Guards from Omal and Lukub swarmed in the tight circle around the Pavilion. The Nizahl soldiers split from us, joining the ranks. Soraya’s attempt to kill me during the Banquet had clearly motivated Arin to restructure my protections. I passed no fewer than twenty soldiers plastered to the front of the house. Soraya and the others would need to evade layers of security to get to me.
Inside the Nizahl Champion’s home, I hung up the garments I would need for the next few days. Sefa had created a spectacular gown for the Victor’s Ball. The elite celebration for the winning Champion took place the evening after the third trial.
Would I have the chance to wear this gown? Any one of these trials could be my last. Though they claimed death was not the standard in the Alcalah, previous years indicated otherwise.
Something shattered outside. Before I could think, I was putting the wall at my back and crouching behind the wardrobe. My hand found my heart.
One, two. I’m alive. Three, four. I’m safe. Five, six. I won’t let them catch me.
“Sorry!” came Jeru’s faraway shout. I exhaled roughly, collapsing from my crouch. The Mufsid woman, Soraya, the Urabi. The slew of near-death encounters was finally catching up to me. Was I destined to spend my life waiting for the next net to sweep me away?
I counted my heartbeats, finally moving from behind the wardrobe by number sixty-seven. Sefa and Marek entered shortly after with trays for supper. They were stationed with the rest of the Champions’ traveling staff, so I wouldn’t see them again until after the first trial. Assuming I survived, of course.
I could barely listen to their conversation. “I think I should sleep,” I said, interrupting Marek’s tirade about Jeru’s lack of hand-eye coordination. Apparently the shatter had been Marek’s favorite cup.
Sefa’s forehead puckered. “Marek, give us a moment.”
I settled back against the hard mattress. I already missed the Ivory Palace’s luxuriously soft pillows and bed of feathers. “Sefa, if you are going to give me another speech about adventure—”
“It isn’t by choice.”
I stopped fussing with the atrocity Orban called a pillow. Sefa spoke with uncharacteristic solemnity. “What isn’t?”
“I overheard you at the Meridian Pass. You told Arin he was cruel by choice, but Sylvia, it isn’t choice.”
How Nizahlan of her to say.
My thoughts must have revealed themselves in my scowl. She huffed. “I went to school with the Heir. We were years apart, and I rarely saw him. But everyone at the school had a key parent in the Citadel, and children listen. The Heir was never uninjured. His mother was a nervous woman, obsessed with protecting her son, so none of us understood how he managed to keep breaking bones. I heard from a friend of a friend’s brother that at ten years old, Arin had recovered from his very first stab wound.”
“First stab wound?” I asked faintly. Rovial’s blessed beard, what was happening in the walls of the Citadel? “Who?”
“Assassins, maybe? We could only speculate.” Sefa sighed. “A painful past is no excuse. I would never defend the Nizahl Heir to you. But I wanted you to know, because… the way he looks at you sometimes. Like you are a cliff with a fatal fall, and each day you move him closer to its edge.”
“He believes in magic-madness. Jasadis will never be people to him. He will always think it is only a matter of time.”
But as I said it, a different conversation rose to my memory.
We build our reality on the foundation our world sets for us.
Sefa patted the spot next to my hand and left. I lay on the slab of torture King Murib saw fit to call a bed and gave myself to thought, an activity I generally took great lengths to avoid. My mind was not a place to stop for the sights, but Soraya’s speech about mirrors and memories continued to plague me. She had lied about so much. I should know better than to believe anything she said.
A rap came at my door. I recognized the cautious knock and sat up.
“Enter.”
I waved Arin inside when he lingered at the threshold, and he closed the door behind him. We regarded one another for an endless beat, each gauging the atmosphere. I pushed what Sefa had told me out of my head. I wished it mattered, but it didn’t. I could not judge an Arin I had never met. This version was the sole Arin at my disposal, and it alone would stand trial in my eyes.
He spoke first. “I should have told you I was expecting the ambush. I knew the lines of your loyalty, and I chose to push them anyway.”
I narrowed my eyes. Was he apologizing? To me?