Page 55 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SYLVIA

I raised a trembling, blood-streaked hand to Arin’s nose.

Breathing. Still breathing. The way his head had hit the shelf, I—

I yanked my glove back on. There was no time to drown in guilt or regret. It had to be done. Pushing myself off of Arin’s prone form, I ran to the giant hole I’d made in the side of Rory’s shop and scanned the scene outside.

The Omalian soldiers who hadn’t been killed had immediately surrendered, and I watched the villagers tie their hands behind their backs while the Nizahl soldiers presumably went in search of their Commander.

I spotted Namsa and Maia crouched beside Medhat, rubbing his back while Lateef scooped Kenzie’s corpse from the ground.

The only person who seemed to notice my absence right away was Efra, who skulked around the Nizahl soldiers like a cat with its tail standing on end. Thank the tombs he refused to use his magic on me—the distress and indecision wafting off of me would have drawn him straight to Rory’s shop.

Once Nizahl’s dead had been accounted for and the last of the Omalian crown’s threat was subdued, they would arrest the Urabi.

All but Maia had used magic during the battle, clearly marking themselves as Jasadi.

If I knew Mahair, they would not allow the soldiers to arrest the Jasadis who fought at their back.

It would be a bloodbath—another set of soldiers, another round of carnage.

Except the Jasadis were probably out of magic, and the villagers were weary.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my whirling thoughts to slow.

There was one order that superseded all else; one order every Nizahl soldier was required to obey and put above magic.

The safety of their Heir.

If they saw me leaving with Arin, they would abandon the village immediately. Their one and only priority would be tracking down their Commander. I could take Arin far enough that it would be pointless for the soldiers to try returning to Mahair, since the Jasadis would be long gone by then.

I rotated my palm. The gold vein had gained new friends, thin silver cracks fracturing through my palm and across the space between my fingers. I didn’t even want to think what other veins had appeared after I saved Raya.

One last time. I would use my magic one last time, and then not again. Not for any situation, not for anybody.

Dust rose from the floor of the apothecary. My magic pumped, excited to join the fun again, and I caught a glimpse of glowing eyes in a shattered bottle. I looked away instantly, heart pounding, fear so potent on my tongue I feared I might choke on it.

That wasn’t my face in the bottle.

Before I could summon the bravery for a second look, my magic barreled over the edge.

The dust spun faster, and streaks of color flashed through the whirling clouds.

Iridescent veins crawled over my hands. They shaped themselves into the lines of a kitmer’s wing—silver on my right, gold on the left.

When the dust settled, two kitmers stood in the center of Rory’s shop.

Unlike the kitmers from the cliffside, this pair filled up half the apothecary, and they lacked the abnormalities of their older siblings.

Shining horns curved several inches above their heads.

Clawed feet scraped eagerly against the floor.

Like the others, they had my eyes.

“Hello,” I said. “As we will be partners for my latest feat of idiocy, it seems only fitting you should have names.”

I pointed to the bigger kitmer, the tiny silver feathers on its chest fanning from its thick neck in a distinct V shape. “Would you be offended if I called you Niseeba?”

It stared at me.

“Great!”

I took an extra minute for the other kitmer. Its wings were the brightest gold I had seen, the long feathers at the ends of its limbs dappled in silver.

“Ingaz,” I decided.

Niseeba flapped her wings, sending a shelf of vials shattering on the floor. The quiet from outside unsettled me, and I hurried to lift Arin before someone found the shop, or worse—the Nizahl soldiers turned their attention to the Jasadis in their midst.

Any heightened sense of ego I might have gained at my performance in the battle promptly evaporated when I tried to lift Arin. “Awaleen below,” I croaked. My muscles burned as I withdrew and crawled behind his head. I tucked my arms under his shoulders and heaved.

My knee slipped in a viscous ointment, and I slid to the left, crashing into a bench with Arin slumped against me. Frustration shrieked inside me, aching to be given voice.

Something soft brushed my chin. I jerked back, which seemed to upset Niseeba. She growled, then tried again to slide her wing between me and Arin. Dumbstruck, I watched the kitmer as she wiggled the length of her wing under the Nizahl Heir and tilted her shoulders down.

Rovial’s tainted tomb, she was lifting Arin’s weight so I could roll him onto her back.

Black eyes met mine and narrowed into slits. Move, you sorry sack of panic , they seemed to say.

I leapt into motion, heaving Arin with all my strength. Niseeba knelt, the ends of her wing curling in to prevent Arin from slipping. Arin slid between the kitmer’s shoulders, his head coming to rest below Niseeba’s curling horns.

Shouting broke out in the village. It would be a matter of minutes before they checked Rory’s shop.

I stripped the blanket from the cushions and wrapped it around Arin and Niseeba, securing him to the kitmer’s back.

I also checked that every inch of his skin was covered.

What a disaster it would be if he accidentally drained Niseeba’s magic and plummeted out of the sky.

The Urabi would certainly take my departure as abandonment. Finding one of them to explain my plan would be too risky. I rifled through Rory’s drawers and withdrew ink and parchment.

I am seeing our first plan through. Find me where we were meant to go.

—Essiya

Double-checking Arin was secure on Niseeba’s back, I climbed on top of Ingaz, who took my weight without trouble.

I tightened my legs around the kitmer, fingers digging into the leathery gold feathers at her spine.

Dread crystallized in the pit of my stomach, cutting into my insides with each breath. I’d never been airborne before.

Riding a kitmer didn’t need to be any more frightening than riding a horse. At least it would be a memorable death, if nothing else.

Ingaz and Niseeba bunched their shoulders, the flap of their wings sending every movable object in the apothecary hurtling into the walls. I spared a thought for the poor souls Rory would recruit to clean up this mess.

“Please let this work,” I mumbled, wrapping my hands around Ingaz’s horns.

Together, the kitmers rose into the air. I swallowed, pretending the tang on my tongue wasn’t vomit-flavored, and tightened my knees.

Ingaz dove through the gap I’d blown through the wall and into the melee. I clutched her feathers and glanced over my shoulder, relaxing when I saw Niseeba and Arin right behind us.

Time for the next part of the performance.

We streaked across the village, flying above blackened patches of dirt and smoking pyres. The ash hit my nose and coated my eyes in a watery haze.

As I had feared, the villagers were crowded around Namsa, Lateef, Maia, Efra, and Medhat, facing off against the Nizahl soldiers. Shouts pelted between the two groups.

Ingaz’s wings cast a long shadow over the Jasadis as we sailed toward the Nizahl soldiers.

Some of the villagers started screaming; others joined with cheers.

I spotted Lateef staring at Niseeba behind me, Arin coiled to her back, and I hoped he had seen us come out of the shop.

I hoped Rory was his typical overzealous self and went directly to the apothecary to assess the damage, where he would find the note immediately.

The Nizahl soldiers had seen their unconscious, badly injured Commander on Niseeba’s back. I watched horror collectively sweep over them and grinned. “Come and rescue your precious Heir,” I bellowed, the invitation rolling over the wreckage with ease. “Before there’s nothing left of him to find.”

A volley of invectives chased me through the air. I smirked at the soldiers on the ground and tightened my grip on Ingaz. We rushed toward their center, and they scattered in time to avoid Ingaz’s claws. Gusts of dirt and ash whipped from Ingaz’s beating wings, sending the soldiers flying.

“Pathetic,” I seethed. “An embarrassment to your Commander.”

I leaned forward, flattening my torso against Ingaz’s spine as we shot upward. Niseeba followed close behind. We sailed out of Mahair, the distance between us and the devastated village growing. I checked on Arin again, but he was still secure on Niseeba’s back.

Once we cleared the top of Essam, I let myself breathe.

The nearest Nizahl holding I knew of was the one Arin had transported me to after the waleema, the same cabin where he’d offered me my freedom to compete as his Champion.

If I dropped him off there, it would take the soldiers a day to find him—enough time for me and the Urabi to reach the Omal palace.

Ignoring the cynical part of me that refused to trust such an easy victory, I let the tension leak out of my muscles and relaxed on my kitmer’s back.

I had despaired of the vastness of Essam when Hanim made it my prison, but now, the horizon of endless, rolling green filled me with awe.

Hirun snaked through the woods, seeming to chase us across the acres.

Somewhere north, the river beneath me was pouring through the mountain’s mouth, cascading down a cliffside and reuniting with Suhna Sea, where it would start its journey anew.

Regenerating again and again, its memories washed away in the tide.

A low growl rumbled in Niseeba’s throat. On her back, Arin stirred, groggily twisting against his restraints. I had tied his coat around Niseeba’s neck to prevent his face from brushing against her, knotting the sleeves under her chin.

Unfocused blue eyes blinked from Arin’s bloodied face. They caught mine and cleared, holding for a long second before moving to the kitmer beneath me. They widened at the sight of the woods passing below us.

“I was hoping you would wake up,” I said, raising my voice over the wind. “How many times have you stood over your maps and looked at the world from above, just like this?”

Arin maneuvered an arm out of the restraints and grabbed Niseeba’s horn. His jaw worked, the pale column of his throat rippling with—what? Anger, confusion? Awe? Reading Arin was difficult on any given day, and it certainly didn’t help that half his face was covered in throbbing bruises.

“Leave your legs in the restraints,” I advised. “You’re still badly wounded, and you might lose consciousness again.”

Working his other arm free, Arin paused to shoot me a glare. I rolled my eyes, remembering the fight he’d put up in these very same woods when I had tried to bandage his wounds from the Ruby Hound.

I wouldn’t faint.

“As the mighty immortal man wishes,” I muttered.

Before Arin could finish untangling his left leg, his entire body went taut. His gaze flew to the trees, then back to me, and I did not have to try to guess what emotion they contained this time.

Pure, unadulterated alarm.

Ingaz dipped, a terrified shriek tearing out of the kitmer. Her wings bent at the middle, as though trying to lift against thick sand. Niseeba shook her head from side to side, weaving drunkenly through the air.

“What is it?” I shouted, leaning forward as Ingaz careened toward the trees. “What’s happening?”

And finally, as the kitmers streaked toward the woods, Arin spoke.

“Hold on!” Steely and aggressive, brooking no argument—the voice of the Nizahl Commander. “The Mirayah is drawing in the kitmers’ magic.”

The Mirayah ?!

We plummeted.