by Anna Banks
She stiffens at his side, pausing before she looks up at him. He feels his jaw clench when their eyes meet. “Last night must have been quite exhilarating indeed,” he says, sweeping his gaze over her unchanged clothing. “Perhaps you would like some time to freshen up?”
She smiles sweetly, a lie he recognizes right away as counterfeit. “Highness, I’m surprised to see you up so early as well. You looked so tired and put out when we left.” She is mocking him. And to what does he owe this new delightful tendency?
Cy clears his throat from across the room, and Sepora uses it as her prompt to bring him his food and drink. If Cy weren’t here, perhaps he and Sepora could have a direct conversation. He’d been hoping to speak with her anyway, and so he’d cleared his schedule this morning. Tarik feels the need to warn Sepora that when Rashidi arrives, she must not inform him she knows how to procure more spectorium. Tarik does not need another crisis within the palace walls at the moment.
Tarik follows her back to his desk, where he takes his seat. Folding his hands in front of him, he tries to focus solely on the young Healer instead of the girl with the silver eyes, his eternal conundrum, who stands just beside them, looking on with expectation.
“Cy, do continue,” Tarik says. “You were saying something about repeat cases?”
Cy nods, biting into the fig. “Yes. Your boy last night was a repeat case; I’d treated him at the Lyceum a while ago. It seems that the spectorium improves the patient’s health for only a little while. Once the life of the spectorium dies out, the life of the patient follows suit. More spectorium must be administered, which, of course, we are glad to do. But I’m afraid I must have a continual supply of it.”
Tarik does not need to look at Sepora to know she has stiffened where she stands. He feels everything about her, including the tension emanating from her now. Cy licks his lips and takes another bite of fig. “I’m sorry, Highness. I thought spectorium would be the answer. But it is temporary at best because of our supply of it.”
Temporary. Unless they have a continual supply of it. He looks at Sepora. She’s already staring at him, her chin jutting out. She is not convinced. “There are many more pyramids that can be broken down and distributed,” she says.
“Yes,” Tarik agrees. “There are. And where do you propose we put the bodies of our dead loved ones, mistress? Bury them in the hot desert sand so they can rot for eternity?”
“It’s not ideal, but there is enough spectorium in the kingdom for Cy to continue administering while we look for another solution—”
“Not ideal? What is not ideal is that we will lose our dead ones and our living ones all in the same breath if this is not stopped,” Tarik says. “That, love, is the opposite of ideal.”
Sepora’s mouth snaps shut. He’s never called her “love” before, and he never intended to use it sarcastically. But pride of the pyramids, where has she been all night? Only part of the evening with Sethos was spent in training. Where did he whisk her away to when they’d finished? Sethos must have assumed Tarik would keep watch over them, and if anyone knows how to dodge unwanted spies, it would be his younger brother, always up to no good.
Tarik wants to ask, wants to know if she was with him all night, and yet he doesn’t want to ask. Because he will discern the truth no matter what her answer. And he may not like the truth.
No, he’ll hate it.
Sepora blinks several times, and Tarik gets the sense that she’s on the verge of tears. Regret churns his stomach. He is taking out his jealousy on her, and he knows it. He is acting a fool. “Please allow me to apologize, mistress,” he says softly. “I meant only—”
“No.”
Through his teeth, Cy sucks in a breath as he looks up at Sepora.
“No?” Tarik repeats back to her. The word feels so foreign in his mouth. How easy a transition it has been to become accustomed to always having one’s way. The word “no” has not been something he’s told often.
“No,” Sepora says again. “I will not allow you to apologize.”
Cy stands quickly, dropping the fig on the tray in front of him. “I’ve forgotten I’ve something terribly pressing I must attend to at the Lyceum, Highness. Do you mind if I could be excused?” Ah, Cy, but the damage has already been done, whether or not you are excused.
Tarik’s gaze never leaves Sepora. “Yes, of course, Cy. I’ll not keep you from your work.”
Still, Cy is wise beyond his years to want to escape what happens next. Sepora has defied him in front of one of his subjects. It’s a grave matter, and one that he cannot ignore. One that he doesn’t want to ignore. Sepora has pushed him far enough.
As soon as Cy closes the door behind him, Tarik is at his feet and striding toward her. To her good credit, she takes a step back. But only one. He closes the distance between them until their noses almost touch. She doesn’t look away.
“Where were you last night?” he blurts. It’s not what he intended to say. He meant to demand an explanation for her defiance or something important such as that. Blast it all, he can’t remember why exactly he crossed the room, only that he needed to cross it.
“Where were you last night?” she counters, her breath pushing against his lips. The faint smell of orchids nearly consumes him.
“What right have you to ask me that?” he says, finding his senses.
“The same right you have to ask me.”
“You’re an attendant. I am the king. Perhaps you don’t understand proper etiquette. Perhaps I’ve allowed you too much leniency—”
“Do not dare speak to me of etiquette and leniency!” She pokes a finger on his bare chest, smudging the gold paint there. “You refused Sethos’s request to train me. Why?”
His mouth falls open. She knows about his brother’s request—and the fact that he refused it within minutes? And worse, she consents to spend more time with Sethos? The girl who would not be a possession in the king’s own harem, the one who decried the very same prince of Theoria for the indecency of being put in such a position? What has his brother done to change her mind so swiftly about him? What has he done in the space of hours that I could not do in the space of weeks? Fury laps against his insides. He takes a step away from her to contain his temper. “What is so special about Sethos that you would spend every free moment with him?”
“Since when do you care how my free moments are spent?”
Tarik’s stomach clenches with her words. But she continues, “Surely you can see the wisdom of training. Besides, your brother is not so bad as I’d once thought.”
The more time she spends with Sethos, the more likely she is to be swayed by his charm, by his skill in seducing women. Over my embalmed body.
“The answer is no.”
“Why?”
“Let it be, Sepora.”
“I deserve an answer. Why will you not allow me to pursue happiness?”
“Happiness? What have I withheld from you?” he says, incredulous. “I’ve risked my reputation to give you what you wanted. Everything you have asked for I have granted. You should have been flogged more times than I can count on one hand!”
“You’ve withheld one punishment and given me another, then!”
“You are being irrational. Surely you recognize Sethos’s true intentions. Apparently you’ve no idea of his nature.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re the Lingot. Did you discern anything amiss with him? In the message that he sent you? Was there anything misrepresented?”
He could lie. He wants to, badly. Sepora is not a Lingot, and he could easily tell her that he sensed something was off with the request. But he won’t. Sethos believes Sepora needs training—and that they are “quite taken” with each other. He sighs. “No. It was written with candor.”
“So then it is settled.”
“When Rashidi returns, he will need you. You’ve not even begun to realize the full scope of your duties.” Yes, that’s true enough. Though Rashidi would rather let her spend all her time
with Sethos than rely upon her for anything.
“Rashidi hates me.”
“He’s overly excitable sometimes.”
“Very well. I shall ask Rashidi for his permission.”
Blast. Rashidi will give consent quicker than he would send her back to the harem. “It is not Rashidi’s decision.” At least, it’s not anymore. He pulls his headdress off and runs a hand through his hair. “You … you care for Sethos, then? In the space of a few hours, he has changed your mind about him?”
She takes a step back. Realization strikes him as an arrow. He’s chosen the right line of questioning to get himself out of the corner and her into it. “You do care for him?” he persists.
“Yes,” she says, lifting her chin.
“A lie.” He steps toward her. She tries to back away again but he grabs her arm, holding her in place. “Tell me you care for him as he cares for you. Convince me of it, Sepora.”
“He is a good man.”
“He’s but fifteen years old. Hardly a man. Why? Why him?” He pulls her closer. Her breath is rushed and shallow. This debate is taking much out of them both. This debate pushes them both toward an edge they cannot afford to traverse.
“Tell me you love the princess of Hemut,” she says, desperation in her voice. “Tell me you want to marry her.” The princess of Hemut? What does that have to do with this?
“I will not say that. I cannot say that.” It will never come from his lips. It will never be the truth.
“Yet you will marry her.” She does not like this. So much so that her lips quiver on the words. Is that what this is about? Has it come down to this? She wishes to expose his raw jealousy in order to hide her own? Hope wrestles through him, untwining the tightness in his chest.
Sepora, jealous of another woman. Utterly ridiculous. He must end this madness. He must bring them both relief. “It is not Princess Tulle that I want, Sepora.”
Through the leftover silver paint, her lips are red, run through with the heat of their conversation, the passion of their argument. He grabs her other arm and pulls him to her. She pushes against him, but he’ll not allow her to budge from his grasp. “Let me go,” she says, even as she stills.
“Never.” His mouth covers hers. She writhes against him at first, but it lasts for all of a breath of a moment before she melts upon his chest. Kissing Sepora is nothing like he thought it would be.
It is so much more. Her lips are soft, so soft, and before he realizes it, his hand is tucked behind the nape of her neck, pulling her closer until her hair spills around them both. She smells of chamomile and fragrant orchids and something else that nearly renders him senseless.
They’d argued before, but the time for that is over. Now they converse in a language without words, in a language that is unmistakable, an interchange of hunger and need and pent-up passion, and for all that is sacred, she kisses him with truth.
This is how Sepora feels about him. Him, not Sethos.
39
SEPORA
I do not have to be a Lingot to know that Tarik is asking me a question with this kiss. That behind all the possession and the jealousy and the desire there is something gentle in the way his mouth moves on mine, probing and inquisitive and strong and powerful. I will make him ask it, though, out loud. I want to know that he’ll never let me go, not because I know where to find spectorium, but because he’s in love with me, the way I am with him.
But for now I do not press the issue. Not when I’ve only just disintegrated in his arms, not when I’ve only just got a true taste of him, not when his scent intoxicates me beyond my wits. His hands work through my hair, using it as something to grasp me tighter, to pull me closer, and I moan against his lips. I’m on the tips of my toes, needing all of him pressed against me, needing him in every sense of the word. Beneath my hands his biceps flex; beneath his, my skin burns hot.
To my dismay, he is the first to break away, and he does so breathlessly. His eyes are open and so then mine must be. He untangles himself from my grasp and takes three steps back, looking as bewildered as I feel. He shakes his head. “You are not very good at persuading me to let you go.”
“Tell me why I should stay,” I say, my arms aching with the emptiness he leaves behind. “Tell me why I should not spend more time with Sethos.”
He comes back to me then, grasping one of my hands, and with the other he runs his thumb along my bottom lip. “You will never kiss Sethos the way you kissed me.”
I cannot tell if it is an order or a statement, or perhaps a smidgen of both. I press my forehead into his, sighing. “You’ll not tell me, then.”
“On the contrary. I’ll tell you anything you want, if you’ll keep looking at me like that.”
“I’ll not ask again.”
He leans his head back and laughs. “This is your way of asking? Hmmm,” he says. “I’ll have to tread carefully here; I can tell.” He pulls me toward the balcony and leans an arm on the railing, observing me with not a little amusement. I can’t help but notice his lips are still swollen from our kiss, and I wonder in what state of dishevelment I’m in myself. “You think I want you because you know how to acquire more spectorium.”
I blink. “Yes. That is, I want to know if that’s the reason.”
“This is possibly the only time I have ever wished you to be a Lingot. Then you would know that is not true in the least.”
“I am not a Lingot. I’m afraid I require a full explanation.”
He smirks, pressing a kiss to my hand. “You must consider that if I wanted, I could have pressed you to tell me. There are ways of making a person talk, as much as I hate to admit knowing of them.”
“You are not a cruel king. I have never been afraid of that.” I try to ignore the fire his lips left on the back of my hand, the way his thumb traces circles on it as his touch lingers. I find that I do not want him to stop, that I don’t want to lose this proximity to him, both physical and emotional. I feel he’s an open scroll right now, rife for the reading. He’ll tell me anything, if I ask it of him.
And I would likely do the same. It is dangerous and exhilarating at the same time.
“How shall I explain this?” He gestures toward the sky. “Having you on this balcony with me makes the sun shine brighter. Your laugh is a cool breeze on a scorching day. The throne room, full of its problems and complaints and inquiries and stifling etiquette—your presence seems to hush all of that. You have taken a bleak existence, a life of duty, and made me eager to wake up to it each and every morning. Your kiss, mistress, is like taking possession of something that has always been mine. Tell me, Sepora, what of that has to do with spectorium?”
I watch his lips as he says this, wishing I were a Lingot, both longing for a deception and at the same time, relieved that there is none. This will complicate things for me. It already has.
He is not my father. He is not cruel, and he does not seek war. He cares for me. He’s just said as much, even if not with the exact words I long to hear; there was no mistaking in the way he kissed me. I’ve not had much experience in the ways of men and women, but I should hope I could recognize a false kiss when one crossed my lips, and that there was nothing deceptive about it. “So then, where does this leave us—”
But the question falls short as the door opens and the voice of Tarik’s trusted commander, Morg, calls for his king from inside the chamber. He finds us on the balcony, and by that time we’ve put an acceptable distance between us. “Great Pharaoh, please forgive the intrusion, but there is something you must see. Please, if you will, come with me to the far courtyard.”
40
TARIK
The circle of soldiers stands in full military attire in the courtyard, wearing the standard light blue shendyts, leather weapons strapped tight across their chests, shields hoisted upon their backs. The mid-morning sun casts a half-moon shadow that Tarik and Sepora must cross to penetrate the rows of waiting guards. Sepora trails slightly behind him as they follow Morg to the ce
nter where two warriors, breathless no doubt from practicing, bow deeply to their king.
“Highness,” Morg begins, “today we begin training with the weapons shaped from the nefarite.”
Tarik nods. He’d known that. From the look Sepora gives him now, he’d failed to mention that to her. Had he done it unconsciously? Or had he wished to spare himself the unease of telling her that they are in the act of producing weapons for the purpose of war with Serubel? “Yes. How goes the progress?”
Morg hesitates. “Highness, not very well. If I may, I’ve arranged a demonstration. If you and the Mistress Sepora will stand back for safety’s sake and allow our soldiers some room?”
They do as they’re asked, Tarik feeling the need to tuck Sepora behind him and feeling doubly frustrated when she defies him by peeking around his shoulder for a good view. Still, he understands her curiosity; she has been involved with the development of the nefarite from the beginning, from the time she brought the first rock of it to him after she hurled herself from the Half Bridge. She is invested in this venture, and what’s more, she genuinely cares about the safety of the Theorians against Serubel’s newest weapon.
There will certainly be a high price to pay for failing to mention that they’d already begun developing their own.
Morg nods to Tarik. “Majesty, we find that the nefarite is not strong but fragile.” He then nods to the two soldiers, Majai by their dark blue shendyts and matching face paint, in the middle of the circle of the rest of the men and women warriors. One of the soldiers holds his shield up, and the other charges toward him, grunting with the power and speed he’s gaining in the sand. This one brings his sword down upon the other’s thick round shield with a horrendous clash. Tarik gasps, as does Sepora, when the sword forged with nefarite shatters, spraying fragments into the surrounding dirt. It is then that he notices that there are many, many bits of nefarite scattered throughout the courtyard. This demonstration is the last of numerous failed attempts at practice with the new weapons.
Tarik narrows his eyes, turning on Sepora. “This nefarite is more feeble than a sword made of wood.”
