Just a rat. I ushered Fairel forward, my arm hovering protectively a few inches behind her back.
The alley opened to the flickering illumination of lamplight. Fairel’s head swiveled, taking in the uncharacteristic stillness of the main road. A muddy dog loped to the front of the butcher’s shop, sniffing at the discarded bones.
Preparations for the waleema were almost complete. Lanterns connected by silver twine hung from the balconies lining the plaza road, creating a roof of light over the village. Shop owners had laid out lovingly braided reed rugs, dyed in muted shades of Omal’s blue and white. Incense burned in almost every balcony, warding away the evil eye of the new visitors. I breathed in the smoky scents of lemongrass and rose and exhaled on a smile.
In the unlikely event the Nizahl Heir did not kill me, I wanted to preserve my happy moments here. I had precious few of them left. As soon as the Supreme’s son gazed upon my face, this village was lost to me. After his horses cleared Omal’s lower villages, I would disappear into Essam.
“Look.” Fairel tore ahead, pointing at a splash of vibrant red. “They have almost finished repainting the wall.”
A painting stretched over the tallest and sturdiest wall in the main road. On it, the Awaleen towered over us. We craned our necks at the four figures representing the first and truest source of magic in the realm.
“The Awaleen’s story is different in Omal,” Fairel said.
“Which part?”
Fairel fidgeted with her sleeve. “Mama told me a different story about how they were entombed.”
I paused. Fairel never spoke of her parents.
Raya had brought her home from a market trip almost three years ago and dumped the nine-year-old into my lap. As the oldest in the keep, Marek, Sefa, and I helped with the new girls, especially in the first few months when all they did was weep. But Fairel hadn’t cried. She had attached herself to me instantly, ignoring my numerous attempts to trade her off to Sefa. Whether it was her steely determination or the fact that she was nearly the same age I was when I watched my grandparents burn, I’d softened far too quickly.
“What did she tell you?”
Fairel brushed the bottom of Kapastra’s image. Omal’s Awala was drawn in boisterous colors and painstaking detail. Serpentine creatures with forked tails and reptilian eyes curled at her feet. Rochelyas. The revolting snakelike lizards were Omal’s symbol, centered on the kingdom’s flags. The Beast Tamer of Omal glared down at me, as though sensing my disgust for her favored pets.
“Omalians believe the Awaleen created the entire world. The kingdoms, Essam Woods, Hirun River. Kapastra’s magic brought Omal its bountiful soil and docile animals. Her sister Dania’s axe delivered fearsome beasts and the thrill of hunting to Orban. Baira’s beauty resulted in Lukub’s wealth and good fortune; Rovial’s heart poured prosperity into Jasad. So the Omalians say,” Fairel said. She flattened her palm against Baira’s ankle. “But Mama told me that the world and its beauty existed before the Awaleen, and the four siblings were simply first to enter it with magic. She agreed that they brought life to the land and ruled united for many years. Siblings fight too much, though, so they parted ways to find their own kingdoms. They lived happily for many years.”
A loose curl bounced around Fairel’s freckled nose. She moved her hand to Dania, Orban’s Awala, who had her axe thrust into the sky. Baira had a hand pressed to her midnight-dark skin while she lounged back on her throne, watching her siblings with a mischievous expression. And finally, Rovial. Jasad’s Awal.
“Mama told me nothing in this world is meant to be limitless. Nature will find a way to exact a cost. I suppose it is true. She had seven children. More than anyone else in our village.” A choked laugh. “And I was the cost.”
Oh. My surprise arrived and evaporated in the same breath. Fairel was Orbanian. I’d assumed Raya brought her from another lower village in Omal, but the truth made more sense. Austerity and humility were not pillars of Omalian society, but Orban prided itself on living by the scarcest of means, even if it entailed losing hundreds to starvation every year. I could not imagine the kind of straits a mother with seven mouths to feed must have endured to expel her youngest.
Fairel’s hand curled into a fist. “The Awaleen’s magic was boundless. None of them had noticed the effects of the magic on their minds over the years. They were becoming colder. Cal—callu—”
“Callous?”
Fairel nodded, brows rumpling with concentration. She seemed determined to recite the story precisely as her mother had. My hand twitched at my side, driven to reach for the girl. Your mother loved you, I almost said. She filled you with stories.
“The Awaleen could have remained in rule for many more years if it had not been for Rovial. The Awal of Jasad lost his humanity to the magic-madness. He had killed thousands by the time the other Awaleen realized. His evil runs in the magic of all Jasadis.”
I struggled not to flinch. Fairel had said she would never threaten me, but Orbanians inherited their Awala’s skill and thirst for battle. Today, I was Sylvia. Tomorrow, I might simply be a Jasadi.
Oddly enough, I felt fierce pride at the image of Fairel as a grown woman with the power to challenge me.
Blissfully unaware of my thoughts, Fairel continued, “The Awaleen could not kill their brother. His magic was too strong to destroy without also destroying the kingdoms and everyone in them. It was Dania’s idea to contain his magic instead. She convinced Kapastra and Baira that they should entomb themselves with Rovial to ensure the continued survival of their descendants. Dania feared Rovial’s magic-madness would eventually catch up to the rest of them.”
I craned my neck to peer at my Awal. He was always drawn in profile, with his face turned away in shame. Even Jasad in its glory days hesitated to celebrate him. The blood he shed during the years before the entombing, the lives he stole, were a blight on Jasad’s records. They ignored that Rovial’s madness was only sped along because of how much magic he had poured into Jasad, into its soil and trees and people. The other kingdoms lost more of their magic with each generation after the entombment, but not Jasad. Rovial had given more of himself, of his magic, than any other of the Awaleen.
In the end, he gave more than he could afford to lose.