Page 27 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ARIN

A rin waited until he was alone to throw up.

Gripping the rim of the wastebasket, he sank to the floor.

With his forehead pressed to the permanently chilled wall, Arin did his best to breathe through the pain.

The healers had tried to attend him after the soldiers finally descended on Galim’s Bend, but Arin diverted them to the villages.

They were still pulling bodies from the wreckage.

Any survivors would need far more care than Arin.

These wounds wouldn’t kill him. He was almost certain.

One more minute, and he would stand up and find his medical kit. Just one more minute.

The spot where the nisnas lashed its arm around Arin’s ankle had been stripped red and raw, burned by the acidic excretions from the creature’s skin.

It could have been much worse. It should have been much worse.

Arin had been on his knees at the base of the hill, the damage to his head making him see double, and he’d heard it.

Turn around.

Not many things had the privilege of frightening Arin. He had been the kind of child more likely to set a trap for the imaginary monster under his bed than tuck his feet beneath the blanket in passive surrender. Losing control of his mind, losing faith in his own judgment…

He knew what his mind was capable of. He knew what shadows it kept.

The voice had been real. It had to have been real—Arin’s talent for foresight did not translate to prophetic power.

By now, the council would have ridden halfway to the Wickalla, where survivors of Galim’s Bend would be living until new arrangements could be made. Bayoum had insisted on riding to meet them and giving a speech.

Arin couldn’t find it in himself to scrounge even a scrap of surprise.

A massacre and the release of centuries-old monsters into Nizahl?

It was the perfect opportunity for Bayoum to argue against the conscription protections without directly crossing Arin.

The wreckage fit into Bayoum’s agenda so neatly, Arin might have wondered if the councilman was its architect.

Fortunately for Bayoum, the only keys for those cages were in Arin’s possession, and he hadn’t touched them since the Alcalah.

The cages had been broken by magic.

With a white-knuckled grip on the table, Arin hoisted himself to his feet, a groan escaping his pressed lips.

Each step toward his bureau whipped fire across his skin.

He removed his emergency supplies and lined them up on the table by order of use.

Talwith to clean the injury, a towel for the blood, a thin blade to cut out fragments stuck inside any open wounds, a needle and thread, and bandages to cover anything too small or hopeless for stitching.

Arin sank into a chair. He peeled off his vest and discarded the remnants of his torn shirt. They dropped in a wet heap at his feet. Another time, the sight would bother Arin more than the pain.

The chill air breathed a sigh of relief across Arin’s wounds.

He poured talwith onto the towel and down his throat in equal turns and set to managing the smallest gashes first. Time crawled, content to relish Arin’s discomfort.

By the time Arin reached the biggest wound, black spots danced in his vision and a metallic rust coated his tongue.

Arin had miscalculated his stunt at the hilltop by a fraction of a second.

After he lured Al Anqa’a away from the village, he’d dropped to the ground too late.

Al Anqa’a had grazed his chest with its claws and gouged three parallel lines into his torso before Arin plunged his knife into its underbelly.

Lifting the talwith over the first of the shredded marks, Arin hesitated. Reaching toward the bureau, he opened the middle drawer and pulled out another towel to slide between his teeth. He didn’t trust himself not to bite off his tongue.

Arin gripped the talwith like a man holding on to his last breath before dumping its contents over his chest.

The towel depressed between Arin’s teeth. He couldn’t tamp down a strangled gasp. He tried to reach for the bandages only to discover his arm refused to cooperate.

The black spots on the edges of his vision grew. The empty bottle dropped from Arin’s numb fingers to the carpet, and the thud was the last sound Arin heard before the darkness closed around him.

“You left him bleeding in here alone? What kind of guardsman are you?”

“I’m so sorry, sire. I thought he was in the infirmary, he ordered me to stay in Galim’s Bend to guide the recruits, and I didn’t realize his injuries were so—”

Arin stirred, fighting the pull of sleep.

“You have been in my son’s employ for ten years.

How could you not know he wouldn’t go to the infirmary during an emergency?

His utter nonsense about taking resources from others—as if he isn’t the Commander!

As if the loss of a hundred thousand lives could ever be worth the loss of his!

And for what? Some farmers and vagrants in Galim’s Bend? ”

Arin became aware of a pressure on his chest. Someone was touching him.

Arin’s hand struck out. He opened his eyes to a petrified medic leaning over him, her wrist caught in Arin’s grip.

Behind her, Wes and Rawain whirled toward Arin. Relief poured over his guardsman, and he pressed a shaking hand to his pin. “Sire. You’re awake.”

The medic hesitantly tugged at her wrist. Arin released her, shifting his attention to the rest of the room. He was still in the chair he’d bandaged himself in, supplies haphazardly strewn across the table by his elbow. How long had he been unconscious?

“Well, if it isn’t my martyr of an Heir.” Rawain brushed the medic aside and peered down at Arin. “In your fit of heroism, did you notice you forgot to bandage your head wound?”

“I didn’t forget,” Arin said. “The blood had already clotted, and the injury itself was nothing of note.”

Rawain glanced at the healer for confirmation. Her timid nod only seemed to heighten his irritation.

“I need to speak to my son. Alone.”

She looked stricken. “But I haven’t finished—”

Rawain cut her off with a cold glare. Wes guided the unhappy medic from the room, pausing briefly at the door to aim a small smile at Arin. Wes’s relief made Arin guiltily aware of the position he’d put the guardsman in. If Arin had died, the consequences would have fallen heavily on Wes’s head.

As soon as they were alone, Arin forced himself upright.

Though predicting the changes in Rawain’s mood was a lifelong exercise in futility, Arin did not need to stretch his imagination far to guess Rawain was furious.

Not only had Arin disobeyed him by riding to Galim’s Bend instead of sheltering inside the Citadel, he had gone alone.

Rawain arranged himself on the other end of the table, tucking his scepter inside his elbow as he propped his chin against his fist.

“The Mufsids will be executed in Antar Square at dawn.”

The words hung, a lit match in a dark room, and imploded.

Arin set his hands on the table, splaying his palms open. He focused on the grain of the wood beneath his hands as he aimed for a measured tone—Rawain would be utterly unreachable if he sensed even a hint of emotion or anger in Arin’s voice. “I thought we decided there was still time.”

The question of what to do with the Mufsids had become a strong source of contention between Arin and the council. The Mufsids weren’t responding to interrogation, and Arin wasted precious time every day visiting the highly secured jails to drain their magic.

But the Mufsids had also successfully evaded Arin for years.

They knew the Urabi’s patterns, their movements.

The crispness of their accent hinted at noble backgrounds, which meant they might have had access to Malik Niyar and Malika Palia.

The Mufsids could be the key to finding the Jasad Heir.

Enough pressure, enough time, and one of them would break.

They’d held spies and traitors for much longer.

The rush to execute didn’t make sense. The right piece of information could be more powerful than a thousand armies.

Rawain rolled the head of the scepter between his hands, leaning back in the chair.

“The cages in Galim’s Bend were impenetrable and heavily guarded.

Someone found their way through our barriers.

Someone familiar enough with our protocols to know how to sidestep them.

This was a message from the Urabi to show their magic can defeat our strongest defenses, to announce their presence to the rest of the kingdoms. You spend so much of your waking hours searching for a way to avoid this war—have you even considered how to win it?

Because the Urabi have. Do you plan to stand in front of your kingdom and inform your people you haven’t a notion of how to find the ones responsible for this? ”

The last sentence hit Arin with a force to rival Al Anqa’a. “I will find them.”

“Not quickly enough.” The note of finality warned Arin that any further argument would not be kindly met.

Arin couldn’t let it go. They would be playing right into the Urabi’s hands if they blamed the Mufsids for a crime they didn’t commit.

Nizahlans were not fools, and the rest of the kingdoms would see right through the distraction.

How could Rawain agree to lose critical sources of information in a clumsy attempt to save face?

“It is a shame we couldn’t sit down for supper tonight,” Rawain went on. “It has been too long since you and I had a conversation without the intrusion of politics. Perhaps we could have still salvaged it, had you decided to listen and stay in the Citadel.”

For all his father’s flaws, the artistry of his threats was beyond reproach. Arin’s gut usually recognized it first, tightening uncomfortably from nothing more than a passing word or glance. Rawain’s first language was intimidation, and Arin had learned how to translate its hidden symbols long ago.

Rawain got up, adjusting the cascading layers of his robes, and laid a hand on Arin’s head. His sigh traveled like a rumble in the clouds, promising thunder. “I am glad to see you returned alive and whole, Arin.”

Every muscle in Arin’s body corded tight. He wished he could close his eyes and pretend the conversation ended there.

His father’s hand shifted to the other side of Arin’s head, pausing inches from his wound.

“You have the most aggravating habit of measuring the worth of your life as equal to those around you. They were not born to rule. I have not wasted my life preparing them to lead my kingdom. You are more clever, more skilled, more determined than any of them could ever hope to be.”

The shock of pain as Rawain’s thumb pressed against the bandage on his head wasn’t reflected in Arin’s stony face. He made certain of it. Even when red trickled over his right temple and dripped onto his cheek, Arin showed nothing.

“Magic will never deserve your mercy, son. Again and again, I have tried to teach you this lesson. I have tried to prepare your heart against the forces which might twist it in their favor.”

Arin deserved much worse than this. What he’d done, the wreckage he’d facilitated by allowing the Urabi to capture the Jasad Queen… Arin deserved so much worse.

“Such a fine mind you have, Arin. If only you would lend it to more worthwhile matters. Aren’t you glad your mother is not here to suffer seeing you like this?” Rawain’s thumb dug deeper, and Arin’s hands curled into fists. “To see her son suggesting we offer her killers clemency?”

Blood caught on Arin’s eyelashes. The world faded in and out of focus. He set his attention to the raven rising from his father’s scepter, anchoring his swaying consciousness to its upraised wings. Its beady eyes seemed to mock him.

After an eternity, Rawain removed his hand and pulled a handkerchief from inside his robe.

He cleaned his thumb and tossed the cloth onto Arin’s lap.

“Don’t be late to the execution. I expect you to stand tall in Antar Square and show the council’s decision the same deference you waste on the villagers. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my liege.”

“Good.” Rawain patted Arin’s cheek. His gaze softened, warming with affection. “My brave boy. I will send the healer in to finish patching you up.”

Rawain swept from the chambers, the swirl of his robes sending the shredded pieces of fabric on Arin’s floor flying. When the medic returned to finish fixing Arin, he didn’t allow her to rebandage his head or wipe the dried streak of blood down the right side of his face. “Leave it,” he ordered.

Later, he sat on the edge of his bed and touched the scar on the underside of his jaw. He traced the divot where Soraya’s blade had twisted up.

A drop of red fell from his temple, seeping into the rug.

Arin closed his eyes. Some wounds were best left to bleed.