by Anna Banks
Absently, Cara moves her hand to her throat and sits upon my bed. She nods. “Perhaps you could talk to the king. Tell him you are not feeling well?”
“You know he would discern the lie.”
Cara folds her hands in her lap and stares at the floor for a long time. I want to shake her and tell her we do not have time for panic. But as it turns out, she is not panicking at all. She looks up at me again, a determination in her eyes. “I have some herbs I use for medicinal purposes. I can make a tea that will make your sickness very real, mistress. The king will postpone the visit until we think of something else.”
“He may go without me.”
She shakes her head. “It is well known in the palace that the king does not go very far without you. He will postpone the trip. In the meantime, I will try to get word to my family there that you may be coming.”
“How quickly can you get the tea ready?”
Cara rises and strides to the door. “Take off your clothes and pull your hair down. It must be the truth when I report to the king that you are not dressed. The delay will allow some time for the tea to steep. After that, you’ll fall ill quite quickly.”
And with that, she shuts the door.
* * *
The word “ill” is a grave understatement for how I feel. I’ve done nothing but wretch for the past two days, barely able to swallow water in the tiniest of sips. Though custom does not allow Tarik to visit me personally—for which I am thankful—he has sent Cy the Healer twice to my bedchamber to ascertain that I have not contracted the Quiet Plague.
As Cy leans over me now, he shakes his head. “You’ve lost quite a bit of weight in these past two days. But you say you’ve not noticed any bleeding? None from the nose or the ears?”
“Take a look for yourself,” I tell him weakly. “My stomach is simply sour.”
Sour. That is what Cara was when she made this concoction for me. She probably enjoyed stirring the herbs together she knew would make me sick. We will have to talk, she and I. We will have to discuss this lack of trust between us. If we are to work together for a common cause, surely there is a better way to go about doing it.
After Cy’s inspection, he nods, satisfied. “It seems as though the king has been fretting over a common stomach ailment, though you’ve one of the worst cases I’ve seen.”
“The king has been fretting?”
Cy grins. “Well now, I suppose kings do not fret, do they? That just would not do. So then the Falcon King has been brooding over your sudden illness.”
Brooding. Indeed.
“And how long will I feel this way?” Though the question would be better posed to Cara.
“I would say you have another day, maybe two, and after that you’ll start feeling warm-blooded, at the very least. Do not worry so much about eating; you should drink as much water as you can, and I will send a tonic from the Lyceum that will help your dizziness. It will also make you sleepy, but promise me, mistress, that you’ll take in water every time you awaken.”
“I promise.” Saints of Serubel, but I promise. Cy had said I’ll be feeling this way for a day, possibly two. Surely enough time will have passed for Cara to get word to her family and, somehow, to the rest of the Forgers.
One day, I tell myself, I will meet these people, I’m sure of it. I hope they appreciate all I’ve done here to protect our abilities.
Just then, the door to my bedchamber creaks open. Patra slinks in, followed by one of Tarik’s personal guards. “Please excuse the interruption, mistress, Healer Cy,” he says, nodding to each of us. “But the Falcon King has sent his cat along to Mistress Sepora in order to keep her company during her distress,” the guard says.
As if following orders, Patra leaps onto my bed and makes herself comfortable beside me, her head at my feet and her tail tickling at my nose. She is already asleep by the time Cy gathers his things and leaves my room.
36
TARIK
Tarik watches from his day chamber balcony as Sepora glides Dody by him through the air, making loops as though the creature itself has no backbone. She has trained Dody well and thoroughly, and today a soldier accompanies her on the flight to learn how to manage the beast. From the looks of things, Sepora is having a ravishing time in giving the unfortunate Majai an awful fright with her scandalous Daring Dozens. He clings to her for life itself, though using her as an anchor is foolish as the soldier weighs thrice as much as she.
Sethos leans on the balcony beside Tarik, watching the debacle unfold in the air. He makes his admiration for Sepora known a little more every day, and it has started to wear on Tarik’s nerves. “I’d hoped by now you would have come to your senses and given her back to me,” Sethos says lightly, swirling the drink in his golden chalice as if more interested in its contents than the conversation at hand. But Tarik knows him better than that. If Tarik gave the word, Sethos would have Sepora out of the sky and in his arms faster than she could gasp.
“You should get that notion out of your head, brother.”
And ah, my senses, Tarik thinks. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the lack thereof. It has been two weeks since he tried to kiss Sepora, and still he cannot get the scent of her out of his head. Chamomile mingled with orchid and something else that addles his brain every time he thinks of it, every time she brushes past him or stands in the breeze by the window of his day chambers or leans across him to advise him in the throne room.
Which is more often than she really should. She is not, in actuality, Rashidi, after all. But every errand he finds for her to do in Rashidi’s stead, he then finds another person who could do it in her stead, so that she might remain close to him, though not just because he enjoys her company but because he values her insight into the matters of the kingdom. Where he felt he could spare Rashidi, he retains Sepora to gain her insight on the matter. She has a way of looking at things from unique perspectives, no doubt from her time spent serving the king of Serubel.
Rashidi will not like it, Tarik knows. When he returns, he will be put out immensely. Sepora brings traditions and suggestions from a foreign land and adhering to them—in Rashidi’s eyes—will seem as though Theoria’s own tradition of ruling is outdated, or worse—ineffective. It may even appear to Rashidi that Tarik is questioning his own father’s way of governing. But King Knosi did not have to contend with the Quiet Plague. In fact, his entire reign was called the Silent Reign, because so few troubles overtook the kingdom while his father ruled.
But with new problems come new solutions, and Tarik is not interested in clinging to custom if it means losing his people. Some traditions are to be respected—but so is common sense. And common sense tells him that to defeat his adversary in the plague, he’ll have to do much more than consult his scholars and hold continual councils.
And so far, Sepora’s input has been invaluable. The council of Lingots is just one example of her wisdom. Each day, they assemble and sort out the lies from the truth, the justice from the injustice. Each day, they deliver a verdict for all cases, and each day, Tarik has more time to spend on more important matters, such as harvesting the nefarite and keeping the Parani happy and monitoring the progress Cy makes with the Quiet Plague.
As Sepora still refuses to divulge where he can find more spectorium—or that is, the one who has the ability to Forge it—he made the decision to disassemble one of the newer pyramids and give the remains to Cy at the Lyceum. Rashidi will be livid, he knows, and he’d hoped Sepora would come around before his adviser’s return, but he is due back any day and the kingdom has finally run out of scraps of spectorium. He’d had no choice but to disassemble the pyramid and consolidate the preserved bodies of the dead ones into another pyramid close by.
Though he has nothing to fear from Rashidi except a temper tantrum, there is one thing he is not looking forward to upon his old friend’s return: the disappointment on his face when he tells him of the pyramid. When he learns that Sepora could have prevented it, he will refuse h
er as an attendant and probably call for her arrest.
And what will Tarik say to that?
He cannot openly admit that his interest in Sepora runs far below the surface of his outward exchanges with her. Rashidi will think him a walkover, even if he never says it aloud. A king who is ruled by a servant.
As he gazes down at Sepora as she lands the Serpen beast in the courtyard, he knows he must keep his emotions in stricter check. After all, if Sepora truly had the best interest of Theoria in mind, she wouldn’t hesitate to reveal her secret source for spectorium. If she truly did not want to see his people suffer, she could end it easily, of that he’s sure.
But she does not. And so, he must hold it against her in his mind, even if his heart will not agree.
Sepora waves up to them from the courtyard, and Sethos takes a swig from his cup. “She’s really a fearless little thing, isn’t she,” he says.
“Of what does she have to fear?” Sepora is treated well, lives within the palace walls, and is given time to herself regularly. She has access to the kingdom’s best cooks, servants, and of late, its best Healer. If anything, she lives as though royalty, he thinks dryly. And who is to blame for that?
Sethos grins at him. “From me? She has nothing to fear. From you? It appears she’ll soon be burdened with boring, lengthy words of sentiment. You realize you could try and hide it. She doesn’t have to ever know you’re a sniveling lovesick whelp.”
Tarik scowls. “Why don’t you try and hide your arrogance? Or do you consider arrogance to be a worthy trait?”
“It’s better than being a whelp, I think.” Sethos takes another sip from his chalice as Sepora disappears under the awning beneath them. She’ll arrive in his day chambers soon, and Tarik doesn’t want this to be the conversation she walks into.
Tarik turns and strides to his desk. “Haven’t you heard? I’m to marry the princess of Hemut. I’ve only just received the correspondence this morning. Rashidi sends word that negotiations are going well.” In truth, he’s surprised to have found the correspondence waiting for him in his day chambers as it takes at least ten days to reach Hemut by caravan. Rashidi wasted no time in his negotiations, apparently. And neither did the king of Hemut.
Sethos takes the seat across from him, throwing his legs over one side of the chair. It is things like these that betray how young Sethos still is. “Ah, the rarest beauty among all the Five. And the most vain. An Ice Princess in the truest sense, I think. How sad that you must take such a cold and unwelcoming wife.”
Tarik raises a brow. “You haven’t seen her since we were children. Surely you’re not still holding a grudge?” The Princess Tulle had been the first female who’d ever enchanted Sethos. He’d spent all afternoon once picking flowers from a garden, but when he presented the gift to the young princess, she’d been horrified, accusing him of stealing beauty from its natural state. Sethos had been inconsolable for days.
Sethos sniffs. “A grudge would suggest I think of her at all, which is certainly not the case.”
“I see.”
“At any rate, you should have kept Sepora in the harem,” Sethos drawls. “A wife is for heirs. A concubine is for enjoyment.”
“As amusing as they are, I must ask that you defer your revolting comments until another time. As it is, I’ve much work to do.”
“Is that why you don’t come visit me at the Lyceum? Thrice you’ve been to see Cy and not one of those times have you sought me out to break the midday meal. Why is that?”
“I come as a servant of the king, Sethos. Taking in an unannounced meal with a prince of Theoria is hardly appropriate.”
Sethos appears unimpressed. “You could pretend to bring me messages from His Royal Highness. Really, Tarik, be creative.”
Tarik leans back, inspecting his brother. “It’s not me you want to see, though, is it?”
The corner of Sethos’s mouth raises slightly. “Perhaps if you had white hair and silver eyes—”
“Ahem,” Sepora says from the door. Her cheeks are windburned and her lips are stained with the red of adrenaline. “Perhaps I should come back?”
“Oh no,” Sethos says, standing. “My brother would not like that.”
Tarik gives him a withering look, but it falls on Sethos’s indifferent expression. He pulls the chair out and gestures for Sepora to take his seat. “Please, mistress, do me the honor.”
Sepora rolls her eyes at him, and he laughs. “There is nothing I can do to impress you, is there, mistress?”
“I’m afraid you’ve already made an irreversible impression on me, Prince Sethos.”
His face pinches together. “Please, call me Majai Sethos. Or just Sethos. ‘Prince’ sounds so … domestic. As though I laze around all day and have grapes fed to me.”
This time she laughs. Tarik quells the envy he feels at their easy banter. But to Sepora, Sethos’s advances have a clear purpose. To the mistress, his brother’s intentions are transparent and though despicable, she’s able to deflect him well enough. But if Tarik teases her, he gets the sense that she’s suspicious of his intentions, that he’s only softening toward her in order to persuade her into revealing her secret to him.
He knows that Sepora is not so reprehensible that she’ll withhold the information forever. If they in fact run out of spectorium—which will take dismantling all the pyramids in Theoria—and people do begin to die again, she will tell him what he needs to know. He’s sure of it.
At least, he wants to be sure of it.
“Sethos was just leaving,” Tarik announces happily.
Sethos cuts him a threatening look, and Tarik ever so slightly shakes his head. If Sethos outs him in front of Sepora, he will pay a high price. Technically, a prince of Theoria should not reside any place other than the palace. Tarik could change his circumstances faster than Sethos could finish his sentence to the mistress. And Sethos would be the victim of endless teasing from the other Majai who “rough it” at the Lyceum.
“It was a pleasure watching you with the Serpen,” Sethos says, taking Sepora’s hand to his lips. “As always.”
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Majai Sethos,” she says, nearly wrenching herself free from his grasp, which makes him grin all the more.
“The same to you and to you, Highness.” He pauses at the door. “I think I shall dine at the palace tonight. Mistress Sepora, would you like to join my brother and me for the evening meal?”
She gasps. “I’m the attendant of the king, not a guest, Majai Sethos.” This she says through gritted teeth.
“Well, you certainly couldn’t come as his guest, but there are no rules worth mentioning that you could not be my guest. Besides, I’ve grown quiet of late. The kingdom has been expecting at least a small scandal from me for a fortnight. You would be doing me a favor in helping me keep my reputation tarnished.”
To Tarik’s dismay, Sepora laughs. Yet, she looks to him for the appropriate answer. This presents the perfect opportunity to do the right thing. To decline his brother’s invitation on Sepora’s behalf. He could cite extra work he’s assigned her, or even the fact that she’s been so ill lately and needs her rest. But it’s because she’s been so ill, and he hasn’t actually seen her eat anything yet that he’s inclined to agree to his brother’s suggestion.
Tarik sighs. “I was going to let you rest this evening, but if you’ve the inclination to dine with us, you certainly may. I’ll have a Serubelan menu prepared for our meal.”
Both his brother and Sepora gape at him for long enough that he waves them off in dismissal. “Sepora, do you not have messages to fetch from the Lingot council? Sethos, do you not need to travel back to the Lyceum and scrounge up something formal enough for dinner at the palace?”
Sethos shuts his mouth, opens the door, and leaves.
Sepora takes steps to follow him, but Tarik stops her. He bids her to sit once more.
She settles in her chair and quietly sets to unfastening her braid, only to rebraid it again. Is she nerv
ous? Is she taken aback by the fact that she is now forced to dine with his brother? Whatever her issue, she chooses a traditional Theorian hairstyle this time, and it appears she has been practicing. The braid falls around her head as a halo, and the small wisps of hair that loosen themselves from the structure make her look young and completely breathtaking.
Tarik clears his throat. A breathtaking adviser. How fortunate he is.
“How was your time with Dody?” he asks, hoping to catch a trace of the banter she enjoyed with his brother.
“It was wonderful,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “He’s very attentive and a fast learner. Although I cannot say the same for the Majai you sent along with us.” She frowns. “I don’t think he’s the right fit for Dody.”
Tarik laughs. “You’ll not think anyone besides you is a right fit.”
“It’s just that you Theorians don’t respect a Seer for what it is. You have your precious cats.” She gestures toward Patra, who lies uninterested beside the desk. “But you see no value in a Serpen.” She purses her lips then, and Tarik is astounded by how much he can be affected by her pouting.
“I’ve given you the task of picking the perfect rider for Dody,” he says. “If you’re not up to it, perhaps I’ll—”
“Oh, I’m up to it. I just … well, why couldn’t I be the one to ride him?”
“On a mission? Absolutely not.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as harshly as it does. But there is no way he’s risking Sepora’s life to spy for his kingdom. What if they were to get shot down from the sky? Pride of the pyramids, the thought makes his heart race.
“Why not? I’m the best rider by far.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“More dangerous than jumping from the Half Bridge?”
