I clenched my teeth, suppressing a slew of curses. The small part of me that loosened in relief went unacknowledged. Soraya was as dead to me as she was before the Banquet.
“We’ll catch her at the Alcalah. We’ll catch Soraya and the rest of the Mufsids.”
“Why aren’t you angry?” Arin snapped. “You nearly died to give me time to catch her, and I failed.”
On a good day, I could eke out one or two visible emotions from the Nizahl Heir. A small smile, an eye roll. He was always tightly wound, a coil without a spring. The bruises under his eyes weren’t the only markers of his fatigue.
“I imagine you’ve punished yourself enough. If anyone is at fault, it’s me. I allowed an attendant to plant her dagger in my chest. She hid her glamor well, and I didn’t think to check.”
“Just to be clear,” Arin said, heavy with disbelief, “your frustration stems from somehow not reading the intentions of a random servant, who you allowed into your chambers only after I asked you to?”
Halfway to opening my mouth to correct him, I paused. I would have to tread with extreme care in divulging information about Soraya. A single insignificant detail could be the key for Arin to piece together the truth of my identity.
I changed the subject. “She wanted to know whether you were still angry. Angry over what?”
Arin leaned back, once again averting his gaze. Dismay pushed me to my feet. “What are you hiding?”
The warning in his scowl was clear. “Leave it.”
Leave it?
I paced the tent, willing my magic to settle. I didn’t understand my reaction. Nothing had changed, not in essence. Arin kept secrets. Two Jasadi groups sought to reestablish Jasad. I worked with Arin to stop them. He had never pretended to be anyone other than himself. It was me who lacked any sense of self. Hanim, Arin—they knew my weakness, knew I could be shaped into a weapon and aimed in the right hands.
“I did not know her as Soraya,” Arin said.
His ploy—and it was definitely a ploy, because Arin didn’t tend to bandy about free information—worked. I stopped pacing, the panic ebbing in favor of curiosity. I crossed my arms over my chest.
Arin’s features were carved from stone. “I met her in our academy when I was sixteen. She claimed to be the daughter of a traveling noblewoman. Her wealth and charm opened doors in Nizahl. In a few weeks, she gained my friendship and confidence. I admired her in every way.”
Shock reverberated to the farthest corners of my body. How many ways could he mean “admire”？
His eyes chilled. “We became intimate. I didn’t sense her magic—I suspect she was draining it regularly. She had designs beyond seduction, of course, and sought to fulfill them after I fell asleep one night. We had shared a bed for weeks. I still don’t know why she chose to try her luck with my guardsmen right outside the door. I woke to her blade at my throat.”
“Your scar,” I whispered. My stomach churned. She’d come so close to success.
He nodded. “I disarmed her, but I don’t know how I survived. I shouldn’t have.”
I shivered with a rush of loathing. At least I was not the only one on the receiving end of Soraya’s dishonesty.
“I have the blood of everyone Soraya has harmed on my hands,” he said. “Allowing her to escape the Citadel was my greatest mistake.”
Thinking Arin wore his scar as a barrier between him and the world underestimated the Heir. He had plenty of barriers already. His scar served as a reminder. A debt to settle. His relationship with Soraya explained a few discrepancies. Vaun’s rabid animosity toward me, Arin’s visceral reaction to Marek’s snide comment about a lovers’ spat. The conversation between Jeru and Wes a lifetime ago.
“How did she escape?” I couldn’t imagine such a deadly attack on the Nizahl Heir was treated carelessly.
Arin slid to his feet. “How do you think? Someone slaughtered the soldiers guarding her cell. Highly trained soldiers, barely older than you. They didn’t have a mark on them, and I doubt they were given a chance to scream.” Wrath tightened the Nizahl Heir’s jaw, answering the question I hadn’t dared ask. Any fondness he entertained for Soraya died with his soldiers.
An old conversation floated forward. My voice emerged in a wash of horror. “Wait. Hani. Kapastra’s bloody hands, please do not say Soraya killed Marek’s brother.”
I grabbed the dresser to steady myself. Accepting that the girl who rescued me from a lonely childhood wanted to kill me? Fine. She was in good company. But this? What had my grandparents done to break Soraya so completely?