Arin rose. The silver-tongued Nizahl Heir transformed before us. Ice encased his hardened features, and danger whispered in every movement of his poised body. The Commander’s stare was death’s cold caress, robbing Vaida and Felix of their breath.
I imagined what scene unfolded in the royals’ minds. Soldiers in black and violet swarming their kingdoms like locusts, sundering villages and raiding towns in search of magic. Troublesome youth would be labeled potential magic users and detained. Any trapped Jasadis would use offensive magic to avoid capture, sending towns crashing down around them. The Commander would glide through the destruction, the conductor of chaos.
Nizahl did not enter a kingdom it intended to leave whole.
Arin’s bone-chilling smile would unnerve even Sirauk’s deadly depths. The message was clear: an attack on his Champion would not go unanswered a second time.
“Will that be necessary?”
“No, no,” Felix said, tripping over his words in the rush. “There is a misunderstanding at play here. We did not—Vaida brought the dolls to—”
Vaida spoke over the bumbling Omal Heir, clear and firm. “It will not be necessary.”
She lowered her chin, tumbling her flower-woven braids over her shoulders. The specter of unspeakable horror retreated, leaving the Nizahl Heir to incline his head in acceptance. The room drew its first full breath.
In the following havoc of guards and servants, Arin slipped away. I followed, hesitating at the door. Vaida spoke quietly to her guardswoman. Felix aimed a crooked sneer in my direction. I waved, luxuriating in his loathing.
He’d swiped his paw at the wrong beast. I would suffer the consequences done to his pride if I failed at the Alcalah, but it did not matter. Watching the Sultana and Omal Heir experience for a moment what my people endured every day under the graveyard of Nizahl’s shadow was worth whatever Felix might do.
I chased Arin, speeding up two flights of stairs. I skidded to a halt in front of him before he could turn into our hall. He raised a brow when I stood there mutely. “Yes?”
How easy was it for him to slip the doll into Vaida’s servant’s pocket? She would have been flustered, overwhelmed at his proximity. The doll’s weight in her pocket wouldn’t even register. Vaida’s servant, not Felix’s, because blame needed to be thrown in both directions. He knew how many people would be in the dining hall. How many times the ghaiba would divide itself to attack everyone. How long it would take for him to fight off his allotment, how long it would take for the others. He knew the ghaiba’s influence would disorient Vaida and Felix into a children’s squabble, one he could use to condemn them.
“If I were a sensible woman, I would slit your throat while you slept.”
Pale blue eyes glinted in the gloom. “Is that a threat?”
The same vicious hunger I had struggled against at the Ivory Palace bloomed in my veins. Baying for action. A hunger that demanded I take, forge a claim to him in flesh and blood and power. Etch my name into his bones for the world to see.
Arin’s gaze darkened. We were two swords meeting on a bloodied battlefield. Inevitable. Wreathed in violence.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The night before the second trial, I slipped away from the palace town’s festival, Sefa and Marek at my heels. The royals had their own section of the festival, surrounded by guards on the ground and observed by ones on the roofs. I maintained a wide berth from Supreme Rawain and Vaun, who watched the boisterous celebration with matching distaste. The merchants setting up booths around the large wooden platform painted what they were selling on the front of their booths. None of the royals ate from them, of course, but I spotted Mehti thrusting a bag of coins at a merchant standing behind a booth with a painted chicken.
Sparring matches like the one Mahair hosted took place on the raised platform, interspersed with groups of dancers and actors. They reenacted the Awaleen’s conversation around the oak table as our predecessors debated whether to entomb themselves with Rovial. They played out the final battle between the siblings, their fall from Sirauk into the waiting tombs below. Kapastra shone as the hero, the courageous sibling in the Omalians’ performance.
Since the festival took place over the entire town, different music played the farther along one wandered. I had already heard the sweet tones of a zither and a fast-paced Omalian lullaby on the lute, watched men wave sticks around as they danced to the beat of a drumming tubluh. The Omalian merchants coming from middle towns were relegated to the outskirts of the festival. I sipped my sugarcane juice, dodging the spinning rainbow skirt of a man dancing the tannoura. An old merchant waved from the ground, his knobby knees folded beneath his slim frame. He’d laid out his wares on a quilt, and the bright colors drew me.