Fairel hurled herself into the back of the cart, chair in tow. “Here! I’m here!”
Marek chuckled, clicking his tongue at the horses. Six girls climbed into the back, arranging themselves in the cart. I jiggled my leg as we lurched into motion, fingers dancing on my knee. Dread filled my chest the closer we rumbled toward the main square. Another reason to hate the busy Alcalah season was the threat of recognition.
I always kept my ears open for any rumors about the Heir of Jasad. Not a single whisper suggested the world thought Essiya was any less dead than the rest of her family. Most of those at the Blood Summit had perished during the attack—including Isra, Supreme Rawain’s wife. Only the Queen of Omal, Supreme Rawain, and Sultana Bisai had lived. Sultana Bisai was dead now, the Lukub crown passed to her daughter, and the other two royals wouldn’t cross paths with a lowly orphan. It didn’t stop me from checking for the reassuring weight of the knife tucked in my boot whenever Mahair had visitors.
The blue cottage rose on our right. Its owners were old and childless. Not many were interested in buying property here, not with a keep full of orphans to the left and the vagrant road to the right. It would be an excellent home. There would be space for Sefa and Marek. Perhaps a small garden for my fig plant.
I directed my gaze forward. Sefa’s fanciful musings had clearly seeped into my common sense. Longing for the impossible was a task best left for fools.
The cart jerked as the path grew rockier. The children chasing the cart fell back, scuttling in the opposite direction. Heeding their parents’ warnings against venturing into the vagrant road.
“How do you feel?” Marek asked quietly.
I knew what he was really asking, but I did not have an answer suitable for his ears. “Hungry. Maya shouldn’t be allowed to prepare breakfast for anyone but her enemies. I still have eggshell in my teeth.”
Marek was silent for a long moment. I hoped we’d seen the end of the conversation.
“Five years. Five years of friendship, Sylvia. And we are friends, despite your many efforts to distance yourself from us. Yes, I noticed. I am a talent at understanding people, but you… you baffle me. Five years of friendship, and do you know the only word I would use to describe you?” He glanced at me. “Mild. Just… mild. Which might have been the end of the story until two nights ago, when I watched you singlehandedly sever a man’s backbone without flinching.”
Mild. I examined the word, testing the fit. It amused me. Perhaps Hanim’s whip was reserved for mild-mannered girls, and the scars on my back a generous reward for my tepid temper. My first week in Hanim’s tiny cabin, I threw my food at the wall and promptly burst into tears. I was still a rebellious thing, full of spite and the indignations of slighted royalty. Though I’d seen my grandparents burn with my own two eyes, had heard the messenger declare Niphran’s death with my own ears, reality had yet to sink its claws into my chest. Jasad’s disgraced war captain had stood silent as the grave as she waited for me to wipe the last of my tears.
“Go to the corner,” she said, “and lift your arms.”
Frightened of her blank eyes, I’d kept my arms raised until the scream in my shoulders dulled into a whimper. I counted the cracks in the wall, memorized the writing on my cuffs. The pain eventually settled, becoming as constant and forgettable as the pulse in my neck. I found a way to think through it.
Mild, indeed.
Undeterred by my silence, Marek continued, “Have you heard the news? They say the Nizahl Heir was spotted near the border to Gahre.”
The spike of fear his words drove into my chest irritated me. Gahre was another Omalian lower village sitting a mere hour away. The news of his arrival would have ridden in long before the Commander’s horses. I unclenched my fists. “Chatter of idle merchants, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” Marek agreed, glancing askance at my twitching fingers. “It’s Omal’s turn to represent Nizahl in the Alcalah this year. The Heir is probably gracing our humble villages to find his Champion.” Marek’s derisive tone communicated exactly what he thought of such an idea.
Hosted once every three years, the Alcalah invigorated every kingdom from the highest crown to the wildest vagrant. The tournament consisted of three grueling trials meant to celebrate the sacrifice of the progenitors of our kingdoms. The location of each trial rotated between the four kingdoms and culminated in a Victor’s Ball. If Mahair’s obsession with the Alcalah was any indication, the kingdoms built their lives around this event. I couldn’t count the number of times I had listened to Rory’s patrons walk around the shop and fantasize about dancing at the Victor’s Ball or cheering in the audience of one of the Alcalah’s trials.