by Natalie Mae
Which is the point when my nightmare surfaces behind my eyes, Kasta’s lips like fire on my neck . . . his teeth sinking into my throat.
I will be trying high stress as a strategy first.
And so, before our Influence lesson the next morning, I wait for him.
The guards find this highly notable and don’t even attempt not to stare while I lean against the paneling across from Kasta’s doors, listening to the little fountain set in the floor, picking at my golden cape. No doubt all kinds of rumors have started about the method by which he saved me, and how it might affect things between us. And I start to wonder again about the travelers’ stories. What if the princess in the stories was actually trying to destroy her rescuer? Everyone always assumes “happily ever after” is the end, but what if she only appeared happy so she didn’t get eaten, and went on later to clap him in chains and dance outside his cell?
I am asking a lot more questions next time about what happens after.
Kasta’s door clicks open. He steps out, adjusting the serpentine crown around his hair—and stops.
For a moment we stand there, me reminding myself that he’s a liar, him looking around the hall for the reason I’m there. When he sees it’s for him, he straightens. And moves past the guards, who are now discreetly reaching for their listening scrolls, to join my side.
We move, and he’s as quiet as ever. Both in words and presence. I’ll have to try this during our lesson, then. I’ll tell the Mestrah to let me teach Kasta, and push him until he cracks.
We’ve just reached the top of the royal stairs when he glances over. I brace myself for a lecture on not following our plan; for a question I don’t want. For him to ask what I thought I was proving with Jet.
“How are you feeling?” he asks instead.
My heart lurches, both at the shock of this question and the irritating softness in his face.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re worried,” I say, quickening my pace. “You can get right to the part where you drag me over the coals for how I messed up.”
It’s a moment before he answers. “I wasn’t going to. I’ve been on the other side of that too many times.”
I want to shake him, to yell at him to stop pretending. I know who he really is. “What did the Mestrah want you for yesterday?”
His eyes narrow, and I chide myself for being so cold. I need to be careful. He can’t suspect that anything’s changed, especially since, if anything, I should be warming to him.
“To visit the prison,” he says.
A hollow opens in my chest as we enter the empty foyer. The floors and furniture have already been restored, fresh gold and gems shining as if nothing happened here at all. Twenty of our own dead, almost including myself, each one of them pulling at me. It’s even worse that Kasta won’t say anything about it. I can’t help but wonder how many of those people would still be alive if I’d listened and been at his side.
And I find that despite everything, I’m glad he was the one the Mestrah took to see the prisoners. They deserve him. “Did you make them talk?”
His brow quirks at the edge in my tone. Missing nothing. “Does it make you happy to know that we did?”
I relax the grip on my dress as we step into the cold morning air. “I’m not happy you tortured people, no. But I want the attacks to stop.”
A grunt, like that answer was better than he expected. “I didn’t have to do anything, anyway. The Mestrah pulled memories until he found a mercenary who’d overheard who hired them. We have our link to the Wyri queen, at last.”
Which means we have grounds for a war. I stop at the corner of the path, a breeze pressing its icy lips to my neck. “What’s the Mestrah going to do?”
“He’s left that decision to me.”
I push my hands up my arms. I’m certain I already know the answer to this, but I ask anyway. “What are you going to do?”
“I have an idea. I want to know what you think of it.”
I almost laugh; he really is going all in to convince me he’s changed. “You don’t need to ask me, but you’re going to anyway?”
The wind catches the edges of his hair. “It wouldn’t make sense for me to do something you disagree with. You’ll just work to undo it.”
Now I do laugh. “Yes, I would. Except I already know that your idea is terrible.”
He frowns. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“It’s going to go something like this: Kill them all!”
“It is not.”
“Then surprise me. What solution have you come up with that has nothing to do with killing anyone?”
Kasta scratches his forehead and sighs. “This is war, Zahru. They tried to kill you. No solution is going to get us out of this without someone dying.”
“Right, except if they had actually killed me, since both of you seem to think death is the solution to this—would that really have inspired you to surrender right now?”
Darkness flashes in his eyes, and for an unsettling moment I get the sense that I’ve not only proved my point—that he’d be far from surrendering—but that he’d make them burn for it. But of course he can’t say that without agreeing with me, and his face goes smooth. “I do think we should march on them, now. Before forsvine advances so much that we don’t stand a chance. The faster we start this war, the sooner it can end, and with the fewest casualties.”
“Yes. See, that’s terrible.”
“And you would suggest . . . what? Asking them to stop, please?”
“I would suggest finding out what they really want. No one can want to be at war.”
“Don’t be so naive. What Wyrim wants is to humiliate us and avenge their dead with ours. I’m asking what you’d do if you had to fight.”
I bristle. Every fiber in me wants to disagree, to insist there’s always a way around it, but I remember Jet talking about Wyrim during the Crossing . . . how angry they still were at the destruction his grandmother wrought on them to ensure Orkena survived the Ending Drought. This is not just Kasta wanting to prove his strength.
He’s going to hate my answer, but I give it anyway. “I would ask Jet.”
He glances at a pair of nobles who whisper as they pass. “I didn’t ask what Jet would do. I asked what you would do.”
“I don’t know enough about this to make that kind of decision. I would ask Jet. And if you’re being honest about valuing my opinion, you’ll ask him, too.”
A flicker of agitation crosses Kasta’s face, but again, just as I expect him to snap at me or argue—he closes his eyes. And exhales.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll talk to Jet.”
“You will?” Now this is amusing. How far will he take this, just to appear agreeable? “It would probably be a good idea to consult with his mother, too. We will be keeping her on as General, won’t we?”
He works his jaw. I know Kasta doesn’t like the General, because his own mother, the queen, poisoned him against her years ago. Coughing sounds from deeper in the garden—the Mestrah, most likely—and Kasta continues down the path. “We’ll see. There are younger candidates to consider.”
“I think it makes more sense to keep her on. The soldiers are used to following her lead, and she has a lot of experience.”
“I said I’d think about it—”
The Mestrah’s coughing grows more urgent. It stops, suddenly, and a woman cries out.
“More Healers!” a man yells. “I need more Healers immediately!”
Kasta starts off at a run. Servants in tan tunics burst onto the path from the opposite direction, running past us with only the briefest touch of their fingers to their heads, and I jog after Kasta, gripping the iron gate as I swing into the Mestrah’s garden.
The king sits on the bench, blood running between his fingers where he coughs into his hands. A single Healer stan
ds behind him, gripping his shoulders. The coughs don’t lessen. The Healer’s brow creases, pained, as she begs more from her power, but the Mestrah chokes. Red splatters his white tergus. Another Healer bursts in, shouldering Kasta and me aside.
The king pitches forward. The new Healer eases him to his side and splays his fingers over the Mestrah’s chest, and the king’s coughs turn into gasps, into wet, wheezing sounds that can’t possibly be drawing air. I dig my fingers into my arms, pleading with Rie to spare him. I still need two weeks to stop Kasta. I still need the king’s help.
A silent moment passes. Two. The king goes limp, and the Healers exchange glances.
“The priests,” one says, looking to a nearby guard. “Fetch the High Priests.”
They turn the Mestrah onto his back. Kasta pushes through the circle of servants and Healers.
“Valeed?” He jerks his head at the first Healer. “Why aren’t you doing anything?”
“We used a sleeping spell, dōmmel,” the woman says. “It will force his body to relax and breathe, but . . .”
She catches the other Healer’s eye, who gives a minute shake of his head.
“I’m sure he’ll improve with rest,” she finishes, smiling.
But even I can see from here that she doesn’t mean it.
* * *
They take the Mestrah to his rooms.
In the private lounge outside the king’s bedchamber, I sit with Jet on a velvet couch, the General on his other side and Kasta pacing before the windows. A thick wooden door bars us from any sound in the other room. The three High Priests are within, as well as the queen and all of the palace’s top Healers, and for over an hour, no one has come out.
Outside, a storm builds over the roofs of the city.
I shift, eyeing Jet’s hand, wondering if I should take it to comfort him, and end up pushing my fingers under my knees. Even that movement seems to echo in the gigantic suite. The main entry is as large as an inn, the recessed ceiling held up by columns laced with golden gods’ symbols and lit by braziers cast to look like Sabil’s balancing scales. A sparkling rectangular pool takes up half of the space, and glass makes up the entire far wall, so clear it looks as if I could step from the floor onto the treetops outside.
It’s eerie to consider this could become my room within the week.
Jet’s knee bounces. The General stares, unfocused, at the distant city.
“I should have stopped him,” she says, barely above a whisper. Jet and I look over. “I knew the mercenary interrogations would be hard on him. The keener his mind gets, the weaker his body. I suggested . . . other methods. But of course your stubborn father worried we wouldn’t get what we needed.” She looks down at where she holds Jet’s hand and sniffs.
“This isn’t your fault, Mora,” Jet says, gently.
“I know it’s not,” she snaps, but she directs her anger at the door. “But thank you, kar-a.”
She tilts her head against his for a moment, the familiar gesture of a mother who adores her son. My heart twists in sympathy. I feel intrusive here among the Mestrah’s family, but Jet asked me to stay, and so I will.
From the other side of the room, Kasta watches them, his shoulders falling. His mother snapped at him to get out of the way.
He sees me looking and turns on his heel.
The door creaks. We all straighten as Melia swings it open, wiping her hands on the Healer’s rag attached to her belt. Her face is drawn, her eyes wet when they fall on Jet. “If you would like to see him, you may. Though it should be one at a time.”
Jet starts to rise, but Kasta is already striding across the room, and at a glare from him, Jet sits. Melia keeps her eyes on the floor. The door closes. I press my hands along my thighs and settle back against the couch. It’s going to be a long day, and I dread how it might end.
But no sooner has Jet started to turn to me when the door opens and Kasta emerges, a glint of his old fire burning in his eyes.
“He wants you,” he growls, that fire broiling into me. I stiffen, sure he means Jet, but when Jet nudges me, I jerk to my feet. My stomach twists as I move forward. This is a very strange time for the Mestrah to call me, especially before talking to the rest of his family. My skin prickles as I approach Kasta, who—for all the anger I see in his eyes—is still a deep void otherwise. I practically jog past him, and Melia lightly touches my back before closing the door.
Orange torchlight engulfs the room. Glass lines the outer wall here as well, but the servants have darkened it to a stormy gray, draping the royal city and the nearby river in a fog. A grand bed takes up a quarter of the space, its four posts carved in the likeness of the Mestrah’s favored gods: Numet, the sky goddess and the Mestrah’s blood ancestor; Tyda, goddess of patience; Sabil, god of magic; Rie, god of death. Five Healers and the High Priests hover around the king, as well as a trielle with his spell paintbrush. The queen sits beside the Mestrah’s pillow in a pearl-white jole, her hand entwined with her husband’s.
Under the golden covers, the king looks frail and human. The normally vibrant tan of his skin has paled to a sandy gray, and the makeup that would sharpen his eyes and cheekbones has been cleared, so that his features look off, shallow. His gaze, watery and fevered, shifts to me.
“Child of the gods,” he croaks. “Come closer.”
The title sends beetles up my neck. I approach, painfully aware of the queen’s icy gaze, and stop a meter away.
“The rest of you,” the Mestrah says. “Leave us.”
“Are you sure?” the queen says, running her hand over his. “I would like the Healers to be near, just in case.”
“These words are not for them.” But despite the sharpness in his voice, he squeezes his wife’s hand. “Please.”
The queen exhales and kisses his glistening forehead. Her eyes harden when they meet mine, probably blaming me for what’s happened, but she says nothing, and the company follows her out of the room. The door closes with a soft click.
The torches crackle. I am alone in the private quarters of a dying god.
“Mestrah,” I say, feeling completely inadequate.
“Zahru.” He winces against some unseen pain, and pushes higher on his pillows. “I must admit, when the Speaker first suggested you were meant to rule, I set my sights on disproving them. I could not imagine Orkena flourishing under the undisciplined, uneducated whims of a common Whisperer. I was sure you would fail at the tasks I set for you, and crack under the pressures of the court.”
I flinch, the heat of the torches growing stifling.
“But then you began to surprise me. You began to excel, and to master the gods’ magic as if you were born to it. And so I wanted to speak with you first, while I have my strength. Because if the gods are calling me home . . . I will not be revoking your status.”
I snap my head up. I didn’t expect it to mean anything, this show of faith, but a stone gathers in my throat. The king is not good with praise. This much I knew even before I spent these past weeks with him, and yet what he’s saying—that he would entrust his kingdom to me—hits harder than any compliment could.
I’m blundering together a response when the Mestrah shakes his head.
“I know I was hard on you after the party. Because you frightened me. I had just begun to see you as a leader, as the perfect balance to Kasta’s rashness, and then you went and did something rash yourself. And I almost lost you for it.” He winces again, and swallows a cough. “I hope you understand my words were meant to get through to you the importance of your duties now. Mistakes are human. But you are a goddess. And Orkena will need you to remember it.”
I brace myself on a low stool draped with red satin. You are a goddess. Remembering this, what it will truly mean to be crowned, almost brings me to my knees. “Yes, Mestrah.”
He takes a shaky drink of tonic. “But I will be honest that this is
as much a show of approval as one of strategy. Kasta has shown great improvement these past weeks with you, but I do not think he should be left to rule alone.”
A strange numbness bites my fingers. I still don’t intend for Kasta to rule, at all. “I would agree.”
He raises a brow. “That is not to say I don’t believe him capable. When things are going well, my son is the leader I always dreamed he would be. Cautious. Strategic. Informed. But things will not always go well. This war will not go well. And when it doesn’t, I need someone in place who can temper him.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He shifts in the sheets, watching me. I have the sudden eerie sensation that he can see more than what I’m telling him, and I force myself to hold his gaze.
“See that you do,” he says slowly. “And that you do not become the same. This I entrust to you as my final wish.” He coughs and brings a fist to his chest. “It has been my pleasure to know you, gudina. Use this new life well.”
Guilt burns my veins, but I kneel, fingertips on my forehead. “I will, Mestrah.”
He smiles as he lies back. “Stop bowing to me, Zahru. We are equals.”
I nod and stand, gooseflesh prickling my arms, torn between the surreality of him speaking to me this way and the uneasiness of his warning to not become like Kasta. Because even now, I’m thinking less of his words and more of what I need to do. If the Mestrah dies, I will be out of time. I can’t keep waiting for a lucky opening. Kasta will only continue this act until he’s crowned, and then everything will change, and he’ll hurt someone else—he may hurt many other someones—and I will always think back to this moment, when I knew what he was and didn’t do everything I could to stop him. I owe Orkena—I owe Maia—much more than that.
