Page 18 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER TEN

ARIN

A t the door, Layla stepped into Arin’s path. “Your Highness, might I have a word?”

No , Arin wanted to bite out. He had had enough of other people’s words today.

Layla wound and unwound her hands together—a nervous tic or a clever impression of one.

He exhaled through his nose, casting a glance upward at the statue of Nizahl’s founder.

Molded to appear as if he were bursting through the wall and growing over the ceiling was Nizahl’s first Commander and Supreme.

Sculpted in mid-motion, Fareed loomed over the top of the door to the council room.

The two swords he had carried in countless battles were crossed above his head.

Flying from between the clashing swords, a raven spread its wings wide, the feathers fanning across the ceiling.

Under the watchful gaze of Nizahl’s founder, Arin thrust aside his impatience and gestured for Layla to walk with him.

He moved at a steady clip, more than ready to put distance between himself and the council.

In a typical month, he saw the council once a week to review petitions and hear updates on the provinces they controlled.

Since the Victor’s Ball, Arin had been subjected to their presence almost twice a day.

A rusted sword through his extremities would be a more welcome experience.

Servants stopped to bow as they passed Arin, but he dismissed them back to their duties with a wave. At the corner, Arin slowed, allowing Layla to catch her breath. Two guards pushed the front doors open at Arin’s approach.

As soon as Arin stepped out of the war wing, his chest expanded with its first full breath of the day. He pressed two fingers to the ache in his jaw, borne from hours of clenching his teeth. By nightfall, it would travel upward and pound between his temples while he tried to sleep.

Temporarily ignoring Layla’s jittery presence, Arin tipped his chin toward the sky, searching idly for the sun. It would be nice to feel it on his skin, if just for a minute. He felt, strangely, as though he had forgotten what it was to be warm.

“Sire?”

Arin cast one last sweep over the unyielding slates of gray. “What is it, Layla?”

Perhaps sensing Arin’s dissipating interest in their conversation, Layla jumped straight to the point.

“The Omal Heir is conducting raids on the lower villages, Your Highness. His soldiers have slain fourteen Nizahl soldiers at their outposts in Essam, but the palace claims it was the lower villagers’ doing. ”

“I see.” Arin tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Send a troop of fourth-year soldiers to the Omalian nobles’ quarters. Station them outside their homes and say it is for their protection.”

Layla blinked. “We are sending soldiers to protect the Omalian nobles?”

Arin carefully pinched the spark of irritation between thumb and forefinger. Should it be allowed to land, Arin had a sense he would ignite.

“Seeing Nizahl soldiers strewn around their property will anger the nobles. Angry nobles keep their purse strings clasped tight. Felix will either cease his raids on the lower villages or find his capital city at odds with its richest inhabitants.”

“You’ve already thought about this.” She laughed a little. “Of course you have.”

What else would Arin think about? Capturing the Jasad Heir and preventing magic from tossing them into another war? No, no, his time was much better spent strategizing ways to keep the kingdoms from cannibalizing themselves.

Layla clasped her hands in front of her, the six delicate gold bracelets around her wrist clinking with the movement. Last time he saw her, she had been wearing five.

“Are congratulations in order?” he asked, offering a ghost of a smile. Normally, he wouldn’t have asked. He wasn’t sure why he did now. Lingering solidarity from their shared misery at the council meeting, perhaps.

After a bewildered beat, Layla glanced down at her wrist and sighed.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. Our courtship only lasted a month.

My parents weren’t fond of him; they said a structuralist from Ukaz would eventually want a wife more interested in homemaking than negotiating with ‘lecherous nobles in smoky dens of iniquity.’ Poor man denied it, but their suspicions got into my head.

” She rubbed a thumb over the sixth bracelet. “Just more bad luck for me, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Arin said, and he meant it.

Nizahl’s southwest provinces had a history of despising their northern counterparts.

They found the pettiest ways to spite each other.

Firras, Layla’s hometown, took part in the old Nizahlan tradition of collecting a gold bracelet from each suitor who came knocking.

In Ukaz, they collected silver rings. If Firras hosted a festival, Ukaz flooded the roads.

Ukaz ate sardines to celebrate spring, so Firras broke multiple laws to dam a section of Hirun and collect as many sardines as they could.

“I am not worried for you, Layla.” Arin did not make a habit of commenting on the personal lives of those in his employ, nor was he regularly offered anything to comment on. “The man worthy of calling himself your match will find you when the time is right.”

“I wish he would find me faster.” Layla smoothed the front of her blouse, shaking herself off. They resumed walking across the Citadel’s lawn. “I’ll send the fourth-years riding to Omal by nightfall. With any luck, Felix will reconsider the wisdom of his actions.”

Arin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction now that they were back on familiar footing. He didn’t share that he very much doubted Felix had any wisdom to reconsider.

A brisk wind lifted his hair from his neck. Arin tilted his head, indulging the breeze, and made the mistake of glancing at Layla.

His emissary’s gaze transformed with resigned longing, not unlike how Arin might have looked as he searched for a glimpse of the sun amid the clouds.

The tension returned to Arin’s jaw. She typically hid this… problem… better. She was out of sorts today, and Arin didn’t have the time or patience to manage another conversation.

Arin stopped walking, turning fully to face her. As soon as she met his eyes, the longing in hers dimmed, retreating as Arin knew it would.

A strong leader played every advantage they were given to its greatest potential. Arin’s looks were nothing more than a lure, and one he rarely bothered to use. Unless he devoted himself to the deception, Arin’s eyes would always give him away.

Cold. Removed. Inhospitable to anything tender or soft.

Movement slid into his periphery just as he opened his mouth to ask Layla if she had any further matters to discuss.

Arin went still as stone.

It couldn’t be.

In the shadow of the east wing, a woman stood on the grass. Her back was turned to Arin. Black curls cascaded over her broad shoulders, loose in a way Arin knew she disliked. She turned slightly, facing the tower, and a rough sound scraped and died in his throat.

No. No, she wouldn’t be this stupid. She knew better.

The woman who couldn’t be the Jasad Heir stepped toward the side of the east wing and poked it.

Arin took a step forward. His hand slid into the left pocket of his coat, closing around the thin, needlelike blade. It would immobilize her long enough for the right restraints and reinforcements to arrive.

His hand spasmed around the knife.

This wasn’t real. She would never be this reckless.

Fighting the dryness of his mouth, Arin said, “Layla, turn around slowly and tell me what you see.”

The Jasad Heir–shaped hallucination crouched and pressed her palms to the grass. She patted the ground with increasing panic.

“Um, there are guards patrolling the gate. A bluebird hiding in the bushes. A cloud of gnats by the garden’s archway.”

Layla couldn’t see her. Layla couldn’t see her, which meant she wasn’t here.

Either Arin had gone mad in the last ten minutes, or some strange magic was afoot.

But Arin’s sensitivity to magic meant he never failed to see the edges of a glamor or sense the charge of it in the air, and everything aside from the hallucination of the Jasad Heir remained perfectly normal.

“My lord, are you all right?”

Capturing Essiya of Jasad at the Citadel’s door after she managed to hide her identity from Arin for months defied every tenet of logic. It made more sense to assume he’d gone mad.

The hallucination scrunched her face in familiar frustration.

“Sire!” Layla’s shout sent the bluebird into flight. Sylvia’s head snapped up. Arin’s hand went still against the knife as wide dark eyes found his. Eyes he’d watched light in anger and dance with humor, eyes that were never cold or removed.

Eyes that had once felt warmer against his skin than the sun ever could.

A small hand closed around Arin’s forearm. His attention snapped to the point of contact, and whatever expression he wore was severe enough for Layla to retract her hand instantly.

In the split second of distraction, the hallucination vanished. Arin scanned the courtyard. Nothing. As though she was never there.

Pale breath shuddered out of Arin. After another minute, he tore his reluctant gaze from the grass.

He didn’t have time to lose his mind. He had a war to avoid.

“Forgive me,” Arin told Layla. He adopted a soothing, intimate tone. It would derail several of Arin’s plans if Layla joined the ranks of those who believed his judgment was impaired. “I slept little last night and thought I saw a stranger on the premises. I did not intend to handle you roughly.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Highness. You can handle me however you like.” As soon as the words left Layla’s mouth, a fierce blush stole over her cheeks. Arin pretended not to notice.

The bell tolled the hour, and Arin firmly guided his attention away from one dangerous realization.

His first instinct when he saw her wasn’t to reach for his blade or summon the guards.

It was to shout run .

Red sparks arched over the blacksmith’s worktable as the chisel slammed against the base of the steel sword. The same sound rang from every smithery in Nizahl, echoing from the upper towns to the lowest street in Galim’s Bend.

Vaun shifted restlessly beside Arin, watching the blacksmith work with no small amount of disdain.

The guardsman had never been keen on lowering himself to learn the mechanics upon which the working society made its living.

He never wondered where the food on his plate came from, never dwelled on why the hilt of his sword was rounded instead of squared.

When Arin felt generous, he interpreted Vaun’s disinterest as a narrow focus, which left little quarter for curiosity.

Another clear example—Vaun had insisted on joining Arin for each visit he paid to dozens of blacksmiths across Nizahl. Vaun was in plainclothes, his guardsman’s pin—the symbol of his role in Arin’s service and rank in the Citadel—tucked in his pocket.

Arin’s mission was Vaun’s. Arin’s safety, Vaun’s sole interest.

“Do you think they will be necessary?” Vaun watched the blacksmith rush to the orange maw of the furnace.

The blacksmith’s assistant offered Arin a petrified bow before hurrying past. He whispered in the blacksmith’s ear, pointing to the drawing Arin had provided every blacksmith and welder in the kingdom.

They traced the carving Arin had paid handsomely to have forged into hundreds of swords across Nizahl.

“I hope not,” Arin said.

If these particular swords were ever placed in the hands of Nizahl’s armies, it would mean the Zinish Accords had been broken.

It would mean for the first time in over a century, Lukub and Nizahl were at war.

“The Sultana wouldn’t risk war with Nizahl now.

Not with the threat of magic hanging over our heads.

” Vaun’s lip curled, and Arin watched him swallow back another remark.

In an unspoken agreement, neither of them discussed the Jasad Heir or their time in the tunnels.

By the same token, they avoided invoking the memory of Vaun betraying Arin to his father shortly after Arin terminated him from his employ.

“It is a waste of time to try to predict which impulse Vaida might indulge on any given day,” Arin said. “All we can do is plan for every outcome.”

The blacksmith and his assistant bowed once more as Arin and Vaun left the shop.

With regret, Arin noticed the blacksmith’s shaking hands finally still as soon as Arin’s eyes were no longer on him.

Perhaps these visits were not as productive to the task as Arin hoped.

If their Heir’s presence unnerved the blacksmiths, then he would send Wes in his stead.

A cart rumbled past them, two women and six children seated in the open wagon. Piles of barley surrounded them. The smallest child had his arms wrapped tight around a chicken as the wagon rocked over the uneven road.

Arin took one last look at the sigil engraved in the newly forged swords piled at the corner of the blacksmith’s bench.

For now, they were just a precaution. An untested theory.

Arin did not hold much faith it would stay that way.