Page 86 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

“Do you know their names? I imagine they dislike me referring to them as ‘the monsters.’”

Arin seemed completely unfazed by the primordial creatures floating in front us. “Your point has been made, Essiya.”

“I didn’t have a point. I had a question.” I nodded toward the spherical pink creature near the front, its glossy flesh puckered with bright blue pods. “Is this an Arnabeet?”

The Sareekh rumbled another laugh in my head.

Arin shot me a thoroughly unamused look. “It is called a Khawfa.”

“Khawfa?” I widened my eyes, the very manifestation of innocence. “Is it new?”

The fact that Arin knew exactly what I was doing didn’t stop him from falling victim to the urge to correct me.

“Of course not. Its existence can be traced to 350 A.E., when a group of Lukubi sailors dragged one to shore. The Khawfa exuded a gas that killed everyone in the vicinity. It turned the sand pink as it died.”

He shook his head, curiosity flaring brightly before caution snuffed it. “I never thought I might see one in the flesh.”

“Magic,” I said lightly. I pointed to the next fish. “What about the shiny black one, with the rotating fins?”

So it went: Arin relenting to the pressure of his curiosity, relaxing to the magic wrapped around him, while my nails bit into my skin to combat a different pressure in my veins, beating harder and harder.

Marek chattered away, the only voice in the resoundingly silent mess hall.

It had seemed like a good idea, bringing Arin, Jeru, Sefa, and Marek along for supper. I wanted the others to get accustomed to the Nizahlans’ presence, and it would be best to do so before we began the journey to Jasad. Arin had already received one shock to his system today—what was one more?

But the stares . There would be less attention on our table if I had stripped naked and tried to juggle bananas with my nose.

Marek’s most reliable offensive strategy was turning into a golden-haired beam of charm, and he’d chosen to target Lateef first. The elderly man was clearly taken aback by the waves of unrelenting conversation unleashed upon him, but they’d eventually settled on a spirited debate over the best methods for shearing sheep.

In the center, Arin sat rigid and straight-backed between Maia and Namsa. The women had taken three bites the entire meal. Maia’s husband sat on her other side, darting glances at Arin over his wife’s head.

I didn’t blame him. I doubted they’d been spared the one pervasive thought rotating in everyone’s heads, exchanged in hushed glances.

The Silver Serpent had found his way into the nest.

“Namsa, have we received any word from Yara about the trade routes?”

Namsa startled at her name, dropping her spoon with a clatter. A pea flew from her plate and landed on Arin’s vest.

“Oh, bloody Sirauk, I’m so—I can wipe—” Namsa waved her hands helplessly around the pea, clearly too panicked to remember anything other than not to touch the Nizahl Heir.

Arin picked it up between two fingers and deposited it on the table. “It is quite all right.” The measured cadence of his voice, the most I’d heard of it in hours, immediately soothed my nerves.

It seemed to have the opposite effect on Namsa. She gave him a pained smile before hurriedly returning to me.

“About the routes,” Namsa said delicately. Lateef set down his fork and pinched his beard.

I lowered my spoon, momentarily wishing I had my own beard to pinch.

Maybe I could find a couple of long chin hairs.

“What?” If Sorn had reneged on his promise, I would hollow the bastard’s head and pin it on his wall of trophies.

We were relying on those roads. Thousands of Jasadis had already begun their journeys.

“The rebellions in the Omalian lower villages and deaths of Queen Hanan and Felix appear to have inspired similar unrest in Orban,” she said.

“Sorn hasn’t stripped all the protections from the trade routes, but King Murib has forced him to divert a significant number of khawaga toward combating the unrest.”

I put my face in my hands. “Is Murib going to fight the rebels?”

“It appears he is hoping to negotiate,” Namsa said. “I would guess he wants to avoid meeting the fate of the Omalian crown.”

“I can divert my kitmers toward the trade routes,” I said. “They won’t do much against armies, but they might be enough to supplement what we’re missing from Orban.”

“If Nizahl moves toward the trade routes…” Maia glanced at an impassive Arin. “Should we start sending out our parties? The mountain is still full, and if we move at once, our presence will be much more conspicuous on the roads.”

“Nizahl has their hands full with Lukub,” I muttered. “Nobody knows where Vaida is, but I expect Rawain is turning every stone trying to find her.”

“I fear Lukub may not be enough of a deterrent. The Supreme knows the Jasadis are moving. He’ll send forces south to guard the border,” Lateef said.

“No,” Arin said.

I lifted my head. With two fingers, Arin pushed aside his plate as though it were a guest that had overstayed its welcome. He folded his hands in the empty space.

“Rawain will not risk his hold on the Citadel by scattering his armies.” Firm and absolute, Arin’s tone left no room for argument. “Not without the scepter.”

“Do you think he’s been using the scepter to bolster his armies?”

“I know we have never lost a battle during his reign. I know Essam has never proved inhospitable to us, even during the bitterest of winters. We have fed, clothed, and sheltered our soldiers without raising the levies on our nobles.” Arin’s expression was inscrutable.

“I know I survived an injury at sixteen which should have proved fatal.”

“There could be other explanations,” I said.

“There could be.”

The thought of Rawain draining Jasadi magic to bolster his own armies—an army that existed to protect against people exactly like Rawain—was too nauseating to contemplate.

“Why do you think he will be reluctant to lessen the protections around the Citadel without the scepter?” Lateef asked when my silence lengthened.

“My father believes in a certain balance of life when it comes to leaders and their subjects,” Arin said. “He will devote a significant number of his remaining forces to protecting the Citadel. If he sends forces south, they will most likely be composed of new recruits.”

“Recruits?” Marek’s outburst nearly startled Sefa into dropping her soup. She righted her bowl at the last minute. “Most of those recruits have never even been in a fight!”

“I am well aware,” Arin said, clipped. “The goal is distraction. The sheer volume of them will slow you down until he gains enough of an advantage over Lukub to send his real army toward Jasad.”

“Distraction.” Marek’s derision was palpable. “Disposable, you mean.”

“As I said.” Frost crystallized around Arin’s features. “He believes in a certain balance.”

Apparently, Marek’s time hiding in a Nizahl compound had given him a tender outlook on the plight of the poor Nizahl recruits.

I had too many Jasadis to keep alive to care about the unfortunate backgrounds of the men Rawain would be sending to battle.

It did not matter if the hand holding the sword wanted it there or not—it would kill me just the same.

Sefa set down her spoon with a loud clatter, finally looking up from the depths of her soup.

“What Vaida has planned will not run its course in eight days. She spent years searching for the Mirayah. Whatever relic magic Baira left her, it will either obliterate us all instantly or far outlast this particular war.”

I met Marek’s gaze in a moment of shared bewilderment.

Sefa wouldn’t speak much of her time at the Ivory Palace.

I hadn’t known how to broach the topic beyond surface-level questions.

What I did know for certain was Sefa would never have inflicted an act of violence against anyone—even the Sultana—unless she had had no other choice.

Unless she had known without a doubt that leaving the ring with Vaida would invite deadly consequences.

“There is no war. Not yet,” Lateef said. “Only the Commander can declare war.”

The bolt of Arin’s jaw tightened. “Not necessarily. There are… exigent circumstances to my authority.”

He may as well have knocked me clear across the hall. Hanim’s ghost rose more viciously than it had in months, and suddenly I was in Essam, gutting the fish for our dinner while Hanim flicked over my notes.

“The Rule of Rulers,” she mused. “I suppose you could have chosen a worse title.”

I bit back my smile. “Thank you.”

“What did you learn?”

I finished cleaning Hanim’s fish and skewered it over the fire while I considered my practiced response.

“The Rule of Rulers is that for every supposed absolute, there is an exception. I found twenty-nine instances of the phrase ‘imminent risk’ and seventy-six of ‘exigent circumstances’ in the laws of all five kingdoms.”

“Tell me about each of them,” Hanim said, taking the skewer I offered her. She peeled the flaking skin from her fish. “Then you can eat.”

“The Nitraus Vote,” I gasped. “You committed treason when you took the scepter. The council will hold a Nitraus Vote to instigate war without your authorization.”

The grim set of Arin’s features lifted briefly, replaced by a spark of appreciation. He was always disproportionately impressed by knowledge of obscure information. “Yes. In all likelihood, they have already held it.”

“Nitraus Vote?” Lateef repeated, frowning. “I’m not familiar.”

I explained quickly, struggling to prevent my disquiet from veering into panic. Thousands of Jasadis were headed toward our kingdom on my command. I had promised them a fortress, protection. If Nizahl had mobilized for war, Orban might renege on its promise to protect the trade routes.

If we reached Sirauk Bridge only to find armies waiting for us, Jasad would drown in more of our blood.