by Anna Banks
“Are you ready to try for yourself?”
Crossing my arms, I take in the paint and gauze and fish brains before me. “Why would you teach me to do this?”
“Your mother thought it would help you pass the time here, while she sorts everything out back in Theoria. King Graylin is beside himself for keeping you in that tiny room for so long. I’d bet he’d give you a tour of the palace himself were you to ask.”
“You’re not afraid I would disguise myself and run away?”
Bayla looks surprised. “Run away? Back to your Falcon King, who used you to get what he wanted? Away from Pelusia and back to a kingdom inferior in every way?” She blinks. “The thought of you wanting to leave hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Bayla is both clever and deceptively innocent at the same time. Reminding me that I’m returning to a man who might have used his power to manipulate me and my feelings for him is a low blow from her. But return I must, to deliver him his cure. And it wouldn’t hurt for Bayla to know something else, for these small jabs at him hurt all the same. “I love the Falcon King,” I tell her quietly.
Her eyes widen, the way I’d expected them to. I would never have told the old Bayla that I love Tarik. The old Bayla might have looked at me with scorn and perhaps pity, her eyes full of experience of many loves lost and a hardened heart in her old age. Yet this Bayla is younger than me. This Bayla might not even know the stomach-swirling experience of a first kiss or the rush of catching her beloved looking at her when he should be paying attention elsewhere. This is where Bayla is innocent. And I must make her understand that returning to Theoria, and soon, is important.
“How could you love him after what he did?” she says, her voice full of wonder and devoid of any judgment.
I pull out the chair next to me and indicate she should sit. She does so, and with the interest of a child about to learn how to skip rocks along the river for the first time.
“It was difficult,” I tell her. “So difficult. But what I’ve come to know about love is that it’s a sticky thing, like a spiderweb. You can remove it mostly, but there are always a few strands that stay behind for the spider to rebuild. Love is a web that never truly lets you go.” It feels good to admit this to someone. It feels good to acknowledge that while I cannot have Tarik, I can still feel something toward him, as painful as it is.
“And if the Falcon King does indeed trade you for the cure?”
“Then I will allow it. The Falcon King would be happy. I could go on with my life, and Mother will have the satisfaction of knowing she was right all along, I suppose.” I say these words as I think them, not realizing Bayla is hanging upon my every thought. I look at her now, and her eyes have glistened over.
Bayla is a romantic at heart.
“Suppose the Falcon King does still want you. Will you go against your mother’s wishes?”
“My mother’s wishes are that I not be used as a pawn. If the king still wants me over the cure—which is highly unlikely—then I won’t be a pawn, I will be marrying for love. I can’t imagine her wishes would contradict that outcome.” Oh, how can empty words hurt so very much?
Bayla smiles at me, though, taken in by my grandiose tapestry of lies. By this time, she has leaned in close, resting her chin on her palm and eyeing me wistfully. I laugh. “Perhaps your mother needs to be looking after you, before some servant boy sweeps you off your feet.”
An instant blush reveals to me that one already has. “What is his name?”
“Pontiadi. He’s the king’s messenger boy. He’s eighteen, Princess Magar, and has lips softer than the petals of a rose.”
I grin. “Bayla! I do hope you hide your kisses from prying eyes.”
“Not even a Beholder could find our secret hiding spot.”
“A Beholder?”
“Yes,” she nods, still blushing. “Beholders have extremely good vision. They can see things from far away and tiny things and the like, but they also notice details. Details that ordinary eyes cannot see.”
“Like what?”
“Well, when I had dressed up as my grams, a Beholder would be able to tell who I truly was. They would see the fine details in the paint, even the powdered scales would reflect back at them.” She picks up a handful of sand from the ground and shows it to me in wonder. “You and I see sand. Perhaps our eye catches the bigger grains at times, and we can point them out. But a Beholder? A Beholder can see each grain of sand, no matter how tiny. A Beholder could count them, if asked. Even the hairs upon your head, a Beholder could count.”
I think of our Seer Serpens and how beneficial it would be to have a Beholder mounted atop one, or at the very least, examine the smoke given off by the eyes when burned. “How many Beholders are there?”
She shrugs. “In Pelusia, there are many. They enjoy the king’s company often, as they are one of his biggest assets and he wishes to keep them happy so that they stay. Many are lords and ladies, given titles to keep them rooted here in Pelusia.”
There is much I have to learn of Pelusia and its King Graylin. “Show me,” I tell her abruptly. “Show me how to make the paint. I’ll eat the brains. Make me look like Rashidi.”
24
TARIK
Tarik is in his day chambers when Rashidi bursts through the doors, hands thrown in the air in frustration. It’s an impressive show of physical fitness on Rashidi’s part, since he’s usually bent at the neck and using his staff as support for walking. Now he extends his staff along his arm, pointing at the door in outrage. “This is what you get when you send a dolt on a secret mission, Highness!”
Sethos abruptly appears in the doorway pulling behind him a hand attached to an attractive girl with fiery red hair. A very familiar girl with fiery red hair. A fiery redhead that has no business being in Theoria, given these circumstances, and especially wearing such scanty Theorian attire.
“He wishes death upon us all!” Rashidi says, sweeping his hand toward Princess Tulle dramatically.
Tarik grits his teeth. “I’m sure my brother has a very good and levelheaded reason he has brought Princess Tulle back with him from Hemut, and I’m sure he’ll tell us this very reason before he draws his next breath.”
Sethos smirks, pulling out a chair for Tulle to be seated in across from Tarik’s marble desk. As he takes his own seat, he crosses his legs and plunks his feet on the table, getting comfortable for what will no doubt be a long story filled with stupid decisions and ending with how Princess Tulle came to be wearing the clothing of a concubine.
Tarik pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his own seat, as Rashidi wanders around and around the three of them, groaning in outrage. “Get on with it, then,” Tarik tells his brother. “Where is Sepora?”
“Not in Hemut,” Sethos says. The truth, or so Sethos believes. Which means his brother turned the place upside down looking for her. “Tulle does not know where she is, either.”
Tarik focuses on Tulle, examining her facial features before he asks, “Princess Tulle, as a Lingot I must ask—do you know where Sepora is?”
She offers an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I do not.”
The truth.
Tarik relaxes, not realizing he’d tensed for the question at all. “Now that we’ve gotten the most important matter out of the way, please tell me if my brother harmed you when he took you. If he did, I’ll see that he’s punished for it. Severely.”
Sethos rolls his eyes while Tulle’s smile brightens. “He didn’t take me. I asked to come with him.”
Oh, of course. Of course, this would be Sethos’s way of punishing me for throwing him in prison. Sethos has seduced Princess Tulle right out of her home kingdom and into … well, into his harem, so it would seem. Tarik had heard rumors that Sethos kept a harem, but the rumors always struck false to him. Now, he’s questioning whether his Lingot abilities failed him.
He turns to his brother. “You will return Princess Tulle to Hemut at once.”
“Incorrect,” Sethos sa
ys, almost bored.
“Remove his tongue!” Rashidi screeches from where he’s settled across the room. “Cut it from his head!”
“Do calm down, Rashidi,” Tarik drawls. “At least until I can decide if this is a family affair or a kingdom matter.”
“They are one and the same, Highness,” Rashidi says, linking his hands together in illustration. “One and the same.”
Tarik turns back to his brother. “Suppose I don’t have your tongue cut from your face for refusing a direct order. Suppose I listen to your reasons for refusing a direct order. Suppose I even humored you and let you speak without interruption. Will I regret it?”
Sethos smiles. “You will be most delighted, actually.”
“Do tell, then.”
“Princess Tulle and I have decided to wed.”
Tarik wipes his hand down his face. Things are not this simple with Sethos. In this way, he is like Sepora. Always doing what is required, mostly anyway, but in the most intrusive and roundabout way that could possibly be thought of. “May I be the first to offer my congratulations, or has King Ankor already had the pleasure of doing so?”
Princess Tulle winces, but Sethos takes her hand in his and pats it gently. Rashidi and Tarik exchange a look. Sethos is not treating Tulle as though he’d rather wed a—what was it? Oh yes, a hairless mule, he’d said to Lady Gita. No, he’s treating her as though he’s very much in love with her.
And if Tarik’s Lingot abilities do not fail him now, Sethos is indeed.
Splendid. Just splendid. Tarik presses his fingertips together to keep his hands from wringing his brother’s neck. “Am I to assume that King Ankor did not give his permission for the two of you to flee Hemut together, then?”
“Not exactly,” Tulle says. “But he knows I’m here.”
“Yes,” Sethos chimes in cheerily. “They were unable to catch us once we reached the forest, as it were.” He gives his beloved a rueful smile before turning back to Tarik. “So, uh, I’d say now would be a good time to start making the cratorium and preparing for war. Since Sepora isn’t there, and all, no need to hold back. I’m sure Morg would concur in this matter.”
Tarik locks eyes with his brother, but issues an order to Rashidi instead. “Rashidi, please escort our esteemed guest Princess Tulle to the most lavish chamber available and staff her so that she is without want for anything. I’m sure she is tired from her journey and will want to make the most of a bath before the evening meal. Meanwhile, Sethos and I will discuss … wedding plans.”
Rashidi gives Tarik a scowl that could wither a man to dry bones but gets hold of himself before offering a gracious hand to Princess Tulle. “My dear princess, I do apologize for the most unusual way you were brought before the Falcon King. You’d think we in Theoria were without manners, but that simply isn’t the case…” he’s saying as they trail down the hall.
Sethos grins at Tarik. Tarik crosses his arms. This is to be a game, then.
“For the entirety of your miserable existence, you’ve loathed that girl,” Tarik begins. “And now you would marry her, when doing so in this way forces Hemut to war with us?”
“If you must force me to admit I made a mistake, then fine. I made a mistake. I’m in love with Tulle. Although loathing and loving are very similar in nature, I think” is his brother’s reply. “It can be confusing at times to sort through. If Sepora were here, I’m sure she could attest to that.”
“Sepora isn’t here, brother, because you’ve failed to return her to me.”
Sethos rolls his eyes. “I cannot cover all the five kingdoms at once, can I? You sent me to Hemut. She isn’t there. Where else shall I look?”
“I think I may know the answer to that,” calls a voice from the door. They are both startled to find Ptolem standing quietly and patiently at the door. “Forgive the intrusion,” he says, “but the guards allowed my entrance.”
As they should; Tarik had given Ptolem authority to enter his day chambers without obstruction. He has proven most useful of late.
“Come, Ptolem,” Tarik says. “Tell us what news you bring.”
Ptolem strides to the marble table separating Tarik from killing his brother and places a tiny rolled-up scroll upon it. It is so tiny, in fact, it would be difficult to write on it with any kind of precision. “What’s this?” Sethos asks, unwinding it before Tarik even has a chance to reach for it.
Ptolem straightens his chin. “Prince Sethos, this scroll was intercepted by a boatman on the Nefari this afternoon. It was attached to an infant Serpen no longer than my forearm.” With this, Ptolem lay the dead creature on the table where the scroll had been. It’s barely thicker than a quill used for writing and almost the color of the sky.
“That would be difficult to see,” Tarik muses. “Nothing more than a sliver of color in the sky. It could probably have been mistaken for an insect.” And they had not been looking for insects. They had been looking for birds. For people. For servants coming and going in the night.
“Hmmm,” Sethos says, reading. “It appears to be correspondence between Queen Hanlyn and King Graylin in Pelusia. And I quote, ‘My work here is almost done. How fares Magar? I will arrive within the week.’”
Tarik feels his nostrils flare, a burning heat filling his cheeks, a bitterness coiling in his stomach. Hanlyn had not grown quiet out of worry for her daughter. Hanlyn had been so somber, so unusually economical with her conversation in order to hide the lies her words would surely reveal.
“It is time I had a talk with Queen Hanlyn and her adoring king,” Tarik says through grinding teeth. “Bring them to me at once.”
* * *
A solid hour passes before Eron and Hanlyn can be rounded up together and herded into Tarik’s day chambers. Eron and Hanlyn sit in different attitudes as a servant goes about the room lighting candles, for the evening has reached them—a sign that the hottest season of the year is over and that cooler weather will soon be upon them. Eron sits with agitation and restlessness while Hanlyn folds her hands in her lap and studies Tarik with a fixed expression of surprise. Both reactions ring true to his abilities.
A flustered king and an aloof queen. A confusing pair to be sure.
Confusing, if Tarik were not a Lingot. “King Eron, did you know that Queen Hanlyn has been behind Princess Magar’s disappearance since the beginning?”
Eron’s eyes grow wide as he beholds his wife, raking his eyes down the length of her. He gives out a sharp laugh. “Hanlyn would never defy me in such a way. Look at her, boy, she quivers at the accusation.”
Tarik laces his fingers together, studying Hanlyn calmly. She does tremble, but not in fear. She is angry. Her eyes burn with it; her mouth tightens with it. She has been caught. Tarik is curious how she will handle it. Will she be as smooth and graceful as she always is? Will she fling insults at him, hiding her guilt to her husband? Because Eron’s words ring as true as sunrise; he has no idea of his wife’s duplicity.
“What do you have to say of yourself, Queen Hanlyn?” Tarik says, locking eyes with her.
She inhales sharply and turns to her husband. Placing a hand on his, she says, “I’ve respected the Falcon King and his way of ruling.” Surprisingly true. “But I fear I’ve given him too much credit, where credit was not due. He lies to you now, Eron. And we must not allow him to get away with this atrocity. He accuses us of kidnapping our own daughter. Where is the sense in that?”
Ah, so she is twisting his words to include Eron in the insult. “He accuses us.” “We must not allow it.” She is falsely appealing to him as a united pair, further proof that she acted alone. Her lies may fool her husband, but they fall strikingly false on Tarik’s ears.
“Why have you been keeping her in Pelusia?” Tarik barks, of the dance she creates with her words. “Order her release, and I will spare your life.”
“Her life?” Eron says, standing. “Have you gone mad, boy? You have no authority to make such threats!”
“She is a guest in my home an
d has stolen away my future queen after you yourself made the arrangements to wed her to me. Have you forgotten my Lingot abilities? Have you forgotten that the truth does not escape me? For weeks, I have heard you lie to me of lasting peace between Theoria and Serubel, how you’ll only use cratorium against Hemut. For weeks, I have endured your sneaking about the kingdom, sending your men to size up Kyra for its Scaldling venom as though my own guards were blind to their visits. You’ve been planning an attack from the comfort of my own palace. Oh yes, I know all of it. But you made no formal action against me, and so I did nothing. Yet now your own wife has taken Sepora. Give her back to me, or I’ll execute you both.”
Eron’s face has grown the kind of red one gets when one has eaten something excessively spicy. “Execute us? How dare you accuse my wife of such treason and now you threaten our very lives? You’ll not live another day, boy, I’ll see to that! Falcon King or not.”
“Guards!” Tarik bellows, and ten file in, seizing the king and queen from their chairs and holding them until further instruction. “King Eron, I hereby charge you with conspiracy against me, negating the arrangement of peace between our kingdoms. Queen Hanlyn, I charge you with the kidnapping of the future queen of Theoria, Princess Magar.”
Sethos materializes from behind one of the guards, eating an apple. Around a mouthful, he says, “Tell me, brother, how satisfying was that? Power suits you, I think.”
“Do shut up, Sethos.”
During the commotion, Patra had relinquished her warm spot near the balcony and now nuzzles Tarik’s hand with the tip of her nose. He acknowledges her with a few strokes, and she sits at his side, her head nearly reaching his shoulder. She is alert, he knows, but purrs into his leg as if to comfort his unraveling temper.
And unraveling it is. Queen Hanlyn has still not confessed to her part in taking Sepora, and it looks like she might not. Perhaps if she hadn’t completely escaped his attention in the lengthy search for Sepora, he wouldn’t be as angry with her. But somehow she managed to elude him, the way Sepora can sometimes elude him, and he wants to know how. He remembers the blood on Sepora’s pillow and wonders—hopes—that it wasn’t real to begin with. Surely this woman standing before him who seemed so courteous and warm at his table each and every meal could not have harmed her own daughter.
