“The time of our meeting is near, my friends, but here is a taste of what is to come.”
I pressed the switch.
The creature howled, tearing a strip from my tunic. I stumbled back as it writhed, tossing its head from side to side. Its front legs buckled on another mournful howl.
When it stopped kicking, lying still and pitiful in the dirt, I dared to venture closer. Its paw twitched, and a flash of white drew my gaze. A piece of parchment had fallen from its kicking limbs.
“It’s dead,” Arin said, startling me. He crouched, pulling the object out of the creature’s mouth. He twisted the sides in opposite directions, and the spikes disappeared. He stayed down, assessing its bejeweled corpse. I gave him my back and unfolded the note. It was written in Resar. I scanned the words, heart beating fast. There was no mention of my true name. I passed it to Arin.
He read it aloud. “We offer you here a display of our power. United, we can raise Jasad from the ashes and bring war to those who would see us exterminated. Do not trust the others. The enemies of Jasad begin from within.” His thumb grazed the bottom of the parchment, where a kitmer’s wings flared up on each side. “This is the Urabi’s seal.”
The enemies of Jasad begin from within. Did they mean Hanim or the Mufsids? How deep had the Mufsids infiltrated before the Blood Summit? Maybe all the awful events Arin described were perpetuated through the Mufsids. Incompetence was an easier crime to attach to my grandparents than corruption.
I craned my neck for our escaped horses. “We need to go.”
Arin tucked the note into his pocket, examining the vast wilderness around us. “They must have found out a member of the Mufsids made contact with you and kept watch over the road to Mahair.”
I cast a nervous glance around the woods. They could still be nearby.
Arin bent to retrieve his gloves and winced. Barely perceptible, and on most I would have ignored it, but Arin wincing was equivalent to a dozen soldiers screaming. He favored his right side, where the Hound had slashed at him.
“What did you say about martyrs, again?” I asked. “Are you angry because I used my magic on you? You passed through it in half a minute.”
He put on his gloves, content to pretend I didn’t exist. The fabric at his right side was matted, slightly darker than the rest.
I threw my arms up. “If you want to quietly bleed for the next hour, it is not my place to stop you. But don’t expect me to drag you to the tunnels if you faint!”
He paused. “I wouldn’t faint.”
“I know you are the mighty immortal man, impervious to the woes of us commoners. If it would behoove Your Highness to allow me to dress your injury—why, I can’t express how honored—”
“Fine.” Arin scowled. “Unless your magic includes secret physician abilities, I am not confident you won’t do more damage.”
“You’ve injured me.” I put a hand to my heart. “Somehow, I’ll find the strength to live another day. You may not, and I have little desire to be implicated for the Nizahl Heir’s murder without the actual pleasure of murdering you. Remove your vest, please. I promise to protect your virtue.”
From his dark glare, it appeared he didn’t appreciate my thoughtfulness. Arin tore the laces of his vest in a single yank. Heat pricked the back of my neck, and I studied my nailbeds.
He eased his coat, vest, and tunic off. I inhaled between my teeth. The creature had gouged scores into his side. A few were shallow enough to temporarily ignore, but four scratches were the size of my forearm. How was he still awake?
“Well?” He guided himself to a seat at the base of a tree, back straight and left arm angled away from his raw side. I crouched across from him and picked up the tunic.
The material was finer than anything I owned and did not tear easily. “My apprenticeship with Rory was not all chasing frogs.” It mostly was, actually, but Arin did not need to know I had learned how to wrap my own wounds with the rag and cup of dirty water Hanim usually left for me to patch myself up with.
The sleeves finally tore. I stripped them into long pieces, avoiding his face. “You have neglected to tell me if you’re angry.”
“You neglected to mention a hidden ability to sense Ruby Hounds.”
“Ruby Hounds, that’s the name! Weren’t those Baira’s guard dogs?” I said. “I thought they were extinct.”
After the entombment, magic had guttered like a dying candle across the kingdoms. Ruby Hounds took three centuries longer than Kapastra’s rochelyas to die. In their time, the dazzling Hounds heeded Lukub’s Sultanas alone. They had charged into battle alongside Lukub’s fiercest steeds, prowled the Ivory Palace’s grounds in the night. A century before the Battle of Zinish, the Ruby Hounds began to sicken, dying despite the Sultana’s best efforts. Magic had already disappeared in Omal, and with Lukub’s failing quickly, the Ruby Hounds rotted like fruit planted in tainted soil. Orban followed thirty years later.