Since they were the youngest kingdom, and the only one not to have an Awal or Awala to honor, Nizahl’s customs diverged sharply from the others. There were no festivals, no markets, no celebrations. Once a year, Nizahlans gathered to watch the young soldiers advance into the Commander’s army in a special ceremony. They ate game, grains, and bread. They were a strictly hierarchical society, placing a high premium on respect to those above you.
To Nizahlans, Lukubis were depraved, Orbanians animals, and Omalians loud swindlers. They did not see that their kingdom’s sterility was its own danger. Nizahl lived like a predator poised in wait, holding its breath for the right moment to strike.
Jeru accompanied me to Diya’s rooms for supper. Arin had been whisked through the other gates as soon as I left the carriage. “It might interest you to know His Highness the Supreme didn’t invite Vaun into his carriage when he departed from Omal.”
I knocked on Diya’s door. I did not want to think of Dawoud while I stood in his killer’s kingdom. “Good.” I was not foolish enough to believe Supreme Rawain’s suspicion fully laid to rest, but Dawoud’s death had at least cast doubt on the merits of Vaun’s claims.
Our meal was quiet. Diya inspected each bite of food before eating it and stared out the window while she chewed. “I hate birds,” she said. She sliced into the boiled pigeon on her plate. “But I do love to eat them.”
I had grown almost fond of Diya’s belligerent nature. She was a cactus I enjoyed pricking my finger against. I had a notion that Orbanian Fairel would take a great liking to Diya. The young ward had terrible taste in people. “Is that why you keep glaring at the Nizahl crest? Worried one of the ravens will fly down to gobble you up?”
The Orban Champion snapped the pigeon’s wing in two, unamused. “Laugh as you wish. I know you can feel the dark pulse in this land. Those ravens terrify me.” Diya shuddered, pushing aside her plate. “You should beware symbols of power. They have a tendency to create lives of their own.”
Diya evicted me as soon as we finished eating. I walked back to my room between the second and third gates that bracketed the Champions’ suites. A compromise for not allowing Champions to spend the night in the Supreme’s home; we were still protected within the scope of the Citadel’s grounds. I passed khawaga dressed in galabiyas, the brown-and-green garments falling to their sandaled feet. Nizahl soldiers circled my suite, their starched livery at odds with the neighboring Orbanian garb.
Meanwhile, my perennial inability to sleep in new places was in top form tonight.
“I want to go for a walk around the grounds,” I whined. “Who could possibly attack me in the Citadel? I can’t sleep, Jeru.”
A hassled Jeru yanked at the ends of his curly hair. I’d been nagging him for the better part of an hour. “Would it help if I knocked your skull against the door a few times?”
My neck prickled. The soldiers at Jeru’s back bowed, clearing the way for a tall figure to climb the steps.
“That seems ill-advised,” Arin said, startling Jeru so badly the guard choked on his own saliva.
“Sire, I—” Jeru turned the shade of a ripe pomegranate, but Arin waved the guard’s mortification away.
“Get your cloak,” Arin said to me. “I’m going to take the Nizahl Champion for a walk around the Citadel’s grounds.”
Shock flitted across Jeru’s face before he schooled his features. I supposed Arin didn’t make a habit of personally escorting guests around the premises. “Of course, my lord. I’ll alert the soldiers to open the third gate.”
“I assumed you would barricade yourself in your quarters until tomorrow,” I said, pulling on my cloak. Damn it, where had I tossed my boots?
Arin tracked my frenetic movements around the room with vague amusement. There weren’t many places the boots could be. The only decoration in the room was a painting of Supreme Rawain, placed opposite the bed to ensure nightmares all night long. He was depicted leaning on his scepter in one of the Citadel’s chambers.
“You’ve heard the rumors,” Arin sighed.
“That you’re a recluse? Everyone has.” Ah, I’d buried them beneath my bags. If I had a fraction of Arin’s instinct for tidiness, I would lead an entirely different life. “You can admit it. I won’t think less of you. You wish you were alone with your maps and a glass of that horrendous lavender drink, don’t you?”
I turned, boots firmly tied, to find Arin in the middle of carefully folding the only set of clothes I’d unpacked: my outfit for the trial. Something in my chest swelled at the sight. The rumple in his brow as he smoothed the sleeves, the way he angled the stack so I couldn’t miss it. Handling my belongings with the thoughtfulness and care I’d originally confused for severity and uncompromising perfectionism.