Page 23 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

“I should ask you the same,” Arin said. Calmly, smoothly, as if Wes hadn’t interrupted Arin in the middle of his flight from reality. “Did my father send you?”

“The attendants said they saw you enter the groves without a torch. I worried you might lose your way back.”

Arin was the last person who would get lost anywhere, never mind in the Citadel’s gardens, and Wes knew it.

“Wes.” Light, congenial. “I advise you to exercise extreme caution before lying to me.”

Wes set his feet, moving away from the throng of branches he’d begun to subtly disappear into.

His chin jutted forward, resolve replacing his wariness.

“Your Highness. Arin. I have served as your guardsman for more than ten years. My life has always been forfeit to yours, and I bear the sacrifice with pride. It is a sacrifice you have always respected. Until now.”

The number of times Arin had been caught off guard tonight could be counted on more than a finger, and Arin didn’t much care for it. “If you wish to lodge a complaint, be clear with it.”

The light from Wes’s torch cast long shadows over the brush.

If the torch tilted four inches to the right, it would catch on the branches in seconds.

Winter had not yet loosened its hold on the gardens, so the blaze would be contained to the areas where the frost had melted.

But it would reach his mother. It would lick hungrily at the bottom of her pedestal, confusing stone for skin, until futility smothered the flames.

Its glory—its potential—foiled by its own determination to consume the only thing in the garden it could not burn.

Rawain is cruel by nature, but you? You are cruel by choice.

“Sire? Are you listening?”

Arin passed a gloved hand through his hair, sweeping out the Jasad Heir’s voice. He needed to get out of these groves. “Unfortunately.”

“The whole of your evenings are spent in the library. You rise to meet the council at dawn. The shadows under your eyes grow darker each day.”

Arin did not wish to be curt with his guard. Wes was ten years Arin’s senior, and his temper wasn’t as fractious as Vaun’s, nor his heart as easily won as Jeru’s. He wouldn’t be addressing Arin with such gravity were it not a matter Wes considered of the utmost importance.

But Arin was tired, and he needed to reserve his restraint for supper with Rawain. “I imagine you’re hiding your point somewhere in this observation.”

“Jeru thinks you need to talk.”

A humorless smile touched Arin’s lips. So the young guardsman had finally won the elder to his side. Arin started walking. “Explain why I should care about Jeru’s opinion on my needs.”

Around the bend, the path opened into the Awaleen’s memorial courtyard.

Three towering figures loomed in the center of the courtyard. Green vines twined through the wood and wicker limbs of Baira, Dania, and Kapastra.

Dania held an iron axe over her shoulder, its weight against the hollow wooden frame of its owner a defiance of logic.

Baira’s hands curved around her face, the red roses blooming from her empty eye sockets rustling in the breeze.

Thick vines snaked through Kapastra’s ribbed chest, winding around the interlocking branches like one of her beloved rochelyas.

Arin always went out of his way to avoid this courtyard.

Six and a half hundred years ago, the Supreme had seen fit to invite architects to build a monument to the Awaleen.

A gesture to commemorate Nizahl’s roots in magic.

The architects had lived in the newly built gardens for months on end, knitting branches together, coaxing vines to grow.

Their magic had saturated the courtyard—and the creations left behind.

The thin branches working like tendons in the Awaleen never rotted. The vines never browned or withered.

Magic still lived in this courtyard. Arin could feel the soft thrum of it all around, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

The Awaleen’s heads blotted out the moon. A red petal floated from Baira’s right eye, landing on Arin’s boot.

When Arin became Supreme, this courtyard would burn.

“My liege?”

Arin clenched his teeth. Without looking at Wes, he resumed his walk. The petal slid from his shoe.

The crunch of their footsteps was the only sound for long minutes. The brightness shining from the Citadel’s tower lit the night like a falling star.

If even his guardsmen were having doubts, Arin was in more trouble than he realized.

At the end of the grove, Arin turned to address his guard. “I apologize if I’ve given you reason to doubt how much I value your service, Wes. Your concern is appreciated, but I assure you it is misplaced.”

“Sire—”

“Do you think I would still lead our kingdom if I truly believed my judgment compromised?”

Wes hesitated. After a minute, he dipped his chin—an acknowledgment, an acceptance. “I should not have spoken out of turn. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in Jeru’s company.”

Arin forced himself to smile. “Jeru grew up with seven siblings. He thinks every thought—no matter how benign—should be a token for discussion.”

At the door to the east wing, Wes broke off from Arin. “Enjoy supper, my liege.”

Arin shot him a sour look, and Wes grinned.

Servants startled from their card games at Arin’s entrance. He waved them down. The east wing was usually reserved for the recruits’ ascension ceremonies, which only happened three or four times a year. The staff came here to relax, and Arin wouldn’t begrudge them their not-so-secret hideaway.

Given the tripling rate of conscription, Arin ventured their opportunities for leisure were rapidly dwindling.

Arin laid a hand on the banister. He’d always dreaded dinners with Rawain, but never quite to this level. The thought of sitting across from his father and telling the truth made him sick. But the thought of lying…

Arin had climbed exactly one step when the sirens went off.

The walls shook, sending the servants’ playing cards sliding across the floor. Dust rained over them as the siren shrieked from the tower, its reverberations thundering beneath them. Shock suspended Arin for a fraction of a second before he burst into motion.

Arin grabbed a frazzled servant. “Get everyone to the cellars. Go!”

Outside, chaos had erupted. Swarms of recruits flooded from the compounds and pooled around the foot of the tower. Only a handful were in proper uniform; the rest looked like they’d run out while preparing for bed.

The first row saw Arin and snapped to attention, and the awareness rippled over the crowd until each recruit stood perfectly still, awaiting orders.

Orders Arin couldn’t deliver, since he did not have the faintest clue what was happening.

He’d only heard the tower’s siren once before in his life—the day of the Blood Summit.

The alarm was engineered alongside the wicker figures of the Awaleen centuries ago, seeded with magic to go off only when Nizahl was under severe attack.

The thought of what the alarm might have deemed threatening enough to the kingdom’s security to sound for the second time in two and a half decades turned Arin’s stomach.

A swell of guards stormed out of the tower, Rawain sheltered between them. “Arin!” he called.

The guards parted to allow Arin into their circle of protection and swiftly closed again.

“You are unharmed?” Rawain raked a panicked gaze over Arin.

Arin paused, momentarily thrown off-kilter. Had Rawain been worried? “Yes.” He almost added thank you .

It was difficult to hear over the unyielding siren. “Is there an intruder in the Citadel?”

Rawain’s mouth tightened to a grim line. “No, this alarm wouldn’t sound for a mere assassin. Something terrible is afoot. You need to get into the cellar.”

Rawain may as well have dealt him a resounding slap across the face. Arin took a step back. “You want me to hide?”

“You are the Heir and the Commander, Arin. You cannot be risked.” His father huffed an indulgent laugh. “This is what armies are for, son.”

Past the ring of guards, the recruits still waited on Arin’s instructions. This siren would ring throughout Nizahl, sending villages and towns into frenzied panic. And somewhere in the chaos, a danger worthy of rousing a centuries-old alarm walked.

Humiliation burned in his chest. Rawain truly thought so little of him? He thought Arin would willingly hide while…

It didn’t matter. There was no time.

“Is there a mechanism within the alarm that can alert us to where the threat is?”

“No, but the soldiers will find it and exterminate it. You need to—”

But a different voice cut through Rawain’s.

Arin, you need to listen. Evacuate Galim’s Bend.

But it couldn’t be. She was just an apparition.

Arin shoved through the guards, ignoring Rawain furiously shouting his name.

The recruits weren’t looking at Arin anymore.

They had turned east, facing the hills curving above the valley of villages.

Horrified gasps rang in the air, joining the siren, as a familiar winged beast burst into the horizon.

They were too far to hear the gentle clinking of its glass feathers, but the colors of its wings—the white and pink of dawn tapering into the blazing red of dusk—shined above the flames roaring along the valley.

Someone had unleased Al Anqa’a from its cage. And if they had unleashed the most fiercely guarded of the Alcalah’s monsters…

The cages—

Arin broke into a run. “Evacuate Galim’s Bend!” he ordered the stricken recruits. “Get everyone to the Wickalla!”

Al Anqa’a’s wings were clipped to fly short distances at a low radius. Useful for the second trial of the Alcalah, when they wanted to test the mettle of hard-trained Champions in an abandoned village. Not so useful in a teeming neighborhood of easily accessible prey.

A symphony of huffs and whinnies erupted from the stable as soon as Arin threw open the doors.

The horses weren’t enjoying the siren any more than the rest of them.

Arin headed straight to Ehal and unlocked the stall.

The black horse hadn’t joined the others in voicing his complaints, and he allowed Arin to lead him out without a fuss.

In a stroke of fortune, Ehal was already saddled.

The black warhorse took Arin’s weight easily. Arin wrapped the reins in his fist and leaned forward.

I did not have to lie to my father , Arin thought, darkly triumphant. Not tonight, at least.

With a snap of the reins, Arin and Ehal charged toward the hills of Galim’s Bend.