight of his king’s questions.
“What have you done?” someone cries from behind them. Tarik does not have to turn around to know that the Mistress Sepora has returned—and that she is very upset at the sight before her.
He opens his mouth to greet her but shuts it just as quickly. After all, she did not greet him, she addressed his officer in his garden during his inquisition. He doubts this sort of behavior is acceptable even in a highborn house in Serubel. Not that she cares one bit. The girl actually pushes past him and stands before the officer. She crosses her arms, and Tarik gets the distinct feeling it’s because she’s trying to keep from putting her hands on his high-ranking guard.
“Why would you kill him?” she says. “Seers are gentle creatures.”
The officer alternates his surprise from Sepora to Tarik, clearly unsure whether he should answer the question. “Mistress Sepora,” Tarik says more gently than he should. “This is not your concern.”
She turns around, tears in those silver eyes of her, and something within Tarik becomes restless. “But Highness, he’s harmless. Seers do not even possess the convenience of teeth.”
And what, he’s supposed to chastise a crying girl? Not his mother’s son. But I am supposed to be acting as my father’s son! Will my reputation survive the patience I allow her? “My guard here suggests Seers are used for spying. Is that true?”