I stand alone at the head of a vast ballroom. An audience of faceless Jasadis waits breathlessly for my address. My bodice is in the shape of a lotus flower, curling out and around my ribs. Jasad’s iridescent symbol is etched on my skirt. The head of a falcon and gold wings sit on the body of the sleek black cat. A gold kitmer, a feline of pure magic and legend. The kitmer circles within my dress, agitated.
On my head rests a crown.
“Queen Essiya! The lost Heir has returned to reunite Jasad!” shouts a man of twisted shadow and smoke.
“Magic will prosper once more!”
I try to flee, but I am immobile beneath the weight of the crown. Golden thread stitches my lips shut. I silently bear their exultation, their relief, as it batters me from every side. Savior. Hero. Queen.
Red drips down my chin as I force my lips apart, pulling the stitches taut. An iron tang fills my mouth, trying to drown out my words at their inception. “Please, I am not who you seek! I can’t help you!” I drop to my knees.
The stitches tear, beautiful golden threads fluttering to the ground in a bloody heap. My freed voice rings in the empty ballroom.
A strong grip lifts me to my feet. “Essiya, you’re going to wrinkle your dress.”
Shock ripples through me. I stand over my mother by nearly a full head. The shoulders I used to climb are half the width of mine. I have curves in the places where she’s slim, and I am strong where she’s soft. “I’m taller than you,” is all I can think to say to my dead mother.
Niphran’s laugh is music. “Only by a little. You take after your grandmother in shape.”
The ballroom dissolves around us. We stand on the surface of a frozen lake stretching for miles on every side.
Orange flames dance at Niphran’s legs. “A kingdom cannot fall when its Heir still stands. You cannot outrun your duty, ya umri. It is an inheritance by blood.” I scour for the source of the fire that steadily eats at her body. There is none. “More than that,” Niphran continues, as though she’s not burning alive two feet away, “it is an inheritance by right. Who we are, who we might have been, our identity as a kingdom—do the people who have lost their home mean nothing to you?”
I pound my foot against the hard surface beneath us, but it does not break. We are surrounded by water, and yet my mother burns.
“Don’t leave me,” I gasp. They already took her once. I reach for Niphran, cringing back as the fire blazes higher.
“Then save me.”
“It won’t crack!” I drop, hitting the ice with my fists. My knuckles split in vain. The layers of ice are too thick, too deep.
The inferno roars, swallowing Niphran whole, but her words are clear. “Shatter it.”
“I don’t know how!” I raise my fists to beat against the ice again—and stop.
My wrists are bare. Where my cuffs should be is smooth skin.
The fire licks into the sky, consuming the night in its monstrous glow. It illuminates thousands of shadow people, standing still at the shore. Watching. Judging.
“Essiya!” Niphran shrieks.
I scramble back, throwing an arm over my face.
The flames burst. We are consumed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Four days went by without anyone calling for my execution. The pair of Nizahl soldiers patrolling Mahair continued their route, visitors for the waleema kept pouring in, and I continued terrorizing frogs for Rory. If I didn’t have bruises and a missing clump of hair, I might wonder if I hallucinated the entire night.
Worry shadowed me relentlessly. I didn’t trust the peace. Nizahl soldiers would not simply forget the disappearance of one of their own.
Two days before the waleema, Raya pounded on our doors, descending into a rare fervor of agitation. None of us could fathom why. Her fabrics sold with stunning success at regular market, never mind a waleema that only took place every three years. Noblewomen from the farthest towns in the four kingdoms sent their servants to bid for Raya’s extravagant gowns. With everyone eager to dress their best for their kingdom’s Alcalah festivities, the gowns would sell for more than enough money for Raya to bring in another orphan or two from the streets.
At the bottom of the hill, Marek loaded the wagon. The canvas usually covering the back had been peeled away, giving him room to stack the crates.
“You’re late. Rory has probably reduced the patrons to tears already.” Marek hopped into the driver’s seat.
“As long as he hasn’t thrown his cane at anyone, I would call that a good morning. Where’s Fairel?”
Marek pointed at the figure of the tiny girl running full tilt down the hill, her back bent under the weight of a wooden chair. I hid a smile. Raya gave every girl in her keep a choice: work or learn. Most chose learning, but nine-year-old Fairel had stuck her little chin forward and said, “I would rather be the best at one thing than know a little about a lot of things.” In the three years since, she had taken her role as watcher of Nadia’s chairs with a seriousness reserved for those handling the instruments of battle.
Fairel hurled herself into the back of the cart, chair in tow. “Here! I’m here!”
Marek chuckled, clicking his tongue at the horses. Six girls climbed into the back, arranging themselves in the cart. I jiggled my leg as we lurched into motion, fingers dancing on my knee. Dread filled my chest the closer we rumbled toward the main square. Another reason to hate the busy Alcalah season was the threat of recognition.
I always kept my ears open for any rumors about the Heir of Jasad. Not a single whisper suggested the world thought Essiya was any less dead than the rest of her family. Most of those at the Blood Summit had perished during the attack—including Isra, Supreme Rawain’s wife. Only the Queen of Omal, Supreme Rawain, and Sultana Bisai had lived. Sultana Bisai was dead now, the Lukub crown passed to her daughter, and the other two royals wouldn’t cross paths with a lowly orphan. It didn’t stop me from checking for the reassuring weight of the knife tucked in my boot whenever Mahair had visitors.
The blue cottage rose on our right. Its owners were old and childless. Not many were interested in buying property here, not with a keep full of orphans to the left and the vagrant road to the right. It would be an excellent home. There would be space for Sefa and Marek. Perhaps a small garden for my fig plant.
I directed my gaze forward. Sefa’s fanciful musings had clearly seeped into my common sense. Longing for the impossible was a task best left for fools.
The cart jerked as the path grew rockier. The children chasing the cart fell back, scuttling in the opposite direction. Heeding their parents’ warnings against venturing into the vagrant road.
“How do you feel?” Marek asked quietly.
I knew what he was really asking, but I did not have an answer suitable for his ears. “Hungry. Maya shouldn’t be allowed to prepare breakfast for anyone but her enemies. I still have eggshell in my teeth.”