After an arrow tore open Emre’s throat and rendered Niphran incapable of leaving her bed, let alone serving as Jasad’s Qayida.
“The wilayahs disapproved.” I paced his shop, the pressure in my cuffs throbbing. “What else did they disapprove of?”
“I was not especially involved in Jasadi politics at the time, but your grandparents had a long history of causing uproars.”
What if the Mufsids had existed before the siege on Jasad? The Urabi? What if one or both had conspired against the Jasad crown long before the Blood Summit?
But why would they want the fortress to fall? They could not control a kingdom that did not exist, and there was no chance of victory against Nizahl’s armies without a fortress, a Qayida, or a single royal.
“Sylvia… why are you laughing?”
The irony, oh, delicious irony! All along, Hanim’s hatred for Nizahl was personal. She wanted a pawn in her fight to reclaim a land she considered rightfully hers. How it must have burned to watch Rawain rise over Jasad while she rotted in the woods! What had he promised her for her betrayal? What had he offered?
Rory prodded his cane into my side, looking as though he wasn’t sure whether to scold or soothe me.
“This is hardly a laughing matter. Hanim is not a forgiving woman. She’ll be searching for you,” he said. Adorable.
“She won’t be searching for me.” I wiped away the last of my tears. I needed a good laugh.
“You cannot know—”
“Hanim’s dead,” I said. “Although if anyone can exact earthly vengeance from beyond, it’s her.”
I returned Rory’s wide-eyed gaze evenly. Whatever he saw in my eyes drained the color from his face.
“Essiya,” he breathed, “what did you do?”
It flashed through my mind in an instant. A dagger slicing across a throat that never spoke a kind word. The slowing of a heart as broken and ugly as mine. A body shoved into a hole—a grave—painstakingly dug into the frozen ground.
How deep can you dig, Essiya?
Brushing crushed lavender from my cuffs, I smiled.
“I found you, Rory.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I could not bring myself to visit the keep. Raya would try to feed me ten meals’ worth of food and cluck over the state of my under-eye circles, the girls would beg for stories of the Heir and the training, and Fairel… Fairel would try to hide her pain so she didn’t inconvenience me. She might babble too much, as always, but maybe not. Maybe she would stare at the ceiling and pretend she was alone like she had seen me do when I fell into my darker moods. It was selfish and weak, but I just couldn’t bear to see how Felix had permanently altered Fairel. Not yet, at least.
My breath billowed in white clouds. I drew my cloak closer. Where were Wes and Jeru?
The horses’ clomping came from the opposite end of the road. I turned, shivering, an acerbic remark ready on my tongue.
Jeru and Wes weren’t the ones approaching with two horses in tow. Arin held out a set of reins, surveying the street behind me warily.
I suppressed a smile. Always searching for a threat. “Why are you here? Don’t say more business in Gahre.”
We mounted our horses. Arin scanned the trees, and I was sure his keen hearing strained for any odd noises. “Caution is an area where I am prone to excess,” Arin admitted. “My faith in my guards has taken a beating.”
“You? Paranoid? Steady me, sire, I may keel from my mount.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. A small victory. I wondered if I might someday see the Nizahl Heir smile without acting as though he’d be fined for it. “You should have sent Wes and Jeru. Seeing you scares the villagers.”
“I have done nothing to frighten them.”
I shot him a dry look. “You exist.”
“Despite your most accomplished efforts.”
I glanced over, surprised. The Nizahl Heir joked like a wary bird stretching its wings for first flight. Miracle of miracles.
The horse’s hoofbeats quieted as we passed the wall separating Mahair from Essam. I relaxed on my mare, holding the reins loosely on my thigh. Lanterns in white and blue dangled from the row of trees closest to the wall. Clay miniatures of Kapastra’s beloved rochelyas circled the bottoms of the trees. The blue-scaled protectors of Omal.
“Hazardous.” Arin eyed the curtain of dyed sheepskin draped over the lowest branches. MEHTI, spelled the letters sewed onto the sheepskin. The Omal Champion.
“Celebratory.”
“You are arguing with me again. You must be better.” Our horses had drifted closer at some point.