Page 71 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)
The cabin went silent. United in their confusion, prisoner and advisor alike watched the Commander bow in laughter as though Marek had tossed out a side-splitting jest instead of an insult.
“Silver-haired bastard,” Arin repeated, gloved hands wiping at his eyes. “You Lazurs are cannier than you think.”
Today of all days, Marek needed Arin of Nizahl to be Arin of Nizahl, and not this…
disengaged impostor. “If Sefa dies, it is on your head,” Marek said.
“I don’t know why she cut off the Sultana’s finger, but she would never have stolen that ring if she didn’t have a good reason.
She is half-Nizahlan—she is owed your protection. ”
Vague interest flickered over Arin’s features. “Ring?”
“The attendant was arrested for assaulting the Sultana and stealing both her finger and the ring,” Banana Man said.
The Heir nodded to himself, as though it made perfect sense. Marek wished he could rip into the Heir’s skull and wrench out an explanation. What did he see in Sefa’s actions that Marek didn’t? Marek knew her better than anyone alive.
Before he could speak and earn himself another blow from Vaun, the cabin began to shake.
A mirror tilted forward and smashed into a wooden bench, spraying glass in every direction. The wardrobe rocked, its doors flying open. Layla reached for the Heir’s arm while Banana Man shrank behind Vaun.
In the distraction, Marek tried to lift Jeru by the elbow, but the obstinate, tombs-damned man wouldn’t get off his knees.
“I betrayed an oath, Marek,” Jeru snapped in response to Marek’s snarled order.
“Do you understand that? I know you haven’t bothered keeping an oath in your life, but they mean something.
To some of us, they are worth dying for. ”
Stung, Marek stepped away from the guardsman. No matter what he did, Marek would always just be the cowardly Lazur, wouldn’t he?
“You broke an oath, and the price is death. My siblings kept their oaths, and their price was death,” Marek said quietly.
“Judge me for it as you like, Jeru, but I will never apologize for wanting to live. I will never apologize for choosing Sefa. My oaths may look different than yours, but they are no less important.”
Jeru dropped his eyes, and Marek let himself believe he saw an apology in them.
The Commander wasn’t paying attention to any of them. He shook Layla off without a second glance and strode toward the door.
“Your Highness, it isn’t safe!” Vaun pursued Arin, and the rest of them reluctantly followed. Marek spared one last glance toward the bowed guardsman.
Outside the cabin, the wind whipped Marek’s hair into his eyes. He raised his arm to shield his face from flying debris. The trees around their cabin swayed, leaning into one another as though clustering for shelter. The ground quaked, pebbles skipping around their feet.
The Commander seemed entirely unconcerned with the prospect of being crushed to death by a falling tree. He had gone eerily still, his gaze tracking the darkness of the woods.
“Sire, what is it?” Vaun demanded.
Layla screamed as the sky broke apart above them. Bayoum hit the ground and covered his head.
Hundreds of kitmers sailed over Essam, the crescent curve of their golden beaks shining brighter than the moon itself. When those beaks parted and Sylvia’s voice spilled out, Marek nearly joined Banana Man on the ground.
“People of Jasad, hear me now. I am Malika Essiya, daughter of Niphran. This is a call to the children of Rovial, to those of us from the last kingdom of magic—come home. The enemy cannot defeat us if we stand as one. Together, we are a fortress they cannot break.”
Open-mouthed, Marek could only stare in wonder. He was an ant, a forgettable speck in the presence of an all-consuming might.
The call repeated as the kitmers flew past them, and Marek couldn’t help glancing at the Nizahl Heir. Surely, even he couldn’t be cold and removed at such a sight.
The wind had blown the Heir’s silver hair out of its tie, leaving it floating around his upturned face.
His eyes had gone distant again, but Marek had seen this particular distance before—this was the Heir’s mind at work.
Spinning webs like a spider crouched in a corner, working in the shadows until its net was ready for its prey.
When the last of the kitmers disappeared, taking Sylvia’s voice with them, the Heir looked…
exhilarated. The kind of exhilaration Marek experienced when a pretty girl curled a strand of his hair around her finger or he won a risky wager at the tavern.
The last time Marek had seen that look, he’d been faking a smile in Omal while Sylvia went on and on about the way Arin sent Vaida to sleep and stole a mold of her ring without alerting the guards.
Marek went dead still.
“You have a mold of the ring Sefa tried to steal!” Marek couldn’t believe he had forgotten. “You took it during the second trial!”
He may as well have shouted into his armpit for all the attention Arin paid him.
The Heir pivoted in the direction of the Ivory Palace.
The top of the ruby obelisk pierced the sky, barely visible beyond the trees.
Arin stared at it for a long moment, a spark in his eye that reminded Marek unsettlingly of a flickering match in a pitch-black room.
When Arin turned around, his eyes were clear for the first time since Marek arrived at the cabin.
“Vaun, go untie Jeru and tell him to get Sefa out of the wells,” Arin ordered.
“The boy can go with him. Take as many recruits as you need and restrain the guards who stand in your way. Bayoum, send the signal to the third and fifth quarter regiments to move on the Ivory Palace. Layla, fetch a horse and ride to Orban as fast as you can.”
“Sire, what—” Layla moved haltingly, eyes wide. “This would break the Zinish Accords. It would be war!”
“It is already war.” Arin strode past them. “Take the Ivory Palace.”