by Anna Banks
Other soldiers ready the catapults, while the one standing guard at the melting pot waits for his orders. Morg, who stands tall and unshakable behind the catapults, signals for the observation to begin. Tarik cannot help but clutch his chair as the melted spectorium is poured into the first catapult. Another soldier reaches into a leather satchel and pulls out what appears to be just a pinch of venom dust; he sprinkles the spectorium with it as though he were adding flavor to it. Slowly he backs away, appearing entranced by the reaction taking place within the bowl of the catapult.
“Quickly!” Sepora calls down, now standing in front of Tarik on the balcony, all but blocking his view. “You must release it quickly.”
Tarik stands then, unsure if it is out of support for her or out of sheer curiosity of his own. One of the soldiers raises his sword and cuts the rope, sending the mixture soaring into a glowing arch toward the first shield on the opposite side of the yard. It falls just short of its mark, landing in the sand in front of it. The rest of the attendees stationed on the balcony stand and wait for the impending blast. Just when Tarik thinks the test is impotent, the liquid pool explodes in a rush of smoke and sand hurled many feet into the air. When the dust clears, there is a substantial hole in the courtyard. An impossible hole, reaching at least an arm’s length deep into the dirt. A hole that could one day symbolize where some of his soldiers used to stand, were the Serubelans to use it against them. He tries to stifle the thought.
Morg appears unimpressed; Tarik gets the sense his senior commander has already extensively investigated the cratorium mixture beforehand and found this first test lacking. He seems determined for results, as he calls for the catapult to be loaded again and adjusted for distance. This time, the deadly compound reaches its mark, the explosive flattening the nefarite shield to the ground. Still, when a nearby soldier holds the shield up for inspection, it is fully intact. Unmarred even, as far as Tarik can tell from where he sits. The only evidence that remains is merely the fallout of the explosion in the sand around it.
With a grimace, Sepora leans in, to speak for Tarik’s ears only. “Highness,” she says, “they must add more venom dust to the spectorium. We must know what the shields can truly withstand.”
He raises a brow. “You think they can make something stronger than that?”
“I think they will try.” There is fear in her voice and in her eyes. A fear that makes him sure she has seen something more dangerous than what has been presented here. Again, his eyes flit to the scar on her hand.
He nods and places his palms on the ledge. Morg already awaits his next command. “This time add more Scaldling venom dust to the mixture,” he calls down. Morg nods, obviously pleased with his new order, and relays it to the soldier at the next catapult. Melted spectorium is poured into the bowl of the contraption, shimmering metallic in the sun. And instead of a sprinkle, an entire handful of venom is thrown in behind it. Morg and his assistant back away, swiftly this time, and the rope is cut, sending the liquid cannon slamming into the second shield. It explodes upon contact, a burst that takes Tarik’s breath away and pounds in his ears, lobbing the heavy slab of nefarite even farther back than the previous one. A silent awe blankets the courtyard.
When the soldier retrieves the shield, he looks to Morg, eyes wide. “It is unscathed, Commander.”
Morg looks to Tarik again, waiting for further direction.
“I believe we have seen enough,” Tarik announces, folding his shaking hands behind his back. “The shields will stand against the venom dust.”
His soldiers, however, will not.
* * *
Morg leans back in his seat as he speaks from across Tarik’s desk. The commander of the Theorian army wears a contented look upon his face.
“We need a weapon such as that,” Morg says. All the while, Sepora bites her lip, refusing to make eye contact with him—or for that matter, anyone else in the room.
“We have an excellent defense, but war is not only composed of defense,” Morg continues. “We’ve no reason to believe we’ll not need to counterattack our enemy. This cratorium could save lives. It could win us the war.”
“As of yet, there is no war,” Tarik says. “We’ve not seen a single sign of aggression from the Serubelans.”
Morg sighs. “By the Mistress Sepora’s own admission, there is an imminent strike. I’m afraid we cannot ignore that, Highness; we need an offensive strategy as much as we need a defensive one. It would show weakness on our part not to annihilate the Serubelans if they dare to attack us. Weakness is something we cannot afford. It is something you cannot afford, as a new king.” The words would have been out of turn, if they were not said so sincerely.
“It would also show that we are peaceable,” Sepora says, crossing her arms. “That Theoria does not want a war.”
“Peaceable?” Morg says, incredulous. “We’ve already shown ourselves to be peaceable when we sent an ambassador to Serubel to speak to the king. He flogged the entire caravan and sent them away! Do not speak of peace to me.” He looks to Tarik. “Forgive me, Highness, but the Mistress Sepora is not Theorian. It would be difficult for her to remain objective in this matter.”
“I may not be Theorian, but I do care about lives,” she clips. “And if I understand correctly, war results in casualties from both sides.” She looks pointedly at Tarik.
“This is true, Mistress Sepora,” Morg says. “But we already have a plague sweeping through our people. We cannot afford to lose more of them to a war in which we are only spectators. If we do not retaliate, other kingdoms may view us as vulnerable. Vulnerability attracts the attention of power-hungry rulers, I’m afraid.”
Tarik cannot ignore this logic. Of course Sepora is worried for her kingdom, but if she is to adjust to life here, she must start thinking of Theoria as her home. This is not something to discuss in front of present company, however. When he steals a private moment, he’ll reason with her further.
“Everyone has made valid points,” Tarik says. “I must think on it more before coming to a decision. Please leave me; I’ll be alone with my thoughts now.”
Sepora is not happy to be among those dismissed, but to her good credit she doesn’t resist; she follows dutifully behind Morg as he exits Tarik’s day chambers, her expression pinched into a scowl.
Yet, Tarik knows what he must do. And Sepora will not like it.
43
SEPORA
After tossing and turning in my bed for what seems like several forevers, I finally surrender to the anxiety. The moon spills in from the balcony as I slip into my clothes and open the door to my bedchamber. Thankful that Tarik had already dismissed my guards a few days ago, I roam the palace of my own free will, trying to get my bearings on where exactly his bedchamber is. I pass guards who give me curious looks but say nothing. Either they’ve been instructed to remain at their posts or they do not deem me their responsibility.
I wrap my arms around myself; I had never thought the palace cold before. Indeed, it can be quite stuffy in the halls where there is no access to the outside breeze, pockets hidden away where the heat has a chance to build and simmer. But there is something about the palace that has grown frigid, and I cannot help but think it has to do with the discussion of the Scaldling venom earlier today in Tarik’s day chambers. With the excitable way Morg spoke of an attack on Serubel. With the way Tarik seemed torn in his decision.
Indeed, I am chilled from the inside out.
Once I make it to the west wing, I stumble upon two rows of guards leading up to large, wooden, and intricately carved double doors. A pair of Theorian soldiers blocks the entrance to the room; this must be the king’s private chambers. Who else would require need of such protection? Taking a deep breath, I pass each guard without looking at them, holding my head up high as though I’ve come here for a purpose, as though I’ve been summoned by the king himself.
Of course, I have come here for a purpose, but not a purpose the king will want to hear. The guards
allow me to close in on the door, but the men there move together in unison, crossing their long spears so as not to allow my passage. “Mistress Sepora,” one of them says, “the king is in private discussions with his council and is not to be disturbed.”
“What council? I am his council until Rashidi returns.”
The guard nods. “Rashidi joins him now.”
Rashidi is back? Perhaps now is not the right time to speak with Tarik. Rashidi will have much to relay to the king from his visit to Hemut. And Tarik will have much to relay to his adviser. How will he explain our relationship? How will Rashidi react? My first thought is to postpone my meeting with Tarik until we can swindle a private moment from his busy days. But with Rashidi back, there will be very few private moments. I will become his attendant, instead of Tarik’s. I will see to Rashidi’s needs, his errands, and his commissions. Or he may dismiss me altogether.
“The king is expecting me,” I lie, hoping none of the guards within earshot are Lingots. I bristle at the fact that none appear to be. Tarik would do well to post Lingots at his door, in case any who he trusts means to harm him. I understand the need for Majai; but a royal guard should be well rounded with different skill sets for different lines of attack. Perhaps I’ll speak to Rashidi about it in the morning. If there is one thing the adviser and I agree upon, it is the importance of the king’s safety.
“He did not tell us of your visit this evening,” he responds, gripping his spear tighter. No doubt this man has heard of my escape from the harem, of my escape from the palace to speak to the Parani. No doubt this man trusts me as much as he trusts a one-wheeled chariot to get him to the Bazaar.
Just then, the door behind them creaks open, and Tarik steps out, bereft of paint or gold adornments. His gaze locks with mine, and I can tell he has not slept. I can tell much weighs on his mind. Small, faint blue rings circle his eyes and his hair is a bit disheveled as though he, too, has been tossing and turning. Rashidi must have arrived not long before me; Tarik has not had time to gain any sort of composure.
“She may come in,” Tarik says tiredly. “Let her through.”
Immediately the guards separate and make room for my passage. Tarik shuts the door behind us. His bedchamber is enormous, with several sitting areas, a table and chairs, what appears to be a lavatory in the far corner, and an immense bed surrounded by four columns and steps leading up to it. Gold statues of warriors guard the walls between each entrance to the long balcony where sheer white curtains sway gently in the night breeze, letting rivulets of moonlight in. On the ceiling is a mural embellished with gold, depicting what appears to be a battle. Theorians, of course, conquering whomever it is they are in conflict with.
The room is intimate yet stately, and luxurious in every way.
I feel Tarik looking at me, and I turn to him. “It was my father’s,” he says, nodding around us. “Rashidi insisted I use it, but I much prefer my old room on the other side of the palace. Too much space for thought in here.”
“A king must have space for his lofty thoughts,” Rashidi calls from the corner behind us. He sits in a chair, cradling his long golden staff in the crook of his arm. He appears perhaps more tired than the king himself. He must have arrived late this evening.
I bow my head in greeting to the old councillor. “I am glad to see your safe return, Rashidi.”
He tilts his head at me. “Are you, though?”
A blush heats my cheeks. What does he know of the king and I? Or perhaps he’s merely referring to our very mutual distaste for one another. “Of course,” I tell him. “This is a time where the king needs his most trusted adviser.”
“And what lofty thoughts weigh on your mind tonight, your Highness?” I ask, turning to Tarik.
“Several, I’m afraid. And I’d wager the same thoughts that brought you to my bedchamber, mistress.”
He places his hand at the small of my back and ushers me to the sitting area closest to the balcony where Rashidi is already seated. The old adviser steals a disapproving look at me as Tarik takes a seat across from me. I well know it is not proper for a mistress to visit the king’s bedchamber in the middle of the night, attendant or not. It is not proper in any kingdom, I should think, for a woman who is not his wife—or concubine, as it were—to visit. Certainly in Serubel it is not. But we are well past the point of what is proper and what is not. Tarik is right to keep his distance. This conversation cannot be tainted with my feelings for him. By his feelings for me.
“Have you made a decision regarding cratorium?” I ask.
“I have.” He leans forward, folding his hands carefully in front of him, his elbows on his knees. “Sepora, you must understand that I cannot overlook the counsel of my military commander and my closest adviser.”
So. Rashidi agrees with Morg. And Tarik agrees with them both. My heartbeat falters, once, then twice. Tarik is very good at not tainting this conversation with his feelings for me. I must now do the same.
“You’re going to use it as a weapon, then.” My lungs feel heavy in my chest, as though full of water, and at any moment they could slip into my stomach and down to my knees, drowning me completely. “Against Serubel.”
“If they use it against us, yes. We must fight back. The ways of Theoria dictate that. It was never really my decision to begin with. If I have a way to protect my people, I must use it, Sepora.”
“You have the nefarite to protect them.”
Rashidi sighs. “If we do not attack those attacking us, we show vulnerability to all the surrounding kingdoms. We open ourselves to further assault. The Falcon King cannot allow that.”
“It is for nothing, then. Everything I’ve done for you,” I say to Tarik. I will not grace Rashidi with my glare. He is not the one deserving of all my ire just now. I stand and walk toward the balcony, grasping a curtain as though it could hold me up were I to collapse into my emotions. I hear Tarik behind me, feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“I have responsibilities, Sepora,” he says, his voice pleading. “I have responsibilities that tie my hands in this matter.”
“You are the most powerful man in this kingdom,” I tell him softly, trying to concentrate on the moon overhead instead of the warmth of his body behind me. “Maybe in all the Five. And yet your voice does not outweigh that of a war-hungry commander and a grouchy old man?”
“I have served as royal adviser for two generations,” Rashidi says indignantly. “As it were, you’ve interrupted an even more important conversation than the well-being of a kingdom that means to attack us.”
“That conversation can be heard at a different time,” Tarik says sternly. Then his voice softens as he speaks to my hair again. “Morg is not war-hungry. He has his duties, as do I. And this time, those duties align with each other. Rashidi may be grouchy, but his loyalties lie with Theoria. I must trust him.”
I’ve given this man, this boy king too much. I’ve given him nefarite. I’ve told him about the Scaldling venom and spectorium. I’ve told him about the Forging. I’ve warned him of my father’s impending attack. I trusted him with all of it and in so doing I’ve handed him the means to defeat Serubel. To kill my people.
I cannot bear the thought of it. Not at this moment. Fighting angry tears, I step away from him. It is better to put physical distance between us since he is bent on putting a different sort of distance between us. How can I trust him now? How can I serve him if he will use me in this way? “And what conversation have I rudely interrupted?” I whisper, knowing Rashidi would rather be sentenced to a life in The Dismals than tell me.
But Rashidi is all too happy to relay his news. “My journey to Hemut was a success. His Majesty the Falcon King will take Princess Tulle of Hemut as wife within four cycles of the moon.”
I shut my eyes against the words. Of course that is what they were speaking of. Rashidi’s purpose was to unite the kingdoms of Hemut and Theoria. That is where he has been these four weeks. What better way to do that than marriage? And of
course that is why Tarik wanted to speak to Rashidi about it at a different time; for Rashidi’s ears only. No doubt he planned to seek me out and tell me privately, to be gentle and kind about it the way he does when we have a disagreement. But this is not a disagreement.
This is yet another betrayal.
“We must make this an elaborate wedding, Highness,” Rashidi is saying. “And I had the thought that, if you were willing, we could send King Ankor a supply of spectorium and venom dust, and show him how to create the cratorium. After all, when we are united, the kingdom of Hemut will be in danger of attack as well.”
Arm the Hemutians against Serubel as well? I have met my threshold for patience this evening. I have met my threshold for patience for an entire lifetime. Turning to Tarik, I press my back into the wall, all but rejecting his closeness. His eyes hold a sadness that I feel deep within my own chest. But it is no matter. Not anymore. “Am I a slave, Highness?”
“Of course not,” he whispers.
“Then I may leave if I wish?”
“Sepora—”
“Surely you don’t expect me to stand by and watch you bring my people to their knees. I certainly was not going to stand by and watch my kingdom attack yours without warning you.” Of course, that’s not exactly how it unfolded, but it’s how it turned out in the end. And surely he does not expect me to watch idly as he weds the Princess Tulle. But that is not for Rashidi’s ears. Even now, even when all has been exposed between us, it is still only between us.
He runs a hand through his hair. “You speak as though I am the one who started this war. Remember, it is your king who means to—”
“It makes no difference. I’ll not stay here and watch either of you die. Not the Serubelans, not the Theorians. I came here to prevent a war. I’ve failed. I have no purpose here anymore.”
“Purpose?” He raises his hand to brush his knuckles along my cheek. It takes all of my willpower not to shudder under his touch. Rashidi stiffens in the corner. A king does not touch his attendant so. Tarik would break with etiquette now? “Your purpose here is to keep me sane. To keep me balanced.” He smiles. “To keep me in my proper place.”
