Page 30 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SEFA

S ervants rushed around Sefa, bumping her shoulder and shooting her harried scowls.

“My apologies,” she mumbled, pressing herself into a corner. The chaos in the kitchen reminded her of mornings at the keep, except here she didn’t understand how to navigate the flow.

Grease popped and fizzled as fried eggs slid onto plates. An eggplant, its skin softened over a low flame, was peeled and mashed. A dash of oil, salt, and tahina later, and the plate went into a running servant’s hands.

They forgot to squeeze lemon over it. People always forgot the lemon.

Frozen fiteer flipped on a hot pan until the dough flaked golden brown. To Sefa’s surprise, the cook drizzled honey and molasses directly onto the fiteer. Sefa had always poured the honey in a separate bowl for dipping.

Once the kitchen had emptied save a handful, Sefa stepped toward the most senior-looking staff member and said, with a confidence she didn’t possess, “I wanted to bring the Sultana’s breakfast to her quarters. Could you help me?”

The woman glanced at her, then at the rest of the servants. A girl no older than seventeen opened her mouth. “Of course,” cut in the senior servant, speaking over the girl. “We would be more than happy to assist you in delivering breakfast to the Sultana’s quarters.”

“But—” tried the girl again.

“Salwa, gather a tray for the Sultana’s attendant. Now.” The glare quieted Salwa. The girl hastily collected a tray from the counter and began to pile it with food.

The servant cocked her hip against the counter. “Your name is Zahra, correct? I am Birta, head of the southern kitchen.”

The man standing next to Salwa inclined his head. “Radwan.”

They spoke with a thick Lukubi accent Sefa hadn’t heard since she was little. Her father’s accent had never faded, even after they moved to Nizahl. Sefa closed her eyes against the rush of nostalgia. She usually tried not to think of her father if she could help it.

Sefa had never quite worked out how to forgive him for dying.

On the bright side, the reminder had done away with Sefa’s hunger. She accepted the tray from Salwa with a gentle smile. The girl averted her gaze and retreated behind Radwan.

Sefa opened her mouth to ask for directions to the Sultana’s wing and paused.

Radwan and Birta were exchanging smirks; Salwa had placed her nails between her teeth and appeared intent on gnawing to the bone.

They were awaiting her question, noses already turned up to avoid the stench of her ignorance.

“Thank you for the food,” Sefa said, and left.

Luckily, finding the Sultana’s wing took significantly less effort than finding the kitchen. The tapestries grew more elaborate, the rugs plusher, the air sweeter.

At the end of the short hall leading to the Sultana’s door, Sefa faced her third challenge of an increasingly long morning.

She couldn’t knock without putting the tray down, and the guards on either side of the hall wouldn’t twitch a muscle to help her.

But what if she put the tray on the ground and the Sultana opened the door right away?

She would see Sefa standing with the Sultana’s breakfast by her feet.

Since the guards refused to move, maybe Sefa could balance the tray on their heads.

Sefa cleared her throat. “Sultana? I have your breakfast.”

The silence on the other side of the door turned the ball of nerves in Sefa’s belly to a boulder.

What if in the cold light of day, the Sultana had changed her mind about needing an attendant?

What if someone had already brought her food and the servants had neglected to mention it to Sefa?

This might not be the Sultana’s room, even, and the story of Sefa’s mistake would turn her into an overnight laughingstock.

A rustling, followed by a low chuckle, emerged from behind the door. “My breakfast.”

Thank the Awaleen. Sefa bent down, peeling exactly two fingers from her grip on the tray to push the handle.

“Good morning, Sultana!” The door opened a sliver, and Sefa rejoiced as she shouldered it the rest of the way. Overcome with victory, she walked into a pitch-black room and immediately tripped.

She fell and landed elbows-first, the tray still clutched in her panicked grip. The clatter of rolling dishes pained her almost as much as the tea splashing over her hands. At least she could confirm it hadn’t grown cold.

Sunlight spilled into the chambers, illuminating Sefa in all her glorious humiliation. A naked man blinked down at her from next to the parted curtain. Oil smeared over his chest and shoulders, gleaming on his dark skin, and Sefa made the mistake of following it down to— oh . Oh no.

Abandoning the tray, Sefa lurched to her feet. Sultana Vaida sat up in her luxurious bed, in a similar state of undress as her guest. Instead of oil, bright red streaked the regal column of her throat, swirling along her jaw and the cut of her cheekbone.

Not blood, Sefa determined after a pause. Just paint.

Vaida turned on the bed, covers slipping as she settled her feet on the ground. The man by the window switched his attention to Vaida, a lecherous hunger ripening in his features.

Shoulders sharper than twin blades folded back as Vaida stretched, drawing her robe over her arms and looping the belt lazily around her waist.

Sefa studied the high ceiling, counting the virulent colors painted on the stone beams braided into the wall.

She had not seen so much bare skin since she’d lived on the streets with Marek.

The small issue of vagrancy hadn’t stopped his adolescent self from tumbling a new girl every time Sefa left the tent for more than ten minutes.

“Your Majesty?” the man murmured, still unabashedly aroused by the window. Sefa may as well have been a sentient pile of buttons.

Sultana Vaida rose and poured from the water pitcher by her bedside table. She took a long drink. Without glancing back at the man, she said, “The day wastes, Ajil. Lace your trousers and go see to making the most of it.”

“My name isn’t—”

The Sultana’s neck rotated, the knives in her eyes slashing the rest of Not-Ajil’s sentence to ribbons. He gathered his clothes, his haste to leave an ironic replica of Sefa’s entrance.

The door shut behind him. Sefa became freshly conscious of the food splattered all over the bone-white rug.

“Sultana, I am so sorry.” Sefa rushed around the bed and swallowed a dismayed hiss at the sticky honey saturating into the carpet’s fibers, sharing company with flakes of overturned fiteer and soaked tea.

“Leave it.” Vaida glanced over the mess dismissively. “Someone will take care of it.”

Sefa blinked. “Am I not the someone?”

The corner of Vaida’s mouth indented. “Not for this. Come. My head is splitting, and I distinctly remember being warned against sleeping with this”—gesturing at the paint streaks—“on my skin.”

Vaida settled herself in the chair across from her dresser. A slim leg shifted under her robe as she crossed it over the other. Vaida tipped her head back, eyes shut and fingers lightly tapping at her temples.

Not eager to commit another misstep in a morning full of them, Sefa sprang into action.

More bottles, powders, tubes, and vials cluttered the dresser than Sefa had seen in her entire life.

The volume of beautification products displayed on this one surface could destroy the self-esteem of at least a hundred girls.

What did Vaida need all this for? It wasn’t as though anyone had a hope of competing with her.

Sefa uncorked the bottle sitting next to a stack of folded cotton squares and brought it to her nose for a cautious sniff. Lime and eucalyptus.

“Lightly pour it onto a square and dab.” Lethargic eyes opened and settled on Sefa. “Sometime today would be excellent.”

Sefa soaked a section of the cotton square. Clear liquid splashed onto her fingers, the bottle quivering beneath her unsteady grip.

Applying the cotton square to the base of the Sultana’s throat, Sefa pretended she didn’t notice the Sultana openly studying her. She dragged the cloth upward.

A delicate clasp of her wrist. “I said dab .”

“Apologies.” Sefa dabbed.

Vaida’s throat vibrated in a hum. “I make you uncomfortable.”

After a brief pause, Sefa drew a breath. The cloth traveled to the spot where jaw met ear. “Of course. You are the Sultana.”

The cheek under the cloth drew up in a smirk. “Merely a healthy respect for my rank, is it?”

“Yes.”

Before Sefa knew what was happening, the Sultana’s arm struck out. A strong hand closed around her throat, and Sefa was yanked down to eye level. “That was your first lie.”

Nails dug into the back of her neck. “I brought you here to serve as my eyes in the palace. In my presence, the truth alone may fall from your tongue, or I will have no recourse but to liberate the muscle from your mouth.”

Vaida’s grip slackened, and she returned to her languid sprawl. Sefa rubbed her throat, frustration warring with fear. “I didn’t lie.”

“Oh?”

Sefa was painfully aware of the fragile fate of her tongue. But Vaida had demanded honesty, and Sefa could afford this piece of it.

“Even a trained botanist would hesitate to stroke the petals of a poisonous flower without knowing when its toxins may burst.”

Sefa deliberately dabbed the corner of the Sultana’s eye, staining the rest of the cloth red. “I am cautious, not uncomfortable.”

When Vaida remained quiet, Sefa worried she had overstepped her bounds. But Sultana Vaida, Sefa was quickly coming to understand, rarely encountered a bound she didn’t cheerfully tear apart.

“What kind of flower do you think I would be?” Vaida asked with great interest. “It isn’t typically the petals you should fear when it comes to poison, unless you plan to eat them.”

Sefa spent the next several minutes listening as Vaida described the different personalities of the plants growing in her garden. She had to wait for Vaida to pause in her rant about how lilacs had the attitude of roses but the market value of sunflowers before she could speak. “All done.”

“Perfect!” Vaida tossed her arms over her head and yawned. “My skin feels absolutely refreshed. You did an excellent job, Zahra.”

Thrown, Sefa twisted her lips into a hesitant smile. The Sultana’s moods shifted like spring rain. The whiplash between storm and sunshine left Sefa wishing she could duck for cover.

Vaida strolled to a curtain at the left of her bed and pushed it aside. A cavernous room stuffed with more colors, fabrics, and fashions than any human should ever possess struck Sefa speechless. Goodness, were the external wardrobes just for overflow?

“Oh, and darling”—Vaida pivoted in the doorframe, as though struck with a sudden thought—“the servants are toying with you. I never eat breakfast in my chambers, and I don’t rise until the sun is at its peak.”

Mortification flooded Sefa in a hot wash. She tried not to press the back of her hands to her overheating cheeks. That explained the smirks and derisive tones. Salwa must have been trying to warn her. “Oh.”

“Zahra.”

Sefa looked up, meeting Sultana Vaida’s thoughtful gaze. It was a moment unmarked by slyness, whimsy, or any of the other strange traits Vaida flipped through like a gambler with a trusty roll of coins.

“My palace was built by an Awala who crafted illusions more perfect and persuasive than any reality. Baira… she was never just one thing. Unpredictability made her dangerous. If you wish to last in the Ivory Palace, I suggest you fiercely guard that heart of yours. Its softness is an irresistible temptation to those of us with teeth.”