I swiveled on the bench. The full sight of him momentarily knocked all other thoughts askew.
A tunic dyed in the most vivid shade of violet framed his broad shoulders and the flat, hard panes of his torso. Stitched over his heart was Nizahl’s symbol. Trim black pants hung from his narrow waist, tucked into clean, light boots. An amethyst circlet rested in a cloud of silver hair. He had replaced his heavy coat with a form-fitting black tailcoat that tapered behind his knees. Five shiny purple buttons lined the left side of the coat, with tiny ravens on the opposing side.
“Don’t stand anywhere near me,” I managed. “I’ll never be able to slip out with everyone’s eyes on you.”
“I can assure you I will not be the subject of interest tonight,” he said wryly, but a small smile touched the corners of his lips. A shy Arin—now I had seen it all.
I sighed, bracing my elbows on my knees and covering my face. “Any changes?”
Arin’s pause answered for itself. “No.”
When I woke in the pit, anarchy ran rampant in the arena. Nizahl soldiers had trapped the visitors from the outside, and the soldiers hidden in the crowd captured anyone whose eyes reflected the slightest gold or silver. Sorn and Arin had rushed from the tunnels the moment the emerald barrier fell.
The sand had nearly submerged the top of an unconscious Diya’s head. It took the Orban Heir and six khawaga to pull her out of the sand’s grip. I had watched helplessly as Sorn dragged Diya’s limp form into his arms and shook her shoulders, bellowing for a medic. I was significantly taller than Diya and had sunk only halfway when Arin reached me. Once he was assured I was awake and coherent, the Nizahl Heir removed his gloves and opened a single exit for the arena. The guests lined up at the door, and he pressed fingers to the forehead of everyone walking out. Those who resisted were detained.
Fifty Mufsids were seized. Any feelings I might have indulged at their capture had been extinguished by watching the Mufsids slaughter the staff at Usr Jasad and bring down the fortress.
I learned later that Arin had discovered a glamored Soraya slumbering beneath a carriage, an empty vial in her grip. “Her magic was already fading when I touched her,” Arin had said. “In moments, she was dead.”
Avoiding details, I had explained how she chased me through her memories. The magic she infused the elixir with made it possible for me to die within my own dreams, but it also made it possible for her to die in mine. If my memories were mirrors, then Soraya’s were a vengeful void.
Soraya was dead, a band of Mufsids were caught, and I was Victor. The Orbanian Champion, the casualty of our victory, sank into a slumber from which nothing could rouse her. Sorn had arranged for a carriage to transport her to Orban and scattered messengers to every corner of the kingdoms in search of a cure.
“Diya is alive. Sorn is a bullheaded man. If there is a cure, he’ll find it. She knew the risks the third trial presented. It could have been far worse,” Arin said.
“How?” I stalked to the wardrobe. “She drank a poisoned elixir. Do you think Sorn trained her for that?”
I stomped on the ember of anger sparking in my chest. Anger opened the doors for everything else to come flooding through.
“You caught your Jasadis,” I murmured. “Our bargain is fulfilled.”
A muscle jumped in Arin’s jaw. “So it is. Freedom is yours.”
My laugh rang hollow to my own ears. The dream of taking over Rory’s shop and funding another keep for Raya’s wards, of buying Yuli’s old carriage for Marek and taking Sefa on adventures. Tainted now, rotted by inescapable, infernal knowledge.
My grandparents had betrayed our people in the most treacherous manner imaginable. Usr Jasad was an illusion, a beautiful story hiding the rotted roots beneath. My magic had driven the Mufsids to inadvertently pave the way for the siege. Everything I thought I knew was a lie.
Somewhere between Soraya and Dawoud, my last illusion of freedom had shattered.
“Here.” Arin held out my cloak. “I didn’t want to leave it in the carriage.”
I took the bundle and flipped it over. To my disbelief, the moth-eaten collar had been repaired. I thumbed along the new stitching. “Thank you.”
“Sylvia.” Arin’s voice was strained. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Do what?” There was a lump in the cloak’s right pocket. Odd; my dagger was in my boot.
Arin moved, standing close enough that I nearly dropped the cloak. He slid his index finger under my chin, drawing my reluctant gaze up. Agitation colored Arin’s voice, drawing out his faint accent. “I want to help you. Tell me what I can say—”
I covered Arin’s mouth with my hand. He gripped my wrist in the blink of an eye. His gaze bored into mine, and when my hand wasn’t thrown off, I let myself speak.
“Soraya tried to kill me. For years, she led the Mufsids in murdering Jasadis. Diya may never wake because of her. Her death should have left me effervescent with glee.”
My words came out in a burst, as most unpleasant truths tend to, clamoring to be heard. The heaviness burst in its wake. “But all I feel is grief, Arin, because another Jasadi is dead.” My grandparents had as heavy a hand as Hanim in who Soraya had become. In the entitlement that led the Mufsids to turn against their own people.
I had worked so hard to block myself from this pain. To turn guilt into anger, sorrow into scorn. Hanim shamed and burdened me beyond what I could bear, and when killing her didn’t stop the noise, I built barriers taller than the gates of the Citadel. “All I wanted was to exist for myself alone, but I—I don’t really exist, do I?” I whispered, and they were the truest words I had spoken.
I retracted my hand, scrubbing my wet eyes. “What did you call it? An ‘infantile mastery of my emotions’?”
Arin looked at me. Not his calculating, considering glances, or his wary stare. He just looked at me, almost helplessly.
“Anyway.” I coughed, groping in the cloak’s pocket. A stream of inane chatter flowed past the brambles of my discomfort. I had shared too much. “Unfortunately for you, if I am not brooding, I’m complaining, and I plan to do plenty of both this evening.”
I drew from my pocket the fig necklace I purchased from the Omalian street merchant. Oh. I’d forgotten about this.
Arin’s brow arched. The motion was unfairly attractive. “You’re turning red.”