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  So. Rashidi is not so concerned with tradition as Tarik had thought. No, he wishes to punish Sepora for what she has done. Or rather, for what she hasn’t done. Tarik works to keep his expression neutral. Rashidi is still resentful of the fact that all this time Sepora could have Forged fresh spectorium for Cy the Healer to use against the Quiet Plague, but instead chose to remain quiet about it. If Tarik is being honest, he himself is still bitter. Bitter, and betrayed. But for some inexplicable reason, he feels the need to defend Sepora—something he resents as well. Still, among these complicated emotions agitating him to no end, he knows that allowing any servant—even Rashidi—to speak ill of his future wife could potentially start an avalanche of this sort of behavior that may be difficult to control. He and Sepora must stand united, even if she does not yet realize that.

  “She has a dangerous gift, Rashidi. She sought only to protect it.” Which is true enough. He still remembers the look on her face when she saw the explosion of cratorium for the first time in the courtyard. It was a look of familiarity and of terror. She was afraid the weapon would fall into the wrong hands. And who could blame her for that?

  Yet a small bit of blame does ease its way into his mind and settles there, where it will stay until he has the opportunity to confront her about her … decisions.

  “At the expense of your own father’s pyramid?” Rashidi spits. “When the kingdom learns of that—”

  Tarik jumps to his feet, leaning across the desk. He did not mean to startle his friend—but perhaps his friend needed a change of pace. He is speaking dangerously just now. If the people knew she could have prevented the dismantling of their dear King Knosi’s burial place, they would most certainly riot. “And how will the kingdom learn of that? I believe I made it quite clear that no one must know of Sepora’s Forging abilities. Tell me now, Rashidi. Do you intend to tell the people what has taken place?” He is, after all, an ambassador of the people. Tarik well knows that what he asks of his friend goes against his loyalty to the citizens.

  His adviser inhales deeply and exhales his wrath in a slow, steady breath. Rashidi is prone to tantrums, especially when they keep private company. Tarik respects that he takes care to rein in his temper. Still, it does take a moment for his gaze to reach Tarik’s. When it does, Tarik can see that his friend has calmed down. “No, Highness. I would never defy you.”

  The truth. Pride of the pyramids, but he needed to hear that. If he lost Rashidi’s loyalty in the face of all that he knows is to come … He cannot even think of the desperation in which he would be left. Tarik takes his seat again, leaning his arms on the rests of the chair. “You think that I have forgiven Sepora for forcing my hand in taking down my father’s pyramid.” It is not a question. His father, the Warrior King Knosi, had meant a great deal to Rashidi. It is natural for the family’s oldest friend to be bitter. Natural, and loyal, Tarik reminds himself. Rashidi’s reaction is as it should be.

  “She has secured your heart, Highness. I was hoping that despite this, she has not secured your reason.”

  “She has not.” Even he can sense the turmoil in those words. Is reason not always inconveniently intermingled with the desires of the heart?

  “If I were but a Lingot, so that I may know how you truly feel.”

  Tarik taps his fingers on the armrest. “I understand. You need reassurance from me, friend. And I have no idea how to give it to you.”

  “By not bringing honor to someone who has dishonored you on so many occasions. Highness, including the Baseborn Quarters in the procession tells your future queen that she can dance upon your pride and you’ll do nothing about it.”

  Tarik sighs. “I cannot punish her for a crime she doesn’t know she committed.”

  Rashidi stares at him for a long time. “Do you mean to say that you have not told her of your father’s pyramid?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Why in the Five Kingdoms not?”

  Tarik longs to wipe a hand down his face, but it would ruin the art painted so carefully there, and he doesn’t have time to reapply it before the evening meal. “I’ve not had the chance to. We’ve barely spent time alone, and those times did not lend themselves to bringing up something so … precious to me. I must have time to think on it more, Rashidi. Right now she is bent on defying me in any way she can.”

  “You’re afraid she will not have the proper respect the situation deserves.”

  “I am.” And he is afraid of how it will make him feel if that happens. If Sepora were to brush off the discussion or to treat it with the defiance she has grown so fond of and without due care, he shudders to think how a lifetime with her would be possible.

  It simply would not.

  “And what if she never composes herself? What if she intends to act this way for her entire rulership and marriage to you?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure that is her intention.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Sepora and I will not live our lives as strangers to each other—I won’t allow that. If I have to woo my own wife all over again, that is what I will do. When she is mine, in every sense of the word, that is when we will speak of this matter. But not a moment before. You see, I cannot risk a fight between us. That would give her an excuse to run away or to try to end our union. We need the Serubelans, as much as I hate to admit it, now that we have likely offended Hemut.” Though, truth told, he is more concerned about losing Sepora than of having to face the Hemutians without the likes of King Eron on his side. But this he cannot confess to his best adviser. For this alone proves that Sepora truly has stolen his reason along with his heart.

  Rashidi actually smiles then. “Your father would be proud of you, Highness. He did not name you the Falcon Prince in error. You truly do see matters from a loftier view than most people.”

  If only Rashidi were a Lingot. Then he would see through me and I could be relieved of the burden of this farce. Tarik picks up the kohl utensil Rashidi had been using to mark the path of the engagement procession and circles the part of the map denoting the Baseborn Quarters. “So then, we will include the Baseborn Quarters in our royal procession. And we will shower them with more gifts than the people have ever seen.”

  3

  SEPORA

  I find Mother waiting for me alone, indulging herself in a quiet tour of my bedchamber. Nothing about her has changed; she still wears her golden-brown hair, sliced through with gray, in the same long, thick braid that trails down her back. She still moves silently and with purpose—never without purpose—and she still wears the same old-fashioned Serubelan gown, which she has in at least a dozen different, and drab, colors. Mother is not one for extravagance or garnering attention; she’s always taught me that men listen better to a woman when they are not distracted by her appearance. I wonder what she will think of my Theorian attire now: a pair of flowing, nearly sheer white pants gathered at the ankle and a matching linen top that doesn’t cover the shoulders and leaves my midriff exposed. My hair is piled high atop my head in many braids and silver clasps of dragonflies with delicate wings that flutter with my movements; it took nearly an hour this morning for Anku, my head attendant, to scrawl the silver and black swirling designs around my eyes. For now, as I am not yet queen, I have chosen not to adorn myself with the full-body silver paint that comes with the duty. Silver for the queen and gold for the king. Tarik is not happy about this, but somehow wearing the paint feels as though I’m admitting defeat and sealing my fate prematurely. As it is, Mother will notice that I have been exposed to the sun in inappropriate places for Serubelan royalty, but that, of course, could not be helped.

  I watch her for what seems like an eternity, gliding elegantly about the room as though she has wheels instead of feet hidden under her long gown. I cannot help but feel pride at the expression on her face, which is that of being thoroughly impressed. It is how I felt when I was first introduced to my new accommodations as queen of Theoria, and that first night in the grand bed made of silve
r and curtained with sheer blue silk was a sleepless one, despite the extreme comfort of the linens and the soothing scent of fresh lavender awash among my pillows and bedding.

  I still have not become accustomed to the luxury and splendor Tarik’s mother fashioned for herself—and of course, for future queens of Theoria—in what is modestly called a bedchamber. Everything is accented with the most gleaming silver, from the sconces on the walls, which I’m sure would normally be filled with spectorium for lighting but which will be lit with fire as soon as the sun reaches the western horizon, to the silver carvings on the bed, to the legs of chairs and tables and even vases of desert flowers brought in fresh daily. Only the finest silver is appropriate for a queen of Theoria.

  Flamboyant for a princess of Serubel.

  Mother stops at a design embedded into the wall made entirely of blue Seer Serpen scales, iridescent and pearly and embellished with silver vines, as if the scales were the petals of a rare desert flower. I bite my lip as she frowns. I’d thought about having it removed; Seer Serpens are gentle creatures used by my people only for their gift of sight, and walking past this design day in and day out reminds me that Theorians treasure only their giant cats as pets and will kill any Serpen merely for its beautiful scales. It is as wasteful as killing a camel for just one of its hooves. But asking for the design to be removed is a sensitive matter, because Tarik’s mother arranged it herself and the servants assigned to me in these quarters have boasted so admiringly of it. It is apparent they served—and loved—their previous queen. If they are to be of any use to me at all, I must gain their trust and loyalty; destroying something so dear to them is not the way to go about it.

  “I must endure it,” I tell my mother. “The servants adore it, and extracting it would put their loyalty to me in peril.”

  Mother visibly startles. When she turns around, her smile fades as her gaze drips from the top of my head to my bare feet; I’d discarded my shoes the instant I’d hit palace floors. I rarely wear them anymore, and when I do, they are not slippers as is the Serubelan custom but are leather sandals, usually encrusted with jewels. I choose to go without, in most cases on account of modesty but on others because of the comfort that jeweled sandals cannot provide.

  My mother recovers almost instantly, straightening her shoulders and approaching me for an embrace. When she folds me into her arms, her grip is fierce, yet her words are gently spoken. “You are right not to have it removed,” she says in my ear. “Loyalty from those closest to you is indeed necessary. But we will discuss that later.” If she is appalled at my attire, she does not say so. She would know that if I am to be queen of Theoria, I must dress the part.

  She releases me then and leads me to a sitting area close to the balcony. I feel silly, following Mother around my own bedchamber when it is I who should be hosting her. But I follow just the same, as if things are how they always used to be. And in a way, they are. I am anticipating her telling me how to fix this mess. I am anticipating being the pupil and she the instructor once again.

  The easy breeze from the arched entryways makes the light drapery dance in the setting sunlight, and Mother drinks it in for a moment before looking at me. Her gray-blue eyes are steady, even steely, when she says, “We cannot trust your father, Magar Sepora. He would never exchange the annihilation of Theoria for a union with it. He could have had an alliance with Theoria for decades, had he chosen to meet King Knosi even halfway.”

  Magar Sepora is my full name, and Mother never uses it unless she’s trying to impress something upon me. Before, when I was a child, that something could have been the importance of not overeating at dinner or rising early enough to Forge for Father. Now, it seems surreal to have such a conversation with her. A conversation that involves impeding my father. And she makes a good point. I had not thought of it in that way, that Father could have formed an alliance as easily as he could have started a war all this time. I assumed he wanted peace when he learned of Tarik’s power and assets, and that the kingdom of Theoria was prepared for his attack. Obviously, Mother does not think that is the case.

  That is why I need her here now. I cannot juggle two kings with different interests. My Serubelan tutor, Aldon, never prepared me for such unlucky circumstances. Certainly he never envisioned me betrothed to the king of Theoria nor Father approving of the arrangement.

  Tarik has already said that he mistrusts my father. That Father dances around the truth with murky words like “peace” and “for now.” The only thing that rings clearly true is that Father intends for me to marry the Falcon King. There is no deception when he speaks of the impending wedding.

  “What could he be planning?” I ask Mother, suddenly aware that she is scrutinizing me.

  “I have not spoken with him yet. His correspondences to me since he’s arrived here have painted a picture of happiness and contentment. Your father does not have contentment in his nature. Ambition has always driven him, in everything he does. You must not Forge, Magar. You must not give him that power.”

  “I haven’t. I won’t. But … there is something you must know. There’s a plague, the Quiet Plague, in the midst of Theoria. Master Cy, a Healer at the Lyceum, has created a cure for it. And the cure requires spectorium.” I breathe out, relieved of the burden of this conundrum at last. Mother will have the answer. She always does.

  Mother crosses her legs beneath her gown. “Tell me of this plague.”

  “It killed King Knosi; he was, in fact, the first victim. Since then it has swept through Theoria. It killed many before Cy found the cure. He mixes spectorium—old spectorium, because I will not Forge—with an element called nefarite that we harvest from the River Nefari. Together, they restore the patient to perfect health. The success rate has been absolute.”

  “Interesting.” She taps a finger to her temple. “Nefarite, you say? An element long desired by all the kingdoms. How do they avoid the Parani?”

  So Mother knows of nefarite and how it is found only in the River Nefari. I shouldn’t be surprised, of course. Mother is from Pelusia, where the River Nefari empties into the great ocean. Parani at the mouth of the river can grow twice the size as the Parani in Theoria. Aldon said that creatures of the oceans are always much bigger than creatures of the river.

  I wonder if Mother knows that Parani are not creatures at all. Well, not exactly.

  “And where are they getting this old spectorium?”

  “Some of the citizens donate it when their family members become ill. But mostly it comes from dismantling structures made from it. They will run out of it, sooner than later.”

  “Have it out, child. I can hear in your words that something ails you.”

  Of course she can. “If … When Theoria runs out of spectorium, what am I to do? I will be the queen. How can I stand by and watch the citizens die, when I have their remedy at my fingertips?” The question is telling, I know. It reveals that I care for the people of Theoria, while all my life, I was raised to think them my enemies. But I hope that it also reveals that I am dedicated to becoming a good queen if I must—and that I still defer to Mother’s judgment.

  She thinks on this a long time. I am both relieved and irked that she considers it so carefully. On the one hand, it means that she cares about the fate of the people of Theoria and that she wants me to succeed at being their queen. On the other hand, it means that she fully intends for me to be queen. That she will not be helping me find a way to escape this marriage. I’m quite sure now that Mother has no interest in the emotional trespasses Tarik has caused. That he was going to marry another, until it was convenient to marry me. She would say, in her current state of mood, that he did what any good ruler would do.

  Yet I had hoped she would be my ally in this. And the disappointment is almost unbearable.

  Finally, she says, “This Cy, the Healer at the Lyceum. How trustworthy is he?”

  Cy and I are friends, that I know. He wished Tarik and me well when he learned we were to marry, and when he’s wi
th us, he is no longer formal and stiff. But I well know where Cy’s loyalty lies. “Cy’s allegiance belongs to Tarik. If he had to choose between the two of us, he would choose the Falcon King.”

  Mother nods. “It’s as it should be. And the boy king? How trustworthy is he?”

  I fidget my hands in my lap, an action that does not go unnoticed by Mother. I would like to say that Tarik is trustworthy. As a king, he is dutiful beyond measure. But in being so dutiful, he has betrayed me so terribly. He would have wed Princess Tulle, even though we shared such intimate feelings for each other. He had apparently expected me to stand aside while he took her to his bed to produce an heir—something he himself would never stand for if our roles had been reversed. And then he chose to use the weapon cratorium, a mix of spectorium and Scaldling venom, against my father in what he thought was an impending war. He had chosen to inflict harm on my people. I clench my teeth and lift my chin, leveling my gaze at Mother. “He would use spectorium in any manner he sees fit.”

  “Hmmm” is all Mother has to say about that. Then, “Let me think on this, Magar. Spectorium cannot fall into the wrong hands. But I’m not so sure that the Falcon King could bear blood guilt the way your father could. My spies tell me he is fair and decisive.”

  Spies? I had no idea Mother had spies. And I had no idea they reached as far as Theoria. I have much to learn from her about being a queen.

  “Still,” she continues, “power is power, and it tends to go to a man’s head, to where even his heart can be fooled by it. Yes, I must think on it, child. Until then, however, you mustn’t Forge. How have you hidden it so far?”

  “There is running water in the lavatory. It eventually dumps into the Nefari. I Forge only small bits at a time, late in the evening after everyone has gone.” It is an understatement, to say the amount of spectorium is small. Before, I didn’t worry about purging in the lavatory, Forging into the hole leading to the Nefari to regain my strength. Few people would be venturing toward that part of the stream, where the refuse ultimately settles. Besides, if the spectorium had been found, all that could have been assumed was that it had come from the palace—not directly from my chamber. Now, though, Father knows I must Forge every day. He’ll know where to look. But even his scrutinizing eyes will not see what I do. The spectorium I Forge now is mere droplets, as small as beads of sweat; if they make it to the Nefari, their glow could be mistaken for the reflection of the sun or a mirroring of the stars upon the river’s surface. They are even too small to meld together, too tiny for any ill intentions he may have. In fact, it takes me all night, Forging this way, to regain my energy only to have it stolen away again by lack of sleep. Even now, I long for my bed. But we have the evening meal to attend and begging off is not an option. I want to see how Mother will entertain Tarik, how she will manage his ability.