by Anna Banks
She winces, obviously having already drawn the same conclusion herself. “You think the Parani negotiated a sour deal.”
“It appears so.” It is something he doesn’t want to think about at the moment, and especially in front of such a large crowd. But if the Parani have truly bartered with false intentions, then there must be retribution. Their leaders knew what he had intended to use the nefarite for; what good is an element that shatters upon contact in a war? What’s more, he changed traditions of Theoria for this, uprooted nearly the entire Middling class for this, risked Sepora every time she went to mediate on his behalf. He had hoped this would work. His hope had obviously not been fulfilled.
Sepora steps out from behind him. “But Master Saen spoke with him. She would have detected any deception.”
“There are ways around such detection, as you may well know, Mistress Sepora. And you must think, this language is vastly understudied. Mistakes could have been made.”
She flushes, tilting her head up at him. Ah, but those silver eyes catching in the sun have him nearly speechless. As does the way she bites her lower lip, especially since he is now acquainted with how that lip tastes. “She was very direct with him at all times, Highness. Something here is amiss.” She turns to Morg. “The shield there. Is it not constructed from nefarite as well?”
Morg nods. “It is, mistress. Which is truly the mystery of the situation.”
“And were they built in the same way, with the same process?”
“Exactly the same.”
She strides to the soldier with the shield, and though it’s too heavy for her to handle, the warrior allows her to inspect it closely. Running her fingers along it, she mumbles something to herself that Tarik cannot quite make out. She picks up fragments of nefarite from the dirt, allowing the sand to sift through her fingers in order to better look at the remnants of the swords—of the scores of swords. Finally, she looks up at Morg again. “Have any of the shields failed?”
He shakes his head. “No, mistress. Not one.”
Her eyes lock with Tarik’s. “I’ve an idea of what is happening here.” She stands and walks back to him. “The Parani told Saen and me that nefarite is the Great Judge. We didn’t understand his meaning at the time. We thought perhaps the Parani worshipped the nefarite as a living element, as the citizens of Wachuk worship fire. Now I’m quite sure that is not the case.”
“Tell me your thoughts, Mistress Sepora. I don’t think I’m following.” The idea of nefarite, a basic element, holding the ability to judge a man is not something he’ll readily accept—though, of course, he’s not sure that’s what Sepora is trying to relay. And he’s quite sure Sepora didn’t mention this detail before, nor did Saen; sometimes he can discern the truth from third parties and he’s quite certain he would have picked apart this detail for what it appears to be: superstition.
“I cannot be sure, Highness, but it appears nefarite is a judge after all, in some way,” she says. “The shield is used for protection, the sword for attacking. The shield withstands a blow, while the sword shatters. It distinguishes between good and evil. The shield is used for good, the sword for evil.”
“Spectorium is the only living element, Sepora. It has been an accepted fact for ages upon ages.”
Her bottom lip juts out, and Tarik is sure he’s going to have to haul her back to his day chambers if he doesn’t want to stir a scene here. “It has been ages since anyone has actually possessed nefarite, is that not true?”
Well. He supposes the sword he inherited from his father doesn’t count for much in this discussion, since it was never made into anything of purpose. Still, his father did cleave a block in two with it. It was not fragile at that time. “That is true, mistress.”
“And so, we cannot really be sure of its properties just yet, wouldn’t you agree, Highness?”
He smiles. She really would make an excellent adviser. What would Rashidi do if I appointed her as such? “We cannot assume anything at this point, however. You will go back to the Parani, Sed. The Master Saen will accompany you. Tell Sed what has happened here and see what he says.” He would accompany her himself were it not considered a task beneath him. It reminds him that he must take a day off soon and whisk Sepora back into the city with him.
She bows her head slightly. The act is insincere at best, and he nearly smirks at her, catching himself at the last moment. As it is, he raises a brow. “Of course, Highness,” she says demurely. “Right away.”
41
SEPORA
I make my way to Tarik’s day chambers, hoping to catch him in a private moment. That is always the hope of late, to hold the exclusive company of the king, even if for only a few stolen moments at a time. It is the only chance I have to make his lips my own, to see whether he will conquer me or I him in our brief exchanges.
Disappointed, I find Tarik is not alone; Cy the Healer and Morg the military commander sit at the great marble table teeming with parchments and scrolls. Upon seeing me, Patra meanders over from the sliver of sunlight streaming in from the balcony and pushes her head into my palm. Tarik tosses me an amused look before he greets me formally. Cy and Morg stand at my presence. When they do so, Patra abandons me again in favor of her cozy spot by the terrace. Tarik has offered several times to acquire a cat for me, but I find that I’m quite taken with Dody and his care. A cat would just be a burden, I think.
“Ah, Mistress Sepora has returned from the River Nefari,” Tarik says. “What news do you bring? I was just informing Cy of our Great Judge.”
I wince internally, noting to myself that I’ll need to give the king a proper scolding later, especially after speaking with Sed again today. Well, after Saen had spoken with him, at any rate. Tarik simply must show his new allies more respect, though it was in question for a while whether the Parani had truly sided with us. Still, mocking what they consider a Great Judge simply will not do. “As it turns out, Highness, it is as I assumed. The nefarite will fail if used for purposes other than good.”
“Fascinating,” Cy says, eyes wide.
“So all the nefarite we used to forge the swords with is now worthless?” Morg says.
Tarik attempts to answer, but I accidentally interrupt him, earning a look of disapproval from Morg. Cy seems unaffected by my disgraceful behavior; I’m afraid he’s most likely used to it by now. I sit in on almost daily meetings with him and Tarik regarding the plague—at Tarik’s insistence, of course, in case I care to cave on the matter—and Cy has grown quite accustomed to our exchange in banter. I don’t think much is lost on Cy, indeed. “I asked Sed if all was lost, and he said the element should be salvageable from the swords. You can melt them down and use them for other purposes, and the nefarite will regain its strength.”
“Interesting,” Tarik says, leaning across his desk. “We’ve no need of more shields. I suppose we can trade the old swords to Wachuk for more silver for new swords.” Trading useless swords would be a sour deal negotiated by Theoria. Or perhaps I underestimate Tarik. Perhaps he reasons that if used for hunting game to feed their people, the swords would not be so fragile for the citizens of Wachuk. Surely the Great Judge would deem the swords worthy for this use.
“Our soldiers are already fully dressed with nefarite shields, Highness, that is true,” Morg says thoughtfully. “But perhaps we need one shield for all.” Morg pauses then, as if still forming the thought in his mind.
“I’m listening,” Tarik says.
I take my place at the king’s side, trying and barely succeeding in not staring at him. He is fully dressed in his royal attire, which is not how I prefer him, but I cannot help but notice the way the gold body paint accentuates each of his muscular cuts along his arms and stomach. Things I should not be thinking of at this important moment.
“We could use the nefarite to fortify the city,” Morg says, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand. “If it indeed acts as a protector against attack, we could mold a layer to each of the structures in the c
ity, beginning, of course, with the palace.”
Tarik nods. “Yes. That’s an excellent idea. Do we have someone experienced enough to do this?”
“I’ll send word to your Serubelan architect, Highness. If she cannot complete the task herself, she will select a pupil who would fit our needs. My only hesitation is that she is of the freed slaves. Where do her loyalties lie?”
Tarik looks at me. “I’ve no doubt of her loyalties. She will do as we ask.”
Is he speaking of me, or this grand architect of the freed slaves? There seems to be no malice in his voice; it is not a command, for his eyes still resonate with playfulness. Perhaps it is a question for later. I tuck it into the recesses of my mind and allow myself to feel some relief at the conversation. It really is a splendid idea, fortifying the structures, and for once I’m forced to acknowledge that perhaps Morg is not as bloodthirsty as I first supposed. Perhaps he truly is interested in defense, rather than attacking my home kingdom.
Then I realize that Cara said the king’s own architect is a Forger. What will she think of the king’s command? Will she truly be as loyal as he supposes? After all, Cara herself had been concerned with the fate of Serubel. Do all the freed slaves and their descendants share this concern?
“Of course,” Morg says, moving along with his strategy against Serubel. “We’ll need to test it out against the explosive properties of the Scaldling venom before we go to all the trouble. If it is useless against the Serubelans, we need not waste time in pursuing this avenue of defense.”
I tense at Tarik’s side. He does not miss it, but he’ll not meet my eyes. “Agreed,” he says, and I resist the urge to hurl myself at him. He’s well aware of how I feel about harvesting the Scaldling venom from Kyra. If he has no ill intent toward Serubel, if he means to only defend against attack, then he should leave his scorched city the way it is. “But we needn’t harvest much of the stuff for our purposes,” Tarik amends when I cross my arms. “A bit of the venom dust and melted spectorium should tell us if we’re wasting our time.”
“Of course, the spectorium we have is not fresh, so the effects of the mixture will likely be diluted,” Morg is saying.
“The Serubelans should be running out of fresh spectorium themselves,” Tarik says. Immediately he realizes his folly. Will he now explain to Morg about the late Forger princess? That there is another Forger somewhere in the Five Kingdoms. Perhaps he’ll not have to. Perhaps Morg will overlook this slip up. But it’s too much to hope for. The brazen commander always pays close attention to his king. To my dismay, Morg’s head wrenches upward. I brace myself for the inquisition I’ll receive at his hands.
“Is that so? How do you know this?”
Tarik smiles. “Surely you do not think I wouldn’t have my own informants, Morg. There are those loyal to my father, and those loyal exclusively to me.” So, Lingots do have the ability to lie.
And Morg must not be a Lingot. The warrior sniffs, clearly taken aback. “You’ve put me in charge of protecting Theoria. Please consider that withholding information that affects my ability to do that is setting me up to fail, Highness.”
“Of course I do,” Tarik says, his voice nurturing. “But I find that due to my inexperience, I need the council of many rather than just one. How am I to find my own way, otherwise? And I was not keeping the fact from you. Why do you think we are having this meeting?”
A diplomatic response to be sure. But Morg does not appear pacified. Yet, for all his dismay, he says, “Of course, Highness.”
“May I have a supply of nefarite for the Lyceum?” Cy says, startling us all with his enthusiasm. I had nearly forgotten he was in the room.
“The Lyceum will be one of the first structures to be coated with it,” Tarik reassures him. “We must protect the work you’re doing with the Quiet Plague.”
“Yes,” Morg says, nodding in approval. “My ranks have not gone untouched by this nuisance, and young Master Cy was quick to take up against it. I am eternally grateful.”
“Yes, well.” Cy does not seem to know how to smoothly accept a compliment. He shakes his head, turning back to Tarik. “No, Highness, I meant for my personal use. For experimenting.”
“Experimenting for what?” Tarik says, not unkindly. “Your time is better invested in seeing to the needs of our people at the moment. Experiments outside of that seem frivolous—”
The young Healer hesitates before interrupting, but does so nonetheless, looking to Tarik for forgiveness and approval. “If it’s all the same to you, Highness, I’d rather not say for the time being. My ideas and speculations are very broad, and I must think on it more before explaining it fully, but rest assured it does have much to do with helping our citizens.”
Tarik drums his fingers on the table, no doubt processing Cy’s words, turning them over in his mind to find the truth or at least something worthy enough to indulge his young Master Healer. He has much respect for Cy, and I can tell he wants to give him ample room for his ingenuity. “How much do you need?” Tarik says finally, amid another sniff from Morg.
“Perhaps three or four swords. I can melt them myself. I think that will be sufficient for what I have in mind.”
“It is decided, then,” Tarik says, standing. “Cy may have a few of our worthless swords. We’ll test the Scaldling venom against the shields. Soon we will have some answers.”
42
TARIK
A small gasp resounds from a few seats down on the balcony and Tarik becomes acutely aware of Sepora standing behind what would be Rashidi’s high-backed chair. She grasps the wings of the chair, her knuckles growing white with the force of her grip. Tarik follows her line of sight to the soldiers in the yard as they make ready for the demonstration of spectorium and Scaldling venom. Her glorious hair is woven into an intricate braided masterpiece atop her head, the sheer bits of material and gold chains flowing from the creation dangling loosely in the wind. She’s distracted, preoccupied, and biting her lip in a way that makes him want to go to her. He knows what she’s thinking, what is passing through her mind at this moment as she stares down at the soldier in the yard melting purple spectorium in a large metal pot.
Despite his assurances to the contrary, she believes Theoria will move against the Serubelans using this new concoction of venom and spectorium—what the more experienced soldiers are calling cratorium, for the deep cavities the mixture leaves in the ground. She believes he would make cavities of the Serubelan army this way.
It bothers him that Sepora still doesn’t trust him. Not enough to tell him the identity of the last Forger. Not enough to know that he has no intention of using this horrible weapon against her precious Serubel. He’d hoped by now they’d have progressed, that he could confide in her the way he wants to and that she could confide in him. But still they hold back, each one cradling their own secret feelings as though they do not know each other at all. As if they do not find ways to see each other every day, to touch their lips together, even if for the briefest of moments.
If only she could trust him. Then he would trust her. Then he could tell her that she saved him. That before she came along, he had been existing, moving like one of the many mechanical creations the engineers contrive, only instead of being powered by spectorium, he was powered by sheer obligation, going through the same motions over and over again as though a windmill or the wheels of a chariot. Only when she escaped the harem did this mundane survival finally turn into a life. One he’d be happy to share with her—for as long as she’ll have him.
How can he tell her? Should he tell her? He isn’t sure, and it is not something about which he can confer with Rashidi, even if he were here. His old friend would not approve of this secret romance with a royal servant—especially if that servant is Sepora. Nor would Sethos understand, as his view of women extends just below his waist, never reaching his heart or his mental faculties. And pride of the pyramids, his brother couldn’t utter anything about Sepora without his feelings for her tainting his w
ords.
As it is, they’ve kept their relationship hidden from Sethos’s eyes. His brother just lost his father. Tarik will not hurt him with losing Sepora as well. When the time comes, then he will tell him. And he will make his brother understand.
Tarik is drawn from his thoughts at the sound of a trumpet bouncing in a rhythm of high-pitched bursts throughout the track, which brings the entire royal balcony to attention. This used to be his favorite place as a child, coming here to the complex to watch the chariot races with his father. The king and his guests had a balcony entirely their own overlooking the center of the track, where warriors would chisel away at each other’s defenses or chariots would whirl around dangerously to get just inches ahead of the others.
Now, some of the council members choose to stand, while some take seats lined close to the balcony’s waist-high edge. Sepora takes her place to stand beside Tarik’s chair, absently gripping the balcony ledge before him and almost blocking his view of the procession below. She simply must calm down, but exchanging words with her at this moment, at her height of anxiety, would not be good for either of them. She would say something out of turn, and he would be expected to correct her for it. As they both watch with keen interest, soldiers prop up large shields reinforced with nefarite across the yard as targets for the volatile mixture. Sepora had already instructed the soldiers on how it is to be done, emphasizing that they must release the blended spectorium and venom quickly, lest they risk burning themselves. Tarik had noticed a small burn on her hand before; he wonders if she sustained it while helping King Eron fashion a spectorium explosive. He wonders if that contributed to the reasons she left. He wants to ask her but dares not. Though she stands so close to him, she seems so far away at the moment. He would like her attention during this experiment, to confer with her on the results, to hear her thoughts on the matter. To hear her concerns. Because from what he gathers by the way she chews at her bottom lip, Sepora is very concerned.
