The perimeters of my vision blurred. When I opened my eyes, the fake sky greeted me.
Arin’s head moved over the sun. He glowered at me.
“I’ll need a moment,” I said casually.
“You need more than a moment.” He reached down, and the room spun again as I was hauled upright. My traitorous legs buckled. Arin caught me with an arm around my waist, his frown deepening.
Plastered to his side and weightless, I opened my mouth to shriek obscenities directly into his ear, then reconsidered. Why bother? I didn’t have the energy for a respectable tantrum.
His body was a solid line against my own. This was the closest I’d been to a man I wasn’t trying to stab. The closest I had been to anyone not actively trying to kill me, actually. How depressing.
I waited for the swell of panic to hit at his touch. I had chalked up its absence the last time he touched me as a fluke. I was too distracted wondering if he would snap my neck to consider panicking. But he was touching me now and—nothing. No panic.
Still plenty of discomfort, though. The moment we were near enough, I wriggled away, stumbling toward my bed.
Arin did not prevaricate. “Wes and Jeru will accompany you to Mahair. They will be nearby throughout the day, but I will instruct them to give you your privacy.”
“Mahair? I’ve been asking you to let me visit for weeks, and you choose now? We cannot afford the time.”
“It is less than half a day’s ride away. I had them prepare the horses.”
My jaw dropped. I had been less than half a day’s ride away from Mahair this entire time?
I stared at Arin until it hit me. “You feel guilty.” I burst into laughter, which promptly devolved into hacking coughs. “The famed Commander feels guilty for nearly killing a village girl. Don’t worry, I don’t think Sefa is upset with you.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Are you?” I countered. “My magic is weak and uncertain. We finally have an advantage, and the Champions’ Banquet is in two weeks. We should be capitalizing on this.” I formed a circle around my wrists, kneading my cuffs.
A vein in Arin’s forehead jumped. “Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t offering. You will be going to Mahair tomorrow. If I discover you attempted to practice on your own—”
“If this is about Sefa—”
“I don’t give a damn about the girl!” Arin shouted, shocking me into silence. The outburst clearly took him by surprise as well. He locked his jaw. I had never seen the Nizahl Heir struggle to express himself—I’d venture few had.
The tips of his gloved fingers formed a steeple on the table’s surface.
“Martyrs don’t survive the Alcalah.”
“Can’t you tell the difference between a martyr and a mercenary?”
“I thought I had employed the latter. You have proven me wrong.”
I rubbed my temples, blocking out the incoming migraine and the tantalizing pillows in my periphery. “How? By doing everything possible to uphold my end of the bargain?”
When he didn’t respond, I continued, compelled to defend myself. “There is much you don’t know about me, but understand this: I will fight for my freedom until my last breath. You took it away, and you cannot fault how ardently I choose to take it back. Until you have felt hunted, less than human, rejected from the moment you were born for something you did not ask for and cannot control—until then, do not speak to me of martyrs and mercenaries.”
I braced myself for the spiel I’d heard on countless occasions. Everyone was so fond of remembering how magic forced the Awaleen into their tombs after Rovial devastated the kingdoms. They didn’t mention how it breathed life into the barren lands to begin with. They spoke of Jasad in hushed whispers, of the hoarded magic that corrupted the very leaves on the fig trees. Of magic-madness building in Jasadi veins like a disease, threatening our grasp on sanity. Forgetting that before Jasad, Nizahl’s powers were curbed, its function as an arbiter of peace strictly upheld. They had not enjoyed the unchecked powers Jasad’s destruction had allowed them.
The Nizahl Heir repeated none of it. He looked at me steadily and said, “Understood.”
Rory reacted to my visit with his flavor of effervescent glee. “You’re late.”
He chucked me under the chin, a wide smile winding over his face. “There are lavender bowls in need of sifting.”
I grinned at him like a fool. “When aren’t there?” I fetched an empty bowl and dropped onto the bench he’d had Marek carve into the wall for the elderly and expectant mothers, both of whom tended to frequent his shop. “How are you?”