Vaida raised her chalice. Around me, everyone lifted their glasses. Paying homage to the sordid little tale. Rovial’s magic, Rovial’s madness. Synonyms in their minds. The fate of Jasad began on that bridge, and I revolted at clicking a chalice in celebration of it.
My neck prickled. Arin was watching. I had a part to play, and dignity wasn’t included in my performance. I raised the chalice. My cuffs glinted under the red lamplight.
This is the freedom you seek, Hanim said. Not to taunt stupid Omalian Heirs or scream or be strong, but to be silent. Freedom is truth, and you have not the bravery to speak it.
“To our Champions. The Alcalah will make foes of you all, but you must remember: the Awaleen whom you honor in these trials were once family, and it was by working hand in hand that they saved us all.”
“To our Champions!” came the cries around the table. Timur clicked his chalice against mine. My smile strained like a branch beneath a knee, liable to snap at any moment.
“Your Sultana is an eloquent orator,” I said.
“Oh, you should hear her speeches during Sedain. She need but point her finger, and the crowd would follow her anywhere.”
Sedain was Lukub’s annual realignment of the mind, body, and blood. They fasted for three days. The first spent in scholarly study, the second in physical pursuits, and the last day in bloodletting. Leeches, thorns, or animal teeth would drain the “bad blood,” leaving them cleaner and clearer. The bad blood, of course, being any trace of magic. Ha! Vaida would probably prepare a broth of babies’ heads if it meant her kingdom could have the ultimate advantage over Nizahl—magic and readiness for war. One of which Jasad had lacked.
When they brought out steaming soups, buttered breads, and platters overflowing with roast duck and lamb, I forgot my ire and heaped my plate full.
The Omal Champion glutted himself on duck and gossip. To the regret of everyone seated within spraying distance, Mehti enjoyed doing both simultaneously. Heavyset and tan, the Omal Champion resembled the workers on Yuli’s farm.
I worried that perhaps Felix had instructed him to commit mischief toward me. As the meal progressed, it became readily apparent I needn’t have worried. The sum of Mehti’s intelligence could fit into Sefa’s thimble. The fourth time he slapped the rear of a passing servant, I could hold my tongue no longer. “Mehti, is it?” I asked. I made a show of glancing over at Vaida. “I would be careful if I were you. I heard the Sultana took the arm of the last man who touched one of her palace girls without permission.”
Mehti wiped his mouth on his sleeve, thick brows drawing together distrustfully. “True?” he asked Timur.
Timur was a model of sincerity. “Very true. She would have taken his head were he not a noble.”
The greasy duck wing in Mehti’s grip hit the plate. “She took the arm of a noble?”
I pressed my lips together, suppressing a snort. Even Diya paused her chewing to listen.
Timur snapped a carrot in half. “To the shoulder.”
The Omal Champion did not bother hiding his dismay. “Aren’t Lukubi women meant to be…” He gestured, a half-hearted attempt at propriety. “More adventurous?”
“Certainly, but they have this peculiar need to choose who they go on the adventure with.” Timur shrugged. “I simply hope they do not feel the need to complain to Vaida.”
Mehti’s hands did not stray for the rest of the meal. Timur winked at me, eliciting a genuine smile.
Dania’s bloody axe. I wasn’t going to enjoy killing him.
Full bellies fostered a geniality among the group. After obliterating the shredded fiteer dipped in jam and honey, everyone ambled to the courtyard. I leaned against the doorframe, surveying the festivities. Felix appeared at my shoulder, a chalice in hand and a false smile at the ready. We both stared straight ahead.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely,” I returned. “Push any little girls in front of horses lately?”
His grip on the chalice’s stem tightened, though his tone remained light. “The night is young.”
If Niyar and Palia had not assassinated my father, it would be Emre attending the Banquet as the Omal Heir. Felix, Emre’s nephew, would be another forgotten royal in the palace.
“When you lose the Alcalah, do you have a preference for your method of execution? I find myself partial to dismemberment, although I am open to suggestions,” my cousin said, leering at a passing serving girl.
“When I become the Victor, how lavish will the festival in my honor be? Perhaps a festival after Mehti’s loss would be too embarrassing. The Nizahl Heir came to Omal and chose a worthy Champion, while the Omal Heir himself failed to do the same. Do not think of my success as your humiliation, but as a sorely needed gift to Omal.”