Page 108 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)
LUKUB
ONE MONTH AFTER THE ENTOMBMENT
S efa sat before a council of strangers in a shoddily sewn dress, and she read the scroll set in front of her a fourth time.
“This isn’t right,” Sefa said, also for the fourth time. “Can this even be done?”
The sour-faced man by the name of Biyad, who had summoned Sefa to the Ivory Palace with a vague and threatening letter, gestured at the three men beside him.
“She had it written, witnessed, and signed two weeks before Sedain. There is no law in Lukub preventing the crown from being passed to someone outside the line of inheritance, and the line died with Sultana Vaida. She chose you for Lukub’s throne, and it is our duty to uphold her wishes. ”
“We don’t know if she is dead,” Sefa said. “Her body was never recovered.”
Biyad sighed. “We did not summon you until we had exhausted every effort to find the Sultana.”
Sefa traced the dainty signature at the bottom of the scroll. Sefa was not fit to rule a room, let alone a kingdom. What had Vaida been thinking?
Sefa could scarcely convince herself to put food in her mouth. Dark circles cratered the bottom of her sunken eyes, and she had lost any sense of time. She rarely left the bed Lateef had offered her in Jasad, and making the trek to Lukub had only worsened her sleeping issues.
Her body might be sitting here, but the most important parts of Sefa had buried themselves beside Marek. His chest lay still, so she stopped breathing. He decayed, and so did she.
If any meaningful part of Sefa had tried to survive, the reminder of Essiya’s fate slaughtered it. Sefa had drawn a shroud over her remaining scraps, laid down, and stayed still for a very, very long time. It wasn’t until Jeru poured water over her head that Sefa had spluttered back to life.
“I made him a promise that no harm would come to you,” he’d said, tossing the empty bucket onto her bed. “I intend to keep my word.”
As Sefa shrank before the Lukub council, the cavern of the unknown future cracking open in her chest and threatening to swallow her whole yet again, a hand settled over her shoulder.
Jeru scanned the scroll. “Give her a chance to think.”
“Lukub is in turmoil,” Biyad said. “Our Sultana is gone, the palace is in disrepair, and the rise of the Jasad crown is cause for grave concern.”
An arrow of anger pierced through the shroud of numbness around Sefa. “Lateef—Malik Lateef,” Sefa corrected, “has done nothing to earn your grave concern. Jasad has done nobody harm.”
“Their magic—”
“Does nobody harm,” Sefa hissed. “I have it, too. So does Jeru. So do hundreds of Nizahl soldiers. Do we all intend you harm?”
Tears suddenly choked her. How dare they? After everything.
Sefa had asked Lateef what his magic felt like, and he described a gentle rhythm, pulsing in tune to his own heart.
Easy to ignore, but easy to find if you went searching.
The bits of magic Sefa had absorbed from the fortress felt like a finger she had suddenly grown out of her elbow, and she had not quite figured out what to do with it.
Meanwhile, Jeru used the magic he gained on the battlefield of Nuzret Kamel regularly and enthusiastically. Just this morning, he had drained his stores trying to turn his horse’s coat the same color green as the trees. “For camouflage,” he had insisted.
Sefa stared at the scroll, the neat handwriting so at odds with the woman who had penned it.
My palace was built by an Awala who crafted illusions more perfect and persuasive than any reality.
I think knowing what is real is beyond the reach of mortals and Awaleen alike.
The age of illusions was over. Lukub would not spend the rest of its existence staring into a mirror, struggling to understand what was real. No Ruby Hounds and hollow power, no spies and wells.
It would not hide itself behind shrouds.
“I accept.”
Biyad blinked. Jeru’s hand flexed in surprise, but he gave no reaction otherwise.
Sefa raised dry eyes toward Lukub’s council. “I accept the crown of Lukub.”
One week later, on an unremarkable summer day, Sefa became the Sultana of Lukub.
Thousands attended her coronation, eager to witness the marvel of a fugitive and former vagrant ascending to one of the highest seats in the land.
The new Queen of Omal came. An upbeat woman with an impressively square jaw and hands familiar with hard labor had been selected by the lower villages to sit on Queen Hanan’s empty throne.
The Omal council, outnumbered and outmatched, had approved the appointment.
She shook Sefa’s hand enthusiastically, chattering about her first childhood visit to Lukub until a servant carrying a tray of talwith tempted her away.
Sorn and his new wife came. Though Sefa had passingly encountered the Orbanian Champion at some point before the third trial, she barely recognized the new Diya of Orban.
It was rumored Sorn would soon ascend to his father’s throne.
His marriage to Diya, a lower villager, had won him temporary amnesty from the rebellions across Orban.
His new ordinances aimed at curbing the unchecked power of the khawaga and resuming trade with Jasad had quelled the remainder of the unrest. Of all the kingdoms, Orban experienced the least bloody transition of power.
Diya stopped by Sefa’s dais, studying the ruby spires of her crown. “Is it heavy? It looks heavy.”
Sefa startled, touching the rays absently. “No, not really.”
“Hmm,” Diya said. Light brown eyes studied Sefa with disconcerting attentiveness. “I liked her. Sylvia.” She adjusted the axe hanging from her belt. “Orban will not turn its back on Jasad.”
The future Queen of Orban left before Sefa could scrape together a response, the warrior’s firm stride carrying her out of sight.
Malik Lateef could not attend, but he sent Sefa his congratulations and a reminder that Usr Jasad was always open to her.
Supreme Arin of Nizahl did not show.