“This is the sort of honor-of-Awaleen, glory-of-kingdom nonsense Mehti devoured,” Diya murmured. Water dripped in the damp tunnel as the announcer prepared to call us in. “If he had made it to the third trial, he would still never become Victor. What hope would he have of seeing through fabricated illusions when he cannot see through these?”
The announcer called our names, and we emerged into a cacophony of cheers and exuberant faces. A table laden with weapons took up space on each side of the pit. A black line had been drawn in the sand, demarcating Diya’s side from mine. We walked to our sections.
The announcer pranced around a slab of concrete, keeping away from the shifting sand. As soon as he finished speaking, he’d dart back into one of the doors beneath the arena to hide. “The day we have waited for has finally arrived. We thank the Awaleen for the act of entombing themselves with their wicked brother, Rovial. They loved humanity enough to sacrifice themselves for it, and in return, we present to you the strongest Champions the kingdoms have to offer. Our Awala Baira believed in the potential of our imagination and the depths of the human mind. In celebration of Baira, our Champions will be given an elixir to induce vivid hallucinations. They’ll see themselves fighting lions in Orban’s desert flats, evading hunters in Essam’s wilderness. Can they battle through the elixir’s challenges before the sand below them sinks or the other Champion wakes up?” The presenter raised his arms. “But wait! Do you see the four tunnels around our Champions? From one of them will emerge a beast more fearsome than any illusion. If a Champion does not break themselves from Baira’s illusion in time to fight the beast, the sand will be the least of their concerns. Our Victor will be able to cut through the fabricated threat to the real one!”
The announcer picked up a tray. Emerald liquid sloshed within two glass vials. He took the tray’s long handle and extended the vials to hover between us.
“If our Champions cross the black line you see before you, the nature of the fight will change. Instead of success by simply overpowering their opponent, victory will only be won through a fight to the death.”
I would bet every hair on Marek’s yellow head they engineered these elixirs to make the hallucinations such that keeping to our sides of the pit would be near impossible. If we were outrunning hunters and lions in our head, our feet would naturally carry us forward. Rory had talked about these elixirs, about the light poisons they infused to give the body the impression of death and the roots they mixed in to scramble our senses.
Diya and I raised our vials. Good luck, she mouthed.
The elixir wasn’t nearly as sweet as the color suggested. I wrinkled my nose, tossing the empty vial into the sand. Diya wiped her mouth with a grimace.
“Do you feel elevated yet?” Diya asked.
“It’s hard to tell, since I’m already so much taller than you.”
She rolled her eyes, and the action reminded me so strongly of Sefa that I had to look away. Diya hooked an arrow into her bow. “I need to practice aiming. You have a big head, and I would prefer to avoid killing you if I can help it.”
Nausea descended between one insult and the next. It wasn’t unlike the sensations I had experienced at the very start of practicing my magic, when any minute display had me lunging for a bucket.
“Something’s wrong,” I mumbled. My magic hadn’t moved, yet the sickness expanded, surging through me.
Three events came to pass in quick succession.
First, Diya’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. She collapsed in the sand.
Next, a glowing barrier closed around the pit, blocking Diya and me off from the tunnels and the rest of the arena. Screams erupted, but I couldn’t see anything behind the barrier. Which meant they couldn’t see us, either.
My stomach cramped. I crashed into the table, scattering weapons everywhere. The arena spun.
The elixirs. There was magic in the elixirs.
“Soraya,” I ground out.
Soraya knew a direct magical attack would be repelled by the same force distorting her warding spells, so she found a new way to shove her magic past my cuffs: having me ingest it.
Finally, the sickness unhinged its maw and consumed me whole.
My last thought before I hit the sand was a triumphant one. Arin had done it. He had lured them into a trap of his own design. The Mufsids and Urabi would be frenzied, trying to breach the barrier before Soraya succeeded in killing me.
It would be their final act.
She had taken me into a dream. Maybe a memory.
I stood in Bakir Tower. Unlike the opulence of Usr Jasad, the tower’s limestone and mud brick leached away color and light. In the center of the narrow room, Niphran paced. Not the wispy Niphran in my dreams, but the woman herself. She looked strong, her long shoulders straight, cascading hair tied behind her head. Most surprising of all were her eyes—clear and lucid like they had not been in years. Black kitmer eyes.
“Mama?” I whispered.
She didn’t hear me. I moved closer. Niphran’s circuit around the room didn’t slow. She braced her hands at the window and gasped.
Outside Bakir Tower, the palace bells rang, and a stream of people marched into Jasad’s upper town. I couldn’t appreciate the heartrending tableau of Jasad as it once was. Screams rang out from the palace.
We were under attack.
Niphran’s door opened, and we both whirled around. A teenage Soraya stood on the other side.
“Where’s my daughter? Where’s Dawoud? The palace is under attack!” Niphran shouted.
From her waistband, Soraya withdrew a wavy dagger. “The palace is finally in the right hands.”
Through the window, I saw people climbing onto the palace’s roof, shouting from the minarets. The palace servants were led out on the ends of spears, cowing to their polished conquerors.
The Mufsids.
Niphran touched her temple, glancing around the barren room for anything she could use to protect herself. “The bedpost! Snap it from the middle of the hourglass curve,” I urged. She did not react. When I tried to reach for it, the wood passed harmlessly through me.
“My head feels clear for the first time in years,” Niphran breathed. “I can think again.”
Cruel amusement flashed across my young attendant’s face. “I would think so. It’s the first day you have been free from your special beverages in six years. I wanted you to see the true Jasad being born without an addled mind. You are the only royal left who can.”
Niphran and I latched on to different parts of Soraya’s declaration.
Special beverages? “Her madness… was just poison?” But how? Soraya came under the palace’s service two years before the Blood Summit, and Niphran deteriorated years before then. Niyar had waited to appoint Niphran as Qayida until she regained her health, and in the meantime—
In the meantime, Hanim had been chosen to lead Jasad’s armies.
My heart staggered to a stop. Niphran’s madness was Hanim’s doing?
“Only royal? Where are the Malik and Malika?” Niphran started forward, halting when Soraya raised the dagger. “Where is my daughter?”