by Anna Banks
“You were about to do something you shouldn’t. I was protecting you.” Sethos casts a glance at Tarik. “Is she always so ornery?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Let me go, you sniveling, vile—” Sethos does as she asks, pushing her away from him so hard she nearly trips. She turns then, and Tarik thinks she just might fling herself at his brother. As amusing as that would be, Sethos’s defensive instincts are uncanny; he may end up hurting her without meaning to, were he actually attacked.
“Mistress Sepora,” Tarik says quickly. “I’ve an idea about the Parani.”
She turns to him, breathless and distracted. “What?”
“The Parani. We were discussing what we could do to form a truce with them, if you’ll recall.” That’s not exactly what they were discussing when Sethos interrupted them, but it’s as good a subject as any to address.
“You what?” Sethos says, holding up a hand in warning to Sepora. Obviously he can read her body language as well. Sethos slightly shakes his head at the mistress. “It will not be worth what you’re thinking, Mistress Sepora.”
She huffs. “Are you a Lingot, too? Is everyone in this place a Lingot?”
“I’ve decided to slaughter some cows,” Tarik is saying good-naturedly. Both Sethos and Sepora give him their full attention.
“Cows? For the Parani?” Sethos says. “I don’t follow.”
But Tarik keeps his gaze trained on Sepora. “We’ll close the tributary to the Middling fields, but it will take some time to do. In the interim, we’ll slaughter some cows and throw the meat from the Half Bridge in a show of peace. What think you of that, Mistress Sepora?”
Forgetting Sethos, she takes her seat again and folds her hands in her lap, nodding. “Yes. Yes, I think that would be very good, Highness. And the Middlings’ crops?”
“It will be as you suggested. They’ll keep a percentage of the nefarite, and we’ll start trading it to other kingdoms. It’s a well-known resource, and its value is irrefutable. It should be easy enough.”
She lifts her chin. “And my punishment?”
“Well, I don’t suppose throwing you from the Half Bridge will work,” he says, amused at her appalled expression. He mulls over the question, though, trying to find the right balance. She committed these offenses for the sake of the kingdom. Still, she’d plowed ahead thoughtlessly, without care for the consequences in the event she didn’t get exactly what she wanted. But his court expects a punishment. An idea comes to mind, and swiftly he grasps it with both hands.
“I will require you to train the Seer Serpen to listen to your commands. If we are to go to war, it shall be our spy.” It’s the perfect solution, really. His court will see it as an insult to her to train the beast to work against her own kingdom, and she will see it as a reward for what she’s done. Her affection for the beast had been evident since the moment she laid eyes on it. And he will do much to emphasize the Parani bites she’s already suffered, which mar her skin in puckered welts even now. Very few Theorians can say they have suffered a Parani bite and lived to speak of it, after all. They’ll be horrified with the idea, Tarik is sure.
Even now, Sepora’s eyes light up. He can tell she’s trying to look thoroughly chastised but is failing quite miserably. She stands. “Yes, Highness. May I be dismissed, Highness?”
Dismissing her would be the right thing to do, but he’s not finished with her just yet. “One more thing, Mistress Sepora.”
“Yes, Majesty?”
“I am not so reckless with my trust as you are. There will be two guards posted at your door and escorting you to your duties in the morning until further notice.” She bows her head in acceptance, but Tarik can see the defiance in her eyes. She does not care for the latter requirement. But Tarik has met his threshold for caring what displeases the mistress for the moment. The last thing he needs is for her to get another brilliant idea and steal away from the palace on some martyrly quest.
When she’s gone, shutting the door quietly behind her, Sethos turns to him, grinning. “Do you hate Rashidi, then?”
Tarik laughs. “When Rashidi returns from Hemut, she’ll be fully trained and ready to serve him. He’ll thank me for recruiting her.”
“I’m no Lingot, brother, but even I can recognize a lie when I hear it. Now, tell me about the Parani.”
29
SEPORA
Cara and Anku call my name just as I expel the last of my morning’s spectorium down the lavatory. I resolve to wake up early each morning for this; I simply cannot get caught Forging, even if Cara knows what I am. Expelling in the evenings and in the mornings has served me well so far, but I must take care to be more cautious—especially since the door to my bedchamber does not lock from the inside.
For the next hour, they both fuss over me to no end. They’ve somehow prepared several ensembles for me to wear to court, all of which are made of blue linen but with differing designs. Some have gold embroidered into the waistline; some have extravagant beaded bib collars; and others have the sheer, flowing material that will trail behind me. It’s the latter of the dresses they choose for me for court today. After I’m dressed, Anku takes great care in arranging my hair and Cara paints my face with silvers and blacks and blues. When I look into the mirror, I do not recognize myself. My eyes are lined with black, my face is brushed with silver, and blue dots form an almost imperceptible mask around my face. What an odd sense of style these Theorians have. Then, I’ve seen what the king wears. Gold and black mostly, and I hadn’t even realized he had hair until last night when he removed his golden headdress. Not that I imagined him bald, but, well … I didn’t imagine his hair to make him appear so … attractive, disarrayed as it was.
“Are you sure this is what a servant is supposed to wear?” I ask, holding my arms out and inspecting the sheer material that looks like draping wings behind me. It’s a ridiculous thing for an attendant of an attendant to have attendants. But then I remember that I’m acting in Rashidi’s stead, and he most certainly has attendants.
Anku shakes her head. “You’re not just any servant; you’re a royal adviser. Since Master Rashidi is away, you’re taking his place.”
“I’m Rashidi’s attendant,” I say, purposely leaving off the master part. I don’t care if Rashidi is a Healer, Majai, and Lingot all wrapped in one grumpy old being—he’s not my master. “I’m not an adviser of any kind.”
Cara places hands on hips. “The Falcon King himself requested you to be dressed properly for court, Mistress Sepora. If you please, you can take issue with him.”
“The guards are ready to take you,” Anku says. “Court will open shortly.”
* * *
Court is fantastically boring. Even the Falcon King appears disinterested in the petty plights of his citizens. And who am I to point accusing fingers? These noblemen and women can hardly eat their morning meal without finding something over which to squabble. Still, Anku had called me a royal adviser. If I’m to act in Rashidi’s stead, perhaps I should actually advise the king of my opinion. The problem is, I’m not familiar with Theoria’s laws, and the ones I am familiar with, I find utterly ridiculous. What is also ridiculous is the fact that it is almost always one person’s word against another. If the king himself were not a Lingot, who could decide such a matter?
I lean in toward the king, and he discreetly lends me his ear. “Are there not other Lingots who can handle these affairs, Highness?” I whisper. “You’ve an impending war to think of, and these are such trivial matters that do not affect your kingdom as a whole.”
He looks up at me, apparent amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “That is precisely what I’ve been telling Rashidi. Unfortunately, he holds more traditional views.”
“Who is pharaoh, you or Rashidi? You’ve inherited a kingdom during a season of change,” I tell him quietly. “Perhaps the way you rule requires change as well.” But then I am presented with a new scroll and a new case I must announce before the court.
; After a few more cases, the king gestures for me to come closer. I lean in, preparing for him to ask me a question about the case, and frantically try to recall the last time I paid attention. It is difficult to care about such frivolous quarreling. “I think we shall make this change,” he whispers. “We’ll test it out while Rashidi is away. If it succeeds, he has no leg to stand upon. Send a message to the Lyceum that we’re in need of three Lingots to hear the cases of the court. Tell them to assemble in the morning and be ready for a long day.”
“Yes, Highness.”
After court, I follow the king to his day chambers. When we’re alone, he immediately discards his headdress and ruffles his hair. I look away, unsettled by the ease in his posture and the casualness in his voice as he offers me water. A king, offering a servant a drink. My father would never do such a thing. He would see it as a sign of weakness. I can only help but see it as kindness.
It is not good that my father’s nemesis is kind. I stop myself. Do I not believe him to be my nemesis as well? Surely I do. Surely any enemy of Serubel is an enemy of mine. What has become of my resolve?
Yet, I cannot bring myself to attach such a negative feeling toward this royal boy.
The Falcon King comes to sit at his marble table across from where I take my usual seat. He scrutinizes me for a long time, tilting his head in curiosity. I take care not to shift in my chair. I feel as though I’m telling secrets just by sitting there and allowing him to dissect even the smallest of my expressions.
“What do you know of the shortage of spectorium?” he says finally.
A difficult question, one I’d hoped he would never ask, but then I’ve always been one for wishful thinking. And I’ve always been one for preparing for the worst. “I know that King Eron will be stockpiling all that he has.”
“For the war, you mean. There are rumors that the king has run out of spectorium and that is why he hasn’t traded it. Could that be true?”
“Yes.”
“Have the mines run dry with it, then?”
Ah, how to answer. I could lie and say yes, but he would detect deception in that, I’m sure. But the truth is so jarring and exposing. Can I tell him of Forgers? Can he be trusted with the biggest secret of Serubel? Yet, what choice do I have? He will discern either way. “There were no spectorium mines, Highness.” It unsettles me, the admission. What I’ve unveiled to his knowing ears.
“What do you mean?”
I bite my lip. This line of questioning is getting dangerous, but I’ve a feeling he’ll not back down from it. I must tell him the truth in increments without giving myself away. Without giving the others away. Short, precise, evasive yet true answers. That is my strategy. “The Princess Magar made spectorium, Highness. She was a Forger, the last known Forger in Serubel, I’m afraid.” I try not to think of the others as I say this. After all, they are not in Serubel. I hope this cloaking with words succeeds.
If the king has an internal reaction, it doesn’t show on his face. This makes me nervous. How could he not react to a revelation like that? How am I to play this game if my foe is unreadable? “And what exactly is a Forger?” he says, pressing his fingertips together.
And so I tell him. I tell him of the history of Forgers. I tell him of my grandfather and of the way the king forced this poor Magar to Forge all the time. I tell him of how unhappy she was. I tell him all these things, and instead of feeling guilty, I feel as though I’ve been freed from heavy chains.
“You knew the princess well.”
Accidentally, I do shift in my seat. The action does not go unnoticed by the king. Nothing goes unnoticed by the king. “Very well, yes.”
“Why do I detect deception in your words? That is unlike you, Mistress Sepora.”
What else can I say? This is a game I cannot afford to play. He has enough Scaldling venom to make Serubel a mere memory, if only he knew I could Forge the spectorium needed to do it. He has made it clear he will call me on outright lies, and now he detects deception in words that are technically true. A dangerous game, indeed. And an interesting one. “I don’t like discussing the matter of her death.” Which is true, and mostly because it makes me homesick. Surely he must hear the truth in that. Surely his Favor cannot be so masterful as to perceive my treachery.
“Her death must have devastated you.” Again, hardly an outward show to match his voice.
“It was very sudden.”
He tilts his head again, and I wonder what he must be thinking. What is it like to know nothing but the truth all the time? I wonder if there are truths he would rather not know. “Are there any Forgers left?” he says.
“I told you, Magar was the last of them in Serubel.”
“So there is no other way to get spectorium?”
Blast him. He is not called the Falcon King for nothing, I realize. There is no way to evade, no way to dance around this question. “I would not tell you if I knew.”
“Ah, but you do know, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“There is another Forger.”
“I did not say that. Magar was the last known Forger in Serubel.”
He leans back, scrutinizing me. “You purposely speak in riddles, mistress. That can only mean you think I’ll use the spectorium against King Eron in the impending war. I was under the impression that you trusted me more than that.”
“By your own words, I am reckless in doing so, giving my trust so freely, Highness. I’m simply trying to improve upon my flaws, you see.”
He laughs and the sound is actually quite enchanting. Immediately I don’t like how it makes a certain warmth steal through me. “You are right not to trust so willingly. But I’ll let you in on one of my own secrets, Sepora. There is a Quiet Plague stealing through Theoria. My father died of it.” He waves his hand in the air, likely in response to my shocked expression. “Oh, I know. The rumors are that he contracted a disease from Wachuk on his visit there. It isn’t true. Most of the people have not encountered it yet, but if my Healers do not find a cure for this Quiet Plague of ours, hysteria will settle in and chaos will ensue. Many Theorians will die. Fortunately, I have a brilliant young Master Healer working tirelessly so that this does not happen. So far, he has helped some to survive. And do you know what he needs in order to cure them?”
I close my eyes against what I already know he’s going to say.
“Spectorium, Sepora. We need spectorium.”
“I am not a Lingot,” I tell him. “I cannot mull words in my head and separate the truth from the lies. You may tell me what you wish, Highness. But I’ve seen what mixing spectorium with Scaldling venom will do—and you have an abundance of that. I cannot—will not—help you raze my home to the ground. Your Healers are the best in the five kingdoms. Everyone knows that, and it is no great secret that Theoria is not humble in announcing it. I’m sure your talented Healers will find another way to handle this Quiet Plague.” With this I stand. Any more direct questions and I’ll be placed in some dungeon, Forging the weapon that will bring my home to nothingness. “Please allow me to take my leave, Highness. The day has been long, and I still must visit the Seer for his daily training.”
“I find it curious that you will jump from the Half Bridge and risk your life to save Theorians, yet you’ll not do the same when it comes to a mere plague. Lives are lives, no matter how they are lost.”
When he puts it like that, I have nothing to say. And so I don’t. “My leave, Highness?”
He nods, his mouth a tight line. “Our day is clear tomorrow, Mistress Sepora, since we’ve assembled Lingots to manage our court affairs. I’d like to give you a personal tour of Anyar. Please meet me at the servants’ entrance of the palace shortly after dawn and borrow your attendant’s attire for the day. You are dismissed.”
30
TARIK
Tarik waits with Patra at the servants’ entrance, engaging the guard there in a bit of informal banter. The guard is uncomfortable, he can tell, and nearly unwilling to address his k
ing so casually, but under strict orders to do so, Tarik has left him no choice.
“Will you be needing a chariot?” the soldier says, not quite meeting Tarik’s eyes. He can tell by the abrupt way he ended the question that he put much effort into not addressing him as “Highness.”
“I thank you, Ptolem, but I’ve already arranged for one. You’ve not seen the Mistress Sepora this morning, have you?”
Ptolem grimaces. “I’ve not. I don’t know whether to let that one come or go, truth be told. None of us trust her beyond our own arm’s length.” Immediately his face falls. “My apologies. Of course my opinion is not worthy of your ears.”
Tarik laughs. “The Mistress Sepora can be an intricate creature to decipher sometimes, even for me. I think, though, that perhaps she is becoming more tame.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” a feminine voice calls from behind them. Tarik can’t help but be miffed when Patra leaves his side and nuzzles Sepora’s hand, blatantly asking to be petted, and even more put off by the fact that Sepora doesn’t shrink back from the beast but wraps her arms around the great cat. He’s also a touch miffed that though the mistress does not wear the makeup and the elaborate adornments required of court—or the harem, for that matter—she is still breathtaking in the plain blue attire worn by palace servants of the king. Perhaps it’s the way her hair is loose and falling about her shoulders, or the way her silver eyes glint in the morning sun.
Perhaps I should get my thoughts about me instead of ogling her the way Patra ogles cutlets of meat.
“Are you ready for your tour of Anyar, mistress?” he says lightly.
She smiles at him, nearly stealing his breath. Not for the first time, he is thankful that the Mistress Sepora herself is not a Lingot.
“I am, Highness.”
“Ah, but we must leave Highness and Majesty and All-Knowing Ruler behind us here. We are but servants to the Falcon King, on his errand throughout the city today.”
“All-Knowing Ruler?” she says, her brow rising just a bit.